Orcs: Bad Blood

by Stan Nicholls

  “Good question.”

  They stealthily withdrew and rejoined the rest of the group.

  With gestures and soft words, Stryke filled them in. Then he divided his force. Half, led by Jup, were sent to one end of the barracks. He took the other half to the opposite end. A lone orc lingered midway, ready to signal when they were in position.

  Once he did, the two groups poured around the corners of the building. They charged the startled would-be ambushers from both sides, bellowing war cries, and fell upon them.

  The Vixens were halfway to the gates before they were spotted.

  Soldiers rushed to engage them. Arrows winged from the battlements.

  Coilla, Spurral and Chillder were in the vanguard, and they tore into the humans with savagery. Thirty screaming females, wildly slashing steel, set about the troops like a flock of blood-lusting harpies. A dozen lethal brawls boiled in the middle of the square. More soldiers dashed towards the maelstrom.

  There was a tremendous crash. The gates exploded inwards, crushing defenders on either side as Brelan’s horseless wagon hurtled through. It ploughed into fleeing troopers, shattering their bones and bouncing over their broken bodies.

  The wagon rumbled on across the square, humans scattering in its path. It demolished the corner of a storehouse, but kept going, though its speed reduced. Finally it smacked dead centre into the side of another, sturdier building, where its ram buried itself in the brickwork.

  Its payload of bellowing orcs leapt free and charged into the fray.

  Then the mayhem started in earnest.

  27

  “Now!” Pepperdyne yelled.

  He and Bhose gripped the steering lever. Behind them, the orc attack team braced themselves. The pushing crew shoved the wagon over the lip of the hill and sent it on its downward path.

  Pepperdyne could clearly see the damage to the fortress gates, and, on the battlements, more defenders than before. The orc archers sent out another volley, and human bowmen responded.

  “We’ve used up the element of surprise,” Pepperdyne said, the wind whipping his hair. “This could be rougher than Brelan’s ride.”

  Bhose nodded grimly.

  As they gathered speed, the human gazed at the fortress and added, “I wonder what the hell’s going on inside there.”

  Stryke and his team had made the space behind the barracks block a rat trap. Now it was a bloodbath.

  The humans outnumbered the orcs two to one. Stryke’s group had the advantage of ambushing the ambushers, and they had orcish ferocity. But with nowhere to run the humans fought with equal aggression.

  It seemed to Jup that there was an endless supply of heads to crack and ribs to cave in. Deftly wielding his staff, he obliged. Though his style was somewhat cramped by fighting in such a confined space. He overcame the restriction, and his short stature, by employing a technique that had served him well in the past.

  Attacking his opponents’ lower limbs, he worked on toppling them. Brought down to his level they were ripe for lethal blows, or quick lunges from the thin-bladed dagger strapped to his palm.

  Stryke preferred a sword and knife combination in close quarters combat. When a hulking trooper loomed up ahead of him, he lashed out with the knife, catching him in the chest. Then he used it the way a butcher uses a hook, hoisting the human forward, on to the sword’s blade. The man had hardly dropped before another took his place. Stryke felled him too, hacking deep into his neck and letting loose a jet of scarlet.

  Venting their hatred for the oppressors, the rest of the orcs toiled as hard, reaping a harvest of rent flesh and severed limbs. In short order the number of dead and wounded mounted. The surviving soldiers retreated, making a last stand with their backs to the wall. Stryke’s team pressed in on them.

  The fighting was much more widely dispersed on the parade ground. Brelan’s group had got clear of their wagon and united with the Vixens. Half of them were archers, and they fell into exchanging fire with the bowmen on the parapets. The rest pitched into the general melee.

  Coilla was embroiled with a young officer whose fencing skills were superior to any human she’d so far encountered in Acurial. It was the last thing she needed, and she battled hard to finish it quickly. But she was stymied by his flair for warding off every blow she threw at him.

