Orcs (36 page)

At their head was Tannar, the troll monarch. He stood taller than any other present. His build was brawnier than all save the orcs’. Robes of gold, a silver crown and the long, ornate crook he bore marked his status. But it was what he held aloft in his other hand that mesmerised the captives. He brandished a curved-bladed sacrificial knife, and fixed to its hilt was the very thing the Wolverines had braved Scratch to find.

One of the ancient instrumentalities. A relic the orcs referred to as a star.

The trolls were chanting a guttural dirge. Tannar slowly advanced, intent on murder in the name of his fearful Cimmerian gods. Hardly crediting the bitter irony of their situation, Stryke and Alfray readied themselves for death as the chanting reached a mesmeric pitch.

Eyeing the dagger, Alfray said, “Some joke fate’s played on us, eh?”

“Shame I don’t feel like laughing.” Stryke strained at his bonds. They held firm.

Alfray glanced his way. “It’s been good, Stryke. Despite everything.”

“Don’t give in, old friend. Even to death. Die like an orc.”

A mildly indignant look passed across Alfray’s face. “There’s another way?”

The dagger was close.

There was a flash of light at the mouth of one of the tunnels. What followed seemed to Stryke like an hallucinogenic experience brought on by pellucid. Something shot across the cavern. For a fragment of a second whatever it was left an intensely bright yellow and red trail line.

Then a burning arrow struck the head of one of the trolls standing next to them. Sparks flew as the arrow hit, and the impact knocked the troll to one side. His bushy mane burst into flames as he went down.

Tannar froze. The chanting stopped. A ripple of gasps ran through the chamber. The trolls turned
en masse
to face the tunnel. There was a commotion there. Yells and shrieks rang out.

The rest of the Wolverines were fighting their way in. They were led by Jup, the band’s dwarf sergeant, laying into the startled enemy with a broadsword. Orc archers began picking off more targets with fire-tipped arrows. Light was anathema to trolls and the flaming shafts sowed utter confusion in their ranks.

As best he could with hands tied, Stryke took advantage of the distraction. He rushed at the nearest troll and delivered an orc’s kiss, a vicious head-butt that buckled the creature’s knees and dropped him like a dead weight. Alfray charged an off-guard troll and rapidly kicked him twice in the crotch. The anguished victim collapsed with rolling eyes and twisted mouth.

Tannar had lost interest in his captives and was bellowing orders. His subjects needed directing; their response to the attack was shambolic. The entire chamber housed a furious battle, lit by bursts of illumination from winging arrows and torches the orcs employed as clubs. Screams, wails and the clash of steel echoed from all sides.

A pair of orc grunts, Calthmon and Eldo, battled their way through the tumult to Alfray and Stryke. The prisoners’ bonds were slashed and weapons pressed into their eager hands. They immediately turned the blades on anything that moved and wasn’t a Wolverine.

Stryke wanted Tannar. To get to him he had to pass through a wall of defenders. He set about the task with a will. The first troll blocking his path thrust a spear at him. Stryke side-stepped, avoiding the lunge by a whisker, and brought his sword down hard on the spear. The blow sliced it in two. A stab to the bewildered spear-carrier’s guts put him out of the picture.

The next defender came at Stryke swinging an axe. He ducked and the cleaver whistled in an arc inches above his head. As the troll pulled back to try again, Stryke bought a second’s grace by lashing out at his shin with a boot. The kick connected heavily. Unbalanced, the troll’s next swing was wild, and well off its mark. Stryke exploited an opening and slashed at his chest. The blade cut deep. Staggering a few steps and spraying blood, the troll went down.

Stryke moved in on another foe.

Jup was employed carving his way towards Stryke and Alfray. Behind him, grunts were igniting more brands, and the light from them was increasingly affecting the trolls. As they covered their eyes, roaring, the band felled them. But many were still fighting back.

Alfray faced a pair of trolls trying to corral him with levelled spears. He sparred with them, his sword bouncing off the javelins’ sharpened metal points. After a moment’s to-ing and froing, one opponent overreached himself, his leading arm exposed, and Alfray hacked into it. The troll screamed, let go of his spear and caught the full might of a follow-up slash to the chest.

