“Took your time!” Haskeer grumbled, batting at a human’s probing spear.
“You’re lucky we came!” Coilla retorted.
She whacked the sword from a Uni’s hand and punctured his skull. His fellow took the edge of her blade across his belly. Coilla had enough wrath left over to run through the next human in line.
She stood panting as two more Unis approached warily. Weighing up whether to spend her precious throwing knives on them, she noticed Pepperdyne.
The human moved among the enemy like a fish in limpid water. He was master of his blade and used it as a veteran would. Weaving and turning, he stayed clear of whistling steel with an almost contemptuous ease. When he struck, it was as quick as thought, and always to the true.
He killed two men in rapid succession. Neither so much as engaged him. As they fell he sought more flesh, wielding his sword with the skill of a surgeon. In seconds, his sinuous dance brought death to another black-clad human.
Haskeer saw it too. Then he tugged his blade from the spearman’s guts and let him drop.
The attack was coming from all directions. There was no point on the clearing’s boundary where there wasn’t conflict. In places the line had broken and the defenders were falling back. Dwarfs were suffering casualties, and some lay dead, but so far, orc injuries were light. Stryke doubted that would last.
Using a sword and dagger combination, he reaped the flood of invaders. A twin thrust took down a pair as one. The swiftness of his blades caught three more in as many heartbeats. Still the enemy came.
Stryke found himself facing a studded mace. Its handler showed little finesse employing it, but his wild, two-handed swipes were no less dangerous for that. For a full minute Stryke managed nothing more than avoiding it. Then he got his opponent’s measure. Holding back until the club was in full swing, he dived under the man’s outstretched arms and pierced his torso. The Uni crumpled.
Stryke ran the back of a hand across his clammy brow and pushed on.
Despite all the resistance they met, humans were getting through to the settlement. Most stayed in groups, knots of belligerence fuelled by pious zeal, lashing out savagely at all in their reach. The defenders slowed them, but they were hard to stop.
Dallog’s troupe, obeying orders by remaining at the barn, had seen no action. What happened next made up for that. A bunch of howling humans, twice their number, sped in to take issue. Half a dozen uneven duels broke out.
Standing to the fore, Dallog was set upon by a trio of enraged fanatics. Their frenzy and number worked to his benefit. Fury made for poor judgement, and fighting as a group had them getting in each other’s way. He quickly profited. A scouring blow across the side of a Uni’s head put him out of the picture.
The fallen man’s companions were less easy to better. One jabbed at Dallog with a shortened spear, its tip wickedly barbed. The other contrived to circle him, for an attack from side or rear. They were working together. Lessening the odds had increased the threat, and the irony wasn’t lost on Dallog.
Twisting away from the spear, he lashed out at the circling swordsman. Metal echoed as they pounded each other’s broadswords. Deadlock ensued, and might have continued had not the spearman intervened. Losing patience, he rushed in, thrusting the weapon at Dallog, passion outwitting skill. His recklessness was a gift. Dallog spun, brought down his blade hard and knocked the spear from the Uni’s hands. Without pause he followed through, delivering a fatal blow.
The swiftness of the kill threw the sword-bearer off his stroke. Before he recovered, Dallog got in close and nasty. He swiped, raking the Uni from armpit to waist. Then he put all he had into a high swing that buried his blade in the human’s skull. The man plummeted, so much dead weight.
Dallog leaned on his gory sword, breathing heavily and hoping none of the grunts noticed his fatigue.
The Unis had torched the barn. Thick black smoke belched from its open doors. Flames scaled the wooden exterior and the roof steamed. A screaming human stumbled past, his clothes ablaze. Orcs and Unis fought without let. Havoc reigned.
Something caught Dallog’s eye. Towering shapes were emerging from the tree-line. At first he couldn’t make out what they were. As they entered the clearing he saw. Black-garbed horsemen, in their dozens.
“Second wave!” he bellowed. “Second wave!”
12
Riders were charging across the field of battle, trampling defenders and cutting them down.
In the middle of the clearing, by a couple of hay wagons, Jup’s group was oblivious, absorbed as they were in vicious hand-to-hand fighting.
