ORCS: Army of Shadows (4 page)

“Our research suggests that might not always have been so. The records are far from complete, but they hint that the orcs
had a martial history.”

“And you think their fighting spirit could be revived somehow.”

“It’s possible. Again, it turns on what they believe.”

“Omens, prophecies, a lost warlike temperament; you’re seeing too much in this, Grentor.”

“Perhaps. But isn’t it better to be prepared?”

“Planning for contingencies is good military practice, agreed. But you’re petitioning the wrong person. Our lady Jennesta
holds all the cards now.”

Grentor tugged at the general’s sleeve and nodded to the carriage’s window. “Talking of which…”

“At last,” Hacher sighed.

Jennesta was returning. She wasn’t alone. Three of her personal bodyguards were with her. They were human. Or had been. Considered
challengers to her power, they had been consigned by Jennesta’s sorcery to an undead state and made utterly obedient slaves.
Their eyes were set and glassy, and lacked any vestige of benevolence. Such skin as could be seen was stretched tight, and
was of an unwholesome, parchment-like colour. The zombies were combat-dressed, in black leather and steel-toed boots, and
they were armed with scimitars. One of them carried a steel-banded chest.

Hacher and Grentor were out of the carriage when the little procession arrived. Close to, the zombies stank, and the elder
had his kerchief out again.

“Were your endeavours successful, ma’am?” the general asked.

Jennesta shot him a look laced with suspicion before replying, “Yes. The energy is particularly strong here, and of a…
flavour
I find gratifying.”

She turned away from them to supervise the loading of the trunk into her carriage. From the way she scolded her minions it
obviously contained something significant. Not that Hacher or Grentor would have dared ask what.

For his part, Hacher was glad that whatever she had undertaken seemed to have gone well. He thought it might improve her temperament.
It was a hope swiftly crushed.

Satisfied that her precious cargo was safely stowed, Jennesta brought her attention back to the pair. “I’m displeased,” she
announced.

“Oh?” Hacher responded. “I thought —”

“Don’t. It doesn’t become you. There’s been more trouble on the streets. Why?”

“A minority inciting the rabble, ma’am. Nothing more.”

“Then why can’t you stamp it out?”

“With respect, we can’t be everywhere. The territory the imperial forces have to cover —”

“It’s nothing to do with numbers, General, as you said yourself. It’s what you do with those you have. These upstarts should
be hit hard. I know orcs and their inherent savagery, and I’ve always found that brutality is the best course in a situation
like this.”

“If I may be so bold, my lady,” Grentor ventured hesitantly. “Isn’t it possible that harsher action might further aggravate
the insurgents?”

“Not if they’re dead,” she replied coldly. “You seem particularly dense on this subject, Elder. You both do. The equation’s
simple: rebellious heads rear up; we cut them off. What’s so hard to understand about that?”

Grentor was anxiously fingering his string of beads and summoning the nerve to say something more.

“
Wait
,” Jennesta said, stilling them with a raised hand. She looked up, an expression of concentration on her face, as though she
heard something they couldn’t.

They stood in silence for what seemed an eternity. Grentor and Hacher began to wonder if this was another of Jennesta’s eccentricities.
Or, knowing her, the prelude to unpleasantness.

Something swooped out of the darkness. They thought it was a bird. A hawk, perhaps, or a raven. But when it came to rest on
Jennesta’s outstretched arm they saw it had only the superficial appearance of a bird. In subtle but noticeable ways it was
like no bird that ever flew. It had the look of magic about it.

The creature moved along her arm and chirruped gutturally into Jennesta’s ear. She listened intently. When it finished she
made a gesture, as though brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve. The enchantment was annulled in a soundless explosion,
instantly transforming the ersatz bird into a myriad of shimmering golden sparks. The glowing pinpoints gently faded as they
were carried away by the evening breeze. All that lingered was the pungent smell of sulphur.

“I have tidings,” Jennesta told them, her face like flint. “It seems your minority of troublemakers have wiped out one of
our garrisons. If you want a more graphic example of my point, just say so.”

Neither man spoke.

“You two need a little adjustment to your attitudes,” she went on icily. “Things are going to be different in this land, even
if I have to have every orc in it put to the sword. Be assured, change is coming.” She turned and strode towards her carriage.

