Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself. We all —”

  “Wait! Ahead!”

  Something was coming towards them from the opposite end of the ravine.

  Stryke held up a hand, halting the column. He squinted, trying to identify the low, broad shape moving their way. It was obviously a beast of burden of some sort, and it had a rider. As he watched, several more came into view beyond it.

  Down the line, Jup passed the reins to a grunt and dismounted. He jogged to Stryke. “What is it, Captain?” he said.

  “I’m not sure . . .” Then he recognised the animals. “Damnation! Kirgizil vipers!”

  Though commonly referred to as such, kirgizils weren’t vipers at all. They were desert lizards, much shorter than horses but of roughly the same mass, with wide backs and stumpy, muscular legs. Albino-white and pink-eyed, they had forked tongues the length of an orc’s arm. Their dagger-sharp fangs held a lethal venom, their barbed tails were powerful enough to shatter a biped’s spine. They were stalking creatures, capable of remarkable bursts of speed.

  Only one race used them as war chargers.

  The lizards were near enough now to leave no doubt. Sitting astride each was a kobold. Smaller than orcs, smaller than most dwarves, they were thin to the point of emaciation, totally hairless and grey-skinned. But appearances were deceptive. Despite the gangly arms and legs, and elongated, almost delicate faces, they were obstinate, ravening fighters.

  Pointed ears swept back from heads disproportionately large in relation to their bodies. The mouth was a lipless slash, filled with tiny, sharp teeth. The nose resembled a feral cat’s. The eyes were golden-orbed, glinting with spite and avarice.

  Quilled leather collars wrapped their unusually extended necks. Their reed-slim wrists prickled with razor-spike bracelets. They brandished spears and wicked-looking miniature scimitars.

  In the business of thievery and scavenging, kobolds had few equals in all Maras-Dantia. They had even fewer when it came to meanness of temperament.

  “Ambush!” Jup yelled.

  Other voices were raised along the column. Orcs pointed upward. More kirgizil-mounted raiders were sweeping down at them from both sides of the gully. Standing in his saddle, Stryke saw kobolds pouring in to block their exit.

  “Classic trap,” he snarled.

  Coilla tugged free a pair of throwing knives. “And we walked right into it.”

  Alfray unfurled the war banner. Horses reared, scattering loose shingle. The orcs drew their weapons and turned to face the enemy on every side.

  Half befuddled from the pellucid, looted wine and rougher alcohol of the night before, the Wolverines were outnumbered with barely room to manoeuvre.

  Blades flashing in the sun, the kobolds thundered in for the attack.

  Stryke roared a battle cry and the warband took it up.

  Then the first wave was on them.

  5

  Stryke didn’t wait to be attacked.

  Digging his heels into the flanks of his horse, he spurred it toward the leading raider, pulling to the left, as though to pass the kobold’s charging lizard. The horse shied. Stryke kept it firmly on course, reins wrapped tightly around one hand. With the other he brought his sword up and back.

  Caught out by the swiftness of the move, the rider tried to duck. Too late.

  Stryke’s blade cleaved the air. The kobold’s head leapt from its shoulders, flew to the side and hit the trail bouncing. Sitting upright, a fountain of blood gushing from its stump, the corpse was carried past by the uncontrolled kirgizil. It ran on into the mêlée at Stryke’s rear.

  He laid into his next opponent.

  Coilla lobbed a knife at the raider nearest to her. It buried itself in the kobold’s cheek. The creature plunged screaming from its mount.

  She singled out another target and threw again, underarm this time, as hard as she could. Her mark instinctively pulled back sharply on its reins, bringing up the viper’s head. Her missile struck it squarely in the eye. Roaring with pain, the animal’s body pitched to one side, crushing its rider. Both writhed in thrashing agony.

  Coilla steadied her horse and reached for more knives.

  On foot when the attackers swept in, Jup had armed himself with an axe and was swinging it two-handed. A kobold, unsaddled by a glancing blow from a Wolverine sword, lurched into range. Jup split its skull. Then a mounted attacker side-swiped the dwarf. He spun and chopped deep into the rider’s twig-thin leg, completely severing it.