Spurral was at Jup’s side. They were armed with the dwarfs’ traditional weapons; he with a leaden-headed staff, she with a short, curved sword and knife. And they were working the weapons hard.
Jup dodged a blow and gave the head of his attacker a resounding crack. Flipping over his staff, he thrust the weighted end into the midriff of another. He used the staff with speed and seasoned grace. Spurral was no less skilful with her blades. Crowded by a pair of Unis, she expertly slashed the face of one and knifed his companion.
Eldo fought alongside them. Fending off the attentions of a brute with a club, the grunt took a hit that dented his helm and had him reeling. Spurral quickly deflected the clubman’s follow-through and ripped his belly. A grateful if dazed Eldo nodded gratitude, and Spurral earned further respect from the grunts looking on.
After a seeming lifetime of grinding conflict there was a brief hiatus. But no respite.
Chuss, one of the new recruits, pointed. “Look!”
They saw the riders.
Then two horsemen broke through the forward defences and galloped their way.
“Take cover!” Jup bellowed, waving his group towards the wagons.
He made Chuss and fellow newbie Ignar shelter under one of them. The rest of the team clustered defensively. Jup and Spurral clambered to the top of the wagon nearest the approaching riders.
Seconds latter, the pair of horsemen arrived, brandishing cutlasses. Their mounts were steaming and foam-flecked.
One of the Unis made straight for Jup and Spurral. They battled to fend him off, but his mobility kept him frustratingly beyond reach. His companion, meanwhile, was leaning and slashing at the knot of orcs. Trying to avoid his horse’s thrashing hooves, they jabbed and swiped at him.
The skirmish ground on, with neither side gaining the advantage. Then seasoned hand Gleadeg had an idea. He dug out a slingshot, quickly primed it and commenced swinging. The unleashed shot peppered the rider’s face and chest. He cried out, lost his balance and crashed to the ground. His horse bolted. The orcs rushed in and pounded out his life.
Jup made to follow Gleadeg’s example and use his own sling on the remaining horseman. But as he reached for it a keen hissing filled the air. A swarm of arrows thudded into the horseman, hurling him from his saddle.
When Jup and the others looked for their source, they saw a dozen or more dwarf archers on the longhouses’ roofs. The Wolverines waved their thanks. They were ignored. The dwarfs were busy picking off more riders.
That wasn’t the end of the Unis. They were still worming their way into the clearing, though there were fewer of them. Jup and his comrades took up their swords again.
Those near the perimeter had more than a couple of horsemen to contend with. Their burden was thinning the stream of incoming riders. Haskeer and Coilla’s groups had faced a virtual cavalry charge. Dead and dying humans, dwarfs and horses were scattered across the forward combat zone. But the fighting went on.
Seizing a discarded lance, Haskeer impaled a charging Uni. The man was propelled from his horse, the spear lodged in his chest. Haskeer made do with his dependable blade to challenge the next interloper.
Coilla had spent her knives freely. Now there were just two left. She lobbed one at a rampaging horseman. It was aimed at his chest. He turned and the blade struck above his armpit, but the force was enough to spin him in his saddle. He lost cont
rol. The reins whipped free. A couple of orcs grabbed them and tugged hard, bringing down horse and rider. Spears and hatchets sealed his fate.
Pepperdyne battled on. He showed no loss of stamina, or lessening skill. His sword was a blur, slashing throats, puncturing lungs, severing limbs. He outfought or outwitted any who faced him.
For her part, Coilla was eyeing another rider. He was laying about a group of dwarfs with an axe. As she watched, he cracked open someone’s skull, dropping him like a stone. Drawing her last knife, she took aim, reckoning on a clean kill this time.
She missed. The knife clipped the neck of the Uni’s horse. Startled, the wounded animal bucked, throwing its rider. He fell heavily, but found his feet at once, buoyed with rage. Spotting Coilla, he battered his way towards her. She was bracing herself to meet him when a swinging blade came within a hair’s-breadth of hacking her flesh. Unnoticed, another Uni had emerged from the scrum to challenge her.
