Tales of the Old World (22 page)

Most of the goblins were dead or fleeing into the welcoming darkness of the
forest, and no few orcs too. Nevertheless, Ansgar could see that the surprise
attack would peter out unless they could break the main orc horde. Suddenly his
attention was drawn to Steel-eye. Screaming in anger, the youth leapt over the
heads of his attackers to come crashing down in the middle of their impromptu
shield-wall. Ansgar lost sight of him behind a wall of green bodies and flailing
swords.

Concerned for his lord, Ansgar shouted for his trusted veterans to follow
him. He set off through the throng, hacking his way towards the youth. Ansgar’s
worry was short-lived. The muscled young man burst into view, rearing up from a
tangle of corpses to hack at the exposed backs of his would-be attackers.
Breaking in panic, the orcs tried to run, only to be cut down as Ansgar and
Eginolf led their seasoned fighters to support their leader. There was an open
route to the captives now, and Ansgar directed some of the men to act as a
rearguard while the rest followed Steel-eye as he hurried towards the dwarf
prisoners.

Kurgan couldn’t help but be awed by the fighting prowess of the young human,
obviously their leader from the way the savages clustered around him. Even as
the dwarf king watched, the youngster effortlessly dodged a clumsy spear thrust,
before stunning his attacker with the pommel of his sword. Ducking beneath a
wild axe swing to slash the hamstrings of another greenskin, the youth stabbed
upwards with his knife, showering himself in a fountain of orc blood. Kurgan
almost felt like a spectator at some macabre dance, watching carefully
choreographed moves executed with grim precision. The young man was constantly
moving, weaving between the blows of his adversaries while his own weapons bit
deep with every strike. A powerful kick to the spine sent a black orc crumpling
to the ground, while the lad headbutted another adversary, snapping the orc’s
spiked helmet back with a jarring crack.

Kurgan noted that the other humans weren’t faring badly either. A few had
fallen, but nowhere near as many as the orcs. The lithe huntsmen darted through
the throng in pairs and trios, singling out a foe to gang up on. After
dispatching one individual they would find another, and so on, moving through
the orc camp with ruthless efficiency. For all their primal savagery, the humans
were brave fighters.

Kurgan heard Thorin spit a curse and he turned to see his nephew glaring
angrily at the approaching humans.

“What’s wrong, lad?”

“Those damned pinkskin humans. They’re fighting over us with the orcs. I
don’t know which of them is worse. With orcs you know they’re a bunch of
cut-throat scum, but these humans are all falsehoods and backstabbing. They’ve
probably come to cart us off to whatever foul pit they call a home. And they’ll
take the treasure too, I’ll warrant.”

“Mayhap, lad. Whatever their reasons, as long as they’re killing greenskins
I’ve no quarrel with them. I’ll give them their dues, they know how to swing a
sword when the going gets tough. Quit bellyaching and try to get free!”

Kurgan turned his attention back to the battle. Some of the humans had broken
through the orc line and their leader now led a small group of their oldest
warriors towards the dwarf king. Seeing their painted faces, foam-flecked lips
and wild, bloodthirsty eyes, Kurgan was unsure he wanted to be the object of
their attentions. Still, these stupid humans might unwittingly provide him and
the others with some chance of getting away. Without a word, one of the youngest
warriors ran behind the posts and Kurgan winced as he anticipated a dagger
thrust to his kidneys.

It never came. Instead, Kurgan felt the rasping of a knife against his ropes.
They were wound loosely around the pole itself, looped many times over and the
lad was having difficulty cutting through them as they slipped and slithered up
and down the rain-slicked pole. Kurgan exerted all his strength in one last
mighty effort. With a snap the ropes parted and he pitched forward into the mud.
In another few moments his legs were free and he looked up to see how the battle
was progressing.

A quick glance showed Kurgan all he needed to know. Despite the casualties
inflicted on the orcs, things still looked grim. Skill and speed was one thing,
but in this battle raw muscles and numbers counted for more and the pressure was
beginning to tell on the men. Almost half the humans had fallen; now only the
toughest and most skilful fighters remained. Hoarse war cries were drowned out
by the clash of metal on metal and the screams of the wounded and dying. Foot by
foot, the humans were being pushed back.

