Orcs (63 page)

“I think they’re Hobrow’s men,” the dwarf reported.

“Don’t we ever get any peace?” Coilla complained.

“Not today, by the looks of it,” Stryke replied. “Burn leather.”

They broke into a gallop.

“They’ve seen us!” Haskeer yelled. “And they’re putting on a hell of a spurt!”

A chase began in earnest. The band rode at breakneck speed for the sanctuary of the forest. But the custodians were determined and gaining.

Urging the Wolverines onward, Stryke found himself at the back of their onward rush. Then disaster struck. As the rest of the band rounded a bend and disappeared from sight, his horse caught its hoof in a rabbit hole and went down. Stryke was thrown clear. As he scrambled to his feet the horse rose and bolted.

The thunder of other hoofs had him spinning around.

A charging mob of custodians was bearing down on him. Stryke looked around desperately for cover. None presented itself. He drew his sword.

A great shadow covered him.

Just above, a dragon hovered, the beat of its mighty wings throwing up dust and leaves. The custodians, terrified, pulled up to a skidding halt. Several of them tumbled from their saddles at the violence of their halt.

For his part, Stryke was sure he was finished. It was one of Jennesta’s war dragons, he was sure of that, and he expected nothing but incineration.

The dragon sank down between him and the human posse. When it was near level he saw that the handler was Glozellan herself.

She extended a hand. “Get on, Stryke,” she urged. “Come on! What have you to lose?”

He climbed the beast’s scaly hide and sat behind her.

“Hold tight!” she shouted, and they were away.

The climb was fast and dizzying. Stryke looked down. He saw silvery snaking rivers, green pastures, burgeoning forests. From up here it didn’t look like a land raped.

He tried shouting questions at Glozellan over the wind’s rush, but she either couldn’t hear or ignored him. They flew north.

Perhaps an hour elapsed. They approached a mountain. Unerringly, the dragon made for its plateau. Minutes later they touched down.

“Get off,” the brownie ordered.

He slid to the ground.

“What’s happening, Glozellan?” he asked. “Am I a prisoner?”

“I can’t explain now. You’ll be safe here.”

She stuck her heels into the dragon’s flanks. It began rising again.

“Wait!” he cried. “Don’t leave me here!”

“I’ll be back!” she called. “Have courage.”

He watched until the dragon became a dot, then disappeared altogether.

He sat for hours on his involuntary mountaintop retreat, brooding over events, regretting lives lost.

Having established that there was no possible way down, he took out the stars and contemplated them.

“Well met.”

He leapt up at the sound of the voice.

Serapheim stood before him.

Stryke was confounded. “How did you get here? Were you another of Glozellan’s passengers?”

“No, my friend. How I got here isn’t important. But I wanted to apologise for leading you into that trap set by the goblin slavers. It was not my intention.”

“It turned out right in the end. I have no hard feelings towards you.”

“I’m glad.”

Stryke sighed. “Not that any of it matters much. Things seem to be falling apart faster than I can cope with. And now I’ve lost my band.”

“Not lost, merely mislaid.” He smiled. “The important thing is that you do not despair. There is still much for you to do. Now is not the time to surrender to defeatism. Have you ever heard the story of the boy and the sabre leopards?”

Now it was Stryke’s turn to smile, albeit a little cynically. “A story. Well, I suppose it’s as good a way of passing the time as any.”

“There was once a boy walking in the forest,” Serapheim began, “when he came across a savage sabre leopard. The leopard saw the boy. The boy ran with the leopard in hot pursuit. Then the boy came to the edge of a cliff. There were vines trailing over the edge, so he lowered himself down them, leaving the beast growling impotently above. But then the boy looked down and saw another, equally hungry leopard below, waiting for him. He could neither go up nor go down. Next thing, the boy heard a scratching sound. He glanced up and saw two small mice, one white and one black, chewing through the vine he was holding on to. But he saw something else. Off to one side, almost out of reach, a wild strawberry was growing. Stretching as far as he could, the boy plucked the stawberry and popped it into his mouth. And do you know something, Stryke? It was the sweetest, most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.”

“You know, I think I almost understand that. It reminds me of the sort of thing someone I know might have said . . . in a dream.”

