Prince of Lies - James Lowder [133]
"It's time," Vrakk said.
"Time for what?"
The general smiled – a horrible thing to see – and gestured for a flag to be raised. As soon as the young orc started the red banner up the pole, its twin began to rise over a tower at the southern end of theTeshBridge.
"We do lots of work on bridges," Vrakk murmured, then turned back to watch the distant barricades. "Priests think it punishment for us…"
Sparksrose into the morning air as the orcs scattered the bonfires. With the bridge sealed off, at least for a short time, the soldiers retreated at a run toward the south bank. They'd only gotten a quarter of the way across before the mob broke through the flaming wreckage. In the press, men and women were shoved into the fires. Their neighbors clambered over their backs as they burned.
Vrakk glanced at Rinda. "You not figure it out? Me think you smart." He gestured to one of the dragons as it swooped low over the river to tear the sails from a coaster.
"They not attack us. How come?"
The realization swept over Rinda then. "You've cut a deal with them, haven't you?" she whispered. "You're fighting for the giants."
Vrakk nodded. "Priests say we're monsters, so we fight on side of monsters. Giants happy to have us in army."
The retreating orcs had reached the south bank. Vrakk waited for the slowest of his troops to stumble to safety before he put two fingers to his lips and whistled. The shrill sound rang out even over the thunder of the charging refugees.
As one, the orcs shouted a vile curse directed at the Lord of the Dead: "Cyric dglinkarz haif akropa nar!"
Though the insult was nearly impossible to translate – at least with its original venomous hatred intact – it was enough to know that the slur involved Cyric and the forefathers of the orcs' most hated foes, the dwarves. From the mouths of Vrakk's troops, though, the five words were a magical trigger. The instant the orcs finished the curse, the center supports of both bridges exploded.
The whole length of theForceBridgeshuddered. As Fzoul and the Zhentarim mages had predicted, the Shou gunpowder that was the heart of the magical trap sent up a huge fireball. The blast incinerated the Zhentish at the front of the mob – the lucky ones, anyway. Shards of granite whistled through the air like sling stones and cut down others. Then the center of the bridge collapsed into the river, taking with it half the refugees. The scene on theTeshBridgewas much the same – the frantic mob trying to turn back upon itself, the bridge dissolving beneath them into a rain of stone and mortar.
All along the south bank, the orcs howled at the devastation, at the score upon score of battered corpses floating amongst the shattered ice floes. Once, Vrakk and his soldiers had served those same people, offered up their lives to prove their loyalty. Yet the orcs hadn't left their bestial roots so far behind that they could contrive any answer but this for the slight offered them by the city and the human god they'd adopted as their own.
Horrified, Rinda turned away from the carnage, from Vrakk. "I-I should go."
The general grabbed her by the arm and spun her to face him. "They take away our honor," he said. "They take away everything to give to Cyric, and he not care. Zhentish deserve this."
"No one deserves that kind of death," Rinda hissed. She pulled from his grasp.
"Don't stop in Dales," the orc noted. "Not be too safe there until giants and goblins break up army." He tossed something toward Rinda. It landed at her feet, clattering loudly on the tower roof. "That