Orcs (82 page)
Over at the west gates, scene of the incursion the day before, Haskeer was in the eye of the storm. There was conflict all around on the walls, and he could hear the sound of battle at other gates, but nothing was happening here. The only sign of hostility was a pounding on the doors he guarded. Even that sounded more like individual hatchets and fists rather than a war engine.
He kept one eye on the watchtowers, hoping for a signal that would take him to the action. As yet, none had come.
“Just my luck to get stuck with the third tit, Liffin,” he grumbled.
“Yeah, it’s not fair, Sarge,” the grunt agreed.
“What’s the matter with those Uni bastards? Can’t they knock down one pair of gates for a good fight?”
“Inconsiderate,” Liffin sniffed.
An object sailed high over the wall and fell towards them. They could see it was one of the enemy’s fire canisters, its fuse smouldering.
Haskeer brightened. “That’s more like it!”
They followed the clay bottle’s trajectory as the crowd scattered. It fell about five yards in front of them and didn’t go off.
“Bull’s bollocks,” Haskeer groaned.
“Better luck next time, eh, Sarge?” Liffin commiserated.
The bell in the watchtower above rang out. The lookouts were signalling.
“At
last
,” Haskeer sighed. “Hive off half the strength, Liffin, and take command here. I’m needed at a hot spot.”
“Yes, Sarge,” Liffin replied glumly.
Alfray was on another wall. Apart from that, his experience was the same as Stryke’s and Coilla’s. Raiders flowed over the ramparts and they did their best to kill them.
The object of Alfray’s attention was a whiskered bully trying to part his head from his shoulders. He was using a two-handed axe to realise the ambition, but the orc had other ideas. He also had a nimbler weapon. His sword flashed beneath the axeman’s guard not once but twice. The Uni staggered and went down. One of the grunts snatched up his axe and turned it on another interloper.
Alfray’s limbs ached and he already felt exhausted. But he pushed that back and bowled into a new knot of custodians. Working in unison with a pair of grunts, he drove them back to the screen. One went over it. The other two were felled where they stood.
He turned, running the back of a hand over his brow, and saw black smoke rising from the direction of Coilla’s wall.
Jup had been called to firefight on the seaward side.
There was a small gate there, falling within Krenad’s remit, but things had got out of hand. The Unis had rammed it with a burning wagon. The gate was part open, part on fire, and the enemy were filing in through a gap.
The narrowness of the entrance helped. It meant the attackers couldn’t establish a bridgehead of any size as long as the defenders kept striking them down on arrival. Heaps of dead, mostly Unis, surrounded the gate. But the flood of invaders was so strong it was hard to tackle them all.
Jup and half his squad upped the odds on re-sealing the fissure. He went about it by sending a wedge of thirty shielded troopers to the cleft with the aim of stopping the inflow. Thirty more were assigned to shove out the wagon and get the doors closed. The remainder of Jup’s and Krenad’s squads were busied with dousing the fire and going after the loose Unis already inside.
It was touch and go for a while, but they staunched the flow.
He would have liked a breather. He didn’t get it. The local watchtower’s bell sounded and the guards frantically signalled his next destination.
Stryke had answered a call for help too.
In the event, the incident he had rushed to, on the north side, proved relatively easy to cope with. He was grumpy about being sent on a wild-goose chase, but glad he took only ten troopers with him. More than that he didn’t dare spare from the wall.
Now he was returning at all speed, with the grunt Talag at his side, the others close behind. As they turned at a group of buildings and entered the stretch running to their post, they saw a commotion ahead.
A lone Uni on horseback was tearing towards them. An angry mob snapped at his heels. The man must have got in one of the breached gates and somehow evaded the welcoming committees. He was travelling all out, whipping the horse’s flanks with his reins.
About halfway between the rider and Stryke’s squad, somebody tried to run across the avenue. It was a child.
Stryke recognised him as Aidan Galby.
The orcs shouted at him, and the crowd did the same. For his part, the rider kept coming and didn’t alter course.
He hit the boy, bowling him aside like a rag puppet. Aidan tumbled across the path and came to rest face down in front of a building.
