Orcs (6 page)

“What ails you, Stryke?” he rumbled sullenly.

“What ails me? The
new day
ails me, scumpouch!” He jabbed a thumb skyward. “The sun climbs and we’re still here!”

“And whose fault is that?”

Stryke’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He moved closer to Haskeer, near enough to feel the sergeant’s fetid breath against his face.
“What?”
he hissed.

“You blame us. Yet you’re in charge.”

“You’d like to try changing that?”

The other Wolverines were gathering around them. At a distance.

Haskeer held Stryke’s gaze. His hand edged to his scabbard.

“Stryke!”

Coilla was elbowing the grunts aside, Alfray and Jup in tow.

“We don’t have time for this,” she said sternly.

Captain and sergeant paid her no heed.

“The Queen, Stryke,” Alfray put in. “We have to get back to Cairnbarrow. Jennesta —”

Mention of her name broke the spell. “I
know
, Alfray,” Stryke barked. He gave Haskeer a last, contemptuous look and turned away from him.

Sullenly, Haskeer backed off, directing a venomous glare at Jup by way of compensation.

Stryke addressed the warband. “We’ll not march this day, we’ll ride. Darig, Liffin, Reafdaw, Kestix: round up horses for all. Seafe, and you, Noskaa: find a couple of mules. Finje, Bhose:gather provisions. Just enough to travel light, mind. Gant, take who you need and release those gryphons. The rest of you, collect up our gear.
Now!
”

The grunts dispersed to carry out their orders.

Scanning his officers, Stryke saw that Alfray, Jup, Haskeer and Coilla looked as bleary-eyed as he probably did himself. “You’ll see they waste no time with those horses and mules, Haskeer,” he said. “You too, Jup. And I want no trouble from either of you.” He curtly jerked his head to dismiss them.

They ran off, keeping well apart.

“What do you want us to do?” Alfray asked.

“Pick one or two grunts to help divide the pellucid equally among the band. It’ll be easier to transport that way. But make it clear they’re carrying it, not being given it. And if any of ’em has other ideas, they’ll get more than their arses tanned.”

Alfray nodded and left.

Coilla lingered. “You look . . . strange,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

“No, Corporal, it isn’t.” Stryke’s words dripped venom. “If you hadn’t noticed, we should have reported to Jennesta hours since. And that might mean getting our throats cut.
Now do as you’re told!
”

She fled.

Wisps of the vision still clung to his mind as he damned the rising sun.

They left behind the ruins of the human settlement, and the trampled, deserted battlefield beneath it, and headed north-east.

An upgrade in their trail took them above the rolling plains. The liberated gryphons were spreading across the grasslands.

Riding beside Stryke at the head of the column, Coilla indicated the view and said, “Don’t you envy them?”

“What, beasts?”

“They’re freer than us.”

The remark surprised him. It was the first time she’d made any comment, even indirectly, that referred to the situation their race had been reduced to. But he resisted the temptation to agree with her. These days an orc did well not to speak too freely. Opinions had a way of reaching unintended ears.

He kept his response to a noncommittal snort.

Coilla regarded him with an expression of curiosity, and dropped the subject. They rode on in grim silence, maintaining as rapid a pace as they could over the uneven terrain.

At mid-morning they came to a winding track that led through a narrow ravine. It was deep, with tall grassy walls rising at gentle gradients, making the pass wedge-shaped. The constricted path meant the band could ride no more than two abreast. Most took it single-file. Stony and cramped, the trail slowed them to a trot.

Frustrated at the delay, Stryke cursed. “We
have
to move faster than this!”

“Using the pass gains us half a day,” Coilla reminded him, “and we’ll make up for more on the other side.”

“Every passing minute is going to sour Jennesta’s mood.”

“We’ve got what she wanted, and a cargo of pellucid as bonus. Doesn’t that stand for something?”

“With
our
mistress? I think you know the answer to that, Coilla.”

“We can say we ran into strong opposition, or had trouble finding the cylinder.”

“No matter the story we tell, we aren’t there. That’s enough.” He glanced over his shoulder. The others were far enough behind to be out of earshot. “I wouldn’t admit this to everybody,” he confided in a hushed tone, “but Haskeer was right, blast his eyes. I let this happen.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. We all —”

“
Wait!
Ahead!”

