Stryke barked an order. Two grunts rushed forward, their bows nocked. Coilla dropped and hugged the ground.
Arrows smacked into the guards. They went down.
As Coilla scrambled to her feet the guardhouse door flew open. Alerted by the commotion, men poured out. Many were minus their
tunics or otherwise had their dress in disarray, having been off duty. But they had swords. Coilla drew her own and, bellowing,
ran in their direction.
Her war cry was taken up by the Wolverines. Spilling from their hiding place, they charged.
Coilla reached the foremost of the troopers. He made the mistake of trying to bring her down with a tackle. She relied on
her sword. As he dived at her, she lashed out, raking his torso. When he doubled, she drove her blade into his back.
A second man immediately moved in. Mindful of the fate of the first, he advanced warily. Coilla powered into him and their
blades clashed. An exchange of blows ensued, the pealing of steel on steel echoing through the silent night. His swordplay
had a certain finesse. Coilla had the edge in savagery. Knocking aside his incoming sword, she exploited the breach and punctured
his lung.
With a roar, the rest of the orcs swept in. The two sides met and a bloody melee erupted. Then it quickly fragmented into
a string of discrete fights.
Haskeer laid about him with a two-handed axe. The first human he engaged soon felt its sting. Screaming, he reeled away with
a grievous wound that had his left arm hanging by a thread. A charging soldier was the axe’s next patron. Swinging fast and
hard, Haskeer struck him in the neck, cleanly decapitating the man.
The head bounced several feet and landed in Jup’s path. He kicked it aside and faced up to a duo of spear-wielding guardsmen.
They were dismayed by their first sight of a dwarf, and startled to see a basically humanoid creature battling alongside orcs.
Exploiting their hesitancy, Jup piled into them.
He had the edge as a fighter. The troopers employed their spears by jabbing energetically but with little accuracy. Jup was
master of his staff, and used it with greater skill. Some adroit footwork got him past the first spearman’s defences to deliver
a weighty blow that shattered his skull.
The second man drew back, brandishing his spear to keep Jup at bay. Feigning an advance, then quickly changing tack, the dwarf
evaded the weapon and took a swipe at his opponent’s head. The human shifted smartly, narrowly avoiding the strike. But Jup
rallied instantly. Sweeping his staff low, he cracked it across the man’s legs, flooring him; Reafdaw, fighting alongside,
spun and plunged his sword into the prone trooper’s guts. Dwarf and grunt exchanged a thumbs up and carried on brawling.
Someone started ringing an alarm bell mounted next to the guardhouse door. Its shrill din cut through the night like a hatchet.
Zoda lifted his bow and launched an arrow at the bell ringer. It missed, its sharpened tip chipping the guardhouse wall. Zoda
groped for another shaft.
Haskeer had fought his way nearer to the building. He brought his axe back over his shoulder, far enough that the head nearly
touched the base of his spine. Then he swung it up and over, grunting with the effort of lobbing it. Spinning end over end,
the axe flew above the struggling combatants, gathering impetus. It struck the chest of the man at the bell with enough force
to pin him to the guardhouse door.
The door opened outwards, with the body still attached, and a couple of stragglers exited. It slammed behind them, the hanging
corpse jiggling with the impact.
Stryke was embroiled in grinding combat with a heftily built sergeant. The man’s weapon, through choice or hasty necessity,
was a long-handled iron mallet, which he managed as nimbly as Stryke plied his sword. Seemingly tireless, the human kept the
hammer in constant flight. Several times his swinging passes came dangerously close to Stryke’s head, and his greater reach
barred retaliation.
Tiring of the cat and mouse, Stryke switched from targeting the man to concentrating on the weapon. As he dodged another swing,
he twisted and brought his blade down on the mallet’s haft. The steel bit into the wood near the head, but didn’t entirely
sever it. A brief tussle disengaged the weapons.
Retreating a step, the sergeant grinned and brought up the mallet for another blow. He did it with such force that the weakened
head snapped off and flew over his shoulder. It landed on one of his comrades, braining him. Oblivious, the sergeant swept
the weapon downward towards Stryke. It has halfway through its arc before he realised the head was missing. While he gaped
at the splintered pole he was holding, Stryke ran him through.
