ORCS: Army of Shadows (27 page)

“And second?”

“Can you who dwell solely on the land imagine what it is to be dependent on water? We have to wallow in its life-giving essence
several times a day. Our lives depend on it. A kelpie deprived of water dies a horrible and lingering death. We can hardly
mount an uprising when weighed down with that necessity. I myself have to visit the shore daily to bathe. I don’t doubt they
will catch me there one day and kill me.”

“No they won’t. We’re gonna help you.”

“You are?”

“You bet,” Coilla said.

“Definitely,” Pepperdyne and Jup chorused.

The kelpie was taken aback. “The human too? What have we done to deserve this?”

“Let’s just say we’re like you: we value freedom,” Stryke said. “Do you have a name?”

“Of course.”

“What is it?”

“It would do you no good knowing, unless you’re able to talk underwater.”

“Er, no. That’s not one of our skills.”

“Just call me the kelpie.”

“You have our protection. Come with us. You could probably use something to eat. What
do
you eat?”

“Not the hearts of hatchlings. Our appetites are wide-reaching, but given the choice we favour fish.”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

On their way back to the others, Stryke asked Jup how he felt.

“I’m fearful of Spurral falling into the hands of scum like these goblins.”

“So take it out on them until we find the Gatherers.”

“I intend to.”

“Good. I knew that’d cheer you up.”

They waited for dark.

Under cover of night they positioned themselves around the goblin compound. Stryke had sent for the five guarding the boats,
to up the numbers. But he kept Standeven well out of things, and relegated Wheam to a backup.

There were perhaps a dozen goblins visible. Most of them bore the metal-topped trident spears they favoured, but also carried
blades. The rest of the goblins were either in the various buildings or on the beach near the anchored ships.

“We keep this simple,” Stryke whispered to Coilla. “Get in fast, kill ’em.”

“So how’s that any different to what we usually do?”

“Ready?”

She nodded.

He signalled, and it was passed on.

The first move was down to the archers. They shot bolts into the compound that dropped five or six of the goblins before the
others caught on. The next volley was of flaming arrows aimed at the buildings’ rush roofs, for chaos’ sake.

The blazing arrows were the signal to charge. Out of hiding, the Wolverines swept in from all sides. The goblins who had survived
the arrow bombardment were recovering their balance, and the ones in the now-burning buildings had spilled out. Those on the
beach, alerted by the fires, were hurrying back.

So the orcs faced the full compliment, and relished it.

Stryke lashed out at the first goblin he met. His blade severed the sinewy neck, sending its head bouncing across the sand.
The next took steel to its guts. He disarmed a third by simply doing just that: he lopped off the creature’s sword arm, then
ran it through.

For Coilla, the lure of her throwing knives had proved too strong. Plucking them from the holsters strapped to her arms, she
lobbed in rapid succession. A goblin fell with a blade in its eye; another stopped one with its back. Spotting a goblin rushing
at her, its trident levelled, she struck it square to the chest. Yet another caught a knife in what would have been its privy
parts, if it had any.

Pepperdyne had the by-now-familiar experience of confronting foes surprised to be facing a human. For the goblins, he guessed,
humans meant Gatherers and grubby mutual interest. They were stunned to be attacked by one. Their initial hesitation was a
bonus he seized. His sword hewed wiry flesh.

Haskeer, battling nearby and trying not to admire the human’s style, spat on subtlety, as usual. He brought down the first
goblin he came across with bare fists, then snapped its curved spine over his knee. The one after that he eviscerated.

All acquitted themselves well, even the seasoning tyros. But Jup outshone. He fought with a ferocity to equal that of the
matchless orcs. Spurred by frustration and fury, drunk on bloodlust, he gave no quarter. Armed traditionally with his staff,
and having a long-bladed knife to hand, he thundered into the goblins like a pint-sized tsunami. He shattered skulls and ripped
through throats. Landing a particularly vicious blow, he propelled a goblin over the fence and into the kelpies’ pool. They
put paid to it with thrashing hooves and snapping teeth.