“Dreams are good. You should pay heed to them. You know, the magic energy flows a bit stronger in these parts. It could have some effect on those.” He nodded at the stars in Stryke’s hand.

“There’s a connection?”

“Oh, yes.” Serapheim paused. “Will you give them to me?”

Stryke was shocked. “Like hell I will.”

“There was a time when I could have taken them from you, with ease. And when I would have been inclined to do so. But now it seems the gods want you to have them.”

Stryke glanced down at them. When he looked up again the human had gone. Impossibly.

He would have wondered at it, but now something else had claimed his awe.

The stars were singing to him.

BOOK 3

WARRIORS OF THE TEMPEST

Dedicated with love and fond memories to Eileen Costelloe (1951–2001)

1

They rode like harpies fresh out of hell.

Jup turned in his saddle and looked back at their pursuers. He reckoned there were maybe a hundred of them, outnumbering the Wolverines four or five to one. They wore black and were heavily armed, and the length of the chase had done nothing to cool their fire.

Now the leading humans were near enough to spit at.

He glanced at Coilla, riding abreast of him at the band’s rear. She leaned forward, head low, teeth resolutely clenched, bunched hair flowing like rippled bay smoke. The angular, tattooed corporal’s stripes patterning her cheeks stressed her stern features.

Ahead of Coilla, sergeant Haskeer and corporal Alfray galloped headlong, their foaming mounts’ hooves pounding the frigid turf, kicking up clods of mud. The rest of the orcs were spread out on either side, grim-faced, bent into the lashing wind.

All eyes were on the distant shelter of Drogan Forest.

“They’re gaining!”
Jup bellowed.

If any but Coilla heard, they didn’t show it.
“Then don’t waste breath!”
she yelled, glaring at the dwarf.
“Keep moving!”

Her mind was still on the spectacle they had witnessed earlier, of Stryke unhorsed, then carried off by a war dragon. They had to assume it was one of Jennesta’s, and that he was lost.

Jup shouted again, puncturing her brief reverie. He had an arm thrust out, pointing toward her neglected left side. She swung her head. A custodian had drawn parallel with her. His sword was raised and his horse was about to barrel into hers.

“Shit!”
Coilla snapped. She pulled hard on the reins, turning herself aside. It got her clear and bought enough time to unsheathe her own blade.

The human pressed in. He was waving the weapon and roaring, his words obliterated by the thunder of the chase. His first swing was wide, the blade tip hewing air just short of her calf. A rapid second stroke came closer and higher, and would have cleaved her waist if she hadn’t tilted from him.

That made Coilla mad.

She whipped round and sent out a stroke of her own. The man ducked and it cut a whistling arc inches above his head. He returned a thrust meant for her chest, but Coilla blocked it, knocking aside his sword. He made another pass, and another. She deflected both, their blades connecting with a jarring, steely clatter.

Hunters and hunted sped on, pell-mell. They entered a small ravine perhaps a dozen horses wide. The terrain flashed by, a blur of green and brown. On the edge of her vision Coilla was aware of more humans crowding the band.

She stretched out and swiped at her antagonist again. The stroke missed, and overreaching she almost toppled. He countered. Their weapons clashed, edge to edge, metal ringing. Neither found an opening.

There was a fleeting respite as they realigned themselves and Coilla checked the way ahead. It was as well she did. The forward riders were splitting to either side of a dead tree square in their path, flowing around it like fast-running water against a huge ship’s prow. She tugged the reins to the right, throwing her centre of balance in the same direction. The horse swerved and skimmed past the trunk. For an instant she had sight of the bark’s scabrous grain. A skeletal branch raked her shoulder. Then she was clear.

Where Coilla passed to the tree’s right, the human took a route to the left. But it was an obstacle for the rest of his kind. Their greater numbers clogged at the bottleneck, and for a moment he was alone. Set on being rid of him, Coilla steered his way. They recommenced their duel as the gully gave way to open plains.

Trading blows, she was aware of the decamping Wolverines, with Jup staring at her over his shoulder. At the same time the main body of custodians, coming up behind, was renewing speed. Coilla settled on a bold move. She let go of her reins, giving the horse its head, and clasped her sword two-handed. Inviting a fall was a risky ploy, but she took the gamble.