Something was coming towards them from the opposite end of the ravine.

Stryke held up a hand, halting the column. He squinted, trying to identify the low, broad shape moving their way. It was obviously a beast of burden of some sort, and it had a rider. As he watched, several more came into view beyond it.

Down the line, Jup passed the reins to a grunt and dismounted. He jogged to Stryke. “What is it, Captain?” he said.

“I’m not sure . . .” Then he recognised the animals. “
Damnation!
Kirgizil vipers!”

Though commonly referred to as such, kirgizils weren’t vipers at all. They were desert lizards, much shorter than horses but of roughly the same mass, with wide backs and stumpy, muscular legs. Albino-white and pink-eyed, they had forked tongues the length of an orc’s arm. Their dagger-sharp fangs held a lethal venom, their barbed tails were powerful enough to shatter a biped’s spine. They were stalking creatures, capable of remarkable bursts of speed.

Only one race used them as war chargers.

The lizards were near enough now to leave no doubt. Sitting astride each was a kobold. Smaller than orcs, smaller than most dwarves, they were thin to the point of emaciation, totally hairless and grey-skinned. But appearances were deceptive. Despite the gangly arms and legs, and elongated, almost delicate faces, they were obstinate, ravening fighters.

Pointed ears swept back from heads disproportionately large in relation to their bodies. The mouth was a lipless slash, filled with tiny, sharp teeth. The nose resembled a feral cat’s. The eyes were golden-orbed, glinting with spite and avarice.

Quilled leather collars wrapped their unusually extended necks. Their reed-slim wrists prickled with razor-spike bracelets. They brandished spears and wicked-looking miniature scimitars.

In the business of thievery and scavenging, kobolds had few equals in all Maras-Dantia. They had even fewer when it came to meanness of temperament.

“Ambush!”
Jup yelled.

Other voices were raised along the column. Orcs pointed upward. More kirgizil-mounted raiders were sweeping down at them from both sides of the gully. Standing in his saddle, Stryke saw kobolds pouring in to block their exit.

“Classic trap,” he snarled.

Coilla tugged free a pair of throwing knives. “And we walked right into it.”

Alfray unfurled the war banner. Horses reared, scattering loose shingle. The orcs drew their weapons and turned to face the enemy on every side.

Half befuddled from the pellucid, looted wine and rougher alcohol of the night before, the Wolverines were outnumbered with barely room to manoeuvre.

Blades flashing in the sun, the kobolds thundered in for the attack.

Stryke roared a battle cry and the warband took it up.

Then the first wave was on them.

5

Stryke didn’t wait to be attacked.

Digging his heels into the flanks of his horse, he spurred it toward the leading raider, pulling to the left, as though to pass the kobold’s charging lizard. The horse shied. Stryke kept it firmly on course, reins wrapped tightly around one hand. With the other he brought his sword up and back.

Caught out by the swiftness of the move, the rider tried to duck. Too late.

Stryke’s blade cleaved the air. The kobold’s head leapt from its shoulders, flew to the side and hit the trail bouncing. Sitting upright, a fountain of blood gushing from its stump, the corpse was carried past by the uncontrolled kirgizil. It ran on into the mêlée at Stryke’s rear.

He laid into his next opponent.

Coilla lobbed a knife at the raider nearest to her. It buried itself in the kobold’s cheek. The creature plunged screaming from its mount.

She singled out another target and threw again, underarm this time, as hard as she could. Her mark instinctively pulled back sharply on its reins, bringing up the viper’s head. Her missile struck it squarely in the eye. Roaring with pain, the animal’s body pitched to one side, crushing its rider. Both writhed in thrashing agony.

Coilla steadied her horse and reached for more knives.

On foot when the attackers swept in, Jup had armed himself with an axe and was swinging it two-handed. A kobold, unsaddled by a glancing blow from a Wolverine sword, lurched into range. Jup split its skull. Then a mounted attacker side-swiped the dwarf. He spun and chopped deep into the rider’s twig-thin leg, completely severing it.

All around, orcs were engaged in bloody exchanges. About a third of them had been de-horsed. Several of the archers had managed to notch their bows and wing bolts at the raiders. But the fight was already too close-quartered to make this feasible for much longer.

