But even as the band dashed to them, they were gone.
“Shit!” Stryke raged.
As Dynahla made ready to transport the Wolverines yet again, Coilla muttered, “It was never like this in Ceragan.”
Things had never been quite like this in Ceragan.
As mere hatchlings, Janch and Corb hadn’t been told what was going on. But they knew something wasn’t right.
They couldn’t help but be aware that certain of the adults were no longer to be seen in the settlement, but nobody would tell them where they had gone. Corb, the eldest, suspected that no one knew; and his sibling had picked up the general mood of unease even if he couldn’t articulate it. As their own parents had departed to they-knew-not-where, their father willingly, their mother taken, they found this new development particularly unsettling.
Quoll, the clan’s chieftain, seemed to find it hard to deal with too. Not that he would have let on, especially to a pair as young as Corb and Janch. What he couldn’t hide was that he, along with the elders and soothsayers who advised him, seemed at a loss, despite their many congresses and evocations of the gods.
Now Quoll was trying another tack. In an admission that the mystery had become a threat, he dispensed with counsel and summoned the tribe’s remaining able warriors. In effect that meant all barring the very old and the lame, and youngsters yet to wield a sword in anger. Corb and Janch, consigned to the care of this group, had slipped away and were loitering near the longhouse where the parley was due to take place.
They seated themselves on a stack of firewood and watched as everyone went in. Barrels of ale and flagons of wine were brought to oil the proceedings, and several whole game, steaming from the spit, to keep bellies from rumbling. Never lacking a sense of the theatrical, Quoll arrived last, accompanied by his closest attendants. He appeared drawn and uncharacteristically deflated.
He noticed the hatchlings and slowed, and for a moment they thought they were going to get a dressing-down. But he just looked, an expression on his face they weren’t worldly-wise enough to read. Then he carried on and entered the hut.
The brothers stayed where they were, despite evening drawing in and the air cooling. Perhaps they hoped the adults would come out and miraculously have some kind of answer about what had happened to their sire and their mother.
They could hear the murmur of voices from the longhouse, and occasionally they were raised. With the distorted time sense peculiar to the very young, it seemed to them that they sat there for a very long time. Janch began to grow fractious. Corb was getting bored and thinking of their beds.
There was a commotion inside. It was different to the usual sounds of dispute they were used to when orcs got together to discuss anything. This was an uproar directed at a common object, rather than a disagreement among themselves. The furore was attended by thumps and crashes, as though furniture was being flung about. It reached a pitch and stopped dead. The silence that followed was more disturbing.
It didn’t occur to them to run and hide. Even in ones so young that wasn’t the orcs’ way. Nevertheless, Corb hesitated for long moments. Finally he stood, and Janch did too. Puffing out his chest, he walked towards the hut, his perplexed brother beside him.
There was another brief wavering at the longhouse’s only door. Corb took out the scaled-down axe Haskeer had given him, and Janch produced his own, which stiffened their resolve. Corb went on tip-toe to reach the handle, turned it and gave the door a shove. It swung open and they peered inside.
The interior was empty. A long, solid table was askew. Chairs were overturned. Scraps of food and tankards littered the floor. The windows were still shuttered.
An odour hung in the air, which if they could have named it they would have called sulphurous.
These were strange days in Acurial.
Nobody really knew what was responsible, despite a glut of theories, and the not knowing was breeding mistrust and something close to fear. It was a toxic combination for the new, still fragile order.
Brelan and Chillder, twin rulers, were coming away from the latest occurrence. They’d tried to keep it a secret, like all the others, but rumour and hearsay were more fleet than any clampdown they could hope to impose. The incidents had increased to the point where concealment was not only near impossible but probably counterproductive, given the twins’ espousal of openness. But whether the truth was preferable to speculation was a moot point.
This time it had happened near the outskirts of Taress, the capital city. Twenty-three orcs of all ranks had gone, from a mess hall in an army camp originally built by the Peczan occupiers. It had followed the now familiar pattern. No warning. No hint as to how the victims could be spirited away from a confined space in a supposedly secure area. No obvious similarities as to who had been taken, except that they were militia. No real signs of violence, beyond a small amount of disorder. No one left to tell the tale.
To give themselves space to think, away from eavesdroppers and questioning gazes, the twins had taken a walk along the semi-rural roads.
“We’ll have to announce a state of emergency,” Brelan said. “Impose martial law.”
“You know I’ve got doubts about that,” his sister argued. “It’d only cause alarm, and maybe start a panic.”
“The citizens have a right to protect themselves.”
“How? We can’t do that now. The military can’t protect themselves. What chance would the ordinary orc on the street have? I say we inform them rather than do anything draconian.”
“And you think that wouldn’t cause a panic? Let them know what’s going on, yes, but back it with troops on the streets, a curfew, checkpoints and-”
“That smacks of the occupation days.”
“It’s for their own good.”
“Which sounds like the kind of language Peczan used to justify their oppression.”
“We’re not Peczan.”
“Of course we’re not. But it’s a matter of how we’re seen. Don’t forget that our race has finally regained its combative spirit. Give the wrong impression and we could risk another uprising, against us this time. You’re overlooking the political dimension to this.”
“Gods, Chillder, is that what we’ve come to? Thinking like damn politicians?”
“Like it or not, it’s what we are. All we can hope to do is be a different kind. The sort that puts the citizens before self-interest.”
“I wonder if that’s how all politicians start out. You know, with good intentions that get corrupted by power and expediency.”
“Our mother didn’t go that way. And we’re not going to.”
“I can’t wait for us to set up the citizens’ committees. Give the ordinary folk a say, spread the load and the decision-making.”
“Yes, well, that’s going to have problems of its own no doubt, though I’m with you on it. But there’s no benefit in going over that now. We’ve a more pressing concern.”
“Which we’re no nearer solving.”
“Look, it’s the militia that’s taking the brunt of… whatever it is that’s happening. I’m right in saying that, aren’t I? There have been no civilian disappearances?”
“As far as we know. It’s difficult to be sure, mind.”
“Let’s assume that’s the case and beef up security for the military even more.”
“How?”
“Some kind of buddy system maybe, with one unit keeping an eye on another unit.”
“And who keeps an eye on them?”
“Or we get all military personnel to check in at really short, regular intervals. Or have them all eat and sleep in the open, in plain sight. Or… whatever. My point is that it shouldn’t be beyond our wit to come up with safeguards.”
“Measures like that would cripple the army. How effective a fighting force would they be, if we needed them, under those sort of restraints? Not to mention we’d be a laughing stock, and that’s hardly going to reassure the populace.”