Orcs:Bad blood

19

The sun rose blood red. A run of fine days looked threatened by drab clouds and chill breezes.

The weather was of no concern to a group concealed among the trees on the peak of a hill overlooking Taress. They were a motley collection of beings that would have dismayed both humans and orcs had they been seen. Which was why they employed means both practical and magical to make sure they weren't.

One of their number required solitude for the task she had to perform. At a distance from the others, she knelt by the edge of a pool. She had sprinkled certain herbs and compounds over its still waters while reciting the necessary incantation. The pool had bubbled and seethed, and took on the quality of a finely polished mirror.

Now Pelli Madayar of the elfin race looked down at the image of the human Karrell Revers. Through the power of sorcery she and the principal of the Gateway Corps conversed across dimensions.

"I think I made a mistake, she confessed. "I should have approached the Wolverines in Maras-Dantia."

"Why didn't you?" Revers asked.

"There was little opportunity. The land was in such turmoil. I was afraid that if we revealed ourselves to them it would have been seen as hostile."

"If that was your best judgement you acted wisely."

"But because things in Maras-Dantia were so chaotic it might have been a better place to approach the warband, and do battle with them if necessary. Here, the potential for harming innocents is greater."

"That you want to retrieve the instrumentalities by peaceful means does you credit, Pelli. But bear in mind that retrieve them you must, by whatever means."

"Let me try it my way."

"I'm content with that. But should you meet opposition you have what it takes to overcome it."

"This is a much more regulated, oppressed world than Maras-Dantia. There are only two races, orcs and humans; and the orcs are cruelly subjugated. Our freedom of movement is greatly restricted. We wouldn't last a moment here without being spotted."

"Then use the art to cloak yourselves."

"We will if necessary. But you know how draining that can be."

"I trust your discretion. And Pelli… I appreciate that you feel some sympathy for downtrodden orcs, and that's praiseworthy. But you must put that out of your mind. These creatures have a potential for savagery unmatched by virtually any other race. Be sure your compassion isn't misplaced."

"I understand."

"This is all the more important because of something that's just come to our attention."

"Sir?"

"Our seers have picked up an anomaly in your sector."

"Another set of instrumentalities?"

"We're not sure. But it's certainly a source of great magical power, and not far from your present location. It could be an individual, or a group. We can't tell at this stage."

"Another player?"

"Perhaps. Whatever it is, you need to be doubly cautious."

"We will."

"What are your plans?"

"At the moment the group's recovering from the transference. We'll begin our surveillance shortly. As soon as an opportunity arises to confront the warband, we'll take it."

"Good. Meantime, let's hope the Wolverines don't do anything that might lead to the instrumentalities falling into even more malign hands."

"So we're agreed," Stryke whispered. "If either of us falls, the other takes the stars. If we both go down, it's Dallog's job."

"And if he's not around?" Coilla wondered.

"One of the grunts."

"Anybody but Haskeer, eh?"

"I'd trust Haskeer with my life. The stars are something else."

"If he ever finds out we were plotting behind his back — "

"We're not plotting, just protecting something precious."

"All right. But it's a pity we couldn't just hide the damn things somewhere."

"Where?"

"Like I said, it's a pity we can't. Now can we concentrate on what we're supposed to be doing?"

They were in the centre of Taress. Although it was early, the streets bustled. Carts loaded with provisions vied with traders leading strings of mules. Costermongers hawked their trays of wares, and roadside stalls dispensed meat, flour and wine.

The vast majority of those abroad were orcs. But human patrols were much in evidence, and pairs of soldiers could be seen on many street corners, eyeing the crowds. Occasionally, troopers on horseback ploughed the throng.

Despite all the activity there was surprisingly little in the way of idle chatter or raised voices. The citizenry's mood seemed sombre. Up above, the sky was growing slate coloured, and the day was already uncomfortably muggy.

Stryke and Coilla kept their heads down and tried to look as though they were going about their business like everybody else. They dressed soberly in work clothes supplied by the resistance, and their weapons were well concealed.

