Orcs:Bad blood

6

"They're dangerous," Coilla whispered. "Remember what they did to Haskeer. Hell, remember what they did to you."

Stryke was staring at the instrumentalities. He had them laid out on a bench in a kind of order: two spikes, four spikes, five, seven and nine. Grey, blue, green, yellow, red. He found them fascinating.

" Stryke," Coilla hissed.

"It's all right, I'm just looking. Nothing sinister's going on."

"You know what they can do, Stryke. Or at least a part of what they can do. And it's not all good."

"They're just a tool."

"Yeah?"

"Long as you don't get too involved with them."

"My point exactly."

"Why are we whispering?"

"It's them." She nodded at the stars. "When they're all together like this, they make you want to."

"I wonder what they're made of?"

"Damned if I've ever been able to figure it out."

"Wish I had a blade forged from it."

"Don't get too interested. We've got enough problems brewing in the band without you going AWOL from your senses."

"Thanks for putting it so delicately."

"I mean it, Stryke. If those things start singing at you again — "

"They won't."

"You'll be carrying them. Exposed to them, all the time. It could affect you."

"I've been thinking about that. Once we get to Maras-Dantia, would you carry one? Maybe breaking them up will dampen their influence."

"I'm flattered. You've never been keen on parting with them in the past."

"And look what happened. Will you do it? I would have asked Haskeer, but he's such a crazy bastard."

"Rather than burden the helpless female, you mean? Don't go spoiling it, Stryke."

He smiled. "I'm no human. I could never think of you as helpless."

"Course I'll do it. But what if it doesn't work? Will you share them between more of us?"

"I don't want to up the risk of any being lost. So… I don't know."

"Great. Something else for us to worry about."

"We'll face that if and when. It's near time. We should be getting ready."

They slipped into thick over-breeches and lined boots, then donned fur jerkins. Before she put hers on, Coilla laced a sheath of throwing knives to each arm.

"Seems weird doing this in a heat wave," she remarked.

"Maras-Dantia's going to be a damn sight cooler than here, that's for sure." He collected the instrumentalities and put them in his belt pouch.

They buckled on swords, daggers and hatchets.

"Don't forget your gloves," Stryke said.

"Got 'em."

"All right, let's go."

Outside, by the mouth of the cave where they first arrived in Ceragan, the band waited, sweating in their furs. Haskeer was keeping them in order, when he wasn't shooting disgusted glances at Wheam, who'd insisted on bringing his lute.

Quoll and his usual entourage were at the forefront of the crowd of spectators. Thirzarr was there too, along with the hatchlings. Stryke went to them.

Before he could speak, Thirzarr mouthed, "We've already made our goodbyes. Let's not stretch it out, for their sakes." She indicated Corb and Janch.

Stryke knelt. "I'm counting on you to look after your mother. All right?"

They nodded solemnly.

"And be good while I'm away."

"We will," Corb promised.

"Kill the witch!" Janch squeaked.

His brother bobbed in gleeful agreement and they waved their miniature cleavers about.

Stryke grinned. "We'll do our best."

He took one last look at his brood and turned away.

"Fare well," Quoll said as he passed him.

Stryke gave a faint tilt of his head, but didn't speak.

At the cave's entrance, he faced the band.

"Conditions were bad in Maras-Dantia when we were last there," he said. "They're going to be much worse now. Expect extreme hostility, and not just from the weather. This particularly applies to you new recruits, so stick by the buddy you've been assigned. As I'm assuming we'll fetch up in Illex, in the far north, we can't take horses; they couldn't handle the conditions. Be prepared for a long, hard march south." He weighed his next words carefully. "Last time, we had to face the Sluagh." He bet more than a few of the band suppressed a shudder remembering the repellent demon race. "I don't know if we'll run into them this time. But we beat 'em once, and we can do it again if we have to. Are we all set, Sergeant?"

"Ready and eager," Haskeer replied.