Thorin was free now, but the humans were having trouble cutting loose the
bonds on the unconscious Borris. With a snarl, their blood-drenched leader
sheathed his sword and grabbed the stake itself. He heaved upwards, muscles
bulging under the pressure. His legs were slowly straightening, even while his
booted feet sank into the mud. Kurgan looked on in astonishment as the top of
the pole begin to rock from side to side, first only a few inches, and then a
foot, and then it was swaying wildly. With a grunt and a twist, the stake came
free and toppled to the ground. A tall human with plaited hair and a drooping
moustache stepped forward, slipped off the ropes holding Borris to the stake and
draped the inert dwarf over one shoulder.

The young human leader was about to start back towards the fight, but Kurgan
grabbed his cloak. He formed the unfamiliar words of the human language with
difficulty, speaking in a thick accent.

“You not hold them off by your own. Thorin and I can help. Ancient dwarf
weapons here, lots of runes. Magic. Understand me?”

The young man stepped back in astonishment, then grinned widely. Kurgan was
surprised by the calm strength in his voice, even though his chest was rising
and falling rapidly from his recent exertions.

“You’ve got magic weapons here? Why are we standing talking? Let’s go get
them!”

They set off at a run towards the warlord’s ramshackle tent, even as the
human line began to falter under the constant onslaught of the orcs. A few of
the greenskins broke through and raced across the muddy clearing, eager to
intercept the freed prisoners. Kurgan and Thorin both looked around for
something to fight with, stopping to grab a couple of axes and shields from the
piles of loot left over from the orcs’ ambush.

By now the main fight was raging around the part of the camp given over to
the warlord, and the humans were being pressed back to within an arm’s reach of
the tent. Vagraz wasn’t about to give up the treasure and prisoners he had
already fought for once that day. The humans around Kurgan shouted their
battle-cry once more and charged into the fray. The human leader was leaping
amongst the orcs, sweat gleaming off his rippling muscles in the flickering
firelight. He moved with a grace rarely found in one of his size, darting
through the crowd and hacking down a mountain of foes.

Now Vagraz himself led the greenskins, a mob of black orcs around him. They
were fearsome foes and the heavily armoured orcs smashed into the humans with
terrible ferocity. The warlord cleaved through a handful of humans with a single
blow from his massive axe. Vagraz’s backswing beheaded another unfortunate
before the orc strode forward to deal more death. The humans fell back before
him.

Having gained the warlord’s tent, Kurgan and Thorin rummaged through the
treasures stolen by the orcs, searching frantically for their ancient weapons
and armour. Nothing else would hold back the tide of greenskins now. Beside them
lay the still form of Borris, whose deathly pallor did little to cheer Kurgan.
Looking up briefly, he saw the orc warlord crush the face of a hunter with a
mighty punch, before swinging his axe round in a deadly arc that left three more
fighters dismembered. Cursing his befuddled head and aching limbs, the dwarf
king redoubled his search.

Before the tent, Ansgar and Eginolf fought back to back, surrounded by a
crowd of orcs whose blows rose and fell with relentless ferocity. Each of them
was marked by a dozen light cuts, but the pile of bodies around them testified
that each drop of blood had been drawn at a heavy price.

As Ansgar gutted one orc and stepped back to avoid the swipe of a sword, he
felt Eginolf stumble behind him. Hacking wildly at his foes to push them back
momentarily, Ansgar glanced over his shoulder. Eginolf, his twin brother, was on
his knees. A spear had punched through his stomach; its barbed point now jutted
from his back. Eginolf still swung his sword and screamed at the orcs.

“It’ll take more than a green scum twig like this to end me. I’m going to
bathe in your blood, you cowardly wretches!”

Time slowed for Ansgar as he saw a black orc push forward from the throng, a
mighty cleaver in each hand. Even as Eginolf weakly fended off one blow, the
other arm swept down with unstoppable force. Helpless to intervene, Ansgar
watched with horror as the head of his twin tumbled to the ground.

Something inside Ansgar snapped. Yelling incoherently with pure rage, he
threw himself at the orcs with renewed vigour. He was berserk, giving no thought
for his own life, as he hacked and slashed, stabbed and jabbed with his sword.
Startled by this unexpected fury, the orcs fell back.

