Coilla nodded. “Good for them.”
“Yeah,” Stryke said. “But we’ve got our own problems.”
The other two goblin ships were anchored, and their crews were also wading to the beach, their tridents held above their heads. Elves were arriving too, staggering out of the waves, some supporting kin.
“It’s too open here,” Coilla decided. “We’re better off facing them inland.”
“Run away?” Haskeer growled.
“A strategic retreat to a position that benefits us.” She nodded at the unfolding scene. “Look at their numbers.”
“Coilla’s right,” Stryke said. “We’re not at full strength. Makes sense for us to pick the terrain. We’ll get ourselves into the jungle back there and waylay the bastards.”
Spurral was looking at the surviving islanders struggling ashore. “Let’s hope the elves stay clear.”
“No worries there,” Haskeer sneered. “They’ve no guts for a fight.”
As the band jogged towards the greenery, the first of the goblins were emerging from the water.
Once into the coolness of the jungle, Stryke had the band gather round. “This is how we’re doing it. Four groups. There…” He pointed to a large downed tree. “… there…” A big, moss-covered rock. “… there…” A thick stand of trees just inside the lip of the jungle. “… and there.” The remains of an abandoned elf cabin, rotting in the tropical climate. “They likely saw us come in so they’ll be following. And they’ll be expecting a trap, so we need to be well hidden and quiet.” He glanced at Haskeer. “Archers fire at my order, not before. We don’t want to give ’em a chance to retreat. Sergeants, get the groups sorted.”
Jup and Haskeer quickly divided the reduced band into four units and headed one each. Haskeer’s group took the rock as its hideaway, Jup’s the fallen tree. Coilla led the third unit, and made for the ruined hut. Stryke’s group hid themselves in the stand of trees. He had chosen the hides because they formed the four sides of a corral or box. The task for Stryke’s group was to secure the fourth side, the corral’s gate, once the enemy were in.
They took their positions and waited.
What seemed like an age passed, and Stryke wasn’t alone in thinking the goblins would simply wait them out. Then there was movement in the boundary between beach and jungle. Leaves rustled and dry bark cracked. Dark shapes could be made out.
The goblins came into the jungle. They used a measure of stealth, but seemed more reliant on their greater numbers. The orcs bided their time, well hidden and silent, waiting for the enemy to enter the snare. Soon, as many goblins as were likely to had moved into the area, and they were starting to fan out. The trap had to be sprung while they were still bunched.
“Fire!” Stryke bellowed.
The archers had been spread across the hiding places. Now they let loose from all sides. Arrows slammed into the outermost of the pack of goblins. A good half dozen fell, dead or wounded. No sooner had they gone down than a second wave of arrows came in. At which point practically all of the goblins went down, whether hit or not, to avoid the shower of bolts. Some had bows. Kneeling, they began to return fire. But the orcs were playing shoot and hide. Bobbing up or round their cover, they fired then instantly ducked back out of sight.
This went on for a while, and not to the goblins’ advantage. Their only hope was to break the impasse. At an order gutturally barked, presumably by one of their commanders, they rose and charged. Like the blooms of some exotic black flower bursting open, goblins hurtled towards all four hides.
The orcs got off a few more shots, but things were about to get too intimate for bows. Blades and hatchets took their place.
The greatest number of goblins headed back to where they entered the jungle, hoping to regain the beach. They were confronted by Stryke’s unit, the gatekeepers, slipping from the trees to block the exit. This group was slightly larger than the other three, given it would bear the brunt, but it was still desperately small compared to the pack of charging goblins. And it wasn’t only the goblins’ numbers that gave them an edge; many had tridents.
The orcs met them head-on, a resolute line of barbed steel, determined to deny a way out. It was a savage clash, and Stryke was to the fore. His first encounter was short and brutal. A goblin charged, trident levelled. Stryke nimbly side-stepped, batted away the trident and followed through with a second swipe, to the creature’s throat. No sooner had the goblin been floored than it was instantly replaced. Stryke and his unit stood their ground, dodging and downing the press of opponents.