"If anybody's having second thoughts about this mission, this is your last chance to pull out. They'll be no dishonour in it." He stared pointedly at Wheam. No one said anything. "Any questions?"

Wheam raised a hand.

"Yes?"

"Going through this… portal thing. Will it hurt?"

"Not as much as my boot up your arse," Haskeer assured him.

Laughter eased the band's tension a little.

Stryke checked that the crowd was held well back, then nodded.

Haskeer barked an order. Brands were lit, and jerkins fastened.

A rhythmic pounding started up. The onlookers were beating their spears against their shields in a traditional farewell for orcs off to war. There was some shouted encouragement, and a few cheers.

Stryke led his band into the cave.

It was cool and echoing inside.

Coilla caught up with Wheam. "Going through's unsettling," she explained. "Just remember we're all doing it together."

He looked pale. "Thanks," he said, and walked on.

Stryke overheard. " Unsettling? "

"I couldn't say terrifying, could I? He's just a kid."

They reached the centre of the cave, and Stryke had them all gather round. He studied the amulet by the light of the brands. Next, he took out the stars and began manipulating them.

For a clammy moment, he thought he couldn't do it. There seemed no sense in the way they linked to each other. He started to fumble and grow confused.

Then four stars slotted together smoothly, in quick succession, and he could see exactly where the final one should go.

"Brace yourselves," he warned, pushing it into place.

They fell, plunging down a shaft made of light.

Sinuous, pulsating, never ending. Beyond its translucent walls was blue velvet, smothered with stars.

They dropped ever faster. The starscape melted into a blur of rushing colours.

Transient images flashed by. Fleeting glimpses of perplexing other-wheres.

There were sounds. An inexplicable, discordant, thunderous cacophony.

It lasted an eternity.

Then a black abyss swallowed them.

Stryke opened his eyes.

He felt like he'd taken a beating, and his head throbbed murderously.

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.

On top of the rock, Coilla stood shoulder to shoulder with new recruit Yunst, who was proving adept with a bow.

She pitched a knife. A human crashed headlong into the barren ground.

"Nice shot," Yunst said.

"Keeping count of yours?" she asked.

"Not really."

"I make us about even."

"Can't have that." He focused on a target and drew his bowstring taut. "Let's see if I can — "

There was a fleshy thump. Coilla was splattered with blood. An arrow had gone through Yunst's neck. He collapsed into her, a dead weight, and she went down. The impact sent her tumbling to the nearby edge. She cried out, and went over.

It was a short drop, but Coilla fell awkwardly. The jolt of landing knocked the breath out of her and jangled her senses. Lying on her side, swathed in pain, she tried to gather her wits. She was aware of fighting all around. Shuffling feet and stamping hooves. Shouting and screaming. With a groan, she rolled onto her back, then lifted her head.

Something swam into view. A shape loomed over her. She blinked and cleared her vision. A leering horseman was bearing down, his iron-tipped spear aimed at her chest. Coilla struggled to get herself clear, while groping for her blade. It was fifty-fifty whether she'd suffer the spear piercing her flesh or the rearing mount shattering her ribs.

Then someone was there, putting themselves between her and the threat. She saw that it was Haskeer. He had hold of the horse's bridle with both hands as he ducked and weaved to avoid the probing spear. Orc and beast wrestled. Several times the strength of the shying horse lifted Haskeer's feet off the ground. The thrusts of the spear came near to running him through. Finally, he lost patience.

Letting go, he jerked back his fist and gave the horse a mighty punch. The stunned animal's front legs buckled and its head went down. Yelling, and parted from his spear, the rider was unseated. As he fell, several orcs rushed forward to finish him.

Stryke appeared. He and Haskeer jerked Coilla to her feet and half dragged her to the relative safety of the orcs' line.

"Anything broken?" Stryke said.

She shook her head. "Don't think so."

"What happened up there?"

"We lost a new one. Yunst."