Coilla spun to the new foe and their swords collided with a strident impact. They fell into a frenzied bout of swordplay. He was powerfully built, and what he lacked in finesse he made up for with might. They didn’t so much fence as hammer at each other, and Coilla parried a series of jarring blows.
Then the human got lucky. She was slow in dodging a wild swipe. His blade skinned the knuckles of her sword hand, dashing the weapon from her grasp. It bounced beyond reach. Backing off, Coilla went for her dagger, the only weapon she had left. As she fumbled for it, the unhorsed Uni appeared.
The pair of glowering humans closed in on her. One had a broadsword, the other an axe. No way was her dagger a match for their reach. She could only twist and duck to avoid their aggression. But there was a limit to how long she could evade them. Rapidly, she lost ground. The humans came on for the kill.
“Coilla!”
Suddenly Pepperdyne was there. He tossed her a sword. Then he took on the second Uni, leaving the axeman to her.
She piled into him, intent on a reckoning. Bobbing to elude a swing from his axe, she went in fast and low, blade level. He swerved and half turned, hoping to sidestep her attack. Coilla’s sword connected, but it glanced, skimming the side of his waist. Far from a fatal wound, it was still a painful enough distraction. Sufficient for Coilla to spin and strike again.
This time, the blow was true. She buried a third of her blade in the Uni’s midriff. Jerking the sword free, she arced it and swept down hard to brain him. The man sprawled, lifeless.
Breathing hard, Coilla looked to Pepperdyne. He had bettered his own opponent, and was stooping to deliver the killing stroke. As he rose from slashing the Uni’s throat, she caught his eye. She nodded her thanks, puzzled that he should side with her against one of his own kind.
“Look at that!”
Haskeer was pointing to a rider near the tree-line. The figure was unmistakably female. Her long blond hair flowed free, and she wore a metal breastplate that glinted in the feeble sunlight. She was mounted on a pure white horse that reared as, sword held high, she rallied her remaining followers.
“Mercy Hobrow,” Coilla spat.
“You were right,” Haskeer conceded.
“The bitch. Why don’t you ever have a bow when you need one?”
As they watched, the woman wheeled her mount and headed into the trees.
The defenders at the vanguard, by the defensive trench, saw Hobrow too. Her supporters were retreating in her wake, the stragglers chased by angry dwarfs seeing them off with arrows and spears. All across the village clearing the last of the Unis were pulling back.
“More a last gasp than a second wave,” Stryke reckoned, looking on.
Breggin nodded.
“Not much more we can do here. Round up the unit.”
The private grunted and went off.
Stryke surveyed the carnage around him. The bodies of dozens of dwarfs were scattered about, and many more humans. They were outnumbered by the wounded, walking and prone, though he saw no orcs in the latter category. Or humans in either.
He made for the cluster of huts, his crew in tow.
The rest of the Wolverines were already gathering there.
“Anybody hurt?” Stryke called out.
“A few,” Dallog replied. “Nothing too serious.”
“Coilla? You all right?”
“This?” She waved her bandaged hand dismissively. “Just a sting.”
“She ain’t the only one stinging,” Haskeer butted in.
“Meaning?” Stryke asked.
“Wheam.”
Stryke sighed. “What about him?”
“Caught an arrow in his arse.” He jabbed a thumb.
A small group was arriving. Several grunts carried Wheam, face-down on a plank, a bolt protruding from his rear. Standeven followed sullenly.
Haskeer was gleeful. “It gets better,” he went on. “The arrow was one of our own.”
Wheam’s makeshift stretcher was brusquely dumped on the ground. He groaned loudly.
“Get him sorted,” Stryke ordered.
Dallog knelt and began rummaging in his medical bag.
To one side, Coilla got Pepperdyne alone.
“Thanks,” she said.
He nodded.
“You fight well.”
The human smiled tightly.
“Where’d you pick up the skill?” she persisted.
He gave a cursory shrug. “Here and there.”
“You’re talking me to death again.”
This time his fleeting smile had a speck of warmth in it. “It’s a long story.”
