Hugging the ground, he slithered over to them.
'Bring those bastards down!' he ordered.
Awkwardly, the grunts wriggled the bows from their backs. They quickly nocked arrows and took aim at the robed figures.
An arrow zinged into the chest of one of the trident bearers. He staggered and fell.
'Eh?' Hystykk muttered.
He hadn't loosed his arrow. Neither had Jad.
Arrows peppered the other two robed figures. One unleashed a glaring energy bolt as he fell. It lanced straight up, illuminating the sky. Then died.
There was a roar.
Another mob swept into the square. They outnumbered the humans, and rushed to attack them.
Stryke clambered to his feet.
Coilla ran to him. 'They're orcs!'
'What the fuck's going on?' Haskeer exclaimed.
Stryke shook his head. 'Pull back the band. Get 'em into a defensive pattern.'
Obeying yelled orders, the Wolverines quickly came together.
Ahead, a bloody melee raged. A group of five or six orcs peeled off from it and raced their way.
The one leading them shouted, 'Who's in charge?'
'Me,' Stryke told him.
'Come with us.' He saw the humans and dwarfs. 'Prisoners?'
'No, we're together.'
The orc was taken aback. 'You're kidding.'
'They're with us,' Stryke repeated.
'We can't take humans,' one of the other orcs protested. He glared in turn at Standeven and Pepperdyne, and at the dwarfs.
'We'll sort this out later,' the leader decided. 'Let's move!'
'Where?' Stryke asked.
'More of them are on the way. Stay and you'll die.'
'Who are you?'
'Come on!' He began to move off.
Stryke hesitated for a second, then signalled the band to follow.
As they ran into the darkened streets, Coilla said, 'Stryke, those humans used magic!'
15
If the structures rulers occupy reflect their regard for the ruled, then the fortress that stood at Taress' heart spoke volumes.
Its entryways were heavily guarded and its gates were locked. Archers walked its ramparts. Lookouts were positioned on its towers, and a garrison was permanently stationed within its grim, impenetrable walls.
It was a measure of the castle's reputation, or more accurately the nature of its inhabitants, that few entered willingly.
An entire level at one of its highest points was the exclusive province of a single individual. Given his status, it would be reasonable to assume that the chambers were well appointed, if not actually luxurious. But they were sparse. Furnishings were minimal, there was little in the way of embellishment and nothing of comfort. In this, the apartment reflected the disposition of someone who had given his life to military service. To the subjugated, Kapple Hacher was commonly known as Iron Hand.
Yet his appearance and manner were at odds with the epithet. He was of advancing years; not yet old, but in the later stages of maturity. His close-cropped hair was silver, and those who didn't know him assumed that was the reason he was beardless. But he displayed no trace of vanity. He had the physique of a much younger man, for all that his face was lined and the backs of his hands were liver-spotted. His bearing was javelin straight, and he wore his immaculate uniform as though born in it. Overall, the impression was of a somewhat meticulous, kindly uncle. At least, that was the impression he gave to other humans.
For someone in such a position of authority he seemed to wear his responsibilities lightly. And the power he exercised was great. Hacher was both governor of what its conquerors regarded as a province, and commander of an occupying army. In the latter capacity he held the rank of general.
He was dining. As was his custom, he ate alone. He fed sparingly, and the fare was plain; fowl, bread and fruit. Wine was something he rarely drank, and when he did, it was watered. Which made him doubly unpopular with his poison tasters.
He was served by a pair of ageing orc females. They placed the food, such as it was, on a well-scrubbed table that constituted the main item of furniture, and performed their duties in silence. For all the attention Hacher paid to them, they could have been invisible.
There was a knock at the door.
'Come!' Hacher responded crisply.
Two humans entered, one in a dark blue military uniform, the other in a brown robe with the cowl down. Both men were half the general's age.
'Begging your pardon, sir,' the uniformed aide said, 'but we have news of — '
Hacher raised a hand to pause him, then dismissed the servants with a nod. They went out with heads bowed, the visitors looking on disdainfully.
'You were saying, Frynt?' Hacher laid down the knife he was eating with.
'There's been another disturbance. And during curfew.'
'Casualties?'
'We're still counting, but significant.'
'Including three members of the Order,' the robed one added, shooting Frynt a hard look.
'That's unfortunate, Grentor,' Hacher commiserated. 'The state recognises their noble sacrifice, and they'll be honoured for it.'
'Tributes are all very well. We would prefer adequate protection from the military. We have a right to expect that much.'
'Given your brothers' magical expertise, I would have thought they were quite capable of defending themselves.'
'I do hope you're not implying any criticism of my order's competence, General.'
'Far from it. I'm the first to acknowledge that their contribution is invaluable.'
Frynt glared at Grentor. 'They were afforded protection. The number of casualties we took confirms that.'
'Yet my brothers accompanying the patrol were slain.'
'You lost three. Our fatalities were much higher.'
'What of the losses we inflicted on them, Frynt?' Hacher intervened to ask.
'We killed a few, sir, and took half a dozen prisoners.'
'You see, Grentor? The balance wasn't entirely in their favour.'
'And that's supposed to be some kind of consolation, is it? What are the lives of those beasts compared to men's?'
'Every rebel we eliminate is one less. A step nearer purging Acurial of this… difficulty.'
'But it's a situation that shouldn't have arisen at all!'
'Let's keep things in perspective. The vast majority of orcs are placid, you know that. How much resistance did they put up when we conquered this land? The present trouble is being caused by a small minority. A bunch of throwbacks, no more.'
'And if these throwbacks should gain a hold on the rest of the populace? Fevers have a way of growing into a pestilence, General.'
