Orcs: Bad Blood (15 page)

Nearby, Seafe was coming off second best in a scrap with a burly swordsman. Haskeer lobbed the axe. It struck the human square
in his back. Arms flailing, he collapsed. Seafe gave his sergeant a thumbs-up and picked another foe.

Raiders were still coming out of the trees, and the struggle boiled on every side. Turning his sword on the next pallid human,
Haskeer was beginning to think Quatt would be overrun.

A tight-knit group powered through the crowd. They travelled with purpose, hacking down any opposition. In minutes they reached
Haskeer’s team and joined the slaughter.

“Took your time!” Haskeer grumbled, batting at a human’s probing spear.

“You’re lucky we came!” Coilla retorted.

She whacked the sword from a Uni’s hand and punctured his skull. His fellow took the edge of her blade across his belly. Coilla
had enough wrath left over to run through the next human in line.

She stood panting as two more Unis approached warily. Weighing up whether to spend her precious throwing knives on them, she
noticed Pepperdyne.

The human moved among the enemy like a fish in limpid water. He was master of his blade and used it as a veteran would. Weaving
and turning, he stayed clear of whistling steel with an almost contemptuous ease. When he struck, it was as quick as thought,
and always to the true.

He killed two men in rapid succession. Neither so much as engaged him. As they fell he sought more flesh, wielding his sword
with the skill of a surgeon. In seconds, his sinuous dance brought death to another black-clad human.

Haskeer saw it too. Then he tugged his blade from the spearman’s guts and let him drop.

The attack was coming from all directions. There was no point on the clearing’s boundary where there wasn’t conflict. In places
the line had broken and the defenders were falling back. Dwarfs were suffering casualties, and some lay dead, but so far,
orc injuries were light. Stryke doubted that would last.

Using a sword and dagger combination, he reaped the flood of invaders. A twin thrust took down a pair as one. The swiftness
of his blades caught three more in as many heartbeats. Still the enemy came.

Stryke found himself facing a studded mace. Its handler showed little finesse employing it, but his wild, two-handed swipes
were no less dangerous for that. For a full minute Stryke managed nothing more than avoiding it. Then he got his opponent’s
measure. Holding back until the club was in full swing, he dived under the man’s outstretched arms and pierced his torso.
The Uni crumpled.

Stryke ran the back of a hand across his clammy brow and pushed on.

Despite all the resistance they met, humans were getting through to the settlement. Most stayed in groups, knots of belligerence
fuelled by pious zeal, lashing out savagely at all in their reach. The defenders slowed them, but they were hard to stop.

Dallog’s troupe, obeying orders by remaining at the barn, had seen no action. What happened next made up for that. A bunch
of howling humans, twice their number, sped in to take issue. Half a dozen uneven duels broke out.

Standing to the fore, Dallog was set upon by a trio of enraged fanatics. Their frenzy and number worked to his benefit. Fury
made for poor judgement, and fighting as a group had them getting in each other’s way. He quickly profited. A scouring blow
across the side of a Uni’s head put him out of the picture.

The fallen man’s companions were less easy to better. One jabbed at Dallog with a shortened spear, its tip wickedly barbed.
The other contrived to circle him, for an attack from side or rear. They were working together. Lessening the odds had increased
the threat, and the irony wasn’t lost on Dallog.

Twisting away from the spear, he lashed out at the circling swordsman. Metal echoed as they pounded each other’s broadswords.
Deadlock ensued, and might have continued had not the spearman intervened. Losing patience, he rushed in, thrusting the weapon
at Dallog, passion outwitting skill. His recklessness was a gift. Dallog spun, brought down his blade hard and knocked the
spear from the Uni’s hands. Without pause he followed through, delivering a fatal blow.

The swiftness of the kill threw the sword-bearer off his stroke. Before he recovered, Dallog got in close and nasty. He swiped,
raking the Uni from armpit to waist. Then he put all he had into a high swing that buried his blade in the human’s skull.
The man plummeted, so much dead weight.

Dallog leaned on his gory sword, breathing heavily and hoping none of the grunts noticed his fatigue.

The Unis had torched the barn. Thick black smoke belched from its open doors. Flames scaled the wooden exterior and the roof
steamed. A screaming human stumbled past, his clothes ablaze. Orcs and Unis fought without let. Havoc reigned.