It paid off.

This time, putting all her strength and reach into the swing, the blade bit flesh. It made contact at the elbow joint of the custodian’s sword arm, hacking deep. Blood jetted. Crying out, he dropped his weapon and clamped the wound. Coilla’s follow-up struck his chest, shattering bone, freeing a copious ruby gush. He swayed, head rolling. She made to strike again.

There was no need. The bridle slipped from the wounded human’s fist. For a second he bumped along insensibly, a mere passenger, carried like a rag doll by his racing horse. Then he fell. A confusion of askew limbs and tangled clothing, he hit the ground tumbling.

Before he came to rest, the custodian vanguard rode over him. Some went down in the collision and were trampled in their turn. A chaotic scrum of screaming men and horses formed.

Coilla snatched her flailing reins and spurred onward, several riderless mounts in her wake.

She reached the tail end of the fleeing band to find Jup hanging back for her. As they rode on together the enemy regrouped behind them.

“They’re not gonna quit,” Jup decided.

“Do they ever?” She surveyed the land ahead. It was turning boggy. “And this isn’t running country,” she added.

“We’re not thinking.”

“Eh?”

“We can’t lead ’em to Drogan.”

Coilla frowned. “No,” she agreed, her gaze flicking to the tree line. “Bad way of repaying Keppatawn.”

“Right.”

“What, then?”

“Come
on
, Coilla.”

“Shit.”

“Got another plan?”

She eyed the mob of humans. They were closing. “No,” she sighed. “Let’s do it.”

Urging her horse, she put on a burst. Jup followed. They weaved through the ranks of grunts to the band’s head, where Alfray and Haskeer were leading the charge. The marshy footing was checking progress, yet still the pace smarted Coilla’s eyes.

“Not the forest!” she called across.
“Not to the forest!”

Alfray understood. “A stand?” he shouted back, hefting the band’s streaming war banner.

It was Jup who answered. “What else?” he bawled.

“Stand, yes!” Haskeer chimed in. “Orcs don’t run! We
fight!
”

That was enough for Coilla. She curbed her mount. The others took her cue and reined in. At their hind the custodians were coming up rapidly.

Wheeling about, she boomed,
“Stand fast! We’re meeting ’em!”

It wasn’t her place to command. As the highest-ranking officers, Jup or Haskeer should have given the order. But nobody was thinking of formalities.

“Spread out!”
Jup barked.
“Make a line!”

With the enemy almost on them, the troop swiftly obeyed. They produced slingshots, throwing knives, short spears and bows, though in spears and bows they were miserably equipped, having no more than four of each among them. Snub blades and shot were more plentiful.

The custodians were baying as they swept in. Individual faces could be made out, twisted with bloodlust. Their horses’ steaming breath was visible. The earth rumbled.

“Steady!”
Alfray cautioned.

Then they were a rock’s lob from the orc line.

“Now!”
Jup yelled.

The band loosed its meagre armoury. Arrows were fired, spears soared, clusters of stones flew.

There was a moment of chaos as the humans braked. Several were tossed from their horses by the sudden halt. Others were felled by arrows and stinging shot. Here and there, shields went up.

Retaliation was swift, if ragged. A few arrows winged back, several spears sailed over; but from their sparseness it seemed the custodians were as badly supplied as the Wolverines. Where they had them, orcs raised their own shields. Projectiles rattled off them.

Soon the stockpiles were exhausted, and the sides fell to swapping jeers and taunts. Hands were filled with close-combat weapons.

“I give it another two minutes,” Coilla predicted.

She was wrong. The stand-off was broken in half that time.

Emboldened by their greater numbers, the humans suddenly rushed forward, a black tide thick with steel.

“This is it,” Jup muttered darkly, hiking a butterfly axe from its saddle scabbard.

Haskeer drew a broadsword. Scooping back a sleeve, Coilla plucked a throwing knife from her arm sheath.

Alfray levelled the spiked banner spar.
“Hold fast! And watch those flanks!”

Any other advice was drowned by the onslaught.

The custodians’ larger numbers and lesser discipline had them grouping together as they came in to confront the lesser force, hampering themselves. It didn’t change the fact that each Wolverine faced towering odds, but it did buy a few seconds’ grace.