  She spent precious seconds thrusting, feigning, spinning and dodging before her impatience turned to fury. Ignoring caution she turned to brute might. Thrashing wildly, she powered through his defence. Before he got his guard back up she delivered a heavy whack to his sword arm with the flat of her blade. Her reward was a loud crack as the bone shattered. The officer cried out, the weapon slipping from his insensate hand. Coilla instantly followed through, landing a solid hit to his chest.

  Internal organs ruptured, he went down spitting blood.

  She found herself shoulder to shoulder with Brelan.

  “Where’s Stryke?” he yelled.

  “They had an ambush planned. He’s dealing with it.”

  He looked shocked. “But how —”

  “Later, Brelan, later!”

  They spiralled off into fresh opponents.

  Moments later she noticed he’d gravitated to Chillder, and the twins were fighting in harmony.

  Spurral eschewed her usual staff and chose to arm herself with a pair of long knives. Her other weapon was less tangible: the bewilderment of the humans when confronted by a dwarf. Moreover, a female dwarf. If incredulity meant a split second’s hesitation she gladly exploited it, and more than one dumbfounded foe paid with his life.

  Faced by a couple of troopers less impressed with her otherness, she nimbly plunged her knives into both their torsos simultaneously. Then she spun to avoid a rushing spearman, tripped him as he passed and planted the double blades in his back. The warrior who took his place reeled off clutching an open throat.

  Coilla appeared at her side. “We’re forgetting the gates!”

  Humans were massing there again, intent on closing the breach.

  “What do we do?”

  “Follow me!”

  They weaved through the fracas, gathering as many Vixens as they could. With six or seven in tow they ran towards the gates. That caught the attention of several archers on the battlements. They targeted the sprinting females.

  Barely ten paces had been covered when one of the Vixens was struck in the eye by an arrow. She was dead before she hit the dirt.

  “Shit!” Coilla cursed.

  “Heads up!” Spurral exclaimed, pointing with a knife.

  A mob of troops had spilled out of one of the barrack blocks and was dashing to intercept them.

  The small contingent of Vixens stood their ground. With a battle raging behind them, a crowd of troops milling at the gates ahead and knots of soldiers all around, there was little choice.

  The fresh troopers swept in. Almost immediately one of the Vixens let out a piercing scream. A spear buried in her chest, she staggered a few steps before collapsing to her knees. Then she toppled, lifeless.

  In short order one of her comrades was knocked senseless by a vicious head blow. Another sustained a wound that near severed her arm.

  “This is getting hairy!” Spurral yelled. “We need reinforcements!”

  There was uproar at the gates. Soldiers went down like scythed corn as Pepperdyne’s wagon ploughed through them. Nimbler humans leapt aside when it shot over the square. About halfway across, Pepperdyne applied the handbrake. The wagon skidded, turned almost end on end and came to a juddering halt. But its crew wasn’t entirely unscathed. One was dead, and the defenders’ arrows had injured a couple more. The rest jumped clear and joined the set-to.

  “Looks like we got ’em,” Coilla said.

  At the top of the hill, the third wagon was launched.

  Dallog shared the steering lever with a dour resistance member. Wheam was in the rear with the rest of the attack team.

  Turning, Dallog said, “Expect this to be bumpy. Hang on back th
ere.” He addressed it more to Wheam than the hardened fighters sitting with him.

  The youth gave a weak nod, his complexion chalky.

  Having seen off the wagon, Haskeer and the remainder of the force charged down the hill in its wake.

  Stryke’s group, dealing with the ambushers behind the barracks, had been oblivious to the greater picture. But with the last of the humans quickly and brutally dispatched, their task was done.

  “We’ve wasted enough time here,” Stryke announced, jerking his blade from a trooper’s lifeless breast.

  “Then let’s get back to the main event!” Jup replied in a tone that sounded almost gleeful.

  They rushed out to the parade ground.

  The scene that greeted them wasn’t far short of anarchy. There were no defined lines of battle, just a mass of fighting orcs and humans.

  “Where to, Stryke?” Jup asked, scanning the confusion.

  “Looks like Coilla could use some help.” He pointed towards the ruined gates.

  “Seems as good a place as any.”