Following directions they'd been given, they skirted the central, most populous part of the city. Across squares and through alleys, their pace even and expressions bland, they finally reached their destination. It was a quarter largely given over to storehouses and stockyards. But there was one, down-at-heel, tavern.

Brelan and Chillder were waiting for them, seated at one of the empty wooden tables scattered outside.

"We thought you weren't coming," Chillder gently teased.

"Are we running to plan?" Stryke asked as he sidled between table and bench to sit.

"More or less," Brelan replied. "Though we'll be tight if there are foul-ups."

"We'll have to be sure there aren't," Coilla said. She had perched herself on the end of the table, one booted foot on the seat. "Which there won't be if everybody follows orders."

"Our side will."

"No worries then."

"Everything all right with Jup and Spurral, and the humans?" Stryke said.

"They're back at HQ helping with training, as we agreed," Chillder told him. "You do understand, don't you, Stryke, that we couldn't let them take part in this operation? If anybody saw them — "

"I understand." He did, but also smelt an undercurrent of prejudice. Though it wasn't hard to see why, at least as far as the humans were concerned.

"Heads up." Coilla nodded.

Haskeer and a quartet of non-ranking orcs were heading their way; and from another direction, Dallog with three more.

"Good place to meet," Haskeer announced on arrival. "How about a drink?"

" No," Stryke said. "We need clear heads for this."

Brelan got up. "The others will be in position by now. We should be moving."

"Does everybody understand their part?" Coilla asked.

"Yeah, yeah," Haskeer came back impatiently. "Let's get on with it."

They formed three groups. The first consisted of Stryke, Coilla, Chillder and two privates. Haskeer, Brelan and another pair of grunts made up the second. That left Dallog and the three remaining grunts as the third. The groups were mixed in such a way that each had at least one resistance member who knew the territory.

Without further word, the three groups moved off on their respective missions. Haskeer's and Dallog's went toward the city centre; Stryke's headed deeper into the warehouse district.

The streets were lined with substantial, faceless buildings here, and the roads were wider than in the residential quarters, to allow for heavier wagon traffic. There were few signs of life.

"Your plan's good, Coilla," Stryke said.

"But?"

"There are risks."

"We know that."

"Not so much to us. There's going to be a lot of non-combatants in the path of — "

"We've been through this. Look at these streets. Tall buildings with hardly any breaks between. A perfect funnel."

"It's not these streets I'm thinking about."

"The other teams are going to channel the flow. Besides, the resistance will do their best to make sure the citizens are away from harm."

"The humans will do that for us," Chillder reminded them, "because of what's happening today. That's the beauty of it." She pointed. "This is the place."

Ahead, the road ended at chest-high wooden fencing. In its centre was a wide bar gate. Beyond the fence was rougher land, littered with outbuildings. Set well back was a large enclosure made of stout timber rails.

Even from a distance they could hear and smell what was housed there.

"Sure about guards, Chillder?" Stryke said.

"There'll be just a few. They don't think of this as a target."

"And the guards are human?"

"Always. Orcs aren't trusted with arms. They get the menial jobs."

Checking that no one was about, they approached the gate. It was simply secured with an iron bolt, and a length of chain looped over the gatepost. They undid it and slipped inside, leaving one of the grunts to stand watch.

There was churned, hardened mud underfoot, and not a blade of grass. Off to their right stood the largest building on site.

"Slaughterhouse," Chillder mouthed.

As she said it, a door opened that they hadn't noticed before. A figure was outlined by a light burning inside. Then there was shouting, unmistakably human, and a group of men came out. There were four of them, matching Stryke's crew in number, and they carried weapons.

Striding forward, the thickset, shaven-headed individual leading them yelled, " What're you doing here? "

Stryke's team halted, but none of them replied.

"You better have a damn good reason for trespassing!" shaven-head growled.

The men fanned out in front of the orcs, weapons at the ready.

"Well?" the leader demanded, irate at the silence.

"They're too stupid to answer," one of his sneering companions offered.

"If it's jobs you're after," the leader said, "you're out of luck. We've got all of your kind we need. Now get out."