The moment arrived, as it does in every battle, when it dawned on the victors that there was no one left standing to fight.
A quick search of the buildings that escaped the fire, and the surrounding area, confirmed it.

The kelpie prisoners were liberated. They scrambled from the pool and shook themselves. Some pawed the ground, as though that
was a pleasure they had long been deprived of.

Stryke got his officers together, and the ageing kelpie joined them.

“We’ve got to make a choice,” Stryke told them. “Either we push on to the Gatherers’ island or we stay here in the hope that
Spurral and the slavers turn up. You should have first say on this, Jup.”

“I… I honestly don’t know, chief. My instinct is to go on. Then again, knowing this is where the slaves are brought…”

“It’s one place they are brought,” the kelpie corrected. “This isn’t the only island where goblins, and other races, collect
slaves.”

“Shit. So Spurral might not be brought here?”

“Don’t despair. This is the most likely place. But your mate has not arrived yet, which, given when she was taken, makes me
think the Gatherers are sticking to their pattern.”

“What do you mean?”

“The time when they come has never been predictable, but the
order
of their coming is always the same. The Gatherers’ next port of call after raiding the dwarfs’ island is invariably our own.
Take us to our island, Wolverines, and there’s a chance this Spurral of yours can be found. There’s nothing here for us. We
want to go home.”

“What do you think, Jup?” Stryke asked.

“Gods, this is getting so complicated. But it seems to make sense.”

“You’re forgetting that we’ve only got two small boats,” Coilla reminded them, “and one of those damaged.”

“And you’re forgetting those,” the kelpie said. “He tilted his head to indicate the beach and the anchored craft. “Why use
a boat when you can have a ship?”

“I’d feel a damn sight better in one of those,” Haskeer announced.

Stryke turned to Pepperdyne. “Could we handle one of those goblin ships?”

He took a look. “I reckon so.”

“All right then. We leave at first light.”

The kelpie nodded contentedly. “Good. I can assure you of a warm welcome. Few are as hospitable as the kelpies.”

The darkness dissolved, to be replaced by a blinding light.

Spurral was on her back, staring up at the Sun. She turned her head to avoid its punishing glare. There were fiery floats
in her eyes and she blinked to rid herself of them. She had no idea where she was. As the floats faded and her faculties returned,
so did the memory: of the ship, the Krake and what had happened.

She became aware of the sound of pounding waves, and when she reached out a hand it came into contact with wet sand. Water
was lapping at her feet and thighs. Her sodden clothes were steaming gently in the heat.

Slowly, painfully, she got up and tried to make sense of her surroundings.

She was on a long, golden beach. Wreckage and general debris were deposited along the shoreline, including a couple of large
sections of ship’s decking. She guessed that she had probably clung to one of them, although she had no recollection of it.

Behind her, the beach stretched back a long way until it met a jumble of palm trees and other vegetation. Above the trees
she could see the peaks of several small mountains of greyish rock, gleaming in the sunlight. There was no sign of habitation.

She stilled. Mixed in with the crash of waves and shrieking gulls there seemed to be something else. It took her a moment
to realise it was someone shouting. As she attuned herself to it she grasped that there was more than one voice.

Looking along the beach to her left, she saw nothing. It was a different story to her right. In the far distance she could
see figures. There appeared to be seven or eight of them. They were humanoid in shape and looked as though they were waving.

As she watched, trying to make out who or what they might be, it became obvious they were heading her way. Spurral hesitated
for a moment. Then, spurred by hope, she began to run towards them.

It felt as though it took forever to cover the expanse of beach between her and the approaching figures. As she moved, her
legs growing leaden with the effort of running through the obstructive sand, she became conscious of how much she ached. The
battering she had taken when the ship went down, and presumably afterwards when she was at the mercy of the tides and drifting
flotsam, was starting to make itself felt. Her elbows were grazed, there was a dull pain in her back and she noticed large
blue-black bruises coming up on her pumping arms. But the prospect of someone else being on an island she had thought deserted
kept her going.

