They nodded, awestruck at the responsibility.
“Then take her to safety.” Hobrow stooped, his angular body looking like some strange bird as he bent to kiss Mercy’s brow. She bent her head in submission to his authority, but he had already gone.
One glance was enough to show him that the tatterdemalion force from Ruffetts View was no more than a few hundred beings. Already he could see the Whore, riding down on him in a glitter of gold and steel. Her front rank crashed into the Unis’ pikemen with a shock that transmitted itself through the ground. For a moment he could even see the Queen, screaming in rage as one of her horses impaled itself on one of the deadly weapons.
Smiling to himself, Hobrow swung up into the saddle and galloped into the fray. How could she be so stupid? When had a cavalry charge ever broken through a solid line of pikemen? The Lord was with him indeed.
This was going to be easy.
As the dark mass of Jennesta’s army shocked into the foremost rank of the Unis, Stryke spearheaded his orcish cavalry unit at their rear.
Although they were going uphill, not the best of tactics for a charge, their opponents were in confusion. Hobrow’s soldiers had fired a single scant volley of arrows, most of which had fallen short. Firing downhill made it hard to judge distance.
“I guess the best of Hobrow’s archers are up at the sharp end,” Coilla said, crouching low over the neck of her racing mount.
“I ain’t complaining,” Haskeer replied.
The Wolverines thundered on. The smoke was thinner the further from Ruffetts they went, but the battle above was raising so much dust it might as well have been fog. The grass was grey with it, and even the sun was no more than a faint ball hanging halfway up the sky. It didn’t stop the sounds of battle, though, and the very ground was trembling beneath the pounding hooves.
Stryke looked to his right. As agreed, Rellston’s cavalry was sweeping down on Hobrow’s flank from a gentle slope. The Unis’ own horsemen were somewhere up ahead, out of sight behind the shifting mass of the fighting. The Wolverine already knew the enemy would keep their horses at the major battlefront against the unexpected Mani army.
To either side, having set off some minutes earlier, Rellston’s foot-soldiers were beginning to form into lines. The front row wielded short stabbing swords while their comrades levelled long lances. From behind them whistled flight upon flight of javelins. They plunged into the Unis’ flanks. Some clattered off shields, but others found their mark and a ragged chorus of shrieks had Stryke and Coilla grinning with maniacal pleasure.
Only fifty yards before the orcish cavalry punched through the Uni lines. Twenty . . . Ten . . .
From straight overhead came unholy screams of laughter. Confused, the Wolverines looked upwards and recoiled.
A dozen winged creatures came out of the dust cloud, stooping down on the dumbstruck Unis. Hobrow’s archers never knew what hit them. From behind the harpies swooped on them, dragging struggling bodies up into the air then hurling them down upon their comrades. A grisly rain of blood spattered on men and earth alike.
Only a handful of bowmen realised what was happening. Caught completely off guard, they sent a few arrows upwards but for the most part the shots fell back down, doing more harm to the Unis’ own troops than to the harpies, who hid cackling behind the cloud.
Too late to stop his headlong dash, Stryke found himself riding down a boy whose mouth was an O of astonishment. The boy fell beneath the plunging hooves, his scream abruptly cut off. Then it was hack and slash, duck and parry.
Now that the orcs had torn a hole in the Unis’ defence, Rellston’s troops were through. Hobrow’s forces gathered in tight knots, fighting for their lives. And every now and then a harpy would dive down to seize another victim, scattering his ripped limbs onto his terrified comrades.
The outcome was inevitable.
“Like spearing fish in a barrel!” Haskeer cried, his blade a whirling circle of crimson.
“Yeah,” Jup panted, his own share of victims marking his path. “It’s almost a crime.”
At the battlefront above the narrowest part of the valley, Jennesta was incensed. True, her personal bodyguard had thrown themselves at the pikemen, their sheer ferocity driving back the Unis. But that still left her with an overturned chariot and a dead horse in the traces.
“Do something!” she screamed at Mersadion as she dragged herself to her feet.
“Yes, my lady.” Cursing, the General ran after another chariot.