Haskeer found himself boxed in. One opponent hacked at him from the trail side. The other delivered slashing downward blows from the gully’s slope, its dextrous kirgizil gripping the treacherous incline with ease. Fearful of the lizards, Haskeer’s panicking horse bucked and whinnied. He lashed out to the right, to the left and back again.

An orc arrow smacked into the chest of the kobold on the slope, knocking it clean off the viper’s back. Haskeer turned full attention to the opponent on his other side. Their blades clashed, returned, clashed once more.

A pass sliced across Haskeer’s chin. It wasn’t a serious wound, though the steel was keen, but it caught him off balance and he fell from the horse. His sword was lost. As he rolled from pounding hooves and swishing reptilian tails, a spear was hurled at him. It narrowly missed. He struggled to his feet and wrenched it from the ground.

The kobold that had unseated him came in for the kill. Haskeer had no time to straighten the spear. He brought it up to fend off the creature’s arcing sword. It sliced the shaft in two, showering slivers of wood. Discarding the shorter end, Haskeer swung the remainder like an elongated club, swiping the kobold full in the face. The impact sent it crashing to the ground.

Haskeer rushed in and began viciously booting the creature’s head. For good measure he jumped on its chest, pounding up and down with all his might, knees bent, fists clenched. The kobold’s ribcage snapped and crunched. Blood disgorged from its mouth and nose.

Alfray fought for possession of the Wolverines’ banner. A kobold, standing in its stirrups, had hold of the pole. Grimly, Alfray maintained an iron grasp, his knuckles whitening as the rod went back and forth in a bizarre tug-of-war. For such an insubstantial-looking creature, the kobold was tenacious. Avaricious eyes narrowed, spiky teeth bared, it hissed horribly.

It was close to gaining its prize when Alfray delivered an orc’s kiss.

Throwing himself forward, he head-butted the kobold solidly in its bony forehead. The creature flew backwards, letting go of the pole as though it were a hot poker. Alfray quickly levelled the shaft and rammed the sharpened end into his assailant’s abdomen.

He turned, ready to inflict the same fate on any enemy near enough. What he saw was a Wolverine grunt trading blows with a raider and getting the worst of it. Exploiting an opening, the kobold lunged in, its scimitar swiftly carving a scathing X on the orc’s chest. The trooper went down.

Urging on his horse, Alfray galloped full pelt at the kobold, holding the banner pole like a lance. It penetrated the creature’s midriff and exited its back with an explosion of gore.

Working his way up the trail, Stryke was heading for his fourth or fifth opponent. He wasn’t sure which. He rarely kept count. Two or three kills earlier he’d abandoned the reins, preferring his hands free for combat. Now he held on to and guided the horse solely by applying pressure with his thighs. It was an old orc trick he was adept at.

The kobold he was fast approaching held a large, ornate shield, the first he had seen any of them carrying. That probably made this particular individual a chieftain. Of more concern to Stryke was how the shield might hinder him in killing its owner. He decided to adopt a different strategy.

Just before drawing level with the striding reptile, he grabbed a handful of his horse’s mane and jerked it, slowing their pace. Now parallel with the kirgizil, he stretched down and snatched the harness encasing its huffing snout. Careful to avoid the animal’s snaking tongue, he heaved the yoke upwards, muscles straining. Half strangulated, the kirgizil lashed and struggled, its taloned feet pawing the ground. It twisted its head, snorting for breath.

Stryke pummelled his heels into his horse’s sides, driving it on. The steed was labouring to move, bearing as it was both Stryke’s weight and the mass of the viper. Unable to control its mount, the kobold rider leaned from the saddle, impotently swiping at Stryke with its blade.

Finally, its neck bent to an untenable angle, the kirgizil tilted to one side. The kobold let out a dismayed yelp and slid from its back, parting company with the shield. Stryke let go of the lizard’s harness. Ignoring the beast as it fought to right itself, he wheeled round the horse to face the fallen kobold. A sharp tug on the mane made the steed rear.

The kobold was on its knees when the hooves came down and stove in its skull.

Stryke looked back. He caught a glimpse of Coilla. She’d lost her mount and was in the thick of the ferocious scrum. Several bandits, parted from their chargers, were moving in on her.

She couldn’t hold them off with knife-throws any longer; it was down to close combat. Using her knives as daggers, she stabbed and slashed, spinning and dodging to avoid thrusts from spears and swords.