Chapter One hundred and six

  Once Big Wroogh had declared himself ready for action, he led us out of the house. Under the makeshift canvas roof over the small square, three smallish orks were already waiting for us. Huh, Golty and his mates had been working fast spreading the news, hadn’t they?

  The three new and nervous looking ork teenagers — for I was sure they weren’t much older than the OG Teen-squad — turned out to be the ones Big Wroogh had designated as guides to take Tovaron Ento and his five or six teams to where most of the new slaves were kept. I hooked Toven up to the young orks with a new thread and an unused comm-node so they could communicate, and after a short and temperamental introduction the kids left the square, and Toven and his rangers followed them using the time-honoured art of roof-hopping — because why use the streets and roads like normal people, when you can use rooftops? Well, I supposed roofs were less muddy, so that made some sense. Maybe. Eh, rangers and ninjas. I was sure they’d do a good job either way, and I watched them disappear one after another under the night sky and behind the numerous buildings of the city.

  Fenar kept his own team of four with him and ordered the twenty remaining rangers to get on those rooftops to follow us as sneakily as possible and to be on the lookout for anything.

  From then on, it was difficult to tell whether things were going well or going poorly, to be honest. Our group — consisting of Fenar and his team, Krissy, Kiwa and of course the two big orks leading the way — went a different direction, and we had the muddy streets all to ourselves. The first street we trudged through was empty. That was fine. The next street was also empty, no problems. On the third street we ran into a group of orks — ten of them, youngish looking and psyched up for violence, waving torches and weapons of all kinds, and chanting some sort of growly slogans or whatnot. Big Wroogh seemed to know them, and after a brief exchange of grunts, they joined our procession, and we were on our merry way, getting closer to the centre of Vraathblood, the designated marketplace where all the disgruntled orks were supposed to assemble.

  Two streets later we bumped into another group of locals, and this was the point where I became confused as to how things were going. The group was larger than the previous one, and on top of the twenty or so orks, it included just as many slaves. It was strange to see humans adopting their monstrous masters’ enthusiasm for whatever was going on, but the real issue was the four severed ork heads stuck on the ends of the wooden spikes they were carrying, dark blood dripping down and staining their ragged clothes. The short conversation Big Wroogh had with the apparent leader of this latest “band of brothers” revealed that the group in question had decided it was time to settle some grievances with a few non-spiritualist henchmen of Skraath Ironbite, and four unlucky ones just so happened to be patrolling the area.

  As we marched on, doors of houses were opening here and there, and orks and some humans were joining us every few seconds on every street we traversed, anticipating the coming slaughter of the oppressors. Was this a good sign? Was this a bad sign? Was this a sign at all?

  Regardless of what it was, I was rather impressed by the speed with which Golty, Ronron and the rest of their gang had been spreading the news of the Hellspawn-uprising.

  ‘This is spreading quickly, heads are rolling already,’ I commented as our group turned another corner, filing into yet another street that had yet another group, holding three bloodied poles with ork heads at the tips in a gruesome display.

  No turning back now, is there? Krissy asked. I wasn’t sure if her thought-voice sounded scared or determined, or just resigned.

  Come on, boss, we’re not turning back. This is war, war is ugly, and we like it for what it is, don’t we? Kitala Iwani decided to nip the sentiment in the bud, and I was sure she was trying to send a sliver of her enthusiasm over to my host — I could definitely feel something from her, but it didn’t seem like Krissy was picking up on it. Trust Kiwa to find pleasure in violence. Could it be that she was an ork in an elf’s body? I decided not to think about it.

  This isn’t war. Fenar stated suddenly.

  It isn’t? Kiwa asked, rather shocked. And perhaps disappointed.

  Wars are ugly. Revolutions are uglier. Much, much uglier. And we’re not turning back. Fenar said, and it sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

  By the time the street merged with another, wider avenue, our group had swollen to at least a hundred and fifty orks, plenty of human slaves, and a dozen heads on long, sharp sticks. Ork or human, they were all angry, determined, and with no aversion to violence whatsoever. From the snippets of conversations I was catching from Big Wroogh, Raagstrom Raagh, and even Golty — although I had no idea where that kid was currently — the news of the Hellspawn coming to the aid of the Vraathkill against a common foe was something like the last straw, or the catalyst, or a divine sign the people had been waiting for. This had been brewing for some time, I had no doubt about that.

