Orcs: Bad Blood (36 page)

“There were soldiers,” Wheam piped up. “Did you know there were soldiers down —”

“Yeah,” Stryke said, “we did.”

“Bit of a shock for ’em,” Dallog reported, not without relish.

“And fortunate for us. They’d have ambushed us if we’d left through the catacombs. That or come up at our backs inside the
fort.”

“But if they knew about the tunnel what’s to say they know about this escape route too?”

“All the more reason to get out of here, and fast.”

Dallog scanned the orcs crowded round. “I don’t see Ignar.”

“He didn’t make it.”

The corporal’s face dropped. “No?”

“No,” Stryke confirmed.

Wheam looked shocked.

“He died well,” Stryke added.

“That’s a comfort,” Dallog replied. “But I promised I’d keep an eye on those young ones.”

“So did I.”

Dallog nodded. He said nothing for a second, then added, “But the raid was a success, right?”

No one spoke until Pepperdyne offered, “That’s debatable.”

“Your crew all right to carry on, Dallog?” Stryke asked.

“We’ll be fine.”

“Then let’s move.”

Stryke and Brelan snapped orders and the rafts were readied for launch. Each held twelve or more passengers. Wolverines, Vixens
and resistance members boarded randomly. The way it fell out, Stryke, Jup and Spurral found themselves on the same raft. Haskeer
and Coilla were together on another; Chillder and Brelan on a third; Pepperdyne, Dallog and Wheam on a fourth.

At Brelan’s signal the vessels cast off, pushed clear of the bank with rudimentary paddles. The strong current took hold at
once, tossing them about like corks and drawing them into midstream. Before things settled down there was some jockeying,
the orcs paddling furiously to avoid collisions as the craft rapidly picked up speed.

The terrain slipped past at a clip. Copious trees and lush pastures. A glimpse of a small lake ringed with jade hills. Fields
with flocks of sheep and startled shepherds. The sight of distant cerulean cliffs, shimmering in sunlight.

They rounded a bend. The river became wider and faster. They were drenched with the spume, rafts bouncing on the surge, bow
and stern see-sawing.

“Hey!” Spurral yelled.

“What?” Stryke bellowed.

“Back there!” She pointed to the rear.

He squinted through the vapour and made out oblong patches of white. The mist cleared a little and he realised they were sails.
They belonged to an armada of boats coming round the bend after them.

As they drew nearer they were noticed by the occupants of other rafts.

On Coilla’s, she turned to Haskeer and said, “Now we know where they disappeared to.”

“The bastards are on to our every move.”

“There’s gotta be a spy.”

Haskeer snarled, “If I get my hands on him —”

“We’ve more pressing problems. Hold tight!”

On the raft carrying Dallog, Wheam and Pepperdyne they were counting the pursuing craft.

“Twenty-one,” Dallog said.

“Twenty-
two
,” Wheam corrected. “You missed one.”

“The number’s not important,” Pepperdyne interrupted testily. “Outrunning them is.”

“They’re gaining!” Wheam cried.

Brelan and Chillder’s raft was at the back of the orc flotilla. Close enough to the boats chasing them to see who stood at
the prow of the leading vessel.

“It’s him all right,” Brelan confirmed, shading his eyes with his palm, “Kapple Hacher.”

“It was no fluke him being here,” Chillder reckoned. “This whole thing stinks, brother.”

The river meandered for a mile or two, the turns and curves taming its pace. That slowed the rafts, dependent on current,
and forced the orcs to work their paddles. The boats trailing them, under sail, began to close the gap. And even when the
river straightened and flowed quickly again they continued to catch up, until the foremost were within an arrow’s flight.

The humans proved the point by loosing a salvo. Arrows zinged over the orcs’ heads, or fell short, cutting into open water.
Orc archers returned fire. Their footing was unsure on the heaving rafts and the results were ragged. But the exchange carried
on, and there were hits. Through skill or luck, two orcs were struck by bolts. One plunged overboard and was lost. The other
fell wounded into the arms of comrades.

A human paid with his life, taking an arrow to the chest. Another was injured and dragged clear of the rail.

