Orcs: Bad Blood (14 page)

Coilla was taken to the adjoining hut.

Spurral ushered her in. “You get this one all to yourself. Though the bed’s no bigger.”

“I don’t care. I could sleep on a rack of knives.”

They left her stripping blankets and tossing them on the floor.

Coilla was so tired she didn’t even bother taking off her boots. As soon as she stretched out, she was asleep.

There was only the black velvet of oblivion. Mindless, timeless. All embracing.

The first frail light of dawn seeped in through the cracks around the door and window shutters.

She stirred.

Instantly, she knew she wasn’t alone. A figure loomed over her. She tried to move.

The cold edge of a steel blade pressed against her flesh.

And an unmistakably human voice whispered, “Don’t make me cut your throat.”

“If you’re going to do it, get it over with,” Coilla said, the blade tight against her throat.

“We don’t want to hurt you.”

“We?”

“I’m not alone.”

Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of someone else skulking in the shadows.

“We’re just trying to help you,” the human added.

“You’ve a funny way of showing it.” Coilla’s fingers snaked towards her own knife.

“I didn’t want you bawling the place down and bringing the others in here.” He grabbed her hand, then wrenched her knife from
its sheath and tossed it aside. “Or getting any bright ideas.”

“Who
are
you?”

“Long story.”

“Why would your kind help an orc?”

“Another long story.”

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

“There’s no time. This place’s about to be attacked. But you might be able to do something about it if you can get your forces
mustered.”

“Why should I believe that?”

“We’ve seen what’s massing out there. Take my word.”

“A human’s word?”

“How could warning you be a trap? Look, if I take this knife away are you going to behave?”

Coilla nodded.

He removed the blade and backed off.

She lay still. “At least let me see you.”

The human fumbled for a moment before sparks were struck and a candle lit.

As far as Coilla could tell with humans, he seemed in his prime. He certainly looked fit. His mass of hair was blond, but
he had none of the facial growth many of his race favoured.

He moved the candle. The circle of flickering light showed the other man’s features. He was older, and had the build of someone
used to sloth. There was grey in his thinning black hair and tightly trimmed beard. His pallid skin had a sheen of sweat,
despite the early morning chill.

“You have names?” she said.

“I’m Jode Pepperdyne,” the younger man replied. “This is my… This is Micalor Standeven. You?”

She got up. “Coilla.”

The older man spoke. “We’re wasting time. A small army of religious fanatics are going to be here any minute.” He was noticeably
more nervous than his companion.

“Unis?” Coilla asked.

“Does it matter?” Pepperdyne said. “All you need know is that they’re hell-bent on mayhem.”

“We’re well guarded.”

“Really? We got in easily enough.”

“I don’t understand why you’d side with us against your own.”

“They’re nothing to do with us,” Standeven insisted.

“Let’s just say we have mutual interests,” Pepperdyne offered. “And we’ll be mutually dead if you don’t start mounting a defence
now
. Trust me.”

“That’s asking a lot.”

“What have you got to lose? If we’re lying, all you’ve done is put everybody on alert. If we’re telling the truth, you’ve
a chance to hold off the attack.”

“But decide now,” Standeven added. “Because if your answer’s no we can try getting out of here ourselves.”

“Will you do it, Coilla?” Pepperdyne said.

“I’ll do it. But if this is a trick,” she vowed, “you’ll both pay.”

He smiled his gratitude. “Do it quietly. We don’t want to warn the raiders.”

“Oh
really
? I never would have thought of that.” She gave him a withering look, then headed for the door. “You two stick by me. Many
here would bring you down soon as look at you.”

She led them to the adjoining hut and barged straight in.

Haskeer still slept, snoring loudly. Stryke stood on the far side of the room, stropping a blade. He spun around.

Coilla held up her hands.
“Easy.”

He glared at the humans. “What the hell’s this?”

“They’re… friends. Or at least not hostile.”

“What?”

“Listen, Stryke. There might be an attack coming.”

“Says who?”

“They do.” She jabbed a thumb at Pepperdyne and Standeven. “And I don’t think we can risk ignoring them.”

“But —”

“If they’re right, there’s no time to waste, and — Can’t you stop that fucking
noise
?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” He turned and gave his snoring sergeant a kick.

