Orcs (15 page)

From this angle they could see four kobold guards. They wore furs against the night’s chill. Two of the wiry creatures were at the side of the big hut, two beside the smaller. None was moving.

Swiftly deciding a strategy, Coilla conveyed it to the others via sign language. Her plan was that she would go to the right with two grunts, toward the small hut, Haskeer and his grunts to the large hut on the left. The gesticulations ended with her drawing a finger across her throat.

Tensely, they awaited their opportunity, and the open ground to be crossed meant that when it came they would have to move fast. Several minutes went by. Then in conjunction both sets of guards were vulnerable. One pair engaged in conversation, half turned away from the hill. Their fellows at the large hut began a patrol, backs to the orcs.

Haskeer and Coilla broke cover and ran. The grunts fanned out behind them.

A knife gripped between her teeth, the other in her hand, Coilla moved as lightly and swiftly as she could. She was little more than halfway across the clearing when the guards finished talking and parted.

Coilla froze, signalling the others to do the same.

Without looking their way, one guard went to the end of the hut and turned its corner. The other still faced away from Coilla, but was slowly turning as he scanned his turf.

She glanced at the larger hut. The guards there were oblivious to what was happening. Haskeer’s group must have been further back; she didn’t see them.

A fraction of a second had gone by. There were perhaps thirty paces between her and the turning guard. It was now or never. She drew back her arm and hurled the knife with all her force. The momentum bent her forward at the waist and expelled the breath she held.

The throw was true, catching her target squarely between its shoulder blades. A muffled
thock
marked the impact. The kobold went down without a sound.

Coilla dashed forward, the grunts at her side. They arrived just as the second guard came back round the corner. The grunts piled into the startled creature, denying it time to draw a weapon. It was dealt with quietly and brutally.

The bodies were dragged out of sight. Coilla and the others hid themselves as best they could and looked to the big hut. They saw Haskeer’s group creeping up on their prey.

Around the larger building the ground had been more thoroughly trampled by kirgizils and the going was muddier. Never the most graceful of orcs, but often the most overconfident, Haskeer managed to get one of his boots stuck in the slime. In pulling it free, with a loud sucking sound, he lost balance and pitched headlong. His sword went flying.

The kobold he was sneaking toward spun around. Its jaws gaped. Haskeer scrabbled for his sword. It was out of reach, so he grabbed a rock and pitched it. The missile struck the creature’s mouth, bringing a spray of blood and broken fangs. Then the grunts rushed in and finished the job with daggers.

Haskeer snatched his sword, tumbling forward. He skidded as much as sprinted at the remaining sentry. The kobold had its own weapon drawn, and fended off the first blow. Knocking the scimitar aside with his second, Haskeer drove his blade deep into the guard’s chest.

Again, bodies were hauled away and concealed.

Panting, Haskeer looked to Coilla, and exchanged a triumphant thumbs-up with her. A few further signs established that their next move would be checking the huts.

The one Haskeer’s group had reached was without windows. Its door was not a door as such, but rather an open entrance covered by a rush hanging. He led the way to it and they positioned themselves, ready for trouble. Very carefully, Haskeer edged the curtain aside a little, vigilant for the tiniest sound. The frail dawn allowed in enough light for him to see.

What he saw was kobolds. Their sleeping forms covered the floor, and each cot in a line against the far wall was shared by heaps of them. Weapons were scattered everywhere.

Haskeer held his breath, fearful of waking the overwhelming force. He began to withdraw slowly. A kobold stretched out near the door stirred fitfully in its sleep. Haskeer went rigid, and stayed that way until he was absolutely sure it was safe to move again. Then he gently replaced the curtain and silently expelled a relieved breath.

He backed off three paces. The curtain stirred. Haskeer and the grunts flattened themselves to the wall on either side of the door.

A dishevelled kobold came out of the hut, too drowsy to pay much attention to its surroundings. It staggered a couple of steps and pawed at its groin. A vacantly blissful expression on its face, and swaying gently, the creature let loose a hissing stream of urine. Haskeer pounced, locking his arm around the creature’s neck. There was a brief struggle. The kobold’s gush of water splashed uncontrollably. A muscular jerk of Haskeer’s forearm snapped the bandit’s neck.

