“It’s just mortar,” Chillder explained. “We’ve already done the work. You’ve only to break through.”
Three or four orcs came forward with sledgehammers that had cloth wrapped around their heads to deaden the sound. They pounded
at the mortar and it fell away in great chunks. Dust swirled in the already fusty air, and there was a chorus of coughing
and spitting. In minutes an opening like a cave mouth had been excavated.
Stryke had more lanterns lit and torches fired.
“It’s a labyrinth in there,” Chillder warned. “I’d better go first.” She took one of the torches.
They found themselves in a long tunnel low enough that all but the dwarfs had to stoop. It sloped upwards on a steep gradient,
and the floor was worn so smooth their boots had trouble gaining purchase.
At last they came to a level. Facing them were the mouths of two more tunnels. Chillder took the one on the right. It was
taller than the one they entered by, but much narrower, making its transit oppressive. This led to a circular chamber. On
its far side was a stairway carved out of the rock. They started to climb.
The stairs, perhaps a hundred in total, delivered them to a passageway. Along its length were the entrances to a dozen or
more tunnels. Without hesitating, Chillder strode to one and entered. It was short.
They came out in a high but constricted gallery. On both sides were ledges of stone reaching to the ceiling. The ledges were
packed with skulls. There were bones too. Thigh bones, arm bones, ribs, all neatly stacked and forming solid yellowy-white
walls. Every few yards there were complete skeletons, standing to attention as though guarding the house of death.
If an archer had loosed an arrow from where they stood, it would have scarcely reached the far end of the gallery. The skulls
and various bones, unmistakably from orcs, numbered in their thousands. Quite possibly hundreds of thousands.
“Welcome to one of the catacombs of Acurial,” Chillder announced, a certain awe in her voice.
“How long has this been here?” Coilla asked, taking in the display.
“It’s ancient,” Chillder explained. “Older than we can guess. At one time, long ago, all orcs were placed in galleries like
this when their end came. Our ancestors have slept here for untold centuries.”
“The humans don’t know about this?” Jup said.
“Most of our own don’t know about it. It’s just another part of our lost heritage. The resistance discovered it by accident
when we were looking for a way into the fortress.”
“We should keep moving,” Stryke said.
They walked the length of the gallery, their footsteps echoing eerily. The empty eye sockets of the long dead seemed to follow
their progress.
At the end of the gallery was another passage and yet more tunnels. Chillder entered the first they came to, and counted as
she paced along it. It was so low they could touch the ceiling with ease. Suddenly she stopped and looked up.
“This is the place,” she stated.
Their torches showed a white cross marked on the ceiling.
“How we doing, Spurral?” Stryke wanted to know.
“Seven hundred and eleven, seven hundred and twelve, seven hundred and…”
“Let’s get on with it.”
He called over grunts with picks and shovels.
“
Wait!
” Jup exclaimed.
They turned to see that he was standing with his arms held high and palms pressed to the wall.
“What is it?” Chillder demanded.
“Not here,” Jup said. “It’s not right.”
“What are you talking about?”
Stryke went to him. “What do you sense, Jup?”
“Sense?” Chillder said, obviously bewildered.
“This isn’t a good place,” Jup replied. “There’s a concentration of… I’m not sure. But above this point isn’t where we want
to come out. There’s activity up there. Malevolent.”
“Will somebody tell me what’s going on?” Chillder demanded.
“Jup has a…” Stryke faltered. “He’s sensitive to certain things. You’re sure, Jup?”
“The farsight works well here. Clearer than I ever knew it in,” he glanced at Chillder, “in the north. Believe me, this isn’t
where we should be. Can we move on a bit? Find another spot?”
“Have you gone insane?” Chillder fumed.
Stryke fixed her with a resolute gaze. “If Jup says it’s dangerous for us to break through here, then we’d better listen.
He’s never wrong about these things. Believe me.”
“If you think we’re going to change the plan at the last minute on the say so of a —”
“Eight hundred and seventy-one, eight hundred and seventy-two… ,” Spurral chimed in, glaring at them.
“Trust us, Chillder,” Stryke said. “That or stand aside. Only make up your mind now. There’s no time for this.”
