Orcs: Bad Blood (9 page)

On top of the rock, Coilla stood shoulder to shoulder with new recruit Yunst, who was proving adept with a bow.

She pitched a knife. A human crashed headlong into the barren ground.

“Nice shot,” Yunst said.

“Keeping count of yours?” she asked.

“Not really.”

“I make us about even.”

“Can’t have that.” He focused on a target and drew his bowstring taut. “Let’s see if I can —”

There was a fleshy
thump
. Coilla was splattered with blood. An arrow had gone through Yunst’s neck. He collapsed into her, a dead weight, and she
went down. The impact sent her tumbling to the nearby edge. She cried out, and went over.

It was a short drop, but Coilla fell awkwardly. The jolt of landing knocked the breath out of her and jangled her senses.
Lying on her side, swathed in pain, she tried to gather her wits. She was aware of fighting all around. Shuffling feet and
stamping hooves. Shouting and screaming. With a groan, she rolled onto her back, then lifted her head.

Something swam into view. A shape loomed over her. She blinked and cleared her vision. A leering horseman was bearing down,
his iron-tipped spear aimed at her chest. Coilla struggled to get herself clear, while groping for her blade. It was fifty-fifty
whether she’d suffer the spear piercing her flesh or the rearing mount shattering her ribs.

Then someone was there, putting themselves between her and the threat. She saw that it was Haskeer. He had hold of the horse’s
bridle with both hands as he ducked and weaved to avoid the probing spear. Orc and beast wrestled. Several times the strength
of the shying horse lifted Haskeer’s feet off the ground. The thrusts of the spear came near to running him through. Finally,
he lost patience.

Letting go, he jerked back his fist and gave the horse a mighty punch. The stunned animal’s front legs buckled and its head
went down. Yelling, and parted from his spear, the rider was unseated. As he fell, several orcs rushed forward to finish him.

Stryke appeared. He and Haskeer jerked Coilla to her feet and half dragged her to the relative safety of the orcs’ line.

“Anything broken?” Stryke said.

She shook her head. “Don’t think so.”

“What happened up there?”

“We lost a new one. Yunst.”

“Shit.”

“That’s what we get for using amateurs,” Haskeer remarked.

“He was a good fighter,” Coilla informed him sternly. “And don’t hit horses, you bastard.”

“No, don’t bother thanking me,” Haskeer came back acerbically. “I only saved your life.”

“We’ve work to do,” Stryke rebuked.

They pitched into the attackers.

The human ranks were starting to thin. But fighting was still intense. Heartened by killing Yunst, the surviving raiders stepped
up their assault, and the orcs’ defences were sorely tested. The otherwise silent landscape continued to echo to the rattle
of steel on steel and the shrieks of the dying.

Given his shaky resolve, only luck and his comrades had kept Wheam safe. Now good fortune was put to the test. While all about
Wheam were occupied, a human dashed in and laid about him with zeal. Wheam adopted his usual tactic of hiding behind his shield
and letting it soak up the blows. But his assailant was determined. Wielding his broadsword two-handed, he beat the shield
relentlessly, striking sparks off its misshapen surface. Then a solid swipe dislodged it from Wheam’s grasp.

Wearing a look of terror, Wheam faced his foe undefended bar his sword. He gave a couple of feeble swings that barely connected
with the human’s blade. The volley he got back almost pummelled the weapon out of his trembling hand. A further blow snapped
his sword in two. He stood transfixed and at the mercy of his opponent.

An orc careered into the human. They fought, Wheam forgotten. For a moment it looked as though the Wolverine had the better
of it. But in the struggle his back was turned to the enemy. A nearby human saw his chance and buried his blade in it. As
the orc went down, both men hacked at him mercilessly.

“That’s Liffin!” Coilla yelled. She made to move.

“
Hold fast!
” Stryke barked. Then added softly, “There’s nothing you can do.”

The pair of humans had little time to savour their kill. From the rock’s peak, the archers repaid the blood debt. The man
with the broadsword took three arrows, any one of them fatal. His comrade caught two. For good measure, several Wolverines
ran forward to add their wrath with steel and spears.