Stryke slowly folded his arms. No one spoke.

Shaven-head took a step nearer, and adopted a mock reasonable tone. "Look, we don't want trouble."

"We do," Coilla said. "We're orcs."

Her hand darted into the loose-fitting sleeve of her shirt. Yanking a knife from her arm sheath, she flung it at him. The impact of blade against flesh knocked the human off his feet.

Stryke and the others weren't idling. Quickly drawing hidden weapons, they laid into the rest of the humans. The deed was short and brutal. Stryke and the grunt took down their opponents with two blows each. Chillder earned credit by needing only one.

"Now we move," Stryke told them.

Leaving the bodies where they fell, they ran towards the enclosure, keeping an eye out for other humans.

The pen was a lot bigger than Stryke expected. Standing on one of the fence bars, he gazed out over an ocean of brown backs and jutting horns.

"Nearly a thousand head," Chillder informed him. "Somewhere the size of Taress gets through a lot of meat every day."

"Well, it should do the trick." He pointed at the grunt. "Stay by this gate. When you see our signal, do your job and get clear. Coilla, Chillder; let's go."

They jogged around the corral to its far end. From the folds of their peasant garb they produced flints, bottles of oil and three club-like torches with tarred heads. Stryke held one out. Chillder soaked it with oil, and Coilla brought the spark. It spluttered into yellow flame.

Stryke scrambled on to the enclosure's fence. The nearest cattle immediately grew alarmed. They mooed wretchedly and tried to back away from the flame. Holding the torch above his head, he waved it from side to side.

The two grunts he'd stationed saw the signal. They unlatched the gates, then ran for higher, safer ground.

Stryke shared the flame by touching his brand to Coilla and Chillder's. Mounting the fence, they goaded with fire and hollering.

At first, the spooked animals milled anxiously, and without accord. But herd instinct quickly took over. The cattle by the gate found it was open and began to spill out. With a vent for the mounting pressure, an exodus was triggered. The livestock poured from the corral and took the only available route. Charging across the mud-covered yard, driven by panic, they channelled into the path that led to the road. By the time they reached it, flight had turned into a stampede.

They thundered along the road, jamming its width, cows scraping their hides against the walls on either side. The rumble of pounding hooves shook buildings as they passed.

Curving, the road took them towards the city's core. The cows met the bend at speed, striking sparks from the cobblestones as they swerved. A mature tree grew by the roadside. The living flood uprooted it. Carried along by the surge, it briefly stood erect, like the standard of some maddened bovine army.

The road narrowed, increasing the herd's terror. And as they approached more populous quarters, the streets were no longer empty. Orcs scattered, racing to sanctuary through open doors, or leaping to cling precariously from window frames. Some abandoned carts in the stampede's path. It made kindling of them.

But the streets had become a lot less crowded. Mostly due to what was about to happen in the city centre, partly because of discreet warnings from the resistance.

The rebels had been busy in other, more tangible ways. Aided by Haskeer and other Wolverines, they hijacked wagons and used them to block off certain streets. For good measure, and added chaos, they set fire to the roadblocks. The upshot was to direct the cattle along a particular path.

Most of the citizenry, and the occupying troops, were gathered in another part of the city. During the night, six Peczan ships had entered Acurial's waters. Hugging the coast, the flotilla nosed its way to an inlet and joined the land's principal river. They arrived at Taress' port with the dawn.

Close on fifteen hundred troops disembarked, reinforcements for Peczan's intended crackdown. Forming ranks on the quayside, they set off accompanied by the drums and pipes of a military band, and with pennants flying. The orc population, bar essential workers, were again dragooned into acting out a welcome. They crowded the sidewalks, but were kept behind wooden barriers in case affection for their glorious liberators got out of hand.

The conquering forces marched eastward, towards the centre of the capital.

The stampede moved in a westerly direction, heading for the capital's centre.

Increasingly frantic, the cattle downed more trees, destroyed kerbside food stalls and snatched away traders' awnings. The torrent wrecked discarded wagons and carried off riderless horses. Under the shock of countless pummelling hooves, cracks appeared on the road's surface.