As soon as the driver slowed to hear his commander’s orders, Mersadion leaped aboard and hurled the man out onto the trampled grass. Another team was right behind. With not so much as a backward glance Mersadion left the fallen charioteer to the mercy of spinning hub scythes.
He knew Jennesta in her turn would do the same to him. She bounced away across the rutted ground, whipping her horses to a headlong gallop.
The scent of blood was in her nostrils, singing through her whole being, filling her with a deep hunger. She drove straight at the gap where the pikemen had died and plunged into the battle. The remnants of her personal guard hurried to catch up with her.
Abruptly she slowed. It wouldn’t do to get too far ahead of her men. And slowing the chariot to a stop, she opened her eyes wide in surprise.
A stray breeze had, for an instant, swept the dust aside. Clear as day, she saw that at the foot of the valley a force from the settlement had cleaved into the Unis’ rear.
A force that included orcs.
It might mean nothing. After all, she had orcs of her own, and there were plenty of them scattered about Maras-Dantia.
But then again, it might mean something. It might mean she’d caught up with those thieving turncoats after all.
Jennesta’s faint scaling gleamed as the sun lit up her flashing smile.
In the mêlée outside the north gate of Ruffetts View, the groups of Unis struggled on, unwilling to die without taking as many Manis with them as they could. There couldn’t have been more than two or three thousand of them left at the bottom of the valley but they were selling themselves dear.
Weary beyond belief, Stryke stopped for a breather. It was bloody work, hot and sweaty despite the unnatural chill in the air. Happily, the harpies had gone now, either shot down by bowmen or fled back to wherever they had come from. Their appearance had bothered him. As far as Stryke knew, they hadn’t touched one of the troops from Ruffetts View. How had they known to attack the Unis? Come to that, he had no idea why the other Mani army had turned up without warning.
Telling himself he was just reacting to Hobrow’s fanaticism, Stryke reached for his water-flask. Then cursed as he realised it had been cut loose in the battle. Fortunately the stars were secure.
Coilla reined in beside him. “Gods! I’d kill for a drink of ale,” she said, wiping blood and perspiration from her brow.
“You may have to,” he answered. “There’s bound to be some up there in their camp. Let’s hope we get to it before these gods-botherers do.”
He spurred his mount forward, his head rocking back with the impetus. Coilla looked after him and joined in his wild charge.
Then they caught a glimpse of Krenad. He was hanging upside down, one foot caught in his stirrup as his horse rocketed away in fright, dancing between the broken ranks of fighters.
Stryke took Krenad’s attacker with a swipe from the side while Coilla dashed after the enlistee. She managed to cut in front of his steed and haul it to a standstill. Helping him free his foot, she was glad to see that he could still smile shakily in thanks.
Then a shout from Rellston drew them like a magnet. A pocket of several hundred Unis had taken refuge in a hollow. It was defended by a thicket, and they were making sorties out of it then rushing back to take shelter in the thorny trees.
Krenad pulled himself back onto his horse and passed round a flask of some spirit Stryke didn’t recognise. It tasted foul but it put new heart in him. He looked about him and saw Alfray coming to
wards them out of the murk.
Suddenly the old warrior stopped as though he’d seen someone in his path. Not an enemy but someone he had no beef with. Stryke could see the puzzlement on his corporal’s face. Following Alfray’s gaze, for an instant Stryke thought he saw a glimpse of white. A white stallion, with a wiry, auburn-headed man on its back.
Serapheim?
The vision was obscured by the mêlée.
“Right,” Stryke said, not quite managing to mask his superstitious shiver. “I want a real drink. Let’s see what those sodding Unis have down there.”
The sun was low now, and Hobrow’s surviving troops had been forced to retreat.
Some fool had fired the thicket hours ago, driving out the pocket of Unis but threatening to scorch anybody who wanted to get past. Smouldering leaves drifted in the breeze, setting odd little fires in unexpected places. At times the smoke was so thick it would have choked a dragon. All day the battle had raged, a losing one as far as the Unis were concerned, but fierce nonetheless.
