Stan Nicholls - Orcs:Bad blood

"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.