Orcs: Bad Blood (8 page)

Getting to his knees, it took him a moment to focus on his surroundings. But he didn’t see what he expected.

There was no snow or ice, though it was cold. The grim landscape seemed gripped by deepest winter. Trees were leafless. The
grass was brown and patchy, and much of the foliage wasn’t just dormant, but dead. Black clouds dominated the sky. It was
in total contrast to the balmy climate they’d just left.

He climbed to his feet.

The rest of the band was scattered around him. Some were on the ground, still dazed, and several were groaning. Others, recovering
more quickly, were already standing.

“Everybody all right?” he called.

“Most of us,” Haskeer said. He scornfully jerked a thumb at Wheam, who was being sick against a rock, with Dallog in attendance.

Coilla and Haskeer went to Stryke. They looked shaken after the transference, but rode it well.

“This isn’t Illex,” Haskeer pronounced.

“You don’t say,” Stryke told him.

“But it
is
Maras-Dantia,” Coilla said. “I recognise some of the landmarks. I reckon we’re near the lip of the Great Plains, not far
from Bevis.”

“You could be right,” Stryke agreed. “Looks like the stars don’t put us down in exactly the same place each time.” He realised
he was still clutching them, and began dismantling.

“At least it cuts the amount of marching we’ll have to do.”

“And with any luck we won’t have to go to Illex next time we use them.” He was stuffing the instrumentalities into his belt
pouch. “But I’m sorry we didn’t bring those horses.”

“It’s not morning here,” Haskeer decided.

Coilla sighed. “You’re an expert in stating the obvious now, are you?”

It looked to be late afternoon, going on early evening.

“And the season’s wrong,” Haskeer added.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Stryke said. “This could be what passes for summer in Maras-Dantia these days.”

Coilla stared at the terrain. “Things have got that bad?”

“It was heading that way when we left, so why not?”

Haskeer frowned. “What’ll we do? Camp ’til first light?”

“I say march on,” Coilla suggested. “I mean, we only got up about two hours ago. It’s not as though we need the rest.”

Stryke nodded. “Makes sense. If we are where you think, Coilla, we need to bear south-west. It’s still a hell of a march to
Quatt, but not near as far as we reckoned on.”

“Maybe we can rustle up some transport on the way.”

“I’m counting on it. All right, let’s get ’em organised. Haskeer, see how the new intake are faring; Coilla, secure the area.
Get some lookouts posted.”

Coilla went to pick sentries. Haskeer walked over to Dallog and Wheam.

The band’s banner thrust into the ground beside him, the aged corporal was offering the young recruit a drink from his canteen.
Wheam took it with trembling hands.

“Why the idling?” Haskeer snapped.

“He was shaken by the crossing,” Dallog explained.

“He can speak for himself.” Haskeer turned his glare on Wheam. “
Well?
”

The youth flinched. “Going through that… thing… really… unsettled me.”

“Oh, what a shame. Would you like your daddy?”

“You don’t have to be so —”

“
This is no fucking picnic! We’re in the field now! Get a grip!
”

“Go easy, Haskeer,” Dallog advised.

“The day I need
your
advice,” Haskeer thundered, “is the day they can take me out and cut my throat. And it’s
Sergeant
to you.
Both
of you.”

“I’m only doing my job, Sergeant.”

“You’re nurse-maiding him.”

“Just cutting the boy some slack. He doesn’t know the ropes.”

“You and him both. You’ve never been on a mission, and you don’t know this band.”

“Maybe not. But I know orcs, Sergeant, and I know how to mend ’em.”

“Only been one Wolverine could do that, and you ain’t him.”

“I’m sure Alfray was a —”

“You’re not fit to use his name, Dallog. Nobody matches Alfray.”

“Pity you were so careless with him then.”

Haskeer’s face darkened dangerously. “What’d you say?”

“Things change. Live with it. Sergeant.”

Wheam gaped at them.

“Being old don’t excuse you from a beating,” Haskeer growled, making fists.

“Whenever you want to try. But maybe this isn’t a good time.”

“Now you’re telling me what’s what?”

“I meant we shouldn’t brawl in front of the band.”

“Why not?” Haskeer said, moving in on him. “Let ’em see me knock some respect into you.”