Something caught Dallog’s eye. Towering shapes were emerging from the tree-line. At first he couldn’t make out what they were.
As they entered the clearing he saw. Black-garbed horsemen, in their dozens.

“
Second wave!
” he bellowed. “
Second wave!
”

Riders were charging across the field of battle, trampling defenders and cutting them down.

In the middle of the clearing, by a couple of hay wagons, Jup’s group was oblivious, absorbed as they were in vicious hand-to-hand
fighting.

Spurral was at Jup’s side. They were armed with the dwarfs’ traditional weapons; he with a leaden-headed staff, she with a
short, curved sword and knife. And they were working the weapons hard.

Jup dodged a blow and gave the head of his attacker a resounding crack. Flipping over his staff, he thrust the weighted end
into the midriff of another. He used the staff with speed and seasoned grace. Spurral was no less skilful with her blades.
Crowded by a pair of Unis, she expertly slashed the face of one and knifed his companion.

Eldo fought alongside them. Fending off the attentions of a brute with a club, the grunt took a hit that dented his helm and
had him reeling. Spurral quickly deflected the clubman’s follow-through and ripped his belly. A grateful if dazed Eldo nodded
gratitude, and Spurral earned further respect from the grunts looking on.

After a seeming lifetime of grinding conflict there was a brief hiatus. But no respite.

Chuss, one of the new recruits, pointed.
“Look!”

They saw the riders.

Then two horsemen broke through the forward defences and galloped their way.

“
Take cover!
” Jup bellowed, waving his group towards the wagons.

He made Chuss and fellow newbie Ignar shelter under one of them. The rest of the team clustered defensively. Jup and Spurral
clambered to the top of the wagon nearest the approaching riders.

Seconds latter, the pair of horsemen arrived, brandishing cutlasses. Their mounts were steaming and foam-flecked.

One of the Unis made straight for Jup and Spurral. They battled to fend him off, but his mobility kept him frustratingly beyond
reach. His companion, meanwhile, was leaning and slashing at the knot of orcs. Trying to avoid his horse’s thrashing hooves,
they jabbed and swiped at him.

The skirmish ground on, with neither side gaining the advantage. Then seasoned hand Gleadeg had an idea. He dug out a slingshot,
quickly primed it and commenced swinging. The unleashed shot peppered the rider’s face and chest. He cried out, lost his balance
and crashed to the ground. His horse bolted. The orcs rushed in and pounded out his life.

Jup made to follow Gleadeg’s example and use his own sling on the remaining horseman. But as he reached for it a keen hissing
filled the air. A swarm of arrows thudded into the horseman, hurling him from his saddle.

When Jup and the others looked for their source, they saw a dozen or more dwarf archers on the longhouses’ roofs. The Wolverines
waved their thanks. They were ignored. The dwarfs were busy picking off more riders.

That wasn’t the end of the Unis. They were still worming their way into the clearing, though there were fewer of them. Jup
and his comrades took up their swords again.

Those near the perimeter had more than a couple of horsemen to contend with. Their burden was thinning the stream of incoming
riders. Haskeer and Coilla’s groups had faced a virtual cavalry charge. Dead and dying humans, dwarfs and horses were scattered
across the forward combat zone. But the fighting went on.

Seizing a discarded lance, Haskeer impaled a charging Uni. The man was propelled from his horse, the spear lodged in his chest.
Haskeer made do with his dependable blade to challenge the next interloper.

Coilla had spent her knives freely. Now there were just two left. She lobbed one at a rampaging horseman. It was aimed at
his chest. He turned and the blade struck above his armpit, but the force was enough to spin him in his saddle. He lost control.
The reins whipped free. A couple of orcs grabbed them and tugged hard, bringing down horse and rider. Spears and hatchets
sealed his fate.

Pepperdyne battled on. He showed no loss of stamina, or lessening skill. His sword was a blur, slashing throats, puncturing
lungs, severing limbs. He outfought or outwitted any who faced him.

For her part, Coilla was eyeing another rider. He was laying about a group of dwarfs with an axe. As she watched, he cracked
open someone’s skull, dropping him like a stone. Drawing her last knife, she took aim, reckoning on a clean kill this time.