His maddened companion attacked. Alfray found himself being pushed back as he batted at the menacing spear tip, trying to turn it aside. The troll was too determined for that and pushed on relentlessly. Alfray was close to being pinned to the wall. With the tip jabbing uncomfortably close to his face, he fell into a stoop, then pitched to one side, fetching up next to the troll. He instantly aimed a blow at its legs. The blade sliced flesh, not badly but usefully. It sent the troll into a limping retreat, his spear slackly held.

Alfray leapt to his feet and swung his blade at the creature’s head. The troll dodged to the left. Twisting to compensate, Alfray’s blade turned in flight, so it was the flat, not the edge, that smacked against the troll’s cheek. It yelled its pain and came in with crazy eyes and thrashing spear. The reckless move suited Alfray. He evaded the weapon with ease, spun himself parallel to the troll and sent in a blow. The blade chopped halfway through its neck. A shower of crimson drenched the area.

Alfray expelled a breath from puffed cheeks and thought he was getting too old for this.

Slipping on blood underfoot, Stryke all but collided with the last of Tannar’s defenders. This glowering troll had a scimitar. He proceeded to slash with it ferociously, trying to drive the orc away from his monarch. Stryke stood his ground and returned blow for blow. It was a stalemate for a moment or two as each fighter parried the other’s attacks.

The breakthrough came when Stryke’s blade rapped across the troll’s knuckles and laid them open. Mouthing a curse, the troll aimed a downward stroke that would have parted Stryke’s sword arm from his trunk had it connected. Some deft footwork on Stryke’s part made sure it didn’t. After that he swerved and took a chance on a swipe to the troll’s throat. It paid off.

At last he faced Tannar.

Racked with fury, the king tried braining Stryke with his ornamental crook. The orc was agile enough to avoid that. Tannar threw the unwieldy crook aside and drew a sword, its silvered blade inscribed with swirling runic patterns. He still had the ceremonial dagger, and prepared to work the weapons in unison. Troll and orc squared off.

“What are you waiting for?” Tannar rumbled. “Taste my steel and wake in Hades, overlander.”

Stryke laughed derisively. “You talk a good fight, windbag. Now put your blade where your mouth is.”

They circled, each seeking a flaw in the other’s guard.

Tannar eyed the combat going on all around. “You’ll pay for this with your life,” he vowed.

“So you said.” Stryke kept his tone insolent.

The goading had its effect. Tannar roared in with a swingeing blow. Stryke checked it, the jarring impact he absorbed bearing witness to the strength of his opponent. He sent in a quick counterblow. The king blocked it. Now that their blades had met, the pair flowed into a regular exchange, attacking and defending by turn.

Tannar’s style was all power and little subtlety, though that made him no less dangerous a foe. Stryke’s technique was not dissimilar, but he had the advantage of much more experience, and was certainly nimbler. He also lacked Tannar’s bluster, which showed itself in excessive feinting. Stryke laid on some extra provocation.

“You’re soft,” he taunted, swatting aside a pass. “Lording it over this rabble’s spoilt you, Tannar. It’s made you mushy as tallow.”

Bellowing, the troll charged at him, knife slashing the air, sword raking. Stryke braced himself and swiped, targeting the point where hilt met blade. He struck true. The sword flew from Tannar’s hand, clattering beyond reach. He hung on to the dagger with its precious ornament and brought it to bear. But the shock of losing his sword had turned him leaden-footed. He hadn’t a hope of besting Stryke with the knife and every move now was defensive.

The orc crowded him. Tannar began to back off. What he didn’t know, but Stryke could see, was that Jup and a couple of grunts had got themselves behind him. Stryke hurried the pace of Tannar’s retreat with a torrent of blows.

Jup seized his opportunity. He leapt on to the monarch’s back and threw an arm around his neck. With his other hand he pressed a knife to Tannar’s jugular. The dwarf’s legs were clear of the ground and kicking. One of the grunts moved in and pointed his sword at the king’s heart. Tannar thundered his impotent anger. Stryke stepped forward and prised the sacrificial dagger from his hand.

One or two trolls saw what was happening. Most were unaware and continued fighting.

“Tell them to stop,” Stryke demanded, “on pain of your life.”

Tannar said nothing, eyes blazing defiance.

“Stop them or die,” Stryke repeated.

Jup applied pressure with his knife.

Reluctantly, Tannar shouted, “Throw down your arms!”