  All around, orcs were engaged in bloody exchanges. About a third of them had been de-horsed. Several of the archers had managed to notch their bows and wing bolts at the raiders. But the fight was already too close-quartered to make this feasible for much longer.

  Haskeer found himself boxed in. One opponent hacked at him from the trail side. The other delivered slashing downward blows from the gully’s slope, its dextrous kirgizil gripping the treacherous incline with ease. Fearful of the lizards, Haskeer’s panicking horse bucked and whinnied. He lashed out to the right, to the left and back again.

  An orc arrow smacked into the chest of the kobold on the slope, knocking it clean off the viper’s back. Haskeer turned full attention to the opponent on his other side. Their blades clashed, returned, clashed once more.

  A pass sliced across Haskeer’s chin. It wasn’t a serious wound, though the steel was keen, but it caught him off balance and he fell from the horse. His sword was lost. As he rolled from pounding hooves and swishing reptilian tails, a spear was hurled at him. It narrowly missed. He struggled to his feet and wrenched it from the ground.

  The kobold that had unseated him came in for the kill. Haskeer had no time to straighten the spear. He brought it up to fend off the creature’s arcing sword. It sliced the shaft in two, showering slivers of wood. Discarding the shorter end, Haskeer swung the remainder like an elongated club, swiping the kobold full in the face. The impact sent it crashing to the ground.

  Haskeer rushed in and began viciously booting the creature’s head. For good measure he jumped on its chest, pounding up and down with all his might, knees bent, fists clenched. The kobold’s ribcage snapped and crunched. Blood disgorged from its mouth and nose.

  Alfray fought for possession of the Wolverines’ banner. A kobold, standing in its stirrups, had hold of the pole. Grimly, Alfray maintained an iron grasp, his knuckles whitening as the rod went back and forth in a bizarre tug-of-war. For such an insubstantial-looking creature, the kobold was tenacious. Avaricious eyes narrowed, spiky teeth bared, it hissed horribly.

  It was close to gaining its prize when Alfray delivered an orc’s kiss.

  Throwing himself forward, he head-butted the kobold solidly in its bony forehead. The creature flew backwards, letting go of the pole as though it were a hot poker. Alfray quickly levelled the shaft and rammed the sharpened end into his assailant’s abdomen.

  He turned, ready to inflict the same fate on any enemy near enough. What he saw was a Wolverine grunt trading blows with a raider and getting the worst of it. Exploiting an opening, the kobold lunged in, its scimitar swiftly carving a scathing X on the orc’s chest. The trooper went down.

  Urging on his horse, Alfray galloped full pelt at the kobold, holding the banner pole like a lance. It penetrated the creature’s midriff and exited its back with an explosion of gore.

  Working his way up the trail, Stryke was heading for his fourth or fifth opponent. He wasn’t sure which. He rarely kept count. Two or three kills earlier he’d abandoned the reins, preferring his hands free for combat. Now he held on to and guided the horse solely by applying pressure with his thighs. It was an old orc trick he was adept at.

  The kobold he was fast approaching held a large, ornate shield, the first he had seen any of them carrying. That probably made this particular individual a chieftain. Of more concern to Stryke was how the shield might hinder him in killing its owner. He decided to adopt a different strategy.

  Just before drawing level with the striding reptile, he
grabbed a handful of his horse’s mane and jerked it, slowing their pace. Now parallel with the kirgizil, he stretched down and snatched the harness encasing its huffing snout. Careful to avoid the animal’s snaking tongue, he heaved the yoke upwards, muscles straining. Half strangulated, the kirgizil lashed and struggled, its taloned feet pawing the ground. It twisted its head, snorting for breath.

  Stryke pummelled his heels into his horse’s sides, driving it on. The steed was labouring to move, bearing as it was both Stryke’s weight and the mass of the viper. Unable to control its mount, the kobold rider leaned from the saddle, impotently swiping at Stryke with its blade.

  Finally, its neck bent to an untenable angle, the kirgizil tilted to one side. The kobold let out a dismayed yelp and slid from its back, parting company with the shield. Stryke let go of the lizard’s harness. Ignoring the beast as it fought to right itself, he wheeled round the horse to face the fallen kobold. A sharp tug on the mane made the steed rear.