  Master Fenar was right. War was ugly, but this wasn’t a war. This was a revolution; people rising up against a regime they loathed and wanted gone. And Master Fenar was right about another thing: revolutions were uglier. I was neither an expert on the topic nor a historian of course, but I remembered enough from high school history lessons and later readings — plenty of examples of the very thing unfolding here. The French Revolution wasn’t exactly a walk in the park with flowers and songbirds — Robespierre really made those guillotines work overtime. Comrades Lenin and Trotsky weren’t the shy sorts either when it came to organising a revolution — just ask those millions of Russians who ended up in mass graves, or gulags first and then mass graves. The Chinese had their own fun — Chairman Mao decided to throw a party, and he was rather efficient in murdering or starving to death those he perceived to be tens of millions of party-poopers. And the list went on.

  Yeah, revolutions were ugly back on good old Earth, and I saw no indication it would be any different here among the greenskinned weirdos. But even more worrying was a distinct trend among revolutionaries: more often than not they ended up dictators themselves, becoming huge problems rather than any kind of solutions to anything. I saw no reason why orks would be an exception, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the Clan, or the slaves, or anyone really, would be better off under the leadership of Big Wroogh, or whoever else was in charge or wanted to be in charge. The way I saw it, they were united in their hatred of the shamans and the mystics at this moment, but who knew what would happen once the common enemy was gone? I supposed only time would tell, and while I was a little curious, I hoped to hell we wouldn’t be here to witness it.

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  The green shits came through, we’re at the place. Tovaron Ento’s report broke me out of my train of thoughts regarding revolutions. They’re saying the guards are tough, or something. I think I can hear elven speech from one of the buildings. A woman’s voice.

  Anything you can’t handle? Fenar asked.

  No sir, we can take them. Fifteen orks, maybe a few more in one of the larger warehouse type buildings. Toven gave his assessment.

  Good. We’ll keep everyone busy over here, but be careful. Find and get every single one of our people back to the ships, Tovaron Ento! No-one gets left behind! The Master of Third Rangers ordered him, his tone more sombre and serious than I’d ever heard.

  Yes sir! We won’t fail. Toven said, then he issued some orders to his teams over another comm-node.

  Master Fenirig Arte was once again right. We were going to keep everyone busy over here, and by everyone I meant everyone. The whole Clan, probably. I could now hear the murmurings, or rather the crazed screaming of a huge crowd, sifting through the streets from up ahead, exactly from the direction we were heading. That must have been the famous city centre of Vraathblood, and I was suddenly a little nervous.

  ***

  I had a better view of the place than most as we arrived at the edge of city centre, having my tentacles spread far and wide to observe this central marketplace. It was a decent sized square, wet mud instead of stones or tiles of course, and it was chok-a-block with people of all sorts — orks mostly, then humans, and even a few of the emo-goth-looking elven slaves, hundreds in total, all of them armed one way or another: spears, spikes, axes, hammers, crude swords and meat-cleavers, and anything else an ork could pick up and use as a weapon.

  Big Wroogh began bellowing at them, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea in front of a green, bulky Moses, and we made our way to the middle of the place amidst the deafening cheers of the people and the wary gazes of their opponents.

  Well, one couldn’t accuse orks of being patient or restrained in any way shape or form. A frontline, or rather a skirmish line had already formed in the middle of the square: the people of the clan on one side, the regime’s henchmen on the other, and even though no-one was fighting at the moment, dozens of orks and some human bodies littered the ground, cut to pieces, sunken into a mix of blood and mud. Unfortunately, I saw no reason for any optimism as I observed the fallen and the ones that had done the killing.

  ‘Damn!’ I muttered just to myself.

  ‘Damn indeed,’ Krissy agreed, speaking out loud, suddenly sweating under her mask.

  The line of henchmen facing the crowd — at least thirty of them — was not what I’d expected. Maybe I had got too used to seeing the creatures wearing light, rugged clothes and little to no armour, occasional wooden shields, and heavy but crudely crafted weapons. In my mind they were the stereotypical barbarians with a Pirates of the Caribbean vibe, the belligerent, over-the-top macho brutes we all knew and loved. But no, not the minions of Skraath Ironbite. They were completely out of place here: I saw no green skin under all the steel armour that covered them from head to toe. Giant knights armed with steel-clad shields, enormous spears and billhooks, broad-bladed swords and maces at their hips. These guys were no joke, and the icing on this well disciplined, armoured cake were the familiars hovering above two of the ork paladins. I suddenly understood how a small number of spiritualists could maintain power and control over a clan of thousands of bloodthirsty orks. Hell, I didn’t even think they needed spiritualists to handle the rabble, which was something they seemed to be very good at, judging by the dead at their feet.