Some of the trolls disengaged. Others kept on.

“
Drop your weapons!
” Tannar barked.

This time, all obeyed. Jup withdrew, but they kept the king well covered.

Stryke placed the ceremonial dagger at Tannar’s throat. “We’re leaving. You’re coming with us. If anybody gets in our way, you’re dead. Tell them.”

The king nodded slowly. “Do as they say!” he yelled.

“You won’t need this stuff,” Stryke said, “it’ll slow us.” He snatched Tannar’s crown and threw it to one side.

The impiety brought intakes of breath from many of the watching trolls. Stryke inspired more when he ripped off the king’s elaborate robe and abandoned that in the dirt too.

He returned the dagger to Tannar’s throat. “Let’s go.”

They began to move across the cavern, a knot of orcs and a dwarf surrounding the towering figure of their hostage. Dazed trolls stood by and let them pass. As the procession made its way to the main tunnel, stepping over enemy corpses, the rest of the band joined it. Several were lightly wounded. It seemed to Stryke that all the fallen were trolls.

At the tunnel mouth he yelled, “Follow and he dies!”

Hurriedly they backed out of the chamber.

They made as good a pace as they could through the maze of unlit tunnels, their torches throwing huge, grotesque shadows on the walls.

“Nice timing,” Stryke told Jup. “
Tight
, but nice.”

The dwarf smiled.

“How the hell did you get through the roof fall?” Alfray asked.

“We found another way,” Jup said. “You’ll see.”

They became aware of soft sounds behind them. Turning his head to squint into the darkness, Stryke could make out dim, grey shapes in the distance.

“They’ll hunt you down,” Tannar promised. “You’ll die before reaching the overland.”

“Then you’ll be joining us.” Stryke realised he was practically whispering. To the rest of the band, he ordered, “Stay together, keep alert. Particularly the rearguard.”

“Don’t think they need telling, chief,” Jup said.

A minute or two later they entered the tunnel where the fall took place. Twenty paces ahead it was shut off by weighty boulders and rubble. Before they got to the blockage they came to a crudely cut hole in the wall on their right. The wall was thin, of shale-like material, and another tunnel ran behind it. They began to clamber through. Tannar needed prodding.

“How did this come about, Jup?” Stryke asked.

“Funny what you can do when needs must. This is that deadend tunnel running from the entrance. Had the band sound the walls with hatchets. We got lucky.”

The new passageway took them to another chamber, not unlike a pit, that lay below the shaft to the surface. There was weak light above. A couple of tense grunts were waiting by a brace of dangling ropes. Peering up the shaft, Stryke saw the heads of two more.

“Move it!” he ordered.

The first band members started to climb. Tannar was stubborn. They lashed a rope around him and hauled him up hand over hand. He cursed all the way. Stryke was the last to leave, the blade of the ceremonial dagger clamped in his teeth.

A small cave housed the shaft. Morning light flooded through its entrance. Stryke and the others came out of it blinking.

Tannar covered his eyes with a hand. “This is pain to me!” he complained loudly.

“Put this on him,” Alfray suggested, passing over a cloth.

As the king was blindfolded and led off stumbling, Stryke held back and examined the sacrificial dagger. The star was attached to its hilt with a tight winding of twine. He took his own knife, cut through this and discarded the dagger.

The star was recognisable as such but differed from the other two, as they differed from each other. In the light he could see that it was dark blue in colour, whereas the first one they found was yellow, the second green. Like the others it consisted of a round central ball with spikes radiating from it, apparently randomly. It had four spikes; they had seven and five respectively. The same incredibly tough but unknown material had been used to make it.

“Come
on
, Stryke!” Alfray called.

He crammed the star into his belt pouch and jogged after them.

The band headed for their base camp at speed, or at least as fast as they could with Tannar slowing them. They were greeted by Bhose and Nep, and neither grunt tried to disguise his relief.

“We have to get out of here, fast,” Stryke told them all. “It might be day but I wouldn’t put it past them to venture out for him.” He nodded at Tannar.

“Wait, Stryke,” Jup said.

“Wait? What do you mean, wait?”

“I’ve got to tell you something about Coilla and Haskeer.”

Stryke looked around. “Where are they?”

“This isn’t easy, Captain.”

“Whatever it is, just make it quick!”