Hacher and Grentor watched her go. Then, as on every other night during the past several weeks, their eyes were drawn skyward.

There was a new star in the firmament, larger and brighter than all the rest.

“
Keep your eyes on the road!
” Stryke bellowed.

“
All right, all right!
” Haskeer yelled, knuckles white on the reins.

In the back of the open wagon Coilla, Dallog, Brelan and new recruit Wheam hung on grimly.

They took a corner at speed. The wagon’s wheels lifted on one side, then crashed down at the turn, jarring all of them. Seconds
later, half a dozen mounted troopers rounded the bend in hot pursuit. They were quickly followed by a much larger contingent
of riders. Some of them had open tunics flapping in the wind, or were minus jackets and headgear altogether, due to the sudden,
unexpected start of the chase. Behind them were several wagons filled with militia, and even a buggy carrying a couple of
officers. Farther back still, a mob of troops dashed to keep up on foot.

The Wolverines’ wagon was in one of Taress’ main thoroughfares now, a wide avenue lined with some of the city’s more substantial
buildings. It thronged with mid-morning crowds, and startled orcs dived clear of the speeding wagon and the humans chasing
it.

Stryke’s crew weaved through a sea of merchants’ carts, lone riders, occupiers’ carriages and strings of mules. There were
scrapes and collisions, and much cursing and waving of fists. The wagon clipped a trader’s handcart, flipping it. Turnips
and apples bounced across the road, getting underfoot of horses and passersby. Riders and pedestrians went down.

Those at the roadside weren’t immune. Some of the pursuing humans took to the walkways, scattering bystanders and ploughing
through peddlers’ stalls. In the process, several riders struck low-hanging awnings and projecting beams, and were unhorsed.

Despite the chaos a substantial number of humans stayed in the chase. And they were beginning to close in on the fleeing wagon.
To press their point, they loosed a stream of arrows at it.

A bolt narrowly missed Coilla’s head and zinged on over Haskeer’s shoulder. He swore loudly and whipped the foaming horses.
Another arrow landed at Wheam’s feet, embedding itself in a plank. He froze, staring at it. Dallog pulled him to the floor
and held him there. The arrows kept coming, zipping overhead and peppering the tailboard.

“Fuck this,” Coilla growled. She took up her own bow and started returning fire.

Brelan, the only other one on board with a bow, followed her lead. The wagon juddered and shook so much that their first shots
were wild. Then Coilla got a bead and sent a shaft into the chest of one of the leading humans. The force of the hit catapulted
him from his mount. His falling body collided with the riders behind him, downing several more. But it didn’t slow the rest.

It didn’t do more than briefly interrupt the flow of arrows either. The only solace was that firing from the saddle spoilt
the humans’ aim. Bolts flew high, wide and low; a couple veered towards the wayside, narrowly missing onlookers. In the rear
of the wagon Coilla and Brelan were bobbing up, firing, then bobbing back down. Their shots weren’t much more accurate than
the humans’, but at least it kept them busy. At the wagon’s front, Stryke and Haskeer were hunched, trying to offer the volatile
bolts as small a target as possible.

“Damn!” Brelan cursed. “I’m out!”

Coilla loosed her final arrow. It missed. “Me too,” she said.

They quickly ducked as a small swarm of shafts came back at them.

“Try this,” Dallog said. He passed them a thick coil of rope.

Muscles rippling, Coilla flung it at the pursuers, like someone casting a heavy fishing net. Resembling an ungainly discus,
the coil spun in a descending arc. It landed in the path of a rider. His horse came to grief on the obstacle, throwing him
down to be trampled by the mounts behind. Pounded by hooves, the coil unravelled, tangling several more horses in lashing
rope and adding to the confusion.

Brelan hefted an empty crate and launched it over the tailgate. It smashed when it hit the road, strewing wreckage and claiming
more casualties. Meanwhile, Dallog and Wheam were zealously ripping up the planks that served as benches. Passed to Brelan
and Coilla, the planks were hurled at the enemy. One human tried to catch the plank hurtling his way. The force of the impact
carried him out of his saddle, slamming him to the ground still clutching his dubious prize.

