"It's appeared before, apparently. More than once. And there seems to be a regularity about it."
"I daresay that's of interest to scholars, but what do the comings and goings of heavenly bodies have to do with us?"
"The populace see it as a portent. Or at least some do."
"Comets are just one of Nature's oddities," Hacher responded dismissively.
"Signs in the sky should never be ignored, General."
"Such matters are in your province. They're of no concern to the military."
"The important thing is how the populace reacts. If they believe it to be an omen — "
"No doubt the rabble-rousers will exploit the masses' superstition. That doesn't mean we can't handle the disturbances."
"Which will get worse, given the way Jennesta's clamping down on any hint of dissent. She's stirring things up."
Hacher stiffened. He didn't want to be drawn into the stormy waters of politics any more than Grentor. "Please don't involve me in the internal machinations of the Order."
"I'm not trying to. I'm just saying that her actions affect us all. Don't pretend you think she's not making things worse. I don't believe in leniency any more than you do, but we're holding down an entire nation here, and we're few in number. What sense is there in provoking them?"
"You might as well provoke a flock of sheep."
"Did you know there was a prophecy attached to the appearance of Grilan-Zeat?"
"No, I hadn't heard that particular piece of flummery."
"It says that the comet is accompanied by a band of heroes. Liberators."
Hacher snorted derisively. "Heroes? The orcs are too spineless."
"Not all of them, evidently."
"We're talking about a small group of… freaks. Generally these creatures are meek. Why else do you think we occupied this land at so little cost?"
"Our research suggests that might not always have been so. The records are far from complete, but they hint that the orcs had a martial history."
"And you think their fighting spirit could be revived somehow."
"It's possible. Again, it turns on what they believe."
"Omens, prophecies, a lost warlike temperament; you're seeing too much in this, Grentor."
"Perhaps. But isn't it better to be prepared?"
"Planning for contingencies is good military practice, agreed. But you're petitioning the wrong person. Our lady Jennesta holds all the cards now."
Grentor tugged at the general's sleeve and nodded to the carriage's window. "Talking of which…"
"At last," Hacher sighed.
Jennesta was returning. She wasn't alone. Three of her personal bodyguards were with her. They were human. Or had been. Considered challengers to her power, they had been consigned by Jennesta's sorcery to an undead state and made utterly obedient slaves. Their eyes were set and glassy, and lacked any vestige of benevolence. Such skin as could be seen was stretched tight, and was of an unwholesome, parchment-like colour. The zombies were combat-dressed, in black leather and steel-toed boots, and they were armed with scimitars. One of them carried a steel-banded chest.
Hacher and Grentor were out of the carriage when the little procession arrived. Close to, the zombies stank, and the elder had his kerchief out again.
"Were your endeavours successful, ma'am?" the general asked.
Jennesta shot him a look laced with suspicion before replying, "Yes. The energy is particularly strong here, and of a… flavour I find gratifying."
She turned away from them to supervise the loading of the trunk into her carriage. From the way she scolded her minions it obviously contained something significant. Not that Hacher or Grentor would have dared ask what.
For his part, Hacher was glad that whatever she had undertaken seemed to have gone well. He thought it might improve her temperament. It was a hope swiftly crushed.
Satisfied that her precious cargo was safely stowed, Jennesta brought her attention back to the pair. "I'm displeased," she announced.
"Oh?" Hacher responded. "I thought — "
"Don't. It doesn't become you. There's been more trouble on the streets. Why?"
"A minority inciting the rabble, ma'am. Nothing more."
"Then why can't you stamp it out?"
"With respect, we can't be everywhere. The territory the imperial forces have to cover — "
"It's nothing to do with numbers, General, as you said yourself. It's what you do with those you have. These upstarts should be hit hard. I know orcs and their inherent savagery, and I've always found that brutality is the best course in a situation like this."
"If I may be so bold, my lady," Grentor ventured hesitantly. "Isn't it possible that harsher action might further aggravate the insurgents?"
"Not if they're dead," she replied coldly. "You seem particularly dense on this subject, Elder. You both do. The equation's simple: rebellious heads rear up; we cut them off. What's so hard to understand about that?"
Grentor was anxiously fingering his string of beads and summoning the nerve to say something more.
" Wait," Jennesta said, stilling them with a raised hand. She looked up, an expression of concentration on her face, as though she heard something they couldn't.
They stood in silence for what seemed an eternity. Grentor and Hacher began to wonder if this was another of Jennesta's eccentricities. Or, knowing her, the prelude to unpleasantness.
Something swooped out of the darkness. They thought it was a bird. A hawk, perhaps, or a raven. But when it came to rest on Jennesta's outstretched arm they saw it had only the superficial appearance of a bird. In subtle but noticeable ways it was like no bird that ever flew. It had the look of magic about it.
The creature moved along her arm and chirruped gutturally into Jennesta's ear. She listened intently. When it finished she made a gesture, as though brushing a speck of dust from her sleeve. The enchantment was annulled in a soundless explosion, instantly transforming the ersatz bird into a myriad of shimmering golden sparks. The glowing pinpoints gently faded as they were carried away by the evening breeze. All that lingered was the pungent smell of sulphur.
"I have tidings," Jennesta told them, her face like flint. "It seems your minority of troublemakers have wiped out one of our garrisons. If you want a more graphic example of my point, just say so."
Neither man spoke.
"You two need a little adjustment to your attitudes," she went on icily. "Things are going to be different in this land, even if I have to have every orc in it put to the sword. Be assured, change is coming." She turned and strode towards her carriage.
Hacher and Grentor watched her go. Then, as on every other night during the past several weeks, their eyes were drawn skyward.
There was a new star in the firmament, larger and brighter than all the rest.
3
" Keep your eyes on the road! " Stryke bellowed.
" All right, all right! " Haskeer yelled, knuckles white on the reins.
In the back of the open wagon Coilla, Dallog, Brelan and new recruit Wheam hung on grimly.
They took a corner at speed. The wagon's wheels lifted on one side, then crashed down at the turn, jarring all of them. Seconds later, half a dozen mounted troopers rounded the bend in hot pursuit. They were quickly followed by a much larger contingent of riders. Some of them had open tunics flapping in the wind, or were minus jackets and headgear altogether, due to the sudden, unexpected start of the chase. Behind them were several wagons filled with militia, and even a buggy carrying a couple of officers. Farther back still, a mob of troops dashed to keep up on foot.
The Wolverines' wagon was in one of Taress' main thoroughfares now, a wide avenue lined with some of the city's more substantial buildings. It thronged with mid-morning crowds, and startled orcs dived clear of the speeding wagon and the humans chasing it.