Orcs: Bad Blood

by Stan Nicholls

  Stryke and Haskeer went to him.

  A large number of troops were emerging from a maze of outbuildings and rushing towards the square.

  “Must have been holding them back,” Stryke realised.

  “Set us up,” Haskeer growled.

  “There’s got to be a hundred of them, or more,” Pepperdyne reckoned. “Stryke, we can’ t —”

  “I know. Come on!”

  They sprinted along the parapet to the three grunts, and all of them pelted down the stairs.

  The battle was still raging. Stryke spotted Coilla and made for her. He began yelling, “There’s a —”

  “We see them!”

  The first of the reinforcements were spilling into the square, forcing the orcs back.

  Brelan arrived, panting. “Look who’s with them!” He pointed to a figure striding along in the midst of the troops.

  “Who?” Stryke said.

  “That’s Kapple Hacher. The commander-in-chief himself.”

  “This ain’t by chance,” Haskeer stated. “We’ve been stitched.”

  “We can’t beat these odds,” Coilla said.

  “No,” Stryke agreed bitterly. “Haskeer, sound the retreat.”

  The sergeant took a curved horn from his belt and pressed it to his lips.

  As its strident note rang out, Stryke bellowed, “Pull back! Pull back!”

  28

  The shrill, insistent note Haskeer sent out sparked an exodus.

  All over the fort’s parade ground, orcs disengaged and headed for the gates. Or at least most did. A few couldn’t extricate themselves from overwhelming odds and imminent death. Others lay wounded, or were on the point of capture, and chose to turn their blades on themselves rather than fall into enemy hands. Those who did withdraw were hotly pursued, and rearguard actions were fought across the square.

  The retreating Wolverines, resistance members and Vixens clustered at the gates, urging on stragglers and loosing arrows at the humans chasing them.

  “Isn’t that one of the Ceragans?” Coilla exclaimed, pointing into the heaving scrimmage.

  Stryke nodded. “It’s Ignar.”

  “He’s in trouble, Stryke.”

  The raw recruit had almost reached the edge of the scrum when a group of troopers caught up with him. He was trying to beat them off.

  “I’m going in,” Stryke decided.

  “I’m with you,” she said.

  “Me too,” Pepperdyne announced.

  With Stryke in the lead they ran towards the mob.

  On their way they met the van of the pursuers. Four bawling soldiers blocked their path. Stryke hacked down the leader with a single potent blow. Coilla and Pepperdyne tackled the others as he sprinted on.

  Ignar was battling two opponents. He was outclassed, and he was injured. Blood flowed freely from several wounds, not least a broad gash to the chest. It was all he could do to fend off his attackers, and as Stryke approached he slumped to his knees. One of the soldiers lifted his sword to deliver a killing stroke.

  Stryke intervened. A powerful swipe of his blade all but severed the human’s sword arm. The man screamed and stumbled away, gushing blood. Stryke spun to face his charging companion. Their swords clashed and they furiously hacked at each other. The flurry ended with the soldier taking steel to his belly.

  Ignar had fallen. Stryke went to him and found him barely conscious. Coilla and Pepperdyne arrived.

  “He’s in a bad way,” Coilla pronounced as she examined the recruit. “Lot of blood lost.”

  “We’ll get him clear,” Stryke said.

  He and Pepperdyne half carried, half dragged Ignar while Coilla kept any other would-be attackers at bay. As they neared the gates, orc archers sent out covering fire for them.

  They laid Ignar on the ground, and somebody propped his head with a folded jerkin. He seemed unconscious.

  Stryke lightly slapped his pallid cheeks. “Ignar. Ignar.”

  The young orc’s eyes flickered open.

  “Here,” Coilla said, handing Stryke a canteen.

  “With a wound like that,” Pepperdyne remarked, “he shouldn’t drink.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” Stryke told him. He dampened Ignar’s lips with a little water.

  Ignar tried to speak. Stryke allowed him a drink from the canteen. He coughed, and murmured something. Stryke leaned closer.

  “I’m… sorry,” Ignar whispered.

  “No need,” Stryke replied. “You fought well, and you die a Wolverine.”