When she finally got close enough, she saw that the figures were dwarfs. Closer still, she recognised Kalgeck among them.
Then they met and she was hugging him, relieved and frankly amazed that her friend had also survived the catastrophe. His
companions, five males and two females, all young, clustered round joyfully.

“Are you injured?” Kalgeck asked, surveying her.

“I was lucky. Just a few knocks. How about all of you?”

“Fortune smiled on us, too. Our injuries are slight. It was a miracle.”

“It’s hard to argue with that. But… are you all there is?”

His expression turned solemn. “As far as we can tell. We’ve not been looking for too long, but apart from each other, and
now you, we’ve seen no one else.”

“You couldn’t have looked everywhere. It could be survivors have washed up elsewhere on this island, or even other islands.”

“Yes, we’ll have to hope for that. But it does seem a mockery by fate if my kin should beat the Gatherers only to perish because
of the Krake.”

“It would,” she agreed glumly. “How about the Gatherers? You’ve not come across any of them?”

Kalgeck shook his head. “But most of them were imprisoned belowdecks, remember.”

“Yes, of course. I could almost feel sorry for them.”

“It’s hard for us to think that way about them. They caused us so much misery.”

“I know, and I can’t blame you for it. Still, it’s possible some of them might have made it here. We should take care.”

“What do we do now?”

“Do you know where we are? Or anything about this island?”

“No.”

“All right. So let’s find out if it’s inhabited, and if it is, whether the natives are friendly or not. But first we ought
to look through the wreckage for anything useful, like provisions.”

“I already found this.” He held out a water flask.

“Oh, great. Can I? I’m parched.”

As she drank, Kalgeck said, “It doesn’t look like there’s a lot else, though.” He was staring at the wreckage she had washed
in with.

That proved almost right. In fact they were lucky enough to find another flask, containing coarse brandy this time, though
it was only half full. A nip each raised their spirits a little. They also scavenged some chunks of timber that would serve
as clubs. Nothing else was of much use. But a couple of the dwarfs had managed to hang on to weapons from the ship: a Gatherer
knife and one of the wooden hatchets the captives had made clandestinely.

They set off inland. Just inside the tree line they came across bushes with a crop of yellow, spiky fruit about the size of
apples. They were unfamiliar to Spurral but the other dwarfs knew them and were delighted. Once the tough skin had been peeled
off, the sweet, juicy white flesh proved delicious. They ate their fill and then some.

“Right,” Spurral said, licking her fingers, “let’s see what else this place has to offer.”

Fortified, they continued their journey.

The jungle was thick and difficult to get through. After they’d trekked for some time, with Spurral in the lead, hacking at
foliage with the knife and stumbling on vines, they were beginning to wonder if it was worth going on. Then she stopped, raising
a hand for the others to be quiet. There was an extensive clearing just ahead. There seemed to be nobody about, so they gingerly
stepped into it.

Trees had been felled, or more accurately uprooted, and dragged to form several heaps at the glade’s edge. The undergrowth
was trampled flat. In the centre of the clearing was a sizeable pool.

Spurral cupped her hand and tried the water. She spat it out. “Salt. Must be fed by the sea.” Looking round, she added, “Nothing
here is natural except the pool. Somebody cleared this area.”

Kalgeck held a finger to his lips and pointed. There was a rustling in the undergrowth. They raised their meagre weapons.
More rustlings came, but from several directions. The dwarfs drew themselves into a protective circle, eyes peeled.

Some kind of creature crashed through the vegetation, then several more. They were big and black.

“Horses?” Spurral exclaimed. As soon as she said it she saw her error.

The creatures entering the clearing looked superficially like horses but with important differences. Their skin was wrong,
resembling a seal’s, and their luxuriant manes oozed water. They were much more muscular and robust-looking than commonplace
horses. Above all, they had eyes that betrayed far greater acumen than any steed’s.

Kalgeck confirmed it. “They’re not ordinary horses. They’re —”

“Kelpies,” one of the creatures grated, trotting forward. “And we would like to welcome you to our island if we were sure
you meant no harm.”

“We don’t,” Spurral replied, recovering her poise. “Do we look like raiders?”