She missed. The knife clipped the neck of the Uni’s horse. Startled, the wounded animal bucked, throwing its rider. He fell
heavily, but found his feet at once, buoyed with rage. Spotting Coilla, he battered his way towards her. She was bracing herself
to meet him when a swinging blade came within a hair’s-breadth of hacking her flesh. Unnoticed, another Uni had emerged from
the scrum to challenge her.

Coilla spun to the new foe and their swords collided with a strident impact. They fell into a frenzied bout of swordplay.
He was powerfully built, and what he lacked in finesse he made up for with might. They didn’t so much fence as hammer at each
other, and Coilla parried a series of jarring blows.

Then the human got lucky. She was slow in dodging a wild swipe. His blade skinned the knuckles of her sword hand, dashing
the weapon from her grasp. It bounced beyond reach. Backing off, Coilla went for her dagger, the only weapon she had left.
As she fumbled for it, the unhorsed Uni appeared.

The pair of glowering humans closed in on her. One had a broadsword, the other an axe. No way was her dagger a match for their
reach. She could only twist and duck to avoid their aggression. But there was a limit to how long she could evade them. Rapidly,
she lost ground. The humans came on for the kill.

“Coilla!”

Suddenly Pepperdyne was there. He tossed her a sword. Then he took on the second Uni, leaving the axeman to her.

She piled into him, intent on a reckoning. Bobbing to elude a swing from his axe, she went in fast and low, blade level. He
swerved and half turned, hoping to sidestep her attack. Coilla’s sword connected, but it glanced, skimming the side of his
waist. Far from a fatal wound, it was still a painful enough distraction. Sufficient for Coilla to spin and strike again.

This time, the blow was true. She buried a third of her blade in the Uni’s midriff. Jerking the sword free, she arced it and
swept down hard to brain him. The man sprawled, lifeless.

Breathing hard, Coilla looked to Pepperdyne. He had bettered his own opponent, and was stooping to deliver the killing stroke.
As he rose from slashing the Uni’s throat, she caught his eye. She nodded her thanks, puzzled that he should side with her
against one of his own kind.

“Look at that!”

Haskeer was pointing to a rider near the tree-line. The figure was unmistakably female. Her long blond hair flowed free, and
she wore a metal breastplate that glinted in the feeble sunlight. She was mounted on a pure white horse that reared as, sword
held high, she rallied her remaining followers.

“Mercy Hobrow,” Coilla spat.

“You were right,” Haskeer conceded.

“The bitch. Why don’t you ever have a bow when you need one?”

As they watched, the woman wheeled her mount and headed into the trees.

The defenders at the vanguard, by the defensive trench, saw Hobrow too. Her supporters were retreating in her wake, the stragglers
chased by angry dwarfs seeing them off with arrows and spears. All across the village clearing the last of the Unis were pulling
back.

“More a last gasp than a second wave,” Stryke reckoned, looking on.

Breggin nodded.

“Not much more we can do here. Round up the unit.”

The private grunted and went off.

Stryke surveyed the carnage around him. The bodies of dozens of dwarfs were scattered about, and many more humans. They were
outnumbered by the wounded, walking and prone, though he saw no orcs in the latter category. Or humans in either.

He made for the cluster of huts, his crew in tow.

The rest of the Wolverines were already gathering there.

“Anybody hurt?” Stryke called out.

“A few,” Dallog replied. “Nothing too serious.”

“Coilla? You all right?”

“This?” She waved her bandaged hand dismissively. “Just a sting.”

“She ain’t the only one stinging,” Haskeer butted in.

“Meaning?” Stryke asked.

“Wheam.”

Stryke sighed. “What about him?”

“Caught an arrow in his arse.” He jabbed a thumb.

A small group was arriving. Several grunts carried Wheam, face-down on a plank, a bolt protruding from his rear. Standeven
followed sullenly.

Haskeer was gleeful. “It gets better,” he went on. “The arrow was one of our own.”

Wheam’s makeshift stretcher was brusquely dumped on the ground. He groaned loudly.

“Get him sorted,” Stryke ordered.

Dallog knelt and began rummaging in his medical bag.

To one side, Coilla got Pepperdyne alone.

“Thanks,” she said.

He nodded.

“You fight well.”