The slab of rock sheltering Haskeer’s group was swarming with goblins, while others were trying to round it. Attrition was the name of the game. The goblins were bent on overrunning the orcs, and the orcs were as keen to stop them. With fighting up close and vicious, tridents proved too cumbersome, and most were discarded. The goblins switched to their serrated, snub-bladed swords and crimped daggers. But trying to scale the barrier was a challenge. The rock ran with blood, making traction difficult.
A cleaver in each hand, Haskeer swung at the encroaching goblins, cracking skulls and shattering bones. When one of the hatchets caught in the hilt-guard of a goblin’s sword it was wrenched from Haskeer’s grip. Enraged, he struck out with the remaining hatchet, scything the creature’s belly and releasing its stinking contents. Swiftly bringing up the weapon he swiped at another goblin, striking him on the side of the head with the flat of its blade. As he fell, others took his place. Haskeer’s detachment fought on.
Jup and Spurral were in the vanguard of the group stationed at the fallen tree. Compared to Haskeer’s unit their cover was minimal. But they were just as resolute. They stood behind a barrier bristling with blades and spear-tips, and clad with shields, which the frantic goblins all but threw themselves against. Dispensing with staffs, the dwarfs employed their short swords and knives, thrusting and slashing at goblin flesh.
The pummelling on the Wolverines’ shields was as relentless as a rainstorm on a field of wheat. And when one of the rangy goblins struck Spurral’s shield particularly hard it was dashed from her hands. The creature followed through with a lunge to her breast. Fortunately, Jup’s reactions were quicker. He blocked the blade; and Spurral, swooping low, buried her sword in the goblin’s guts.
The shuffling of the combatants’ feet caused her shield to be kicked away, beyond reach. A goblin tried exploiting that vulnerability, slashing his blade as he moved in on her. She could expect no further help from Jup, who had his own problems with an axe-wielding opponent. Not that she needed it. Her stocky, robust physique belied the speed and agility she was capable of, as her foe discovered. Ducking, weaving, she eluded the blade, then gave the goblin’s shin a couple of hefty kicks. It was enough of an irritant to jolt the creature, and let Spurral deliver a lethal thrust. The vengeful goblins kept coming.
At the decaying lodge, Coilla perched on a heap of collapsed timber, looking down at the raging conflict. She was picking off goblins with her cache of throwing knives, plucked from her arm holsters. Choosing her mark, she lobbed a blade and struck a creature’s head, downing him. On reflex born of experience she instantly yanked out another knife. There was no shortage of targets, and her next shot winged to a goblin’s exposed neck.
She got a bead again, and threw. But the goblin it was aimed at managed to raise his shield. The knife bounced off it and landed a few paces away. Stooping, the goblin retrieved it, and swiftly hurled it at Coilla. It was an able throw, though not quite good enough. The blade embedded itself in the lodge wall, a hand’s breadth from Coilla’s head. That enraged her. As the goblin charged her way she tugged the quivering knife free, and with a grunt of effort pitched it at him. The blade caught him in the eye. Coilla reached for her sheath. There was one knife left. She flung it at the nearest attacker. It struck the creature’s midriff, not killing but inflicting a grievous injury. Her arsenal spent, she drew her sword and jumped into the fray.
Fighting raged on, close quarter
s and bloody. The orcs took wounds, but could have suffered worse had they not had the protection of their hides. Even so, the unfavourable odds were starting to grind them down.
A cry went up from the goblins engaging Stryke’s group at the trap’s entrance; a rasping, keening outburst quite unlike the gruff roar a similar-sized mob of orcs would have made. It was a yell of triumph. Stryke and his unit had given a good account of themselves, but finally, perhaps inevitably, they buckled. The goblins had broken through. With no choice but to withdraw as they flooded out, Stryke’s crew readied themselves to continue the battle as a brawl. But the corralled goblins stampeded past them and spilled onto the beach, leaving the killing floor littered with their dead and mortally wounded.
Stryke bellowed an order, calling the other three teams to him. They jogged his way, trampling over the corpses and cutting down the injured still game for a fight.
“Let’s finish it!” Stryke yelled, pointing seaward with his sword.
They gave chase, emerging from the jungle’s rim and dashing for the beach. What they saw there stopped them.
