"The lady Jennesta has convinced me of the need for change, and for that change to be instigated with a certain… vigour."
"I thought better of you, Frynt. You disappoint me."
"Then you know how I feel about you," Jennesta told him. "There's no point in arguing. Let's save your breath, shall we?"
"Argue I most certainly will, my lady. I'll take this high-handed deed to the ears of the highest in Peczan. If I'm to be sent home in disgrace — "
"Oh no, General; you're not going home. I have a much more useful role for you."
Her zombie slaves had positioned themselves as the living spoke. Now at her signal they moved in with surprising speed and seized the deposed general. He cried out, protested and cursed, but they held him fast.
Jennesta approached the struggling figure, her hands raised preparatory to casting a glamour. "As I said," she intoned, "let's save your breath."
Frynt watched, stunned. He hadn't known this was going to happen, let alone that he would be obliged to witness the general's fate.
The horror of it gave him an inkling of what it would be like serving his new mistress.
When Hacher started screaming, Frynt closed his eyes.
11
By the end of the third week of the uprising proper, with the ranks of the resistance growing still further, the balance of power started to radically shift. As the Peczan military suffered daily trouncings by armed insurgents, and civil disobedience became widespread, a tipping point was reached. The invaders, until so recently masters of a conquered land, were on the back foot.
Although it was a change the rebels had worked, hoped and died for, even the most optimistic of them were stunned by the speed with which it came about. Ever-larger sections of the population shed their former meekness to reveal the inherent fighting spirit that had lain buried for so long. Their pent-up grievance drove a thirst for freedom, and, inspired by the radiant presence of Grilan-Zeat, they unleashed a savagery unlike any the humans had faced before.
It was around this time, when fighting was at its most intense, that Wheam took the first small step towards redeeming himself.
He had performed competently in the clashes he was allowed to take part in. Or at least he hadn't brought a major disaster down on the warband's heads or got himself killed. Though nor had he managed to slay, wound or greatly inconvenience any of the enemy. Nevertheless it became almost a matter of routine to include him in missions, under the watchful eye of Dallog and other more experienced band members.
The Wolverines had been allotted a role in a raid on a house where army officers were billeted. It didn't go to plan. Due to foresight on the part of the authorities, or possibly because of an informant, a company of soldiers had been concealed nearby. What should have been a clean hit-and-run attack turned into a pitched battle in one of the few street markets still functioning in the capital. In the process the band was scattered, and Coilla, Haskeer and Wheam found themselves sheltering in a narrow, foul-smelling alley off the main highway.
Haskeer was less than pleased to be stuck with the novice. "Get in here!" he growled, pulling Wheam back from the alley's mouth. "You wanna lose your fucking head to an arrow? Not that I should care."
"Sorry," the young one replied tremulously.
"Go easy on him," Coilla said. "He's still cutting his teeth, remember."
"Wish he was cutting his damn throat. And what's with this?" He slapped at the lute Wheam had strapped to his back. "What the hell you doing bringing a thing like that to a fight?"
"It's the only way I can be sure not to lose it," Wheam explained, "what with us always moving safe houses and — "
"Yeah, yeah. Should have known you'd have some bullshit reason. Just keep it out of my face."
"Is it clearing out there?" Coilla asked.
Haskeer poked his head round the corner. "Looks like it."
"Shall we make a break?"
"Yeah. Our lot are somewhere down on the right." He turned to Wheam. "That's that way." He jabbed his thumb rightward. "'Case it's too hard for you to work out."
"Soon as we're out of here, Wheam, just run," Coilla told him. "Fast."
He nodded.
"Ready?" Haskeer said. "Right. Three… two… go!"
They came out of the alley at a dash, swerved right and started racing through the debris of the ruined market. There were overturned stalls and fallen orcs and humans among the trampled fruit and vegetables, broken pottery and strewn clothing.
Coilla looked back. "We've company!"
A large gang of soldiers had appeared and were chasing them.
Wheam, at the rear, was struggling to keep up with Coilla and Haskeer.
"Come on!" Coilla urged. "Move it!"
One trooper, a strong runner, was well ahead of the pack and gaining on Wheam. The tyro himself was flagging, and the soldier got near enough to brush his back with his fingertips. Then he caught hold of the strap holding the lute and wrenched it free. Wheam ran on. The instrument fell clattering to the ground. Two of the strings snapped melodiously. The human, still running hard, kicked the lute out of his path. It sailed across the street and landed with a crash, breaking into pieces.
Wheam stopped, turned and gasped.
Coilla and Haskeer shouted at him. "Come on! Leave it! Move your arse! "
The rest of the soldiers were sprinting forward and closing the gap.
"My… lute," Wheam whispered. His eyes moved to the approaching soldier. "Bastard."
An uncharacteristically crazed expression came to Wheam's face. He drew his sword. Seeing this, the running soldier slowed and went for his own.
Wheam charged him, waving his blade and screaming incomprehensibly. He launched himself at the man like a wild thing, thrashing and slashing a storm. Such was the force of his attack that the trooper fell back a pace or two. He had his sword up, but purely defensively.
Coilla and Haskeer had stopped by this time. They watched Wheam laying about the soldier; and beyond, the human's thundering group of comrades, getting nearer.
"We have to go and fetch the little fucker," Coilla said.
Haskeer made a disturbing noise somewhere deep in his throat and balled his fists. He nodded, curtly.
They unsheathed their weapons and headed back.
Wheam's deranged battering had the trooper retreating at a steady pace. He had no hope of overcoming the pint-sized whirlwind, but could only try to fend him off until his companions arrived.
In the event, it was in vain. Wheam landed a blow on the human's forearm, opening a deep, copious wound. Next he thrust his blade into the man's midriff, setting him staggering. Yelling what sounded like gibberish, though the word lute seemed to feature quite a lot, he pummelled his foe mercilessly, shredding flesh and cracking bones.
He was still hacking at the corpse when Coilla and Haskeer got there. Wheam swung round and growled at them, eyes blazing, sword raised.
" Whoa! " Coilla shouted. "It's us!"
Wheam blinked and focused. A little of the bloodlust drained away. He looked at the sword in his hand, then down at his victim.
"Nice one," Haskeer complimented.
"Don't believe it," Coilla said. "A good word for Wheam."
"Don't sweat it," Haskeer grated. "I'm not giving him a fucking medal."
"Er… the soldiers," Wheam interrupted, pointing along the street with his blade.
They were almost upon them.
"No time to run now," Coilla decided.
"We stand," Haskeer agreed.
The three of them stretched out in a line across the road and braced themselves. Near enough that their features could be plainly seen, the soldiers began whooping and waving their swords.
An open wagon careered round the corner from a side street and came to an abrupt halt between the two sides. A couple more followed, loaded with rebels who hastily leapt out to take on the mob of soldiers.