"Shit."

"That's what we get for using amateurs," Haskeer remarked.

"He was a good fighter," Coilla informed him sternly. "And don't hit horses, you bastard."

"No, don't bother thanking me," Haskeer came back acerbically. "I only saved your life."

"We've work to do," Stryke rebuked.

They pitched into the attackers.

The human ranks were starting to thin. But fighting was still intense. Heartened by killing Yunst, the surviving raiders stepped up their assault, and the orcs' defences were sorely tested. The otherwise silent landscape continued to echo to the rattle of steel on steel and the shrieks of the dying.

Given his shaky resolve, only luck and his comrades had kept Wheam safe. Now good fortune was put to the test. While all about Wheam were occupied, a human dashed in and laid about him with zeal. Wheam adopted his usual tactic of hiding behind his shield and letting it soak up the blows. But his assailant was determined. Wielding his broadsword two-handed, he beat the shield relentlessly, striking sparks off its misshapen surface. Then a solid swipe dislodged it from Wheam's grasp.

Wearing a look of terror, Wheam faced his foe undefended bar his sword. He gave a couple of feeble swings that barely connected with the human's blade. The volley he got back almost pummelled the weapon out of his trembling hand. A further blow snapped his sword in two. He stood transfixed and at the mercy of his opponent.

An orc careered into the human. They fought, Wheam forgotten. For a moment it looked as though the Wolverine had the better of it. But in the struggle his back was turned to the enemy. A nearby human saw his chance and buried his blade in it. As the orc went down, both men hacked at him mercilessly.

"That's Liffin!" Coilla yelled. She made to move.

" Hold fast! " Stryke barked. Then added softly, "There's nothing you can do."

The pair of humans had little time to savour their kill. From the rock's peak, the archers repaid the blood debt. The man with the broadsword took three arrows, any one of them fatal. His comrade caught two. For good measure, several Wolverines ran forward to add their wrath with steel and spears.

There was no let to the band's fury. Any humans venturing close were slashed, flayed, mauled, cut down. Soon, their numbers and their resolve ebbed away. With over half their company lying dead or mortally wounded, the raiders retreated. They rode off, back towards the plain.

The Wolverines expelled a collective breath. Yunst and Liffin's corpses were retrieved. The band took to binding their injuries and wiping their blades.

"That's a fucking good start!" Haskeer raged. "Two dead, and one of 'em Liffin!"

"We take losses," Stryke told him evenly, "it's part of the job. You know that."

"At this rate we'll all be dead before we even find Jup! Not an hour gone and this happens!"

"Anger won't bring them back," Coilla said.

Haskeer wasn't mollified. "We should never have lost 'em! Or Liffin at any rate. I don't care about the tyro, but Liffin was an old hand. And he threw his life away for… what? That… little shit!"

"He died for the band. We look out for each other, remember?"

"There's some not worth looking out for. If I had my way — "

Wheam appeared, still clutching his broken sword. "I wanted… I wanted to say I'm sorry about — "

" You cowardly bastard! " Haskeer shrieked. "I could kill you for what you just did!"

"That's enough!" Stryke cautioned.

Sheepishly, Wheam tried again. "I didn't mean — "

"Liffin was worth ten of you," Haskeer thundered, "you snivelling heap of crap!"

"Shut it, Haskeer!" Stryke ordered.

"I'll shut him!" He lunged at Wheam and slammed his palms against his chest, sending him sprawling. Then he went for a knife.

Stryke and Coilla grabbed him, pinning his arms.

" I said that's enough! " Stryke bellowed in his sergeant's ear. "I'll have no insubordination in this band!"

"All right, all right." Haskeer quit struggling and they loosened their hold. He shrugged them off.

"Any more of that and I'll break you back to private," Stryke promised. "Understand?"

Haskeer gave a grudging nod. "But this ain't over," he growled. He jabbed a finger in Wheam's direction. "Just keep that freak away from me."