Inferno

7

There was something close to panic on the elves’ island. But the populace wasn’t disappearing into the jungle; they were running down the beach towards their boats.

“What’s happening?” Stryke said as they streamed past.

“We must meet them with the tribute!” Mallas Sahro replied.

“Or what?”

The Elder seemed not to understand. “I thought I made that clear.”

“This Gleaton-Rouk’s going to cut up rough.”

“To say the least!” The elf was agitated. “He’ll ruin our crops, burn our homes, put us to the sword!”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s threatened to, right?”

“Yes. And he’s punished us in the past. Several of my clan have been killed by him.”

“That’s tough, but it’s a just few. He hasn’t killed you all or burnt you out.”

“No, because we pay the tribute!”

“And if you didn’t, or offered less, what would he do?”

Mallas Sahro was at a loss for an answer. “As I said, he would kill us and…”

“Wrong,” Stryke said. “If you were wiped out he’d have no tribute, no silver. Why should he do that? Can’t you see what’s going on here? He kills a few to keep you in line. The rest’s bluster.”

The Elder threw up his hands. “But what else can we do?”

“Ever thought of defying him?”

“We’re not warriors!”

“We are.”

“This ain’t our affair, Stryke,” Haskeer said.

“I reckon it could be. Remember what Spurral here said earlier, about them maybe being out for revenge on account of what we did to those goblin slavers. More I think about it, the more sense it makes.”

“I thought you wanted to waste no more time.”

“My hunch is we won’t have the choice. And you were right, Coilla, about leading them to where we’re going. We don’t want that.”

Haskeer snorted, “Oh come on, Stryke.”

“You’re not up for a fight, Haskeer? You? ”

“Well…”

“Please,” Mallas Sahro implored, “I must go!”

Stryke grabbed his arm. “You could put a stop to this now.”

“It’s easy for you to say. We have to live here.”

“Living in fear isn’t living.”

“And we’re not keen on tyrants,” Coilla added, warming to the prospect.

“You’re asking me to put my folk at risk,” the elf protested.

“I’m asking you to free them. With our help.”

“Those ships are moving at a hell of a lick,” Spurral observed.

They were much nearer than they should have been since the band last looked. Their black sails billowed fit to split.

“It’s magic,” the Elder said. “I told you he commanded powerful sorcery. Even the wind obeys him.”

“Don’t you elves have magic too?” Coilla asked.

“Yes, but on a different scale. Ours is healing, benign, protective.”

“So use it to defend your clan and leave the fighting to us.”

“I don’t know…” His eyes were darting to the shoreline. Most of the elves were with their boats now, obviously anxious, waiting for his order to set off.

“Does Gleaton-Rouk normally come in three ships?” Stryke wondered.

“What?” The Elder dragged his gaze back to him. “Oh. Er, no. Usually just one. We thought yesterday was an exception, when we saw the female of your kind. Then today, when you-”

“Right. I’ve a hunch they’ve come in force because of us.”

“You?”

“They feel they owe us a debt. Of blood. Well, you going to make a stand?”

“You can’t fight him. He has exceptional skills.”

Stryke slapped his sheathed sword. “So do we.”

“I’m sorry. I appreciate what you’re saying, but I can’t take the risk. I have to think of my clan.” Head low, as though in shame, he hurried off accompanied by his keepers.

“You gave it your best shot,” Haskeer said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I meant it when I said we’ve no choice. You think they’re just going to let us sail away?”

“Not to mention that we can’t leave these elves at the goblins’ mercy,” Coilla added.

“What’s more important to you, Stryke,” Haskeer rumbled, “these elves or Thirzarr?”

“I’d knock you down for that if I didn’t know you said it because you’re an idiot. I figure it was Thirzarr the elves saw yesterday. If Jennesta’s kept her alive this long there’s a chance she’ll survive longer. But before we can find out we have to get through this.”

Haskeer had nothing else to say.

They watched as the Elder’s boat went out, surrounded by his clan’s many canoes. The trio of goblin ships was near enough that figures could be seen on their decks.

“So what do we do?” Jup said.

“If I’m wrong,” Stryke told him, “the tribute gets handed over and the goblins leave. If I’m right, then we do what we’re best at.”

They looked on as the goblin ships drew nearer and the elves’ boats headed for them. Then things took an unexpected turn. Manoeuvring nimbly, despite the narrowness of the channel, one of the ships changed course.

“Should they be doing that?” Spurral said.

“What the hell-” Jup exclaimed.

Without slowing, the two ships carried on towards the elves’ motley fleet.

“This doesn’t look good,” Coilla said.

The ships ploughed through the swarm of elves’ boats. Many were swamped, overturned or shattered. Elves jumped from boats to avoid the oncoming prows. Soon the water was peppered with bobbing heads, wreckage and the debris of tribute. There were shouts and screams from the swimming elves.

Emerging from the chaos, the ships began coming round, to close in on the shore.