  The kobold was on its knees when the hooves came down and stove in its skull.

  Stryke looked back. He caught a glimpse of Coilla. She’d lost her mount and was in the thick of the ferocious scrum. Several bandits, parted from their chargers, were moving in on her.

  She couldn’t hold them off with knife-throws any longer; it was down to close combat. Using her knives as daggers, she stabbed and slashed, spinning and dodging to avoid thrusts from spears and swords.

  A leering kobold took a swipe from the edge of her blade across its throat and spiralled away. Another jumped in to take its place. As it raised its sword she darted under it, dealing two rapid stabs to the heart. It collapsed. A third raider appeared in front of her, holding a spear. It was too far away to engage with her daggers, too close for a throw. She stepped back, transfixed by the menacing, barbed spearhead.

  From behind, a hatchet came down heavily on the creature’s shoulder. With an eruption of blood and sinew, it severed the kobold’s spear arm from its trunk. Wailing terribly, the raider fell.

  Hefting his gore-spattered axe, Jup ran forward to join her.

  “We can’t take much more of this!” he yelled.

  “Keep killing!”

  They fought back to back.

  Alfray kicked out at a kobold on foot, while simultaneously crossing swords with another, alongside on its kirgizil. The lizard was snapping at Alfray’s spooked horse, and it was all he could do to keep it in check. Nearby, two orc grunts were cutting a lone raider to ribbons.

  Haskeer’s newly retrieved sword was dashed away by a passing kobold rider. Another raider immediately loomed up, sneering evilly at the Wolverine’s empty hands. Its scimitar flashed. Haskeer ducked. The blade whistled overhead. Diving at his opponent, Haskeer drove his massive fist into its face. With his free hand he caught the wrist of the bandit’s sword arm and squeezed until the bones popped. The kobold shrieked. Haskeer resumed pounding at its face until it let go of the sword. Scooping it up, he ran the creature through.

  Far gone in bloodlust, he turned to an adjacent mounted enemy. The kobold had its back to him, preoccupied with a fight on its other side. Haskeer dragged it from the viper and set to battering it. Its slender arms and legs snapped like dry kindling under the onslaught.

  A bellowing grunt tumbled past, swatted by a kirgizil’s tail. He collided with a brawling mass of combatants. Orcs and kobolds went down in a tangle of thrashing limbs.

  The last ambusher blocking Stryke’s path proved skilful as well as obstinate. Instead of hacking and slashing, Stryke was embroiled in something like a fencing match.

  As his foe’s mount was lower than Stryke’s, the Wolverine commander had to lean over to clash blades. That disadvantage, along with the kobold’s adeptness at swordplay, made it difficult penetrating the creature’s guard. Every blow was parried, each stroke countered.

  After a full minute of stalemate, the kobold’s blade was the one to break through. It gashed Stryke’s upper arm, spraying blood.

  Enraged, he renewed his attack with fresh energy. He showered blows on the raider, seeking to overcome its skill with sheer force. The ceaseless buffeting lacked finesse, and the strokes were scarcely aimed, but soon paid dividends. In the face of the lashing storm, the kobold’s defences weakened, its reactions slowed.

  Stryke’s blade sliced through one of the creature’s upswept ears. It shrieked. The next pass laid open its shoulder, bringing forth an anguished howl.

  Then Stryke landed a vicious blow to the side of the bandit’s head and ended it.

  Panting, his limbs afire from exertion, he slumped in his saddle. There were no more kobolds on the trail ahead.

  Something jolted his horse from behind. The steed bolted. Before he could turn, he felt an impact against his back. A clawed hand snaked around his body and dug painfully into his chest. Hot breath prickled the nape of his neck. The other hand appeared, clutching a curved dagger, and made for his throat. He grabbed the wrist and checked its upward transit.

  The horse was running, unrestrained. From the corner of his eye, Stryke saw a riderless kirgizil passing them: the mount his attacker must have leapt from.

  Stryke twisted the wrist he held, intent on breaking it. At the same time he repeatedly jabbed the elbow of his other arm into the kobold’s solar plexus. He heard a guttural moan. The dagger slipped from its hand and fell away.