The Wolverines had got the better of the guardsmen. Most lay dead or wounded, and the orcs were making short work of the few
still standing. Stryke barked an order and the band rushed for the guards’ station.
Coilla got there first. Wrenching open the door, with its dead trooper affixed, she stormed inside.
The interior was little more than a long dormitory. Cots lined one wall, lockers and stacked chests were heaped against the
other. At the far end was a door ajar, leading to a privy. Coilla judged the place empty of troopers.
She was wrong.
As she walked past the row of cots, a figure leapt up. He had been hiding between two of the beds, pressed to the floor in
sly ambush or trembling cowardice, and he hefted a sword.
He came at her fast, yelling something, the sword in motion. Coilla swerved, rapped the blade aside and booted his stomach.
He landed on a cot, struggled to right himself, half rose. Then he fell back with a groan, her blade in his innards. She finished
him with a thrust to the heart.
He was young, as far as Coilla could tell with humans. She wondered why he didn’t try surrendering, though she wasn’t sure
what she would have done if he had.
The door opened. Jup, Haskeer and Stryke came in, along with several of the others.
“All clear?” Stryke asked.
“Is now,” Coilla replied.
They checked the place, to be sure.
“Look at this,” Jup said, kneeling by an open chest.
The others gathered round. Somebody snatched a lantern and held it above the chest. It was neatly packed with military sabres,
oiled and wrapped in muslin.
“New issue,” Stryke said, “and nice pieces by the look of them. We’ll take what we can carry.”
They lifted four boxes and hauled them outside. The door and attendant corpse slammed shut behind them.
“Do we torch the place?” Coilla asked.
Stryke looked to the sky. It was lightening. “No. The sun will be up soon. We should be moving.” He turned to Jup. “Feeling
better?”
The dwarf smiled. “A bit of bloodletting always blows away the cobwebs. It makes for a good —”
There was a commotion from the tethered horses. They shied and pawed the ground. A figure scrambled into the saddle of one
and pulled away. As he galloped off, Coilla pitched a throwing knife at him. It fell short, clattering on the cobbled street.
A couple of the grunts began chasing the rider.
“
Let him be!
” Stryke ordered, waving them back.
“He looked wounded to me,” Jup said.
Haskeer nodded. “Reckon he was playing dead ’til he got his chance.”
“Doesn’t matter now,” Stryke told them. “We did what we set out to do. Let’s get out of here.”
The rider wore no tunic, and his white combat blouse was stained with blood. Leaning forward in the saddle, in obvious discomfort,
he rode hard to get away from the guardhouse.
The streets were still deserted. But dawn was breaking, and soon the curfew would lift.
Without knowing it, the wounded trooper careered past something incongruous. At the side of the road there was a small portion
of space at odds with reality. A sachet of non-actuality that denied light.
Pelli Madayar was concealed in the anomaly’s embrace. She had something like a crystal in her hand. It was the size of an
egg, with markings that made it look like the abstract representation of an open eye, flecked with a mingling of colours resembling
oil on water. She held it at arm’s length and slowly panned across the scene several blocks distant, where the Wolverines
were stealing into the dying night with their crates of plunder.
“You see?” she said, seemingly addressing no one but herself.
“I see,” came the reply. It emanated from the not quite crystal, oddly distorted by its passage across innumerable worlds.
Warped, but recognisably the voice of Karrell Revers. “And it further confirms that the orcs are interfering dangerously in
the affairs of that plain,” he went on. “But we knew this, Pelli. You must act.”
“I’m aware of what should be done. My fear is that, in trying to prevent any damage the warband may do, we further aggravate
the situation. Things are complex here. We have to choose our time with care.”
“You’re facing the inherent paradox the Corps has to deal with: to prevent interference, we must interfere.”
“So how
do
I deal with it?”
“You use your judgement. If I didn’t believe you were capable of coping with the present irregularity you wouldn’t be in charge
of this mission. But be warned, Pelli. The longer you leave intervening, the more events will fester; and when you strike,
it has to be decisively.”
“I understand.”
“Keep one thing in mind. The Wolverines have to be stopped, by whatever means you need to employ.”
“I can’t help feeling that fate is about to deal them too harsh a punishment. They’re starting to seem like no more than pawns
in this drama.”