Ignorant of everything except his raging hatred of his brother’s murderers,
Ansgar pressed on wildly, each step taking him further from the sanctuary of his
comrades. As he shouldered one foe aside, Ansgar’s blade was knocked from his
grasp and was lost beneath the orcs’ stamping feet. Ansgar tossed his knife from
his left to his right hand and ducked his head down. In the press, the orcs’
heavy weapons were useless. Ansgar’s hunting knife was far more deadly; opening
arteries, severing windpipes, ripping tendons and puncturing vital organs.

Despite the veteran’s frenzied counter-attack, Kurgan thought the humans
looked close to fleeing. The dwarf king was hastily hauling on his
rune-encrusted armour, feeling its ancient plates fold over him like an old
lover’s embrace. Thorin was busy strapping on his studded gauntlets when he gave
a cry of dismay. Turning, Kurgan watched in horror as Vagraz burst through the
ranks of humans. The orc’s massive axe glittered with dark magic, black flames
playing along its edges. A few foolhardy men tried to interpose themselves
between the awesome killing machine and the dwarfs, but in a few swift
heartbeats they were dead, their blood seeping into the forest floor to mix with
the gore of a hundred other warriors, orc and human.

Then the humans’ youthful leader was there, leaping over the axes and swords
of the orcs to attack their warlord. The young warrior stood with his legs
slightly apart, ready to face the oncoming butcher. Still staring at the
approaching orc, the human shouted to Kurgan.

“Where’s your magic, beardling? I think now would be a good time to see it!”

Bellowing his wrath, Vagraz charged. Rolling beneath a wild swing of the
warlord’s baleful axe, the human youth dived to one side, then swung his long
sword down at the orc’s neck with his whole weight. The blade shattered on the
enchanted armour of the warlord, who turned slowly and grinned at his would-be
killer. Without hesitation the hunt lord flung the shattered stump of his sword
into the orcs’ face and leapt, his feet thudding into the warlord’s jaw with a
sickening crunch. The orc was knocked sprawling by the unexpected blow.

Allowing the hulking brute no time to recover, young Steel-eye moved behind
Vagraz and started raining punches into the back of his thick neck. Roaring in
anger, the orc spun around, smashing a plate-sized fist into the lord’s chin,
hurling him to the ground. Shaking his head to clear it, Vagraz lifted an
immense booted foot to stamp on the young warrior, but he was too slow and the
hunter rolled to his feet with fluid grace. The young man delivered a sweeping
kick that made the warlord buckle at the knees.

Kurgan was cursing constantly now, throwing heaps of gold and gems aside in
his frantic quest for his ancient weapon.

“Where the hell are you?” he spat, but even as he spoke his hand fell upon
sturdy stitching wound around cold steel. With a yelp, he pulled the rune-forged
warhammer from the concealing pile of glittering treasure. Kurgan fervently
prayed he wasn’t too late.

He span around to see the beleaguered human leader slip on the slick of mud
and blood that covered the ground. As the orc chieftain lifted his massive axe
above his head, its blade shining with unearthly energies, Kurgan flung his
hammer to the young man. It arced across the campsite, spinning slowly, its head
flashing in the glow of the bonfire. The youth’s long arm snapped up to grab it,
his fingers closing round the hilt. As Vagraz’s dark axe swept down, the
barbarian leader brought up the rune hammer to meet it. The weapons clashed with
a shower of black and blue sparks and the two fighters were locked together.

The orc had the advantage and pressed down with all his weight, bringing the
sorcerous axe blade ever closer to the young man’s throat. The youth’s arms
trembled with the strain, sweat poured across his body and his face was purple
with effort. His huge muscles twitched and veins stood out like cords across his
neck and shoulders. With a scream Steel-eye thrust the orc back with all his
remaining strength, swinging the hammer to one side to knock the warlord off
balance. Howling, the hunter leapt to his feet and the two adversaries stood
facing each other again. The human was grinning wolfishly, his eyes ablaze. The
orc’s hand constantly clenched and unclenched on the haft of his massive axe in
agitated anticipation. Gauging each other carefully, the two leaders circled
slowly.

“Your axe is very pretty, scum, but this hammer will be your doom. Even
unarmed I was besting you and now I have this, you have only a heartbeat left to
live! Enjoy your last moments, greenskin offal!”