“Gods, you’re all crazy,” Chillder decided. “This was worked out with care.” She jabbed a thumb at the ceiling. “Coming up
here puts us behind an outbuilding, somewhere there’s less chance of being seen.”
“We can’t do it. Where else?”
She hesitated for a split second, took in the resolution on his face, and sighed. “I must be damn crazy myself.” She turned
and looked further along the tunnel. “Let’s see…”
“Hurry,” Coilla urged.
“Let me think!”
Chillder walked the tunnel, staring upwards as though trying to remember or imagine what lay above. They others shuffled along
behind her. She stopped, looked as though she was about to say something, then moved on.
The tunnel was a dead-end, and they almost reached it before she halted again. “Here. I think.”
“Jup?” Stryke said.
The dwarf put his hand to the ceiling and closed his eyes. Time slowed to a glacial pace before he opened them again and nodded.
“Move yourselves!” Stryke ordered.
Grunts rushed forward and attacked the ceiling with their picks.
“Nine hundred and thirty-four,” Spurral recited, “nine hundred and thirty-five…”
“. . . nine hundred and thirty-six,” Wheam chanted, “nine hundred and thirty-seven…”
“Right.” Brelan turned to Haskeer and Dallog. “Get the wagons ready.” They went off to relay the order. To Pepperdyne he said,
“Clear about the timing?”
Pepperdyne nodded.
“And the archers?”
“Waiting on your word.”
“Good. Take your position.”
Pepperdyne left him.
“Wheam?” Brelan said.
“Nine hundred and forty-nine, nine hundred and fifty…”
Several dozen orcs were pushing the first wagon to the summit of the hill. The second and third were being readied for their
turn. On either side of the road, teams of the resistance’s archers were keeping low and looking Brelan’s way.
He signalled to the first wagon. It stopped just short of the crest. Fourteen or fifteen heavily armed orcs scrambled aboard.
Brelan looked to Wheam again.
“Nine hundred and seventy-two, nine hundred and…”
Further down the hill, behind the waiting wagons, Haskeer was gathering together the forty or fifty warriors whose job was
to provide the motive force, and later be part of the assault on foot. His method seemed to consist largely of swiping at
their backsides with the flat of his sword and lots of muttered swearing.
“Wheam,” Brelan repeated.
“Nine hundred and eighty-nine, nine hundred and ninety…”
“Keep it aloud.”
“Nine hundred and ninety-one, nine hundred and ninety-two…”
Brelan unsheathed his sword and raised it. He could feel every eye on him.
“. . . nine hundred and ninety-four, nine hundred and ninety-five…”
The pushing crew flowed to the first wagon. Archers nocked their arrows.
“Nine hundred and ninety-seven, nine hundred and ninety-eight…” Wheam’s voice strained with tension. “Nine hundred and ninety-nine…
one thousand
!”
Brelan’s sword came down in a decisive slash.
The archers leapt up, aimed and fired. Arrows winged towards the fort’s battlements. Sentries fell.
The pushing crew shoved the first wagon to the crest of the hill, then over it. Once it reached the downward incline it began
to move of its own accord and the crew let go. As it rumbled past Brelan he grabbed hold and scrambled aboard. The wagon picked
up speed, bumping and bouncing on the potholed road, with Brelan and a fellow resistance member clutching the steering lever.
Orc archers kept up a steady stream of arrows, pinning down most of the fort’s own bowmen. But the garrison had started to
return fire. Arrows zinged over and around the careering wagon.
Wheam ran to Pepperdyne, by the second wagon. “Do you think they’ll make it?”
“If they don’t, we’ve got two more tries. Now get to your place.”
Wheam joined Dallog at the last wagon.
Brelan’s party was travelling as fast as a galloping horse and still picking up speed. They hung on grimly as the wagon bucked
at every rut it hit. But it was halfway to its destination and still on course. Brelan hoped it would stay that way. He was
doubtful they could steer with any accuracy if it deviated.
At the top of the hill the second wagon was trundled into place. Its crew climbed aboard, and Pepperdyne took the steering
lever, along with Bhose. The pushers moved in, ready for the off.
“
Steady!
” Pepperdyne cautioned.
“Wait for it!”