  I caught a glimpse of a few of Fenar’s guys, looking down at the square from the roofs of the surrounding houses. Solace rangers were probably the best archers in existence, not to mention sneaky as hell, but I had my doubts that even they could do anything about these armoured beasts.

  It made a frightening amount of sense now that the Vraathkill Clan had been biding their time, playing along with Sivera’s spiritualists, waiting for the right time, opportunity and advantage before rising up. Unfortunately, it was us who had brought the right time, opportunity and advantage. The Hellspawn. Well, it was what it was, and at this point we had no choice but to roll with it — there was a lot at stake for Solace, and I understood that we had to see this through.

  A number of things happened in short order.

  Big Wroogh took his place in front of his people, some orks joining him — presumably his own, closest henchmen, or aides — and they promptly started a shouting match with the entire line of our armoured opponents a mere dozen steps from our side of the town-square-turned-battlefield. From what I could hear, Big Wroogh incorporated a call for surrender into the barrage of insults he was yelling at them, and by the tone of their replies I guessed the enemy was refusing to do so. Fenar and his rangers, and therefore Krissy and Kiwa too, lined up behind the revolutionary leader, observing the ongoings quietly.

  At the same time, the two enemy familiars began to squirm — if that was the right word — as they finally took notice of me and Tilry, but mostly me.

  The spirits seemed to have adopted a somewhat orkish appearance for their earthly avatars; both had four arms though, and one of them seemed to have something like hair covering its mostly featureless head. But that was just an aesthetic choice as far as I was concerned, nothing to do with abilities, pool sizes and the such, which were the important things when it came to fighting. I’d had enough experience now to know how regular spirits would react to my presence, and I wasn’t disappointed.

  ‘Is that … that’s a … that’s a Tentacle Horror!’ one of the spirits cried out, turning its blue, translucent head to the other.

  ‘Oh shit oh shit oh shit!’ the other one with the hair squealed like a terrified kid, its — or his — voice in stark contrast to his very orkish appearance. ‘What do we do? That monster’s big!’

  Their orkish hosts immediately started turning their heads around, looking for the source of the voices — I supposed the familiars had been following the unwritten rule of not talking to their hosts unless the situation absolutely made it necessary. Such as the appearance of a Tentacle Horror.

  ‘Oi, that’s just rude!’ I yelled over to the familiars. ‘Monster? Come on! I’m an Emotional Support Tentacle Horror. Got a license to practice and everything!’

  ‘It … it speaks!’ Both spirits gasped.

  ‘Yeah we speak.’ Hank joined in, deciding it was time for him to participate. ‘What did you expect? Happy tentacle-noises?’

  ‘It’s the one Rendo spoke about. The one from the Graal’s ship,’ said the spirit with the imitation-hair on his head. ‘Why is it here?’

  Are you talking to familiars? How many of them are spiritualists? Fenar inquired, having heard my part of the conversation.

  ‘Uh, two of them. The confused ones, looking around,’ I informed him.

  Teams, be on the lookout. Once this shit spills from the barrel, I expect more spiritualists to show up. Maybe even their bosses. Engage only on my order! Fenar instructed his men, receiving snappy “yes sirs” from the team leaders perching on the rooftops, hidden from sight.

  ‘Master Fenar, what’s the plan here?’ I asked. ‘Are we going to fight them head on, or should I start eating them?’

  ‘I vote eating,’ Hank chimed in. Predictably.

  No, my invisible, shitheaded friends, we need to keep as many of them busy for as long as we can. He said, shaking his head.

  ‘Okay, that makes sense, but what is the actual plan?’

  Fenar turned and looked Kitala Iwani and Krissy up and down, settling his gaze on their masks — one laughing, one crying — for a good three seconds.

  When the green imbeciles resume fighting, which they will any moment, I will give them Joy and Misery for a start. We’ll see how we proceed after that. Can you handle it?

  Krissy and Kiwa looked at each other, but only I could see the expressions on their faces under the masks.

  ‘Hey, boss, I got a nickname, too. Fucking finally!’ Kiwa screeched with excitement, her eyes wide with joyful anticipation.

  ‘Damn,’ Krissy swore, her brows furrowed, looking miserable under her mask.

  I hadn’t even considered until now how well the masks and the nicknames fit these two women and their respective personalities. Maybe I’d spend some time pondering it later, but for now, it seemed Big Wroogh’s negotiations were coming to an end, and soon it would be time for Joy and Misery to shine. And for me to either subdue or eat two spirits. Oh, goody.