The impact slowed the Uni, although it didn’t deter his flight. As he was spurring again, half Stryke’s squad rushed at him. Talag was one of the first to get there. He and two others snatched the horse’s reins. But it was Talag who tasted the Uni’s wrath. The man struck him down with his sword, cleaving his neck with a savage blow.
Stryke rushed forward and took hold of the rider’s trailing greatcoat, pulling him from the mount. Then he ran him through with his blade, piercing his heart. Letting the body drop, he turned to Talag. One look was enough.
He ran on and reached the boy. There was no doubt he was badly hurt. He was unconscious and breathing feebly. Stryke knew it was unwise to move anyone who was injured, but he needed to get the hatchling to a proper healer. Gently, he lifted the child’s prone form.
Noskaa appeared on the gangway above and called down.
“You’re in charge until I get back!” Stryke shouted at him.
He ran with the boy in his arms.
Stryke ran through the chaos, clutching the injured child. Sounds of the siege still raged on every side. Bodies continued to plunge from the ramparts. Fires blackened the sky. He turned away from the outer rim and headed to the settlement’s core, weaving through narrow streets, side-stepping or barging aside the bustling humans.
Finally he came to Krista’s house. It was being used as a makeshift field hospital. Stretcher-bearers queued to carry in the injured and walking wounded jammed the entrance. But when they saw his burden they moved aside.
He crashed into the building and found it overflowing with the stricken. Scores of makeshift beds filled every room and lined the corridors. Less seriously damaged individuals sat and leaned as their hurts were tended. The nursing was undertaken by female acolytes of the Mani order.
“The High Priestess!” he demanded forcefully. “Where is she?”
Shocked novices pointed to a room packed with occupied beds. He rushed into it. Krista stood at the far end, ministering to a wounded soldier. She looked up and saw him. Her face contorted with shock and dread, her eyes widened.
“What’s happened?” she cried, rushing to take the child.
Stryke hastily explained.
She gently laid the boy on a vacant straw mattress and called to him. “Aidan.
Aidan!
” She turned to Stryke. The colour was draining from her features. “He was supposed to be here. I don’t understand. He —”
“I reckon he got caught up in the chaos and was hurrying back to you when it happened. How bad is he?”
“I’m not skilled enough to know. But it doesn’t look good.”
Physicians arrived, homing in on the commotion. They were Mani healers with incense swingers and poultices. Clustering around the patient they commenced prodding and conferring. They didn’t look hopeful. Or to Stryke’s eyes, very competent. But he didn’t voice that opinion.
He glanced at Krista. She was beginning to be swallowed by quiet despair.
Unnoticed, he slipped away. Once out of the house and through the press at its door he started running.
He went to the wall Alfray was helping defend. Sections of it were smouldering from recent fires, and there was still a measure of chaos. But there seemed to be fewer attackers coming over. Stryke thought the onslaught might be abating. Pushing through the mob of defenders, he eventually found his corporal at one end of the walkway, wiping blood from his sword. His clothes were spattered with it too. So were Stryke’s, now he came to notice.
“Stryke?” Alfray said. “What is it?”
“Krista Galby’s child. Aidan. He’s been hurt.”
“How so?”
“Hit by a horse. A runaway Uni in the settlement. He’s in a bad way, I reckon.”
“What are his injuries?”
“He was out cold when I just saw him. I think he took the blow to his chest and side mostly.”
“Any bleeding? Wounds? Broken skin?”
“I’m pretty sure not. There was no sign of blood anyway. He was having a hard time breathing.”
“Hmm. What treatment’s he getting?”
“I don’t know. Well, a bunch of Mani healers were around him when I left. You know the sort. Chanting and incense.”
“They must be doing more than
that
for him.”
“Whether they are or not they didn’t fill me with confidence,” Stryke confided. “You’ve dealt with injuries like that before, haven’t you?”
“Plenty of times. From falls and combat. Maybe half who get ’em pull through. Of course, I can’t say how bad it might be without seeing him.”
“I’m thinking they need a decent combat physician over there.”
“Surely he’ll get the best of care, being the High Priestess’ son?”
“Maybe he will. But in this chaos? I’m doubtful. Will you come now and look at him?”
“How are they going to feel about an outsider, and an orc at that, sticking his nose in?”