Haskeer leapt up, tangled in his blanket. “Uhh? Fuck!
Humans!
” He whipped out a knife.

“Calm down,” Stryke told him. “We know.”

“But what —?”

“There could be trouble.”

“Trouble?” Haskeer was still negotiating wakefulness.

“Yes. According to them.”

“According to
them
?” he replied, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “They’re nothing but lousy —”

“We appreciate you don’t know who we are,” Pepperdyne said.

“We know
what
you are,” Haskeer rumbled.

“And you’ve no reason to trust us. But brush us off and you’ll have a crowd of lunatics down on you.”

“Makes sense, Stryke,” Coilla said. “We upset Mercy Hobrow and her Unis. If they tracked us here…”

Stryke looked from her to the humans. “What’s your interest in this?”

“You don’t have time for our life stories,” Pepperdyne replied.

Several long seconds passed while Stryke studied their faces and thought things over. “All right, we’ll sound the alarm.”
Haskeer started to object. Stryke waved him away. “Better prepared than caught unawares.”

Haskeer gave a resigned sigh. “So what do we do with them?” He nodded at the two men.

“Lock ’em up somewhere.”

Pepperdyne tensed. “Nobody locks us away. We’re part of this.”

“We can’t have ’em running around armed,” Haskeer objected.

“I don’t carry a weapon,” Standeven said. As proof, he held open his jerkin.

Haskeer was appalled. “No weapon? Humans
are
crazy.”

“This one has a blade,” Coilla said.

“And if anybody wants it,” Pepperdyne came back defiantly, “they’ll have to take it.”

Coilla appreciated the sentiment. “We can respect that.”

“But if this is some kind of ploy,” Stryke promised, “being armed won’t stop us taking it out of your hides. Now let’s move.”

They left the hut. Stryke ordered the humans to wait, with Coilla keeping an eye on them. Then he and Haskeer set off stealthily
to rouse the others, creeping from door to door. In their wake, orcs and dwarfs emerged, bearing arms and treading softly.

Tousle-haired, Jup and Spurral made their way across the clearing to Stryke.

Spurral looked indignant. “What are
they
doing here?” she demanded, pointing at Coilla’s charges.

“Warning us. They say. And before you ask, I haven’t a clue who they are.”

“You
believe
them?”

“Best not to take chances.” He turned to Jup. “Can your people get into a defensive pattern?”

“In their sleep. What are we facing?”

“Don’t know. Or if. But could be big.”

“You’ve seen the state of our tribe. Not a lot of prime fighters.”

“You’ve got us.”

Jup nodded and moved off. Spurral glowered one last time at the pair of humans and went after him.

Haskeer arrived. “The band’s ready, Stryke. How do we deploy?”

“We need to be mobile. We’ll split into five units, headed by me, you, Coilla, Jup and Dallog.”

“Dallog?”

“I’m not debating it. Get those squads sorted, and make sure you spread around the new recruits.”

He left Haskeer to it and jogged to where Coilla stood with the humans.

“I’m splitting the band into groups,” he told her. “You’re leading one. There’ll be a hideaway for non-combatants. These two
can go there.”

“Fine by me,” Standeven responded eagerly.

Pepperdyne gave him a contemptuous look. “But not me.”

“You’ve no say in it.”

“I can fight, and you need every sword arm you can get.”

“Your place is at my side!” Standeven retorted.

His tone had Stryke and Coilla exchanging curious glances.

Pepperdyne ignored his master’s petulance. “I can be more use out here.”

“Do as you please,” Stryke decided. “We’ve no time for squabbles.”

“You’d better stay with my unit,” Coilla said. “Unless you want to be mistaken for an enemy.”

Pepperdyne nodded. “Right.”

“Haskeer’s forming the groups,” Stryke explained. “Get over there, and take him with you.” He indicated Standeven. “He can
cower with the old ones and sucklings.” He thrust a finger in Pepperdyne’s chest. “And
you
. Make a wrong move, or get in our way, and you’re dead.”

Practised at repelling intruders, the dwarfs were swift to take up positions. They occupied defensive trenches. Lookouts climbed
tall trees. Archers were placed on the roofs of buildings. The five teams of orcs were stationed at strategic points across
the clearing.