Somebody was shouting. Others took it up.

“Er, Sergeant…” Wheam pointed.

Haskeer stopped and turned.

A group of riders could be seen, moving their way across the sward. It was hard to gauge their number.

“We’ll settle this later,” he promised Dallog.

“What’s happening, Sergeant?” Wheam asked. “Who are they?”

“I doubt they’re a welcome party. Be ready to account for yourselves. And try not to shame the band by dying badly.” He left
Wheam looking terrified.

By the time Haskeer reached Stryke and Coilla, the approaching riders were recognisable.

“Oh, good,” Haskeer muttered. “My favourite race.”

“What do you think,” Coilla said, “around sixty?”

“More or less,” Stryke replied. “And they look ragtag; no uniforms.”

Dallog arrived, exchanging glowers with Haskeer as he passed. “What
are
they, Captain?”

“Humans.”

“They’re… freakish.”

“Yeah, not too pretty, are they?”

“And they’re getting closer,” Coilla reminded them.

“Right,” Stryke said. “We assume they’re hostile.” He addressed Haskeer and Dallog. “Get the band into a defensive formation
at that table rock over there. And keep an eye on the new recruits.
Move!
”

They rushed off, barking orders.

“What about me?” Coilla asked.

“How many good archers we got?”

“Five or six, counting a couple of the tyros.”

“And you. Get yourselves on top of the rock.
Go!
”

The rocky outcropping Stryke had indicated was a slab the size of a cabin. It jutted out of the ground at an angle. But its
highest point, tall as a tree, was flat.

Band members were drawing blades and discarding their heavy furs, the better to fight.

Coilla steered her archers to the rock and they scrambled up. Stryke joined the rest of the Wolverines under the tapering
overhang at its base.

The humans were galloping in at speed, and a clamour rose from them. Stryke was sure he heard them chanting the word
monsters
.

He slapped the rock above his head. “We’ve got a good natural defence here,” he told the band, “as long as we don’t break
ranks.” The veterans knew that well enough; he was thinking of the recruits. “Let’s see those shields!”

The old hands deployed theirs expertly, slipping the shields from backs to chests in a single, deft movement. The newbies
fumbled. No more so than Wheam, who got himself in a tangle trying to swap his shield for his beloved lute.

“Like
this
,” Stryke instructed, extricating the youth. “And hold your sword
that
way.”

Wheam nodded, grinning dourly and looking bemused. Stryke sighed.

A greater racket went up from the riders.

They charged.

Coilla’s unit had arrows nocked and were stretching their bowstrings. Some preferred kneeling. She stood.

The leading humans were no more than a spear throw away, horses white-flecked and huffing vapour.

“
Hold fast!
” Haskeer bellowed.

Coilla waited until the last possible moment before yelling, “
Fire!
”

Half a dozen bolts winged towards the charging attackers. One of the leading riders took a hit to his chest. Unhorsed by the
impact, he tumbled into the path of those following, bringing several down.

A handful of the humans had bows, and returned fire. But shooting from the saddle meant most of their shafts were wide.

The orcs’ next volley found three targets. Arrows struck the thigh of one man and the shoulder of another. The third grazed
a rider’s temple. He fell, to be trampled.

Coilla’s team kept on firing.

Within spitting distance of the rock the humans slowed and their charge turned into a confused milling. Shouts were exchanged,
then they broke into two groups. The largest turned and began galloping around the outcrop, hoping for a breach. The rest
advanced on the orcs at ground level.

Some of Stryke’s cluster carried slingshots. As the humans approached, they deployed them. The salvo of hard shot cracked
a couple of skulls and fractured an arm or two. But there was no time for more than a few lobs before the raiders were at
their line.

Their horses gave them the advantage of height, and flailing hooves could prove deadly. The snag was reach. To engage the
orcs they had to lean and hack, making themselves vulnerable.

All was churning mounts and slashing blades at the base of the rock. Blows rained on the orcs’ raised shields. They struck
back, and fought to bring down the riders. A dagger to the calves was sufficient in some cases. In others, concerted efforts
were needed to drag horsemen from their saddles. A grinding melee ensued.