“I should think Krista would be glad of any help. And I reckon you’ve had more experience of real healing than most here. The treatment many of the wounded are getting seems very basic; you must have noticed that.”
Alfray mulled things over for a minute. “This has nothing to do with the star, does it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Could you be thinking, perhaps, that if we can help her son, the High Priestess might be grateful enough to . . . I can see that wasn’t on your mind. I’m sorry. It was unworthy of me.”
“It really isn’t that. He’s just a hatchling. This war wasn’t of his making. Like the orc hatchlings and the innocent young of the other races who’ve suffered.”
“Many of them at the hands of humans,” Alfray replied cynically.
“Not these humans. Will you come?”
“Yes.” He surveyed the scene along the wall. “Things are quietening a bit here. I think they can spare me.”
He handed over control to a capable orc trooper. Then they commandeered a couple of horses for the return journey.
Krista’s house was just as congested. If anything, more wounded were being delivered. The pair of orcs elbowed through, ignoring protests of the kind Stryke didn’t get when he took in the human child earlier. They made their way to the far room, stepping over the injured, standing aside as sheet-wrapped bodies were carried out.
The assembly of Mani healers and holy men around Aidan’s bed had grown to four. They were muttering charms and burning herbs. Krista herself was kneeling on the floor next to the boy, head slumped in her hands, obviously desperate. The arrival of the orcs had them all turning to look. Their bloodstained clothes and grimy faces were the object of scrutiny.
Stryke and Alfray strode to the bed.
“How is he?” Stryke asked.
“No change,” Krista reported.
“You know my corporal here, Alfray. He’s had a lot of experience with these kinds of injuries, in the field. Would you mind him asking some questions?”
Her eyes were glistening. “No. No, of course not.”
The healers seemed less than pleased, but they didn’t contradict their High Priestess.
“What’s your judgement?” Alfray wanted to know.
The physicians exchanged meaningful glances. For a moment it looked as though nobody was going to reply. Then one, the oldest and most whiskery, spoke for them all. “The boy is injured inside. His innards are crushed.” It came out like he was talking to a backward infant.
“What’s your treatment?”
The ageing healer looked affronted at being asked. “The application of compresses, the burning of certain herbs so that he may inhale their goodness,” he replied with slight indignation. “And entreaties to the gods, naturally.”
“Herbs and prayers? That’s all right as far as it goes. But something more practical might be better.”
“Are you a healer? Have you studied the art?”
“Yes. On the battlefield. If you mean from books and sitting at an old man’s feet, no.”
The old man puffed himself up. “Age brings wisdom.”
“With respect,” Alfray responded, although it was obvious to Stryke at least that he felt little, “it can also bring a rigid way of looking at things. I speak from some knowledge of the subject. In orc terms I am not in the first flush of youth. Like you.”
The healer looked affronted. His colleagues were evidently scandalised. Seeking higher authority, the elderly one appealed to Krista. “
Really
, ma’am, this is too much. How do you expect us —”
“Let Alfray look at the boy, High Priestess,” Stryke interrupted. “What have you to lose?”
The old healer persisted. “But, ma’am —”
She overruled him. “This is my son we’re talking about. If what Corporal Alfray has to say can help, I want to hear it. If not, you can continue with your ministrations. Please stand aside.”
With resentful glances at the orcs and some under-the-breath comments, the four healers stepped away. They went off to the end of the room and conversed darkly in undertones.
“I need to examine him first,” Alfray said.
The priestess nodded consent.
He bent to the boy and pulled back the blanket covering him. He was still wearing his shirt. Alfray drew a knife.
Krista gave a sharp intake of breath, a hand to her mouth.
Alfray gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s just to expose the afflicted area. Don’t be concerned. It’s something I would expect to have been done already,” he added, directing a pointed glance at the huddled physicians.
He used the blade to cut away Aidan’s shirt and reveal his torso. The knife returned to its sheath, he gently probed the lad’s chest and side with his hands. He indicated black-and-blue patches that were starting to colour the skin. “There’s some bruising coming up. A good sign. There are no open wounds or blood flows. That can also be to the good.” He felt around the area of the ribs. “There might be a break here. His breathing’s shallow but regular. The pulse is regular too, though faint.” He lifted the child’s lids. “The eyes tell us much about the body’s humours,” he explained.