The orc sergeant remained stock still, holding up the limp body, listening for any further movement. Satisfied, he dragged the corpse to the spot where their other victims were dumped, cursing soundlessly all the while at the piss soaking his boots. After dropping the body he continued grumbling as he rubbed them on the back of his breeches.

Apart from size, the hut Coilla’s group were investigating differed from the larger building in two respects. It had a door, and at the side, a window. Coilla ordered the grunts to keep a lookout while she tiptoed to it. Stooped beneath the opening, which had neither shutter nor blind, she tried to gauge any noises from inside. Once attuned, she heard a rhythmic, wheezy sound that took a moment to identify as snoring.

She slowly raised her head and looked in.

The single room had three occupants. Two of them were kobold guards, sitting on the floor with their backs against the wall and legs outstretched. Both seemed to be asleep, and one was the source of the snoring.

But it was the third occupant that drew her attention.

Tied to the room’s only chair was a being at least as short as the kobolds, though of much chunkier build. Its rough hide had a green tinge. The large pumpkin-shaped head appeared out of proportion with the rest of the body, and the ears jutted outward slightly at an angle. There was something of the vulture about its neck. The elongated eyes had excessively fleshy lids, with black elliptical orbs against white surrounds shot through with yellow veining. Its pate and face were hairless, save for whiskery sideburns of reddish-brown tufts of fur, turning flaxen.

It wore a simple grey robe, the worse for being obviously long unwashed. Its feet were shod in suede ankle boots, with tarnished buckles, that had also seen better days. Where skin showed, on the face and hands, which were not unlike an orc’s, it was wrinkly like a serpent’s. Coilla reckoned the creature was very old.

As the thought occurred, the gremlin looked up and saw her.

His eyes widened. But he made no sound, as she feared he might. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Coilla dropped out of sight.

With signs and whispers she conveyed her discovery to the grunts, and ordered them to stay while she reported. As they hid, she signalled Haskeer. He left his own troopers behind and joined her for the jog back to the hill.

By the time they rejoined the rest of the band, Stryke was growing anxious.

“We took care of all the guards we came across,” Haskeer blurted. “And that big hut’s full of the whole fucking raiding party by the looks of it. The little bastards.”

“Any sign of the cylinder?”

Haskeer shook his head.

“No,” Coilla concurred. “But what I saw in the smaller hut was interesting. They’ve got a prisoner in there, Stryke. A gremlin. He looked pretty old, too.”

“A gremlin? What the hell’s that about?”

Coilla shrugged.

Haskeer was getting impatient. “What are we waiting for? Let’s whomp ’em while they’re sleeping!”

“We’re going to,” Stryke told him. “But we’re doing it right. The cylinder’s the reason we’re here, remember. This is our only chance of finding it. And I don’t want that prisoner hurt.”

“Why not?”

“Because our enemy’s enemy is our friend.”

The concept seemed alien to Haskeer. “We have no friends.”

“Ally, then. But I want him alive, if possible. If the cylinder
isn’t
here, he might be able to tell us where to look. Unless any of you have worked out how to understand that kobold gibberish.”

“We should be moving,” Jup urged, “before the bodies are found.”

“Right,” Stryke agreed. “This is how we’re doing it. Two groups. Me, Coilla and Alfray will join the grunts already at the small hut. I want to be sure of the prisoner. Haskeer and Jup, you take everybody else and surround the big hut. But don’t do anything till I get there. Got that?”

The sergeants nodded, but avoided looking at each other.

“Good. Let’s go.”

The Wolverines divided into their assigned groups and flowed down to the settlement. They met no resistance and saw no movement.

Once Stryke’s party had joined with the grunts left on guard, they positioned themselves outside the smaller hut. They could see Jup and Haskeer’s group doing the same.

“Stand ready for my order,” Stryke instructed in a hushed tone. “Coilla, let’s see that window.”

She went ahead, staying low, and he followed. After peeking through the opening she beckoned him to look. The scene was as before; two lounging kobold guards, spark out, and their bound prisoner. This time the gremlin was unaware of being watched and didn’t look up. Coilla and Stryke crept back to the others.

“Time to take a gamble,” Stryke whispered. “Let’s do this fast and quiet.”