Now the Wolverines and Krenad’s enlistees were side by side, many of them on foot, all of them smeared with blood. For the lucky ones it was somebody else’s.
As evening drew on, a wind sprang up, whistling down the valley on its way to the sea. It tore apart the pall of smoke just long enough for the orcs to see who it was who had so fortuitously come to their aid.
Jennesta.
“My gods!” exclaimed Haskeer at the same time as Stryke cried her name.
The irony of it was not lost on them. Nor, apparently, on Jennesta. From the platform of her distant chariot she glared at them.
Far away as she was, they knew she would be raging with naked hatred. A tiny figure way up on the hillside, she raised her hand as though to cast an invisible spear.
Stryke and his Wolverines scattered. They had seen enough of her magic to know she had balls of dazzling energy at her command.
They needn’t have worried. With another unpredictable shift the breeze dropped the curtain of smoke between them.
“Don’t worry,” Coilla said contemptuously. “She won’t risk her precious self down in the real battle. Now let’s find that murdering Uni chief and then get the hell out of here.”
19
Kimball Hobrow had been behind his men all day, striding from place to place, urging them onward with increasingly desperate prayers. He’d shadowed them every step of the way, every hard-fought pace of the retreat. Now he was hiding out of sight behind an overturned wagon, still hoarsely shouting encouragement.
All at once he found himself with no one left to exhort. The last of his custodians sank to the ground with a tired sigh. Like a child falling asleep, the man gave up the ghost and died as the sun tucked itself behind the ridge.
The camp was off to one side of the valley. It should have been safe enough, hidden in a little dip lined with trees, a peaceful place for a man to make camp with his daughter. But he hadn’t seen his daughter for hours. God alone knew where she was.
For the first time Hobrow wondered if God cared.
The Uni leader crouched lower, hardly aware of the splinters from the wagon board sticking into the flesh of his hand. His sword had long since vanished, dropped when a mob of howling savages came towards his gallant band. Now he had nothing with which to defend himself.
He spotted a couple of subhumans sneaking through the wreckage of his camp. They were wearing the uniform of the Great Whore. Jackknifing up and down again, he snagged a torn blanket from the heap caught on the wheel and pulled it over his head. Perhaps if he squatted and kept really still, they might miss him.
Trying to hold his breath, Hobrow heard his heart as loud as hoofbeats in his ears. Surely they must hear it too? For it was obvious now that he had grievously offended the Lord, and the Lord had deserted him. Hadn’t he been doing God’s will? Hadn’t he been zealous enough?
Apparently not.
Suddenly the two creatures pounced. Tearing the blanket off, they grabbed him as he blinked in the last of the daylight.
“Oh Lord, smite these unbelievers who dare to profane your instru —” One of the orcs clouted him casually over the head.
Hobrow lay stunned for a breath or two. When reality crowded back in on him, he heard the fat one say, “Wonder if he’s got anything worth looting?”
The tall one ferreted around in the pile of stuff that had fallen from the wagon. He tossed a holy book across the clearing, wiping his fingers afterwards on his jerkin. “Nah. Just a pile of old crap.”
Hobrow forced himself up to one elbow. “You can’t say that!” he exclaimed, aghast.
The fat one backhanded him, splitting Hobrow’s lip. “Just did, lame-brain. You talk too much.”
“Let’s cut out his tongue! I could do with a laugh.”
Hobrow scuttled backwards, his legs pedalling furiously. Before they could work out what he was doing he had crawled right under the smashed woodwork of the wagon bed.
The tall one vaulted over the broken traces and reached for him. Hobrow huddled in on himself beneath the broken planks, shrinking out of the orc’s reach.
It made no difference. Casually, the fat one whacked the flat of his axe against Hobrow’s knee. “Quit playing hide and seek, scumpouch.”
Hobrow howled. “Let me go! I’m the Lord’s servant. You can’t hurt me.” His tone tightened to a whine of self pity. “Please don’t hurt me!”
The fat one fastened his fingers in Hobrow’s once-tidy hair and hauled him out. He dragged the cringing Uni upright, shaking him like a rag doll. “Look,” he said to his companion as a stain spread steamily across Hobrow’s pants. “He’s pissed himself.”