“That may well be so. But they are a martial race, and walk with death as a matter of routine. I say again that you must put
aside any feelings of consideration you may have for these creatures. Don’t go soft on me, Pelli. Because forces of great
destruction have been set in motion, and they’re on course for a collision.”
As the sun rose, there was a bustle of activity around Taress’ fortress.
Orc labourers were toiling in the empty moat, clearing out debris that had taken years to accumulate, preparatory to it being
flooded again. Crews were beefing up the other defences. New bars of thick metal were being affixed across lower windows.
The main gate was reinforced with sheets of iron.
Kapple Hacher stood on the access road, watching the work progress. His aide, Frynt, was beside him, ticking items on a parchment
list.
“It’s a crying shame,” Hacher stated, “that this place was allowed to fall into such a sorry state by the former regime. The
defences are a joke.”
“They’re not a warlike race, sir. I expect they didn’t see the need.”
“But they saw fit to build the fortress in the first place, whoever long ago that was.” He grew thoughtful. “Which makes me
think…”
“Sir?”
“Nothing. Will the work be completed on schedule, do you think?”
“It should be if we have them working day and night.”
“Bring in more labour if you have to. I want it finished as soon as possible.”
“Do you really think the fortress could come under attack, sir?”
“The way things are going, anything’s possible. And I don’t want to leave us open to the Envoy’s displeasure.”
“Ah, yes, sir. But is this enough to satisfy the lady Jennesta?”
“In itself, no. I wouldn’t expect it to. It’s just one measure. The crackdown I’m planning should mollify her to some extent.
At least for a while.”
“Yes, sir. Let’s hope so.”
“In that respect…” Hacher looked about, as though spying for eavesdroppers, and his voice dropped. “In that respect there’s
been something of a breakthrough.”
“General?”
“Breathe a word of this and I’ll have your tongue. Understood?”
Frynt looked offended at the idea of him being loose with the organ in question. “Of course, sir.”
“We’ve got an informer. Not one of your usual low level turncoats either. This is somebody within the resistance itself. Close
to the leadership, in fact.”
“Really, sir? May I ask who?”
If Hacher was going to answer the question, it wasn’t to be at that moment.
There was a chorus of shouts from the guard detail supervising the workers.
A soldier had arrived on horseback. His shirt was bloodstained and he was yelling. The sentries rushed to him, and he fell
into their arms.
“Will you stop that bloody row!” Haskeer barked.
Wheam cringed and quit plucking his lute. “I was only —”
“You were only driving me crazy. Now stow the damn thing and follow me.”
“Where?”
“Stryke wants you in on something. Fuck knows why. Now move your arse.”
Haskeer led him to the rear of the safe house and a closed door. Typically, he ignored niceties and barged in.
The room was the largest in the building, and crowded. It looked as though all the Wolverines were present, along with a number
of resistance members and a smattering of Vixens.
Stryke was standing near the door.
“Here he is,” Haskeer said. “Though why the hell you’d want him involved —”
“All right, Sergeant. Plant yourself somewhere.”
Grumbling, Haskeer went and lounged against a wall, arms folded.
Wheam looked up at Stryke and swallowed. “What do you want me for, Captain?”
“A mission’s being planned. We need everybody we can get. That includes you.”
“
Me?
But —”
“My band carries no dead weight. It’s time you proved yourself.”
“I… I wouldn’t want to let you down.”
“Then see you don’t. Now shut up and find a place to perch.” He jabbed a thumb.
Wheam spotted Dallog. He weaved meekly through the throng and settled on a patch of floor next to him.
There was a lot of low level muttering. Whatever was going to happen hadn’t started yet.
Brelan went to the head of the room and they quietened down. “Everybody here? Good. As you all know, Grilan-Zeat’s due to
show itself soon. In not too many days’ time it’ll be at its most visible. When that happens, my mother’s going to address
the citizenry and the uprising begins. At least, that’s what we’re hoping. Before that, we need to soften up the enemy, and
rattle ’em enough that they’ll hit back and rile the populace. We want the pot boiling when the Primary makes her appearance.
This is one of the ways we’ll do it.” There was a crudely drawn map affixed to the wall behind him. He pointed to an area
circled in red.