The pipes and drums kept up a jaunty martial rhythm. Strutting proudly, the troopers passed browbeaten crowds cheering by rote. A cavalry division trotted alongside them, lances raised. Supply wagons and the buggies of officers' wives bobbed along in the multitude.

Even above the listless cries of the spectators, and their own marching, the soldiers became aware of a sound. More than a sound; a vibration. A tremor.

The buildings in this densely populated quarter were tall by Taress standards, and gave the impression of a shallow canyon. There was a sharp bend in the road ahead. The gorge of wood and stone turned, off to parts unseen.

On the corner directly in the marchers' path stood a house. It was three storeys high and extended nearer to the road than any of its neighbours. As they watched, it began to tremble. Dust and plaster fell, and as the building shook more violently, chunks of facing dislodged.

The marchers slowed. Behind their barriers, the orc spectators quietened. Now the mysterious, rhythmic sound could be heard more plainly, and felt through the soles of the troops' boots. Further scraps of stonework dropped from the quivering building. The marchers all but came to a halt.

A lone cow appeared. It loped along, but moved erratically, as though drunk. There was some ragged laughter from the crowd, and even from the column of soldiers.

Then a thousand head of enraged cattle rounded the corner.

It was a leathery deluge, with horses, ruined wagons and general detritus sucked in. The animals were steaming from their frenetic rush. Those in the vanguard foamed at the mouth and tossed their spiky-horned heads from side to side. If they were aware of the obstruction they approached, it made no difference. They kept on coming.

At first, the rear of the procession had no idea what was happening at the front, and continued marching. But the troops at its head had not only stopped; they were retreating into their advancing comrades.

As the stampede drew closer, what had been an orderly progression turned into milling anarchy. There was chaos, and a mounting sense of panic. Numbers of men tried scaling the barriers designed not to be scaled. A handful of cavalry officers, leaping from their saddles, actually managed it. But it proved no salvation for the majority.

The spectators, who had fallen silent, spontaneously resumed cheering, and what before had been half-hearted now took on a new vibrancy.

Some of the troops had the presence of mind to loose arrows at the cattle. It was a resourceful, if futile, gesture. A couple of the lead steers were hit and went down headlong. The animals behind piled into them, causing knots of squirming, kicking bedlam. But it didn't slow the stampede's pace. If anything, it increased the cattle's alarm. They either streamed around the stricken or simply ran over them. The column of troopers had compressed, and unable to back up further with any speed, made a stand, as though about to repel an enemy offensive.

The wave swept in. Men and beasts clashed in a shattering of bone and rending of flesh. Packed as the human ranks were, the cattle penetrated deep, and pressure at their backs kept them moving forward. The effect was similar to striking a block of butter sidelong with a mallet.

Scenes of mayhem were played out. A cow momentarily rose from the scrum, impaled on a trooper's spear. Another, running into a wagon at speed, was sent flying and smashed against the barrier. Soldiers attacked the cattle with swords, and only incensed the greater herd. Men were trampled.

The cavalry fared a little better, though many had their horses caught in an unstoppable tide that carried them off, the riders helpless. There were sorcerers amongst the shambles of the column. The flash and crackle of magical energy bolts erupted, and the smell of charred meat drifted across the crowd. Havoc spread.

The sullen sky birthed a clap of thunder. Fat raindrops started to fall.

The devastation played out in the shadow of the fortress. On a lofty balcony jutting from its bleak facade, Jennesta observed the scene. Her black cloak billowed in the wind, making her look like some oversized bird of prey, about to swoop. Her expression was unreadable. But she gripped the rail so tightly her knuckles were bloodless.

Not far away, on the rooftop of a lower and humbler building, other eyes took in the carnage.

"This is better than I hoped," Brelan said.

"We aim to please," Coilla told him.

Chillder turned to Stryke. "Your band's proved itself today."

"I thought we'd already done that."

"More so, then. And now we think the time's come for you to meet somebody."

"Who?"

"The most important orc in the country."