By this time the boats had closed in. But the rafts had a small advantage over the larger craft. They didn’t have sails to
tack, giving them a bit more leeway to manoeuvre. That kept most of the boats clear, though some got in close enough to engage.
Spears were lobbed. Arrows, throwing knives and slingshot clattered against raised shields on both sides.

The speed of the river’s flow hampered ramming attempts by the boats. Instead they tried to get alongside the rafts and board
them. Others did their best to outpace the rafts, hoping to block their way. The orcs fought to stop them.

In this way the two small fleets played cat and mouse along the river. Harrying and assailing, bumping and swerving, hurling
weaponry back and forth.

At length, a change came over the river. It flowed even faster, and up ahead it seemed to disappear into a boiling cloud.
A deep rumbling could be heard.

“What the hell’s that?” Jup said.

“Must be the falls,” Stryke explained.

“So what do we do?” Spurral asked, a little uneasily.

“Brelan’s got it worked out. I hope. Just be ready to hold on tight.”

Every rudder operator on the orc rafts was a resistance member, briefed on what to do and when. As the chase progressed they
steered nearer to the left bank and stayed alert for a signal.

The roar of water grew louder, the misty cloud loomed higher. Several boats were neck and neck with orc rafts.

On the bank, perilously close to the deafening lip of the falls, stood a cluster of mature trees. They were taller than any
others on that stretch. From high up on the tallest there was a spiky flash of light. It repeated a number of times, proving
it to be a confederate holding something reflective.

As one, the rafts veered sharply towards the bank. The orcs braced themselves. At the same time bands of archers ashore, some
hidden in trees, peppered the human’s boats.

The well chosen spot was shallow near the bank, and the majority of the rafts simply ground to a halt. Their occupants leapt
off and splashed to shore. Some rafts were barred from quite reaching the shallows by the clutter of vessels. They tossed
anchors of iron and rock overboard, then their passengers waded waist high to the riverbank.

The suddenness of the move confused the humans, though they must have known the orcs had no plan to go over the falls. A number
of them tried copying the move and beaching in the shallows. But the deeper hauls of their bigger craft ran aground far short
of the bank, leaving the troopers loath to brave the fast-flowing water.

Other boats dropped anchor in full flow, but had no benefit. There was such force in the tide that rather than holding, the
anchors were dragged along the riverbed by the swiftly drifting boats. Some struggled to turn away from the attraction of
the falls and head back the way they’d come. All the while, arrows rained down on them.

One boat, losing all control, slowly spun like a child’s paper toy in a gushing stream as the river pushed it past the chaos
of vessels and towards the falls. Men jumped from its decks, only to find that the river had as powerful a hold on them as
their abandoned craft. Boat and men, black dots in a torrent of foam, rolled into the vast cloud of water vapour. The boat,
dark outline showing through the mist, tipped, and for a second seemed to stand on its nose before plunging out of sight.

The last of the orcs swarmed ashore and into the trees. Humans who made it to the bank met a hail of arrows that kept them
pinned down at the water’s edge.

The resistance had horses waiting, along with a couple of wagons for kit and the wounded. Everyone quickly mounted. In minutes
they were on a trail and heading out of the woods.

Their path took them to a rise that ran parallel with the river, so that they could look down to the tangle of vessels, and
the humans milling on the bank. One figure was unmistakable. Kapple Hacher stood apart from his men, his fists balled. He
looked up and saw the escaping orcs. Even from that distance they could sense his impotent rage. The orcs spurred their mounts
and pushed on.

A while later, well clear of the river, they allowed themselves to slow down.

Riding next to Stryke and Brelan at the column’s head, Pepperdyne had a question. “Does that count as a rout or a success?”
he wondered.

“Bit of both,” Stryke replied.

“I’d say that’s a generous way of seeing it.”

“We did damage. And the way the humans tried to spring their trap could have been handled better, lucky for us.”

“I’m wondering if it was worth upward of forty of our lives,” Brelan said.

“And now we’ve got a traitor to contend with,” Pepperdyne added.

“We don’t know that,” Brelan came back irately. “It could have been chance.”

“Oh, come
on
.”

“Maybe Hacher was doing a snap inspection or something, and —”

“And at the same time they just happened to find the entrance to the catacombs minutes after we went in? Listen to yourself.”