“How much further, Brelan?” Stryke called out.

“Couple of blocks!” He realised where they were. “Take the next left! Here!
Here!
”

Haskeer tugged viciously on the reins. The wagon swerved sharply and took the corner half on the sidewalk. It also took out
a kerbside stall, striking it square on and ploughing through its display of pottery. There was an explosion of broken bowls,
flying platters and terracotta shards.

The road they entered was no less crowded. More so, as this was one of Taress’ major junctions. The pedestrians who saw them
coming ran for their lives.

Once it passed, the crowd closed again in the wagon’s wake, only to have the horde of humans tear round the corner at their
backs. The cavalry fell to hacking at them with sabres as they battled their way through.

The melee put a little distance between the orcs and the humans, but Haskeer didn’t slow. At their rear, the humans were already
emerging from the scrum and picking up speed again. By this time the street ahead was clearer, those further along having
seen what was happening and made for cover.

Wheam was shouting. They all turned to look, and saw another wagon gaining on them. It was harnessed to a team of four horses,
as opposed to their two, and carried five or six troopers. Haskeer urged on his team, but the greater horsepower of the humans’
wagon had it rapidly closing the gap. In seconds it drew level. The occupants brandished swords, and a couple had spears.
As the two wagons neared each other the orcs took up their own weapons and braced themselves.

The humans sideswiped the orcs with a bone-rattling crash. Swords met and the chatter of whetted steel commenced. There was
little finesse. Hacking and slashing outbid grace, and the spur was frenzy.

Brelan spilt blood first. More by luck than judgement, one of his swings bit deep into a human’s arm, nearly severing it.
The man screamed and fell back, showering his comrades with blood. Coilla was next in, driving forward and piercing somebody’s
lung. She withdrew quickly, narrowly avoiding the thrusts of blades and spears.

Emboldened, Wheam got to his feet and began hacking at the humans too. His efforts were spirited but feeble, his swipes erratic
and wide of the mark. Then he overreached himself. As he leaned half out of the wagon, stretching to get to a target, his
jerkin was grabbed by one of the humans. The man tugged mightily, doing his best to pull the tyro out. Struggling, Wheam let
go of his sword. It clattered on the road and was lost. Another human joined in. Wheam started yelling. Coilla and Brelan
got hold of him and tried hauling him back. A tug-of-war developed, with Wheam as the squealing rope.

Dallog joined in, slashing at the pullers. He caught a blade for his trouble. It raked his forearm, forcing him back.

“You all right?” Coilla said.

“Yes!” he shouted, winding a cloth around the wound to stanch the blood flow. “Look to Wheam!”

“Right,” she replied grittily, and commenced yanking with more determination. Wheam carried on howling.

Up front, Stryke was crossing swords with his human counterpart opposite. The wagons were parting, then bumping and scraping
together again, making their duel a strangely disjointed affair. When the gap widened, stretching Wheam and raising his yelping,
Stryke and his foe could do no more than exchange scowls. When it closed, they resumed their hacking with renewed zeal.

In the back, they finally freed Wheam. Dragging him into the wagon, Coilla shoved him to the floor and barked, “Now stay down!”

“Watch out!” Brelan yelled.

Ahead, a driver had abandoned his hay wagon and made off in panic. It was side-on, blocking two-thirds of the highway, its
pair of dray horses still hitched.

Haskeer had already seen it. He gave the reins an almighty heave, causing his frothing team to swerve sharply. They avoided
the deserted wagon with a hairsbreadth to spare. Passing so close spooked the already nervous drays. They lumbered forward
a few paces into the gap the orcs had just shot through, blocking more of the road.

The driver of the wagonload of humans, a heartbeat behind, saw the obstruction too late. He tried the same manoeuvre Haskeer
had pulled off, tugging desperately on his reins in a bid to steer clear. But the turn was too sharp. The wagon tilted at
a crazy angle. Then it jackknifed and went over, flinging its occupants out and crushing several. As it flipped, the shaft
snapped, freeing its team. The quartet of horses bolted, dragging the shaft and striking sparks off the cobblestones.

“That’s them fucked,” Haskeer remarked.

“It’s not over yet,” Stryke told him, looking over his shoulder.