“Looks like they’re not in the mood for trinkets today,” Jup said.

“It’s us they want,” Stryke told him. “ Weapons!”

The band filled their hands.

“Hey!” Coilla yelled, pointing. “There!”

They hadn’t been paying attention to the third goblin vessel. It was making straight for the orcs’ anchored ship.

Those on board had been watching. They saw the pair of goblin ships sail into the elves’ boats, sinking or upsetting scores of them, and leaving a trail of wreckage. Now the third ship was coming their way.

Pepperdyne glanced at his companions. Dallog, Wheam, Pirrak, Keick and Chuss; none of them veterans and one nursing a wound. And Standeven, who could be relied on to be useless or worse. So six defenders. He looked to the approaching ship. There were perhaps four times that number of goblins visible on its deck.

As Pepperdyne wasn’t a member of the band, and the band operated on military principles, he had no authority. Dallog’s rank put him in charge. Pepperdyne had his doubts about the wisdom of that, but rather than waste time arguing he opted for conciliatory.

“How do we handle this, Corporal?” he asked.

“The fewer who get aboard the better.”

“That’s what I figured. How many archers we got?”

“Good ones? That’d be Keick and Chuss. But Chuss-”

“Yeah, right.” He glanced at the tyro. Chuss’ wound meant his arm was bound and in a sling.

“I’m not too bad with a bow,” Dallog added. “You?”

“I’m a blade man. But I can use a spear.”

“So me and Keick as archers, Wheam, Pirrak and you with spears. Chuss’ll have to do what he can. Luckily it’s not his sword arm.”

The goblin ship was coming alongside; no mean feat in so narrow a channel.

“Unless you’re going to fight,” Pepperdyne told Standeven sarcastically, “you’d better hide yourself.”

Standeven nodded, and avoiding the others’ eyes, scampered for the hold.

“Here they come!” Dallog shouted.

The goblin ship glided in, its rail no more than a hand’s span from the orcs’. A splash sounded as its anchor went down. Goblins were rushing forward with grappling hooks to secure their charge on the Wolverines’ ship.

Dallog and Keick loosed arrows. One caught a goblin in the chest, the second found another’s windpipe. They kept firing as Pepperdyne, Pirrak and Wheam used their spears to impede the boarding, while Chuss slashed at groping hands and jutting heads.

The first, modest wave of would-be boarders lying dead or wounded, a second dashed to the rail. Mindful of the first wave’s fate, most of them carried shields. Now hits were rarer as orc arrows clattered against the shields and spears were deflected. The battle at the rail turned into a slog, and Pepperdyne discarded the spear in favour of his sword and knife. No goblin had set foot on the orcs’ ship, but the battle to keep them off was steadily being lost.

The orc archers carried on firing and managed to drop a couple more of the enemy despite their shields. Then an arrow came at them. Not from the mob trying to get aboard but from above. The bolt penetrated the deck close enough to Dallog that its flights brushed his leg. They looked up. A goblin was high in the rigging of the attacking ship, armed with a bow and aiming again. They scattered as his second arrow pierced the deck.

Keick nocked a shaft and sent it up at the sniper. It missed. The arrow carried on and curved in a great arc to disappear over the other side of the goblins’ craft. The goblin in the rigging returned fire, and would have struck Keick if Dallog hadn’t barged him aside, narrowly avoiding being hit himself. Dallog swiftly took his turn at the goblin archer. His effort was a much wider miss than Keick’s, who by then had his own bow drawn. Holding down the urge to let loose immediately, he took time getting his eye in. When he fired, his arrow sped true. It impacted in the goblin’s midriff. He hung on grimly but briefly before plunging to his ship’s deck with a shrill cry, landing on two of his comrades.

The distraction had taken Dallog and Keick’s eyes away from the rail. Now they saw that it was a scrum, with several goblins aboard and more about to follow. They dropped the bows, drew their blades and ran to join the fight.

Because there were so few defenders to repel boarders they were well spaced out along the rail. Which meant Wheam was a good twenty paces from Pirrak, the next in line, and could expect no aid. He thought he needed it. Still clutching his spear, he was pointing it at an advancing goblin. The goblin was armed with an ornate double-headed iron axe and a boiling fury.

The tyro had the benefit of reach, but the goblin had the skill and confidence of a seasoned fighter. As he had been taught, Wheam used his spear to make it as hard as possible for his opponent to properly deploy his weapon. The goblin, his anger stoked by Wheam’s determination to keep him at bay, tried to dislodge the spear with wild swings. When they connected, Wheam could feel the transmitted impact in his sweating hands, and struggled to hold on.

The goblin was dealing blows with the axe’s flat, the better to knock the spear aside. Now he deftly flipped the axe, lurched to one side and swiped downwards. The spear was sliced in two, leaving Wheam clutching about a third of the broken shaft. Certain of a kill, the goblin advanced, still swinging. Wheam backed-off fast, lost his footing, stumbled and fell. Then the goblin was standing over him, a grimace of triumph on his face, the axe raised for a death blow.