He rapped on the door and ducked to the side, out of sight. A long half-minute passed as they waited tensely. Stryke wondered if things had gone sour, and wouldn’t have been surprised if the entire kobold nation had appeared and fallen on their necks. He scanned the terrain, saw nothing, then knocked again, a little louder. After a few more seconds crawled by they heard the scrape of a bolt.

The door opened and one of the kobolds stuck its head out. It was done casually enough to indicate it wasn’t expecting trouble. Stryke seized the creature by its neck and savagely tugged it aside. The other Wolverines poured into the hut.

Stryke killed the squirming kobold with a single dagger-thrust to its heart. Dragging the body behind him, he quickly entered the building. The second sentry was already dead. It hadn’t even had a chance to rise, and the rigour of violent death was frozen on its face. Stryke dropped the first guard’s corpse next to it.

Coilla had her hand over the mouth of the trembling prisoner. With the other she held a knife to his throat.

“Make a sound and you follow them in death,” she promised. “If I take my hand away, will you keep quiet?”

The gremlin nodded, eyes wide with fear. Coilla removed her hand, but kept the knife near enough to underline her threat.

“We’ve no time for a polite chat,” Stryke told the captive. “Do you know about the artifact?”

The gremlin seemed confused.

“The
cylinder?
”

Looking from one grim orc face to another, then down to the slaughtered kobolds, the gremlin returned his gaze to Stryke. Again, he nodded.

“Where is it?”

The gremlin swallowed. When he spoke, his voice had a gravelly, bass quality. But it was tempered by the higher notes of age-stretched vocal cords, and terror. “It is in the longhouse with those who sleep.”

Coilla gave him a hard look. “You’d better not be lying, ancient one.”

Stryke pointed at a grunt. “Stay with him. The rest of you come with me.”

He led them across to the longhouse.

The band armed themselves with their preferred weaponry for close-quarter fighting. Most chose knives. Stryke favoured a sword and knife combination. Haskeer settled on a hatchet.

As they’d already discovered, there was only one door. They clustered around it, Stryke, Coilla, Haskeer, Jup and Alfray to the fore.

Despite being on the edge of a township housing unknown numbers of a hostile race, certainly hundreds, Stryke was aware of a strange quietness that amounted to a kind of serenity. He put it down to the sense of calm he often felt before combat, the unique feeling of being centred, of being whole, that only the nearness of death engendered. The air, for all its impurities, had never smelt quite so sweet.

“Let’s do it,” he growled.

Haskeer ripped aside the cloth.

The Wolverines piled into the hut, laying about them with unstoppable ferocity, hacking, slashing, stabbing everything in their path. They trampled the kobolds, kicked them, bayoneted them with swords, slashed their throats, pummelled their bodies with axes. A deafening cacophony of screams, squeals and foreign-tongued curses rose from their victims to add to the chaos.

Many of the creatures died without rising. Others got to their feet only to be instantly cut down. But some, further into the packed room, did manage to stand and mount a defence. The slaughter became vicious hand-to-hand combat.

Facing a wildly slashing scimitar, Stryke ran through its owner with such force that his sword tip penetrated the wall beyond. He had to apply his boot to the kobold’s chest to prise the blade free. Without pause, he sought fresh meat.

Belying his advancing years, Alfray deftly felled a bandit to his right, switched tack and skewered another to his left.

Coilla dodged a spear-wielding assailant, slashed bare its knuckles and buried both her daggers in its chest.

Haskeer slammed his ham-like fist on top of a kobold’s head, shattering its skull, then turned and swiped his hatchet into the next foe’s stomach.

Fencing with a hissing bandit clutching a rapier, Jup knocked the weapon aside and sent his blade into the kobold’s brain via its eye.

The frenzy continued unabated. Then, as suddenly as the carnage had begun, it ended. None of the enemy was left standing.

Stryke ran a hand across his face, clearing it of sweat and blood. “Hurry!” he barked. “If that doesn’t bring more of ’em, nothing will.
Find that cylinder!
”

The band began a frantic search of what had become a charnel house. They rummaged through the bodies’ clothing, rooted in straw on the floor, tossed aside the possessions of the vanquished.