  Stryke swiftly formed his troop into a wedge formation and led them into the fray.

  They traversed the square by the simple expedient of cutting down any humans who came near. Once they reached Coilla’s group the wedge broke up and splintered into a dozen separate scraps.

  “About time!” Coilla said.

  “Been busy,” Stryke told her, batting away a soldier’s blade.

  “Hey, look!” Jup yelled.

  Through the gap where the gates used to be they saw the third wagon heading towards the fort.

  It was having a rough time. Arrows came down continuously. With the orc archers part of the ground force running behind the wagon, their shields above their heads as though deflecting rain, no one was returning fire.

  Apart from their helmets and chainmail, Dallog and his co-driver had no such protection. It proved telling. An arrow struck the co-driver in the neck. He fell heavily against the steering lever, then went over the side. The wagon veered sharply to the right and came off the road. Dallog struggled to control it.

  One or two orcs in the back of the wagon managed to jump clear. The rest hung on grimly as it picked up speed. Dallog tried applying the brake. It snapped off in his hand.

  Bumping over grassland, the wagon swerved further to the right. It passed the side of the fort, a spear lob to its left, travelling ever faster. Arrows were still raining down on them.

  Dallog shouted something, but his words couldn’t be heard. Wheam squealed.

  Then the wagon ran out of land and plunged over the cliff.

  A company of soldiers arrived furtively at the row of ramshackle buildings by the foot of the cliff. They forced the doors, and armed with lanterns poured in to begin their search.

  The wagon of bellowing orcs shot over the precipice above. Like a great bird downed by a giant’s slingshot, it crashed through the roof of one of the buildings. With a thunderous roar the entire structure collapsed.

  The impact sent shockwaves through the unstable buildings on either side. Imitating a line of playing cards swiped by a spoilt child, the ripple effect had them falling into each other. Walls buckled and went down. Roofs caved in. Smoke and flame erupted from the debris, ignited by the lanterns and brands carried by the ill-fated troopers.

  They heard the reverberation up in the fort, even above the noise of battle.

  “Those fucking archers!” Coilla howled.

  Stryke nodded. “That’s our next objective.”

  The ground force, with Haskeer in the vanguard, jogged through the gates. Its archers immediately took issue with the bowmen on the ramparts and started swapping bolts with them. The others piled into the battle on the square, with Haskeer taking the lead.

  Stryke spotted Pepperdyne finishing an opponent nearby. He left Coilla marshalling her Vixens and went to him.

  “Feel like a task, human?”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Clearing those battlements.”

  Pepperdyne glanced up at the archers. They looked to be at least thirty strong. “I’m game.”

  “We can’t spare many for the job.”

  “I said I’m game.”

  “Right.” He cupped his hands. “Haskeer! Haskeer!” Catching his sergeant’s attention, Stryke waved him over.

  Haskeer cut down a trooper on the way to keep his hand in.

  “What?”

  “We’re going for the archers.”

  “Good. The bastards.”

  “We can’t take more than six away from this. Grab three. Make ’em Wolverines.”

  Haskeer’s brow creased as he did the sum. “That’s five of us.”

  “He’s coming.” Stryke nodded at Pepperdyne.

  Haskeer scowled but said nothing.

  “And get our archers to lay down covering fire. Go!”

  The sergeant dived back into the melee.

  “How do we do it?” Pepperdyne asked.

  Stryke pointed to a stone staircase set against the fortress’ outer wall. It led directly to the battlements. “Up that.”

  “Bit exposed, isn’t it?”

  “Can you see another way?”

  Pepperdyne shook his head.

  Haskeer soon returned. He had Prooq, Zoda and Finje with him. All were blood-splattered.

  “We ready?” Stryke said.

  “The archers let rip when we get to the stairs,” Haskeer told him.

  “All right. Let’s move.”

  They made for the staircase, allowing no opposition to slow them. That meant two or three skirmishes on the way, but nothing they couldn’t handle.

  A pair of archers were stationed at the base of the steps. When they saw a human with five orcs dashing at them they hesitated. But only for a moment. They loosed arrows. Stryke’s crew hit the dirt and the bolts flew overhead.