  Another mounted bandit appeared at his side. It was waving a scimitar.

  He kicked out, his boot thudding against the creature’s wiry shoulder. The momentary loss of concentration loosened his grip on the kobold at his back. Its hands quickly withdrew. Stryke jabbed his elbow again, sinking it deep in flesh. Once more he aimed a kick at the mounted raider. This time he missed.

  His horse thundered on. The kobold on the viper kept pace, and drew ahead a little.

  Now the tiny, loathsome hands were eagerly scrabbling at Stryke’s belt. He managed to half turn and lash out at the unwanted passenger. His knuckles struck its face, but ineffectually.

  Avidly, the hands encircled his waist again, probing, searching. And he realised what the bandit was after.

  The cylinder.

  No sooner had the thought occurred than the kobold reached its goal. With a triumphant hiss, it seized the artifact and pulled it free.

  As he felt the prize being tugged away, it seemed to Stryke that time slowed, became pliable, stretching the following instant to an eternity.

  Laggard-paced, as though seen with a dreamer’s eye, several things happened at once.

  He caught the horse’s flailing reins and yanked on them with all his might. The steed’s head whiplashed back. A great shudder ran through its body.

  The mounted kobold slowly rose in its saddle, arm outstretched, taloned hand open.

  An object sailed leisurely over Stryke’s right shoulder. It turned end over end, burnished surface briefly flashing reflected sunlight as it descended.

  Time’s frantic tempo returned.

  The rider snatched the cylinder from the air.

  Stryke’s horse went down.

  He hit the ground first, rolling the width of the trail. The kobold sitting behind fetched up a dozen paces away. Vision swimming, breath knocked out of him, Stryke watched as his horse struggled to its feet and galloped off. It headed for the far end of the gully, the same direction as the raider bearing the cylinder.

  A groan came from the kobold that had fallen with him. Possessed of a berserk frenzy, Stryke stumbled over to the creature and vented his anger. Kneeling on its chest, he reduced its face to a bloody pulp with the hammering of his fists.

  The air was rent by a keening, high-pitched blast of sound.

  He looked up. Well clear by now, the escaping bandit held a slender, copper-coloured horn to its lips.

  As the intonation reached the raiders engaging Coilla and Jup, they backed off and began to run.

  Jup took a last, wide swing at his fleeing opponent and shouted, “Look!”

  All the kobolds were with
drawing. Most retreated on foot; some dashed to mount loose kirgizils. They ran and rode in the direction of the gully’s entrance, or up its steep sides. A handful of orcs harried the escaping creatures, but most were licking their wounds.

  Coilla saw Stryke loping towards them. “Come on!” she said.

  They rushed to meet him.

  “The cylinder!” he raged, half demented.

  No further explanation was necessary. It was obvious what had happened.

  Jup carried on along the trail, legs pumping, a hand shading his eyes as he peered into the distance. He made out the kirgizil and its rider, climbing the wall of the gully at its far end. As he watched, they reached the top. They were outlined against the sky for a second before disappearing.

  He trotted back to Stryke and Coilla.

  “Gone,” he reported baldly.

  Stryke’s face was black with fury. Without a word to either of them, he turned and headed for the rest of the band. Corporal and sergeant exchanged barren glances and followed.

  Where the fighting had been most intense the ground was littered with kobold dead and wounded, downed horses and kirgizils. At least half a dozen orcs had more than superficial injuries, but were still on their feet. One was stretched on the ground and being tended by comrades.

  Sighting their commander, the Wolverines moved to him.

  Stryke marched to Alfray, eyes blazing. “Casualties?” he barked.

  “Give me a chance, I’m still checking.”

  “Well, roughly, then.” The tone was menacing. “You’re supposed to double as our combat physician; report.”

  Alfray glowered. But he wasn’t about to challenge the Captain in his present mood. “Looks like no loss of life. Though Meklun yonder’s in a bad way.” He nodded at the downed trooper. “Others took deep wounds, but can stand.”

  Haskeer, wiping blood from his chin, said, “Lucky as devils, us.”

  Stryke glared at him. “Lucky? Those bastards took the cylinder!”

  Palpable shock ran through the band.