There was no let to the band’s fury. Any humans venturing close were slashed, flayed, mauled, cut down. Soon, their numbers
and their resolve ebbed away. With over half their company lying dead or mortally wounded, the raiders retreated. They rode
off, back towards the plain.

The Wolverines expelled a collective breath. Yunst and Liffin’s corpses were retrieved. The band took to binding their injuries
and wiping their blades.

“That’s a
fucking
good start!” Haskeer raged. “Two dead, and one of ’em Liffin!”

“We take losses,” Stryke told him evenly, “it’s part of the job. You know that.”

“At this rate we’ll all be dead before we even
find
Jup! Not an hour gone and this happens!”

“Anger won’t bring them back,” Coilla said.

Haskeer wasn’t mollified. “We should never have lost ’em! Or Liffin at any rate. I don’t care about the tyro, but Liffin was
an old hand. And he threw his life away for…
what
? That… little shit!”

“He died for the band. We look out for each other, remember?”

“There’s some not worth looking out for. If I had my way —”

Wheam appeared, still clutching his broken sword. “I wanted… I wanted to say I’m sorry about —”

“
You cowardly bastard!
” Haskeer shrieked. “I could kill you for what you just did!”

“That’s enough!” Stryke cautioned.

Sheepishly, Wheam tried again. “I didn’t mean —”

“Liffin was worth ten of you,” Haskeer thundered, “you snivelling heap of crap!”

“Shut it, Haskeer!” Stryke ordered.

“I’ll shut
him
!” He lunged at Wheam and slammed his palms against his chest, sending him sprawling. Then he went for a knife.

Stryke and Coilla grabbed him, pinning his arms.

“
I said that’s enough!
” Stryke bellowed in his sergeant’s ear. “I’ll have no insubordination in this band!”

“All right, all right.” Haskeer quit struggling and they loosened their hold. He shrugged them off.

“Any more of that and I’ll break you back to private,” Stryke promised. “Understand?”

Haskeer gave a grudging nod. “But this ain’t over,” he growled. He jabbed a finger in Wheam’s direction. “Just keep that freak
away from me.”

They should have honoured tradition and disposed of their dead with flame. But they couldn’t afford the attention fire might
bring. So they buried Liffin and Yunst deep, their swords in their hands. Dallog proved adept at carving, and fashioned small
markers bearing the symbols of Neaphetar and Wystendel, the orc gods of war and comradeship.

By the time that was done, and some of the humans’ abandoned horses were tracked down, a good chunk of the day had gone. At
last, with the watery sun high, the band set out for the dwarves’ homeland.

There weren’t enough mounts for everybody, even with doubling up, and a third of the band had to take turns walking. The sole
exception was Haskeer, whose mood was so foul Stryke encouraged him to ride alone. And he saw to it that Wheam, paired with
Dallog, was as far away from the sergeant as possible. None of it made for rapid progress.

Stryke and Coilla headed the party, sharing a ride, and tried to take a route offering fewest chances for ambush. The landscape
was chill and miserable, and they saw no other living creature in four hours of travelling. No one was particularly talkative,
and the convoy moved quietly.

Coilla broke the silence, albeit in an undertone. “He was right, you know, Stryke.”

“Hmm?”

“Haskeer. Not the way he acted; what he said. We’ve not started well.”

“No.”

“I feel bad about Liffin. He was a brother in arms, and we’ve been through a lot with him. But I feel worse about Yunst somehow.
What with it being his first time out, and depending on us to —”

“I know.”

“Don’t think I’m blaming you.”

“I don’t.”

“I blame myself, if anything. About Yunst, I mean. I led that detail. I should have looked after him.”

Stryke turned his head to glance at her. “How do you think I feel?”

Silence returned for a while.

“Who do you think those humans were?” Coilla asked, steering the conversation into less murky waters.

“Just marauders, I reckon. They didn’t have the look of Unis or Manis, nor the discipline.”

“If they’re typical, Maras-Dantia’s sunk even deeper into anarchy.”

“All the more reason I should do this,” Stryke said, reaching into his belt pouch. He brought something out and passed it
to her. “If you still want to take it.”

She held an instrumentality. The blue one, with four spikes. It felt strange in her hand, as though it was too heavy and too
light at the same time. And it had another, deeper quality Coilla found even harder to understand.