Hobrow closed his eyes, feeling the final indignity start to cool and stick clammily on his thighs. His captor shoved him aside. Hobrow fell hard against the wagon wheel.
“Reckon it’s worth taking him back to Her Majesty, Hrackash?” his captor said.
The tall one stared at the Lord’s servant with contempt. “Nah. He can’t be anyone important. He’s got less spine than a jellyfish.”
Sunk in shame, Kimball Hobrow didn’t even feel the knife that plunged into his heart.
As darkness came, Jennesta’s troops fell back to their encampment. But unnatural howls floated across the shadowy battlefield. Furtive movements betrayed the fact that some of the Unis were making their escape over the ridge. Stryke wasn’t aware that Mercy Hobrow was among them. But then, he had other things on his mind.
“We’d better get the last star and clear out,” he decided. “That’s Jennesta up there. I don’t want to be anywhere near her come morning.”
“Why’s she helping us?” Jup wondered.
“She’s not helping us. She’s just getting the Unis out of the way. It’s us she’s after. Coilla? Are you in on this?”
“Of course I am!” She hesitated as Alfray bound up a cut on her shoulder. “It’s just that . . . Well, you know, it doesn’t seem right taking things from allies. It’s not as though we’ve got that many friends, is it?”
“They owe us,” Haskeer stated baldly. “Think of it as a reward.”
“Oh, charming,” Coilla said. “So now I get to rob our allies’ temple.”
A mass of tired riders shambled past them, heading for the town gates.
“Look,” Stryke said. “These people don’t stand a chance. When Jennesta comes through here in the morning, do you want her getting her hands on what might be a source of power?”
That clinched it.
The band made their way down to Ruffetts View, some of them limping, all of them weary.
Alfray grabbed Stryke’s sleeve. “Did you . . . did you see that human, Serapheim, in the battle?”
Stryke hesitated. “I’m not sure. I thought I did, but—”
“But you’re talking a load of bollocks,” Haskeer finished. “Why would some wordsmith be farting around in a battle? Now let’s get down there and find out how grateful these people really are.”
; Inside the gates, the cheering rose up at them like a wall. Someone pressed tankards into their hands. Others passed them chunks of bread and meat. People were capering about, singing, carousing or praying as the mood took them.
Standing in a circle of torchlight by the pool, Krista Galby shone as clean and bright as a candle flame. Beside her, one arm thrust through his green sash as a sling, Commander Rellston leaned exhausted against the low wall. As the orcs put on a bit of swagger, the two Mani leaders called out to them.
“Once again, Stryke, you have my gratitude,” Krista said. “We couldn’t have defeated them without you.”
Rellston inclined his head stiffly. “Let me add my thanks. I don’t suppose you saw that swine Hobrow, did you?”
“No.”
Stryke made to carry on, but Rellston, determined to make up for his earlier mistrust, was summoning more flagons of ale. It was the first time the Wolverines had felt like turning down a drink.
As soon as they could decently get away, they headed towards the fiery column of light on the hill. Krenad’s band watched them go, cracking remarks about orcs who couldn’t take the pace. Haskeer wasn’t the only one who wanted to wipe the smirks off their faces.
With all the celebrations going on in the town, the area around the temple was practically deserted. The Wolverines made no pretence at finesse. As they strolled towards the temple door, they suddenly swung into an attack. It was the last thing the guards expected. They fell without a fight.
“Tie ’em up,” Stryke snapped, feeling a little guilty. But not enough to stop him storming inside.
On the threshold they halted. A votary lamp shone on the star on the column. It sat there, glinting steadily at them.
Coilla sighed and prepared to repeat her athletics of the day before.
“Fuck that,” Haskeer growled. Hurling himself at the massive plinth, he toppled it.
It crashed to the earthen floor with a thud that echoed around the temple. With everyone down at the celebrations there was nobody to hear it but the Wolverines.
Stryke watched the many-spiked star rolling across the floor, bouncing a little like the ones in his dream. If it had been a dream. Quickly he caught it up, thrusting it into his belt pouch with the others.
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