The fleeing goblins had joined the rest of their incoming contingent, a group of almost equal size, and they were forming up to face the orcs.
“ Shit,” Coilla mouthed.
A hush fell as the two groups eyed each other.
Then a goblin pushed through the ranks and swaggered out into the separating gap. He was more finely dressed than the others, and had a long bow slung over one shoulder. It was black, elaborately embossed with tiny hieroglyphs in gold, and made from a material it was hard to identify, appearing to be neither wood nor metal. At his waist was a leather quiver holding arrows that were likewise black and marked with golden symbols.
“Who leads you?” he demanded, his voice coloured by the distinctive sibilance peculiar to his kind.
“I do,” Stryke said, stepping forward.
The goblin looked him over, a contemptuous expression on his face. “I am Gleaton-Rouk.”
“I guessed that.”
“You owe me,” the goblin grated.
“How?”
“You killed some of my brood siblings.”
“The ones using kelpies for meat, you mean.”
“Whatever they were doing wasn’t your concern.”
“We made it our concern.”
“And for that you owe a debt of blood.”
“You think you’re going to collect it?”
“Have no doubts on that score, orc. Now throw down your arms.”
The Wolverines broke into derisive laughter.
Stryke’s smile melted. “That’s something we don’t do,” he informed the goblin evenly.
“Give yourselves up or die.”
“Like fuck we will,” Haskeer said.
The goblin glared at him. He indicated his force with a sweep of his bony arm and hissed, “Consider the odds.”
Stryke coolly appraised them. “Yeah, it does seem a bit unfair on your lot.”
Gleaton-Rouk began to seethe. “So you refuse?”
“What do you think?”
“Then suffer the consequences.”
“Fine by us,” Stryke told him.
The goblin turned his back on them and headed for his line. His parting shot was “So be it! Ready yourselves for hell!”
“See you there!” Coilla piped up cheerily.
The goblin ranks parted for him and he disappeared.
“Not taking the lead himself, I see,” Jup observed.
Haskeer nodded. “All mouth and breeches.” He spat on the ground contemptuously.
The Wolverines watched as the goblins prepared for an attack. They could have fallen back to the jungle and faced them there, or stayed put and met them with a defensive formation. But their blood was up.
Stryke didn’t need to give an order. By a kind of osmosis, intent spread through the band like a contagion.
As one, they charged.
Bellowing and whooping war cries, the Wolverines thundered towards the startled goblins.
They struck their lines at speed, wrong-footing the enemy and throwing them into confusion. The orcs laid into them with savage fury, severing limbs, piercing lungs and hacking off heads. Unprepared for wrath on such a scale, dozens of goblins fell like corn before the scythe.
Coilla worked a pair of swords as she ploughed through the chaos. She stove in a ribcage to her right, crushed a skull to her left. One blade slashed a goblin throat as the other slid deep into his comrade’s belly. Weapons ranged against her were dashed aside, their wielders’ impertinence paid for with cold steel. Like the rest of the band she was driven by bloodlust, the matchless trait of her race.
The ferocity was shared by Jup and Spurral, who battled with a berserk fierceness that near equalled the orcs’. They had become separated when they penetrated the enemy line, but proved as formidable fighting singly as they had as a team. For Spurral, the goblins were so much flesh to nourish her ravening blade. Jup, brandishing a pair of daggers, followed in his mate’s wake, bringing down her leftovers. Blocked by a particularly obstinate foe, he came at the goblin low and with force, toppling the creature onto Haskeer’s waiting sword.
Typically, Haskeer had attacked with as much, if not more frenzy, than any in the band. Heaving his blade from the goblin Jup tossed his way, he swiftly reemployed it, severing another’s leg. The mass of targets kept it busy.
Stryke had made it his business to seek out Gleaton-Rouk and settle with him. But there was no sign of the goblin chieftain. And now Stryke’s attention was on his band. The shock of their charge was wearing off and the goblins were rallying. A counter-attack was beginning, pushing the Wolverines back by sheer weight of numbers, and the band was taking wounds.