Wheam still had the broken shaft in his hand. In desperation, bellowing with the effort, he thrust it upwards with all his strength. The shaft, unevenly severed so its head was like a stake, plunged deep into the goblin’s belly. Crying out in shock and pain, he staggered rearward, the axe slipping from his horny fingers. Then he fell and lay writhing, his hands on the protruding shaft. Wheam scrambled to his feet, fumbled his sword from its sheath and buried it in the creature’s chest.

He turned away. He was panting for breath and shaking. But he had never felt so good. More goblins were climbing over the rail. Wheam brought up his sword and prepared to meet them.

For Pirrak, the situation Wheam had faced was reversed. Many of the goblins now getting aboard carried their traditional weapon: a spear-length metal trident, its forks sharpened to a wicked keenness. Armed now with a sword, Pirrak was at a disadvantage, and he didn’t dare try to retrieve his spear. So he took to dodging, stooping and sending in low blows. One such pass had him hacking into a goblin’s sinewy leg, liberating a gush of dark, almost black blood. Wailing, his victim fell away, to be replaced by another trident-bearing goblin.

They circled, Pirrak turning away the trident’s thrusts with his blade. The goblin lunged, driving the trident forward, and only Pirrak’s nimble footwork saved him. He managed to hit the trident’s metal shank a couple of times, but his blade merely raised a melodious din. Pirrak knew that at any instant he could be set upon by further opponents, but he couldn’t overcome the goblin’s defence or experience. He opted for a charge, dashing parallel to his foe, slashing as he went. The best he could do was catch the other’s shoulder, opening a gratifying but superficial wound. That only outraged the goblin, who renewed his efforts to impale Pirrak.

The duel continued for what felt like an age to Pirrak. He was beginning to believe that he would be the first to weaken, or make a wrong move from inexperience. Feigning, thrusting, stabbing and swiping at each other, they moved through a bizarre lethal dance.

Suddenly it was over. In a brief hiatus at his front, Dallog looked for Pirrak. What he saw had him reaching for a hatchet. The goblin was closing in on Pirrak again when the hatchet struck the creature between the shoulder-blades. He spun and fell. Tyro and corporal exchanged a look, then both returned to fighting.

Dallog and Keick had entered the fray together and stayed that way. Their work was a grind of hacking and chopping, ducking and twisting. Keick slashed his blade across a goblin’s face, forcing him back. Knocking a shield clear, Dallog plunged his sword into an opponent’s trunk, crunching through its hard, almost insect-like carapace.

A sword and knife combination was Pepperdyne’s choice. He could use them with a surgeon’s skill or apply brute force as necessary. Facing a charging goblin, he employed both. Leaping aside at the last moment, he spun and brought his blade down on the goblin’s outstretched arm. The amputated limb dropped still holding its trident. Howling, the wounded goblin fell away. Pepperdyne flicked his pair of blades into the deck and scooped up the trident. He hurled it at a goblin just climbing over the rail. The trident caught him square, propelling him backwards and out of sight. Pepperdyne plucked his quivering sword and knife from the deck, and looked for the next target.

For his part, Chuss made himself useful by finishing off the wounded left by the others. He had a hairy moment when one of the injured goblins seized his ankle in an iron grip. But the creature was dying, and a blow from Chuss’ sword completed the job.

Shortly, the flow of boarders thinned and stopped. On the goblins’ ship the remaining uninjured attackers withdrew and scrambled over the far rail. Presumably to wade ashore and join the fight there.

The defenders stood in silence, breathing hard, bloodstained, muscles aching.

“Is that it?” Wheam panted.

“Think so,” Pepperdyne replied.

“Could be more hiding over there,” Dallog said, pointing at the other ship with a gory blade.

“We’ll check. But I think we got the better of them. I reckon they underestimated us and didn’t want to spare many from the main assault on the beach.”

Dallog nodded. “Likely.”

Pepperdyne looked at the tyros. “I have to say your charges gave a good account of themselves.” He touched the hilt of his upright sword to his chest, saluting them.

They looked bashful. Youngsters again.

“They’re orcs,” Dallog replied. “They come alive in blood.”

“I should make sure Standeven’s all right,” Pepperdyne said. “Though why I bother…”

He went to one of his former master’s favourite hideaways; a storage locker under the bridge. Wrenching the door open, he found him curled up inside.

“Have they gone?” Standeven asked tremulously.

“Yes, you’re safe.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” he came back with faux indignation.

“No? Then who?”

“Not who, what. Do you think Stryke’s keeping the instrumentalities safe? I mean, with all this fighting going on-”

Pepperdyne slammed the door on him and rejoined the others.

“I wonder how things are going on the island,” Dallog said.

“Should we join them?” Keick wondered.

“I don’t think Stryke would be very pleased if we abandoned our post,” Pepperdyne replied.

“He’s right,” Dallog added. “We should stay put. They’re on their own.”