Those who couldn’t fight, along with Standeven, took shelter in the sturdiest barn.

Wheam was assigned the job of guarding them. A meaningless role, given that if the enemy reached it, everything would already
be lost.

The bout of furtive activity over, everyone settled in to wait. Nothing, not even birdsong, disturbed the early morning quiet.

Coilla’s group sheltered behind a small cluster of bushes, ready to fire-fight where needed. Pepperdyne knelt beside her,
his breeches moist with dew. Half a dozen privates under her command eyed him charily.

The minutes seemed unusually reluctant to pass.

“You’d better be right about this,” she whispered, scanning the tree-line.

“I am.”

“Sure? They’re taking long enough showing themselves.”

“They’ll come.” He twisted to face her. “Do you know what you’re going to be up against?”

“We’ve tangled with Unis before.”

“Lately?”

“Few years back.”

“Word in these parts is that they’re even more ruthless now.”

“You’re not from these parts then?”

He turned wary. “Not really.”

“Then maybe you don’t know about orcs.”

“These fanatics are
savage
. They’re a death cult.”

She smiled. “So are we.”

There was a shriek. Across the way, a dwarf plunged from the upper branches of a tree, his body peppered with arrows. Bolts
winged through the greenery, slashing leaves and splintering bark; clearing the way for black-clad figures emerging from the
forest.

Coilla snatched her sword. “Time to show what you’re made of, pink skin.”

Stryke’s group was well away from Coilla’s, and sharing one of the dwarfs’ trenches. Jup’s was stationed behind several hay
wagons parked in the middle of the clearing. Dallog’s had hidden themselves in and around an outlying barn. But it was Haskeer’s
group, concealed in undergrowth not far from the forest’s edge, that took the first brunt.

The humans rolled in softly, like a wave on an ocean of pitch.

From their hiding places, defending archers loosed a hail of barbed shafts. A score of the raiders dropped. Then thirty or
forty dwarfs broke cover and rushed forward to take issue, wielding short-bladed swords and staffs. That left Haskeer’s troop
with no option but to wade in.

The first few minutes of combat stretch time and overwhelm the senses. Movement, clamour and the stink of fear are all-pervasive.
The only counter is bloodlust.

Haskeer plunged into the human deluge, cutting down two men in short order. The shield of a third took the full force of his
broadsword. But its bearer was knocked off kilter. He yielded his guard and let in Haskeer’s cleaving blade. Blood gushed
and the man fell. Haskeer spun to face another.

The air was filled with the natter of quarrelling steel, bellowed curses and anguished screams. All around, Haskeer’s unit
fought to stem the tide of flesh, toiling like harvesters scything corn.

Though the dwarfs fought with passion, few races possessed the martial skills of orcs. So dwarfs were the first to fall.

One, his head split, collapsed across Haskeer’s path. He stepped over the corpse to face its killer. Muscular, and of impressive
girth, the human brandished a pair of axes that looked toy-like in his massive fists. And he moved with a swiftness that ignored
his size.

Haskeer dropped, spurning a wild axe swing. Then dodged again when its partner came close to dismembering him. Lunging from
all-fours, he scurried clear, turned and engaged for a second time. Slicing and ducking in equal measure, he searched for
an opening. But the human handled his axes with practised agility, and appeared tireless. It was all Haskeer could do to keep
clear.

Knowing that any one of the humans in the surrounding melee could elect to stab his back, he put on a spurt. Powering forward,
he tried simply battering through. The human drove him off. Haskeer rallied and went in again. There was a moment of stasis,
with fierce blows exchanged but no give on either side. Finally the man faltered and took a step in retreat. Haskeer upped
the pace. He thrashed metal, his blade whipping a squall.

Then it was through, and cut deep. The man’s arm was laid open crook to wrist.

Blood surged and he dropped an axe. Haskeer didn’t loiter. A crisp flip of his blade had it homing in for another bite. He
struck flesh again. The human cried out, an oblique wound reddening his chest. Grievous, but not fatal, though enough to let
the other axe slip from his sweaty grasp. He staggered.

Haskeer rushed in, grabbed one of the axes and swung it solidly. The human’s head bounced off into the melee. His body briefly
stood, a crimson fountain, before buckling.