When Brelan’s team started their descent the fortress looked like a child’s plaything. Now it filled their world. They could
make out the coarse texture of its stonework, the faces of the defenders on its battlements. And as the distance closed, the
danger grew. The wagon became the prime target of the fort’s archers, and bolts rained down on the orcs’ raised shields.
There was a jolt as the road levelled, but no loss of momentum. Nor did the wagon vary its course. It hurtled into the fort’s
shadow, wheels blurred with speed. The defenders lobbed spears and rocks. Slingshot bounced off the orcs’ shields.
Dead ahead, the towering gates loomed.
“
Hold on!
” Brelan bellowed.
Stryke saw nothing but blue sky.
He hauled himself up and cautiously poked his head through the opening. After a quick look he ducked back down. “We need to
move fast,” he told the others. “Follow me.” He climbed out.
He was near one of the fort’s outer walls, on the edge of its parade ground. The gates could be seen on the far side of the
square. There were several stone buildings a short sprint from where Stryke stood. He could see men on the battlements above,
but as far as he could tell, no one had spotted him.
The others began scrambling out of the hole. He hurried things on, directing them to shelter by one of the outbuildings.
When Chillder emerged he pulled her to one side. “Where would we have come out if we stuck to the plan?”
She got her bearings. Then she pointed to a large building about a hundred paces away. It was plain, with few windows, set
high, and could have been a barracks. “On the other side of that.”
Stryke sent her to join the others. He kept an eye on the place she indicated until the last of his party came up. Then he
hurried after them, keeping low.
“So what did we avoid?” Chillder wanted to know, still doubtful.
“Whatever it is,” Stryke told her, “it’s behind that barracks.”
A commotion interrupted them. They looked to the square. Dozens of soldiers were running towards the gates.
“They’ve spotted Brelan,” Stryke said.
Coilla drew her sword. “Then let’s stop ’em.”
“I don’t like having that at our backs.” He nodded at the barracks.
“So what do we do?”
“Split our forces,” he quickly decided. “You and the Vixens as one unit; Jup and me take the rest.”
Coilla fished out a coin. “Call.” She flipped it.
“Heads.”
She caught the coin and slapped it on the back of her hand. “Heads it is. What do you want?”
“You get the gate.”
She gestured to Chillder, Spurral and the other females. They peeled off from the group and followed her.
Stryke, Jup and the remainder of the party sprinted for the barracks.
They reached its nearest wall and flowed round to the side, lessening the chance of being seen from the square. It was a wonder
to Stryke that no one up on the parapet had noticed them yet. But they seemed to be concentrating on whatever was happening
outside the fort. He had a couple of his archers keep watch.
Signalling the others to hold their position, he and Jup crept to the corner and peered round it. Some twenty or thirty paces
along, in the broad space between the barracks and the fortress wall, there was a large group of soldiers. They stood silently
in a wide circle, weapons drawn, staring at the ground.
“That was our welcome,” Stryke whispered.
“How did they
know
?” Jup asked.
“Good question.”
They stealthily withdrew and rejoined the rest of the group.
With gestures and soft words, Stryke filled them in. Then he divided his force. Half, led by Jup, were sent to one end of
the barracks. He took the other half to the opposite end. A lone orc lingered midway, ready to signal when they were in position.
Once he did, the two groups poured around the corners of the building. They charged the startled would-be ambushers from both
sides, bellowing war cries, and fell upon them.
The Vixens were halfway to the gates before they were spotted.
Soldiers rushed to engage them. Arrows winged from the battlements.
Coilla, Spurral and Chillder were in the vanguard, and they tore into the humans with savagery. Thirty screaming females,
wildly slashing steel, set about the troops like a flock of blood-lusting harpies. A dozen lethal brawls boiled in the middle
of the square. More soldiers dashed towards the maelstrom.
There was a tremendous crash. The gates exploded inwards, crushing defenders on either side as Brelan’s horseless wagon hurtled
through. It ploughed into fleeing troopers, shattering their bones and bouncing over their broken bodies.
The wagon rumbled on across the square, humans scattering in its path. It demolished the corner of a storehouse, but kept
going, though its speed reduced. Finally it smacked dead centre into the side of another, sturdier building, where its ram
buried itself in the brickwork.