Around a dozen raiders dismounted of their own accord, the better to engage in close quarters fighting.

One human singled out Stryke for particular attention. He was burly and battle-scarred, with an overlong, disorderly beard.
Like his fellows, he wore mismatched, raggedy clothes. And he swung a double-headed axe.

Stryke dodged and felt the displaced air as the weapon skimmed past. Before it reached the end of its arc, he lunged, slashing
with his blade. The human moved fast, pulling back in time to avoid contact. Then he attacked again, unleashing another murderous
swing. Stryke dropped and kept his head.

The man fell to hammering at Stryke’s shield, looking to dislodge it. Stryke weathered the battering, and at the first let
sent back a series of blistering swipes. He failed to penetrate the human’s guard. But it seemed that, for all his heftiness,
his opponent was starting to slow under the effort of handling the axe. Stryke wasn’t about to break the formation, regardless
of that. He forced the man to come to him.

The human rushed in again, spitting fury. Another pass whistled by Stryke’s skull, too close for comfort. Stryke powered forward,
using his shield as a ram. There was a tussle, orc and human straining with all their strength against each other. At its
height, Stryke sidestepped, wrenching the shield out of play. His balance spoilt, the man stumbled forward, losing his grip
on the axe. It dangled on a thong at his wrist, and he scrabbled to bring it into play. Stryke was quicker. With a savage
downward sweep, he lopped off the human’s hand. The man howled, his wound pumping crimson, the axe in the dirt.

Stryke stilled his pain with a thrust to the heart.

As the axeman fell, a confederate barged in to take his place. Scowling, broken-toothed, he took on Stryke with knife and
sword. Their pealing blades added to the melody of clashing steel.

The orcs’ line still held. But the fights boiling at the base of the rock were making it indistinct.

Up above, Coilla’s archers continued to take their shots where they could. Though as the struggle became fiercer, and friends
and enemies began to mingle, their task was harder. Coilla judged the attackers to be as undisciplined and ill-assorted as
the way they dressed. Not that it made them any less determined, and there was an unpredictability in disorder that could
be more dangerous than facing a well-organised force.

Coilla switched to throwing-knives, which she felt she used with more expertise than a bow and were more precise in chaotic
situations. Taking in the scene, she spotted two likely marks. Mounted on a white mare, a wild eyed, mop-haired human was
laying about an orc with a broadsword. She got a bead on him and hurled a knife with force. It buried itself in his windpipe.
He flew backwards, arms spread wide, and met the ground. As a bonus, his horse panicked and kicked out with its rear legs,
downing a man on foot.

Her second target was also on foot. Bald and beardless, he was built like a stone slab privy. As Coilla watched, he broke
into a run at the defensive line, a javelin outstretched. She drew back her arm and flung hard. Her aim was true, but the
human made an unexpected move, swerving to avoid a fallen comrade. The blade pierced his side, near the waist, proving painful
but not fatal. He bellowed, nearly tripping, and went to pull out the knife. She swiftly plucked another and threw again.

This time she put it where she first intended, in his chest.

Stryke wrenched his sword from a human’s innards and let him drop. He glanced around. Bodies littered the ground, slowing
the raiders’ advance, but there were still plenty to deal with.

Further along the line, Wheam cringed under the onslaught of a human with a mace. The metal ball’s continuous pounding was
distorting the shape of his shield. Wheam simply clung on, white knuckled, making no attempt to hit back. It was left to the
veterans on either side to lash out and deal with his tormentor.

Nearby, Dallog was giving a much better account of himself. The band’s standard jutting from the ground behind him, he made
good use of his sword and dagger. Slashing the face of an attacker, the ageing corporal followed through with a thrust to
the man’s guts.

Hollering at full volume, a human with a spear hurtled towards Stryke. Leaping aside, Stryke grabbed the shaft. There was
a forceful, snarling battle for possession. Stryke broke the deadlock with a brutal head-butt. His adversary was knocked senseless,
releasing his hold. Flipping the spear, Stryke drove it through the man’s torso.

Beyond the siege at the outcrop’s base, riders were still circling. Every so often, one of them loosed an arrow at Coilla’s
archers. None caused harm. But it was only a matter of time before somebody got lucky.