  Ignar managed a faint smile. Then his eyes closed for the last time.

  Coilla hissed, “Shit.”

  “We can’t hold here much longer,” Pepperdyne said.

  “Get ’em moving,” Stryke ordered, rising.

  “We’ve got comrades in there,” Brelan protested. “We can’t leave them.”

  “We take losses,” Stryke said, glancing at Ignar’s corpse. “It’s part of the price. Linger here and we’ll lose more.”

  “Or all,” Coilla amended. She pointed at the mass of humans across the square. They vastly outnumbered the orcs, and they were grouping for an all-out assault. “We have to go. Now.”

  Reluctantly, Brelan nodded assent.

  Stryke turned to Coilla and Jup. “They all know where the rendezvous point is. Any wounded or foot-draggers on the way get left behind. It’s every orc for themselves. Pass it on.”

  They moved off to spread the word.

  He looked at Pepperdyne. “Ready for a fast retreat, human?”

  “Just say the word.”

  Stryke signalled Haskeer. The sergeant gave another blast on the horn. Orc archers stepped up their flow of arrows.

  The retreat began.

  They poured out of the gates and on to the approach road. Shedding excess kit and even some weapons, they headed inland, their pace increasing to a sprint. The tail of the column had barely cleared the fort’s precincts when the first of the humans came after them. Orc arrows helped slow the pursuit.

  “We’re fucked if they’ve got cavalry,” Coilla said, jogging alongside Jup.

  “That’s right,” the dwarf panted, “look on the bright side.”

  No riders appeared. But more soldiers exited and joined the chase.

  The orcs topped a rise and swept down on to the plain beyond. They made for a stand of trees an arrow’s flight ahead.

  Pepperdyne, next to Stryke at the column’s head, glanced back. He saw the pursuing humans on the crest, outlined against the cloudless sky. “Doesn’t look like all the garrison. Not by a long shot.”

  “Good,” Stryke replied.

  “But why aren’t more of them following us?”

  Stryke shrugged and upped the pace.

  They got to the line of trees and through them. That put them in the first of a series of meadows. They crossed those too, trampling down hedgerows when there was no easier path. Another stretch of open pasture followed, with several copses at its far end.

  The humans were still on their trail, but had fallen back some distance.

  “Think we might outpace ’em?” Jup asked.

  “Wouldn’t hold your breath,” Coilla said.

  “Not a lot left to hold. How much further is it?”

  “I reckon we’re near. Should see a wood soon. It’s past that.”

  They had a couple more fields to go across before they spotted the wood’s edge. Putting on a spurt, they quickly reached it and moved into the trees.

  “Be alert!” Stryke warned. “This is a good place to get waylaid. And we’ve had enough ambushes for one day.”

  Pepperdyne sidled up to him. “Now I can’t see them at all,” he said, scanning the open ground they’d just left. “Maybe they’ve given up the chase.”

  “Or they’re sneaking round to lie in wait for us, like I said. C’mon, and stay awake.”

  The legion of orcs crept through the woods, keeping vigilant and as quiet as over a hundred hastily retreating warriors could. As they penetra
ted deeper, dappled sunlight gave way to cool gloom under the leafy canopy. Silence wrapped them, overlaid only by their muffled footfalls on the loam.

  After ten minutes of steady tramping they heard something else. A halt was signalled and they listened. It was the unmistakable sound of rushing water, close to hand. They pushed on. The trees began to thin and the light increased. Soon the riverbank was in sight. While the others held back, Stryke and Brelan carried on alone to the water’s edge.

  The river was wide and fast-flowing. It was thunderous, throwing off spray and spawning white foam where it churned around half-submerged rocks. On the river’s far side the wood continued, and beyond it the tops of green hills were just visible.

  Brelan cupped his hands over his mouth and gave a passable imitation of shrill birdsong. Further along the bank, five or six of his compatriots came out of hiding.

  “Don’t ask,” Brelan told them as they approached, anticipating their questions about how the raid had gone. Though his expression held all they needed to know.

  “We’ve no time to waste,” Stryke said.