“Face it, Brelan,” Stryke said. “The odds are somebody informed on us.”

“The resistance are loyal,” Brelan stated indignantly. “You’ll find no betrayal in our ranks.”

“Didn’t say there was.”

“What
are
you saying then? Because if there is a spy, and it wasn’t an Acurial orc, that doesn’t leave much scope, does it?”

“I’m as sure of the Wolverines as you are of your comrades.”

“Can you speak for all of them?” He glanced at Pepperdyne. “Even those not of our kind?”

“I vouch for them all,” Stryke replied, unswerving.

“I hope you don’t need to eat those words. I’ve things to do.” Brelan turned his horse and rode back down the column.

Pepperdyne looked to Stryke. “Thanks.”

“I’m trusting you to deserve it. If I’m wrong… well, you’ll know about it.”

Before the human could reply, Coilla galloped alongside.

“What’s wrong with Brelan?” she asked. “He shot past me with a face like a corpse.”

“He’s pissed off about the way it went,” Stryke said. “Only natural.”

“And he’s tetchy about the idea of a traitor in his group,” Pepperdyne added. “But I guess that’s natural too.”

“What is it, Coilla?” Stryke wanted to know.

“I finished checking the wounded, like you asked. We’ve got two likely to lose limbs. The rest’s all minor stuff. Not bad,
considering.”

“No. I need to talk to you, Coilla. Alone.” He gave Pepperdyne a pointed look.

“Don’t mind me,” the human responded. He dropped back along the column.

“Have you got it?” Stryke said.

Coilla’s expression was blank. “What?”

“The
star
.” He looked pained at her not immediately knowing what he meant.

“Oh. Course I have.” She slipped a hand into her jerkin and brought out the instrumentality just enough that only he could
see it.

“Good. Guard it well. Above all else.”

“You know I will.” She stuffed it back. “Really, Stryke, you’re obsessed with this thing. Relax, and trust me.”

The resistance let a week pass to lie low and regroup before renewing their harassment of the occupiers. In turn, the authorities
bore down ever harder on the occupied.

With the possibility of a spy in their midst, the rebels trod warily, conscious that they could be exposed at any time. Stryke
wasn’t alone in thinking that the humans and dwarfs in his group were looked on with suspicion. A feeling strengthened perhaps
when Jup’s power of farsight had been revealed to Chillder, for all that the Wolverines tried to brush it off as mere “intuition.”

The band found itself fully employed helping to put pressure on the humans. The Vixens, too, played their part in stirring
things up. As reward, the first signs of disobedience by the general populace showed themselves. The hoped-for revolution
started to look like more than a possibility.

Adding to the tension, and assuming the prediction was true, the comet Grilan-Zeat was expected almost hourly.

But for Stryke and his band one mission was paramount.

The plot to assassinate Jennesta was known to very few, even within the Wolverines. Stryke kept his team small, picking only
Coilla and Haskeer, with Eldo and Noskaa as back-ups. A sufficient number as the plan depended on stealth, not force of arms.
Equipped with a rough map of the interior, supplied by sympathisers working as menials in the fortress, Stryke and the others
set out on the first cloudy night.

Like all old castles, Taress fortress was large and rambling, having been added to and refashioned over centuries. Such an
acreage meant many walls to protect and doors to be kept barred. One particular annexe, projecting from the fort’s eastern
side and unprotected by the older moat, was where the daily needs of a garrison were most obvious. The kitchens and food stores
were there, alongside the heaps of vegetable waste, stripped carcasses and other flyblown detritus waiting to be hauled away.
It was the province of servants, and welcome to it.

There were guards, as everywhere on the perimeter, but they were few and Stryke had been told their routine. Furtive blades
easily dealt with them, and their bodies were hidden in piles of refuse.

Finding a recessed door, Stryke softly knocked. The response was so long coming he was about to rap again when the sound of
drawing bolts was heard. The door creaked open a crack and anxious eyes surveyed the group. Then it was pulled wide to usher
them in.

The orc who admitted them was aged and crook-backed. He wore a once-white apron, grubby from toil and bloodstained.

“You know what you have to do?” Stryke said.