“Course I want it,” she replied, pulling out of her reverie. She slipped the star into her own pouch.

“If it starts to trouble you, give it back.”

“What about getting the band to carry it in turns, a couple of hours each? Not all of them, of course, just the true Wolverines.”

“And what happens when Haskeer wants his turn? No, it just makes problems. But if you don’t want it —”

“I said I did, didn’t I?” Her hand instinctively went to the pouch, and she wondered how it was for him, carrying four of
the things. She changed the subject again. “How long to Quatt, do you think?”

“Couple of days at this rate.”

“Assuming that’s where Jup’s going to be.”

“Well, we’re not going to find out tonight, that’s for sure.”

The pewter moon was up, big and fat, tendrils of cloud swathing its face. Colder winds blew.

“Where do you want to strike camp?”

“You’re our strategist. What looks like the most defensible spot?”

Coilla scanned the drab terrain. It was flat and mostly featureless. “Not much choice in these parts. Wait. What’s that?”
She pointed.

Well ahead of them, and not far off the trail they followed, there was a jumble of shapes.

“Can’t tell,” he replied, straining to make them out. “Curious?”

“Sure.”

“Then let’s head that way.”

As they got nearer they saw that the shapes were ruins. A small settlement had once stood there, but now only shells of buildings
remained, or just their foundations. Charred timbers indicated that fire played its part in the destruction. There were tumbledown
fences and the hulk of an abandoned wagon. Sickly green lichen grew on the stonework. Weeds choked the paths.

Stryke ordered the band to dismount.

“Humans lived here,” Coilla said.

“Looks like it,” Stryke agreed.

“I wonder what destroyed the place?”

“Probably other humans. You know what they’re like.”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s get organised. I want sentries posted. See to it.”

She set off.

Stryke called to the nearest grunt. “Finje! That could be a well. Over there, see? Go and check it.”

Haskeer arrived, face like granite.

“Have this place searched,” Stryke told him. “We could do without any more little surprises.”

“Right,” his sergeant grunted morosely, turning to obey.

“And Haskeer.”

Haskeer looked back.

“What happened with Liffin and Yunst is done. Live with it. Your moods put the band off whack, and I won’t have it. Save your
temper for enemies.”

Haskeer nodded, curtly. Then he went off to scare up a search party.

“
Well’s dry!
” Finje shouted. He demonstrated by upending a shabby bucket. Only dirt and gravel came out of it.

Coilla returned. “How
are
we for water?”

“It’s not a problem yet,” Stryke replied. “But we could do with finding a clean source soon. Guards in place?”

“Done. But there’s something you should see.”

“Lead the way.”

She took him to the largest and most intact of the ruins. Parts of three walls were still standing, and they could see that
it once had peaked eaves. A pair of large, heavy doors lay in the debris. They showed signs of having been breached with force.

As they scanned the scene, Haskeer joined them.

“What’s so special about this?” he asked.

“I reckon it’s a place of worship,” Coilla explained.

“So?”

“Look over here.”

They followed her to a low dry stone wall. Parts had collapsed, and there was what was left of a gate. The wall enclosed about
an acre of land. Very little grew in it beyond three or four gaunt trees. Dozens of stone slabs and wooden pointers jutted
from the ground, many at skewed angles.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Stryke said.

“Yes. A burial ground.”

“Oh, great,” Haskeer muttered.

“Not afraid of a few dead humans, are you?”

He glared at her.

“But why is nothing growing in there?” she wanted to know. “Look out here; they’re weeds everywhere. Nature’s reclaiming it.
Why not there?”

“Maybe they did something to stop things growing,” Stryke suggested. “Sowed it with salt, or —”

“Why?”

“Out of respect for their dead? Who knows with humans.”

“Too right,” Haskeer agreed. “They’re fucking crazy.”

Stryke thought this a little rich coming from Haskeer, but kept the observation to himself. “This is as good a place as any
to pass the night. The wall can serve as a windbreak. Get them to pitch camp, Haskeer. But no fires.”

“That won’t make for much cheer.”

“Just do it.”

Haskeer strode away, looking unhappy.

Coilla watched him go. “He’s being his usual joyful self then.”