  Haskeer was the first to his feet. As the bowmen nocked afresh he began running at them. He drew back his arm and hurled a hatchet. It struck one of the archers and took him out. The other had his bow taut and aimed directly at Haskeer. A fire-tipped arrow streaked past them and buried itself in the archer’s chest. He went down with a cry, his jerkin in flames.

  “Nice touch,” Pepperdyne said.

  Then they were moving again. As they neared the steps the orc archers let go their covering shots, and again the arrows were tarred and burning. A dead human tumbled down the stairs, two flaming bolts embedded in his back.

  Stryke at their head, the six tore up the staircase. They were almost at the top before anybody tried to stop them. A sentry came at Stryke with a broadsword, slashing it in a downward stroke. Stryke dodged the blow and kept going. He hunched himself and went for the man’s legs. With a heave, he tossed him over the side of the stairway. The human dropped screaming to the ground.

  They got to the parapet. Most of the archers were concentrating on the battle below and ignorant of their presence. But several of the nearest turned to defend themselves. There was no time for them to raise their bows so they went for swords. Stryke’s crew were on to them instantly, and a short, vicious tussle cut short their resistance.

  Stryke knew that the bowmen further along the parapet were the most dangerous, even with orc archers keeping them busy. Unlike the ones just killed, they were far enough away to use their bows and pick off his team.

  “We need to get close to them,” he said. “Finje, Zoda, Prooq; take these bows and keep ’em occupied.”

  The grunts stripped the weapons and quivers from the dead humans as Stryke, Haskeer and Pepperdyne set off.

  Their first encounter was with two sentries who, seeing the trio coming, charged at them. Stryke and Pepperdyne engaged the pair in swordplay. Haskeer raced on and barrelled into a lone archer in the process of drawing his bow. He battered the man, then proceeded to pound his head against the battlement wall, dashing his brains out.

  Stryke and Pepperdyne, having finished the sentries, caught up. The three ran on.
<
br />   They headed for a knot of four or five archers. Two of them loosed arrows in their direction. One was hopelessly wide of the mark. The other came so close to hitting Stryke he felt the displacement of air as it whistled past his ear.

  Before they could take another shot, Pepperdyne, Stryke, then Haskeer hurtled into them. A bloody reckoning with blades, fists and boots left four sprawled on the walkway and one plummeting to the parade ground.

  From the rear, Prooq yelled a warning. Stryke and the others dropped. A flight of arrows swept overhead and punched into three fast-approaching sentries. Back on their feet, Stryke, Haskeer and Pepperdyne darted onwards.

  They didn’t have to work for the next brace of kills. A couple of bowmen in their path succumbed to blazing arrows from orc compatriots below.

  Ten paces later half a dozen sentries ganged up on them. Haskeer exposed the windpipe of the first one to venture near his blade. Pepperdyne punctured the second’s chest. Stryke ran through the third with a savage thrust, then went on to eviscerate the fourth. Pepperdyne sliced into the fifth’s belly, while Haskeer snapped the neck of the sixth.

  There was no hiatus. The trio had left just a short trail of bloody footprints before they ran into the next clutch of defenders. And so it went, with a seemingly never-ending cavalcade of human flesh to be carved, stabbed and slashed.

  Until at last they stood breathless at the parapet’s end, surrounded by a litter of corpses.

  Haskeer had hold of the remaining defender. He lifted the dazed, beaten human, with the intention of throwing him from the battlements and down the cliff face. Suddenly he stopped, seemed to lose interest in the man and casually dropped him on to the parapet’s flagstones.

  “What’s going on down there?” he said.

  Stryke joined him.

  He saw the wreckage of the demolished hovels at the bottom of the cliff, with flames playing over them and billowing smoke. But what really caught his attention was the dozens of soldiers milling about the ruins, and what they must have been doing.

  “They were going for the tunnel,” he murmered.

  “Look at this!” Pepperdyne said. He was standing on the other side of the parapet, staring down at the fighting.