"It's… not right."
"When we raise arms against our oppressors it is in pursuit of a righteous cause! The cause of freedom!"
"What do you mean, not right?" Coilla hissed. "It's a fucking bird."
"No," Stryke replied. "I don't know what it is, but…"
The dove was a stone's throw away and heading straight at them.
"No longer will we dwell miserably in the dark! We shall take up our blades and carve our way to the light! No matter how much human flesh stands in our path!"
"Brelan! Chillder!" Stryke yelled. "Danger!"
The principal faltered, and looked at him. Everyone else on the veranda did likewise, some open-mouthed, others with angry expressions.
"Something's coming!" Stryke shouted. "There!" He thrust out an arm to indicate the approaching threat.
As he did so, a change rapidly came over the dove. It became somehow indistinct, and began to alter its shape. But it kept coming. Some in the crowd noticed it and reacted noisily.
Stryke snatched a bow from one of the rebels, drew it and took aim.
The dove transformed into a swirling black cloud, with streaks of gold and silver pulsing at its core.
The crowd on the balcony was in disarray. Stryke loosed his arrow.
A bolt of pure white light, blindingly vivid, erupted from the cloud. It covered the distance to the balcony in an instant, striking Sylandya. She collapsed, a smouldering wound in her chest.
The cloud that had been a bird that wasn't a bird dissolved.
There was uproar. Brelan and Chillder, ashen with shock, half carried, half dragged their stricken mother inside. Stryke, Coilla and a number of the rebels went with them.
The crowd was in turmoil.
They laid Sylandya on some sacking. Brelan slipped out of his jerkin and folded it as a pillow for her head. He and Chillder seemed distraught to the point of panic. A rebel medic elbowed his way through. One look at the gaping, charred wound told him all he needed to know. He turned to the twins and slowly shook his head.
Sylandya was still conscious. Her lips moved feebly. Brelan and Chillder moved closer.
" Remember," she whispered, " remember… your… promise."
"We will," Brelan pledged, squeezing her hand.
Then Sylandya's eyes closed and the last breath went out of her.
The twins surrendered to despair.
Chillder rose. She wore a look of hurt and bewilderment.
Coilla went to her and put her hands on her shoulders. "Courage," she said.
"She knew," Chillder replied, as though separated from the world by a great distance. "Somehow, she knew."
The crowd was making a tremendous racket. Stryke went back outside.
Haskeer was still there, surveying the scene below. " Shit," he said. "And on our watch."
"We couldn't have foreseen it," Stryke assured him, though he wasn't entirely sure that was true. "I'll tell you one thing. I doubt that was Helix magic."
"Jennesta?"
"Who else? Getting some minion to assassinate the one orc who could rally the populace would be right up her alley."
"To cow them?" He gazed at the frantic crowd. "They don't look too put off to me. Just the opposite."
"No," Stryke agreed. "This could be Jennesta's biggest mistake."
10
Stryke was proved right, and in short order.
Far from intimidating Acurial's population, the murder of Sylandya enraged it. Attacks on the occupiers immediately increased tenfold. Not just in the city but throughout the country. Many of the assaults were opportunistic, and carried out by individuals or small ad hoc groups. One of the resistance's tasks was to coordinate these actions, and to organise the growing number of dissidents into a coherent fighting force. Within days they had the makings of a rebel army.
Brelan and Chillder channelled their grief into these activities, working with demonic energy in their mother's name, and the Wolverines were heavily involved in training the new intake. But the warband drew most satisfaction from doing what they did best: confronting occupiers on the streets of Taress.
In this Jup and Spurral, and the human Pepperdyne, were given roles to play. The dwarfs in particular, after being confined for so long, found it a pleasing outlet. However, none of the trio ever ventured out unaccompanied by fellow band members or rebel fighters, lest they be taken for enemies or freaks. For Standeven, little changed. Useless in any kind of combat function, he contributed mainly through manual work at various safe houses, which he undertook grudgingly. But he mostly confined his complaints to the Wolverines. The incident of the dead intruder had been eclipsed by the burgeoning uprising, but not forgotten.
For his part, Stryke kept the instrumentalities with him at all times, even in combat. He was not about to repeat the mistake of entrusting any of them to anyone else, even the most loyal of his comrades. There were mixed feelings about this in the band.
One discovery of the Wolverines, which dismayed them, was that some orcs allied themselves with the occupying humans. They were small in number and didn't dare do it openly, preferring to act as fifth columnists and informers, but the effect on morale was something else to be countered. Chillder and Brelan were especially shocked by this development, having regarded their fellow citizens as patriots, and they dealt with traitors harshly when they were caught. It was another variable in an already chaotic situation.
The resistance's growing numbers meant that the way the occupiers were engaged was changing. There were still plenty of guerrilla raids, but large-scale, more conventional face-offs were starting to replace them. For these, the Wolverines' expertise was invaluable.
So it was that a week after Sylandya's death, which many were already calling her martyrdom, the entire band stood together on one of Taress's main thoroughfares. At their backs was a force of several hundred insurgents, ragtag and ill-armed, but eager for blood. Ahead, a good lance's throw away, an equal number of human militia were gathered. They were better ordered and better equipped, but unused to being challenged by creatures with a newfound passion for warfare.
Events were at the sham stage, as the Wolverines knew it, with both sides exchanging catcalls, insults and threatening gestures. A standard practice before a battle.
"How'd you think they'll hold up?" Coilla said, jerking a thumb at the ranks behind them.
"What they lack in know-how they make up for in rage," Stryke reckoned.
"Still gonna get most of 'em killed," Haskeer muttered. "Fucking amateurs."
"Even a legendary band of heroes can't have a revolution without an army," Stryke replied.
Jup guffawed.
"What's your problem, pisspot?" Haskeer snapped.
"I'm standing next to you."
"Hang on while I die laughing."
"Don't mind him, Jup," Coilla said. "He's still swollen-headed about a human he killed yesterday."
"Why? What's so special about that?"
"It wasn't a soldier."
"What was he?" Pepperdyne asked.
"A tax gatherer."
Pepperdyne considered that for a moment. "Well, fair enough."
They all murmured agreement.
"When's this going to kick off?" Dallog wanted to know as he surveyed the enemy line.
"Yeah," Wheam piped up. "When we gonna fight?" He swished around the sword he was clutching.
"Careful with that thing!" Haskeer protested. "You'll have somebody's eye out!"
"It'll start soon enough," Stryke said. "Remember the tyros are your charge, Dallog." He glanced at the new band members, those recruited on Ceragan. They looked tense and ashen. "Especially him," he added, nodding at Wheam.
Wheam looked discomfited.
"They'll be fine," Dallog assured him, though his expression was grim.
"Come on, come on," Spurral muttered, impatiently drumming the cobblestones with her staff.