  Brelan nodded. “Get the others out here.”

  Stryke gestured to their waiting companions. They started spilling on to the riverbank.

  Directed to a spot not far from the rendezvous point, the troop set to clearing away a camouflage of undergrowth. It concealed ten rafts. They were simple but robust, consisting of thick tree trunks lashed together and sealed with tar. Each raft had a crude rudder, and the minimal protection of a waist-high rope on three sides, looped around several timber uprights.

  As they were hauled to the water’s edge, Coilla joined Stryke.

  “Shame Dallog and Wheam aren’t here to see this,” she said.

  “Or Ignar, or any of the others we lost to deceit today.”

  “You reckon it was treachery?”

  “They weren’t waiting for us by chance.”

  “That means somebody in the resistance…” She let the implication hang.

  “A mission this big, maybe too many knew the plan.”

  “Not that many knew all of it. Like using the catacombs.”

  “There were humans down there.”

  “What?”

  “When we were on the battlements I saw soldiers at the bottom of the cliff. They must have been going for the entrance. Looks like it was Wheam and Dallog’s wagon that stopped ’em finding it.”

  Coilla smiled. “So they did some good.” She sobered. “But if the humans knew about the catacombs —”

  “There’s a spy high up in the resistance? Maybe.”

  “We’re in trouble if there is, Stryke.”

  “There’s nothing we can do about it right now. We have to —”

  A chorus of shouting broke out. Orcs were heading up the riverbank, towards a group of figures.

  Jup ran past, Spurral in tow. Then Haskeer thundered by, with a bunch of grunts in his wake.

  Stryke stared at the commotion. “What the —?”

  “This I don’t believe,” Coilla exclaimed. “Come on!” She joined the rush.

  He followed, and seeing what all the fuss was about, increased his pace.

  The advancing figures were orcs. Upwards of a dozen in number, they were bruised and bloodied, with several needing help to walk. And at the forefront were Dallog and Wheam.

  Pepperdyne stared at them. “How the hell… ?”

  Dallog grinned. “Just sheer good fortune.”

  Coilla gave Wheam’s arm a squeeze. “We thought you were lost.”

  “So did we,” the youth replied shakily.

  Stryke elbowed his way through. “Didn’t think we’d see you again, Corporal. We’d written you off.”

  “We were lucky,” Dallog told him. “The shanties took the brunt when the wagon went over. Most of us came out with petty wounds. Didn’t lose a hand.”

  “There were soldiers,” Wheam piped up. “Did you know there were soldiers down —”

  “Yeah,” Stryke said, “we did.”

  “Bit of a shock for ’em,” Dallog reported, not without relish.

  “And fortunate for us. They’d have ambushed us if we’d left through the catacombs. That or come up at our backs inside the fort.”

  “But if they knew about the tunnel what’s to say they know about this escape route too?”

  “All the more reason to get out of here, and fast.”

  Dallog scanned the orcs crowded round. “I don’t see Ignar.”

  “He didn’t make it.”

  The corporal’s face dropped. “No?”

  “No,” Stryke confirmed.

  Wheam looked shocked.

  “He died well,” Stryke added.

  “That’s a comfort,” Dallog replied. “But I promised I’d keep an eye on those young ones.”

  “So did I.”

  Dallog nodded. He said nothing for a second, then added, “But the raid was a success, right?”

  No one spoke until Pepperdyne offered, “That’s debatable.”

  “Your crew all right to carry on, Dallog?” Stryke asked.

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “Then let’s move.”

  Stryke and Brelan snapped orders and the rafts were readied for launch. Each held twelve or more passengers. Wolverines, Vixens and resistance members boarded randomly. The way it fell out, Stryke, Jup and Spurral found themselves on the same raft. Haskeer and Coilla were together on another; Chillder and Brelan on a third; Pepperdyne, Dallog and Wheam on a fourth.

  At Brelan’s signal the vessels cast off, pushed clear of the bank with rudimentary paddles. The strong current took hold at once, tossing them about like corks and drawing them into midstream. Before things settled down there was some jockeying, the orcs paddling furiously to avoid collisions as the craft rapidly picked up speed.