“I want to hear it.”
“Pepperdyne!” Standeven was elbowing their way.
Pepperdyne’s expression went back to pokerfaced.
“Your place is with me,” the older man asserted.
“I know.”
To Coilla, Pepperdyne’s manner seemed almost subservient. “What is it with you two?” she asked.
“Coilla!” Stryke beckoned her over.
She gave the pair of humans a last, hard look and left them to it.
Stryke was with Jup and Spurral, and they were obviously troubled.
“What’s up?” Coilla said.
“Our people have paid a high price for this,” Spurral replied, indicating the detritus of battle.
“But they did well. Specially as you’ve so few veterans.”
“We’ve even less now,” Jup came back gloomily.
“There are casualties in a fight,” Stryke told him. “You know that.”
“The Wolverines haven’t come out of this nearly so badly.”
“We’re born to combat, and we’ve got the skills. If we’d had losses we’d accept ’em.”
“Most dwarfs don’t have the orcs’ attitude to these things.”
“So I see,” Coilla said, nodding.
They followed her gaze to a group of villagers standing in the clearing. They were looking the Wolverines’ way and whispering amongst themselves. Others were drifting over to swell their ranks.
“This could get nasty,” Stryke judged. “Jup, what do you think?”
“They’re angry. It’d be as well to tread lightly ’til this blows over.”
“Coilla?”
“I’m thinking of that old saying. You know, the one that goes, Trust in the gods, but tie up your horse.”
Stryke eyed the growing crowd. “I’ll go along with that. We’ll do nothing to goad them. But we stay alert.” He turned to Dallog. “Get Wheam on his feet.”
“I’m not sure if he’s —”
“He’ll live. Just do it.”
Dallog shrugged and beckoned a couple of grunts. “Give me a hand here,” he instructed. “Hold him. Tight.”
He bent to his patient. Wheam began whimpering. Dallog swiftly plucked out the arrow, drawing a yell from the newbie. Then the corporal produced a flask of raw alcohol and sprinkled it liberally over the wound. Wheam howled. Dressing hastily applied, the grunts tersely hauled him to his feet, raising more yelps. Wheam wa
s ashen. His grimace made him look like he’d sucked a bushel of lemons.
Giving off a disgruntled mutter, the throng of dwarfs had started to move towards the orcs. A number of them nursed wounds or hobbled. Many had their weapons drawn.
“To me!” Stryke ordered.
His band fell in beside him.
Out in front of the mob was a familiar face; the dwarf who harangued them in the glade when they first arrived in Quatt.
He marched up to the Wolverines, chest puffed, and holding aloft a short spear.
“Have you any idea what mayhem you’ve caused here?” he shouted.
“That was down to the Unis,” Stryke replied evenly.
“And look how many of our people paid for it!”
“The orcs fought at our side, Krake,” Jup reminded him. “We wouldn’t have won otherwise.”
“We wouldn’t have had to fight at all if it weren’t for them!”
There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.
“That’s not fair,” Jup returned. “We should count ourselves lucky they stood with us.”
“Trust you to take their part. All you’ve done is bring us trouble.”
“Seems to me,” Stryke said, “it was time you stood up to those humans.”
“You think we haven’t?” Krake was red faced. “What we don’t do is go round provoking ’em!”
Again the mob backed him.
“You can’t blame the orcs for that,” Jup reckoned. “You know how crazy those Unis are. If it hadn’t been the Wolverines it would have been something else.”
“Backing outsiders again,” the ringleader spat. “You’re too fond of these… freaks.”
“Who you calling a freak?” Haskeer demanded indignantly.
Krake glared at him. “If the cap fits.”
“I wouldn’t push it with our sergeant,” Coilla advised.
“Let’s just be calm,” Jup appealed.
“Traitor!” Krake seethed.
“Don’t you call my Jup a traitor,” Spurral waded in.
“Wotcha mean freak?” Haskeer repeated.
“It’s what I’m looking at,” Krake told him. He waved his spear in Haskeer’s face.
Orcs: Bad Blood Page 12