To Stryke’s right, no more than a good spit away, one of the veterans, Bhose, was tussling with a trident-wielding goblin. Bhose lost. The goblin breached his defence and struck him with the trident, its razor-sharp tines passing clean through the orc’s shoulder. Bhose went down under the impact, causing his assailant to lose his grip on the lodged trident. The goblin leapt forward, stamped his bony foot on Bhose’s chest and attempted to pull the trident out. Hands clasping its shaft, face wreathed with pain, Bhose struggled to stop him.
Stryke quickly disposed of the opponent he was facing, then waded Bhose’s way. By the time he got there the goblin had wrestled his trident free and was raising it for a killing blow, while Bhose stretched a hand for his sword, lying just beyond his reach. Stryke buried his blade in the goblin’s back. Retching blood, the creature collapsed.
Bhose wasn’t the only orc to sustain a wound. For all their bravado and martial skills, the Wolverines were being too severely challenged by the recovering goblins and were close to becoming overwhelmed. Stryke judged it prudent to disengage and regroup. On his signal a couple of nearby privates took hold of the recumbent Bhose and began dragging him clear. Then Stryke yelled an order. As one, the band pulled back. All got clear, as much by luck as dexterity. Wary of some kind of ruse, the goblins didn’t pursue them.
The Wolverines arrived back at the spot they started from. They were paying the toll of combat. Some had injuries, and all of them ached from the exertion of battle. They were blood-splattered and out of breath, and Jup and Spurral ran with sweat.
Stryke quickly assessed the wounded. Supported by a pair of comrades, Bhose looked the worse. Coilla was checking his shoulder.
“How is he?” Stryke asked.
“It’s a nasty wound,” she told him, “and it’s bleeding a lot.”
“I’m fine,” Bhose protested.
“Pity Dallog’s not here to dress it,” Jup reckoned.
“Balls,” Haskeer said. “Who needs him? Anybody could staunch a wound like that.”
“Anybody but you, maybe.”
“How’d you like me to cut a piece out of you and try?”
“Shut it!” Stryke barked, jabbing a thumb at the goblins. “Save your bile for them.” He turned to t
he grunts holding up Bhose. “Get him to the rear.”
“I’m fine,” Bhose repeated weakly.
“Do as you’re told.”
They hauled him away.
The goblins were forming up for an attack.
“Brace yourselves!” Stryke warned.
The orc archers had a few arrows left, and nocked them. Everyone tensed.
There would be no charge from the Wolverines this time. That tactic was spent. It was the goblins’ turn.
Somebody on their side shouted an order. They began to advance, slowly at first, then with gathering speed.
“Steady!” Stryke yelled.
The goblins broke into a trot, then started to run.
When they covered about half the distance to the Wolverines, something strange happened.
An abnormality occurred in the space between orcs and goblins. The air itself seemed to turn heavy, and took on a ruddy, dusty glow. A film appeared, shimmering like the surface of a giant soap bubble, rippling with pulsing scarlet. It stood as a semi-transparent veil across the charging goblins’ path.
Most slowed or stopped. Some, the brave, foolhardy or crazed, kept running. Deceived by the veil’s translucence, these few dashed headlong, thinking to break through. Three or four of them struck the barrier simultaneously. It repelled them. They flew back as though flung by a giant invisible hand. And from the instant they touched the glistening wall, they ignited. Wreathed head to foot in flame, they landed heavily, to writhe and scream as they burned.
The Wolverines felt a wave of heat, and involuntarily stepped back.
Haskeer gaped. “What the-”
Coilla pointed. “ There!”
Farther down the beach a large group of elves had gathered. Mallas Sahro, their elder, was to the fore.
“They’re using their magic,” Stryke said.
“So they do have some backbone,” Haskeer muttered.
The burning goblins’ comrades were vainly trying to beat out the flames when another, stronger heat wave throbbed from the veil.
The band drew back again. They saw that the veil had emitted a sheet of fire that swept towards the milling goblins. When it reached the first of them, those tending the fallen, they too burst into flames. It didn’t stop. Continuously regenerating itself, the burning curtain kept moving at a walking pace. Ignoring the agonised screams of those on fire, the remaining goblins backed away, then quickly retreated as it herded them in the direction of the shoreline.
Inferno ob-3 Page 10