  The terrain slipped past at a clip. Copious trees and lush pastures. A glimpse of a small lake ringed with jade hills. Fields with flocks of sheep and startled shepherds. The sight of distant cerulean cliffs, shimmering in sunlight.

  They rounded a bend. The river became wider and faster. They were drenched with the spume, rafts bouncing on the surge, bow and stern see-sawing.

  “Hey!” Spurral yelled.

  “What?” Stryke bellowed.

  “Back there!” She pointed to the rear.

  He squinted through the vapour and made out oblong patches of white. The mist cleared a little and he realised they were sails. They belonged to an armada of boats coming round the bend after them.

  As they drew nearer they were noticed by the occupants of other rafts.

  On Coilla’s, she turned to Haskeer and said, “Now we know where they disappeared to.”

  “The bastards are on to our every move.”

  “There’s gotta be a spy.”

  Haskeer snarled, “If I get my hands on him —”

  “We’ve more pressing problems. Hold tight!”

  On the raft carrying Dallog, Wheam and Pepperdyne they were counting the pursuing craft.

  “Twenty-one,” Dallog said.

  “Twenty-two,” Wheam corrected. “You missed one.”

  “The number’s not important,” Pepperdyne interrupted testily. “Outrunning them is.”

  “They’re gaining!” Wheam cried.

  Brelan and Chillder’s raft was at the back of the orc flotilla. Close enough to the boats chasing them to see who stood at the prow of the leading vessel.

  “It’s him all right,” Brelan confirmed, shading his eyes with his palm, “Kapple Hacher.”

  “It was no fluke him being here,” Chillder reckoned. “This whole thing stinks, brother.”

  The river meandered for a mile or two, the turns and curves taming its pace. That slowed the rafts, dependent on current, and forced the orcs to work their paddles. The boats trailing them, under sail, began to close the gap. And even when the river straightened and flowed quickly again they continued to catch up, until the foremost were within an arrow’s flight.


  The humans proved the point by loosing a salvo. Arrows zinged over the orcs’ heads, or fell short, cutting into open water. Orc archers returned fire. Their footing was unsure on the heaving rafts and the results were ragged. But the exchange carried on, and there were hits. Through skill or luck, two orcs were struck by bolts. One plunged overboard and was lost. The other fell wounded into the arms of comrades.

  A human paid with his life, taking an arrow to the chest. Another was injured and dragged clear of the rail.

  By this time the boats had closed in. But the rafts had a small advantage over the larger craft. They didn’t have sails to tack, giving them a bit more leeway to manoeuvre. That kept most of the boats clear, though some got in close enough to engage. Spears were lobbed. Arrows, throwing knives and slingshot clattered against raised shields on both sides.

  The speed of the river’s flow hampered ramming attempts by the boats. Instead they tried to get alongside the rafts and board them. Others did their best to outpace the rafts, hoping to block their way. The orcs fought to stop them.

  In this way the two small fleets played cat and mouse along the river. Harrying and assailing, bumping and swerving, hurling weaponry back and forth.

  At length, a change came over the river. It flowed even faster, and up ahead it seemed to disappear into a boiling cloud. A deep rumbling could be heard.

  “What the hell’s that?” Jup said.

  “Must be the falls,” Stryke explained.

  “So what do we do?” Spurral asked, a little uneasily.

  “Brelan’s got it worked out. I hope. Just be ready to hold on tight.”

  Every rudder operator on the orc rafts was a resistance member, briefed on what to do and when. As the chase progressed they steered nearer to the left bank and stayed alert for a signal.

  The roar of water grew louder, the misty cloud loomed higher. Several boats were neck and neck with orc rafts.

  On the bank, perilously close to the deafening lip of the falls, stood a cluster of mature trees. They were taller than any others on that stretch. From high up on the tallest there was a spiky flash of light. It repeated a number of times, proving it to be a confederate holding something reflective.

  As one, the rafts veered sharply towards the bank. The orcs braced themselves. At the same time bands of archers ashore, some hidden in trees, peppered the human’s boats.