“Like I said, we’re in a hurry.”
“Pity. It could be your last chance for a while.”
There was a smattering of laughter from the fauns surrounding them.
“What do you mean?”
“We like to fatten up the merchandise.”
More laughter, and louder.
“We’ve no time for jests.” Stryke’s anger was rising.
“Oh, this is no joke. Not for you, anyway.”
“So what the hell is it?”
“Trade. With his kind.” He nodded at Pepperdyne. “Gatherers.”
Given recent events that was particularly inflaming to Stryke, and to Jup and Spurral.
“What?” Stryke grated.
“The Gatherers bring us nymphs in exchange for whatever beings fetch up on our shores. Your race is a valuable commodity; we’ll get a good price. All you have to do is surrender.”
Again, Haskeer spoke for them all. “You can kiss our arses, goat breath.”
“We know you to be a belligerent race, but you can see that you’re outnumbered.” He pointed at Haskeer. “Throw down your weapons, or we’ll disarm you.”
“We do the disarming,” Stryke told him. In one smooth, rapid movement his sword was out and swinging.
The blade sliced through Levanda’s outstretched arm. He screamed, staggered back and sank to his knees, blood gushing from the wound. His severed limb lay twitching wetly on the ground.
There was a split second of shocked immobility on the part of the fauns. Enough time for the Wolverines to draw their weapons.
Then all hell broke out.
Producing hidden blades, the fauns rushed in on all sides, and the band spun to meet them.
It wasn’t the orc way to stand and wait for the tide to hit, and Stryke was the first to move. He charged at the oncoming wave, sword and long-bladed dagger in his hands, a roar in his throat. And there was no fancy swordplay or mannerly rules when he met the foe. His only aim was carnage and he dealt in it wholesale.
Under his onslaught a faun collapsed with a split skull, and the next took steel to his gut. Advancing in unison, a trio tried to bring Stryke down. He dispatched the first with ease, slashing his neck with a vicious blow. The second he came at low, hamstringing him; and the third succumbed to a thrust to his chest. Vaulting over their bodies, Stryke set about another opponent.
The rest of the band weren’t idle. Coilla employed the store of snub-nosed blades she kept in her arm sheaths. Confirming her status as the best knife-thrower in the band, her first couple of lobs were true, striking a faun square between its eyes and another in the windpipe. Her third effort merely wounded, though grievously. Then the enemy were too close for throwing knives and she switched to her sword.
Pepperdyne fought beside her, their blades expertly carving flesh as the fauns kept coming. Wrenching his sword free from a foe’s innards and spinning to face the next, he caught a glimpse of Haskeer. He had a hatchet in one hand and Levanda’s amputated arm in the other, which he was using to bludgeon a particularly muscular adversary. Sprawled in a crimson pool, Levanda himself looked on, his expression a mixture of agony and open- mouthed amazement.
As was their practice, Jup and Spurral worked as a team. Favouring his staff, Jup cracked heads adroitly, or used it to tumble opponents, bringing them within range of Spurral’s wickedly keen pair of knives. In unison, the dwarfs penetrated deep into the fauns’ ranks, leaving a trail of dead and injured in their wake.
The new recruits had also got into the habit of fighting together, like a small band within the band, less able but improving with every engagement. Wheam, Keick, Pirrak, Harlgo and Chuss, steered by Dallog, gave a good account of themselves, valour making up for their lack of experience.
No sooner had the Wolverines bettered something like half of their attackers than a further group emerged from the jungle. Armed with spears and battleaxes they swept towards the fray. The veteran band members needed no order to react. Those who could, peeled off from the battle and headed for the fresh incomers; Seafe, Gleadeg, Prooq, Gant, Reafdaw, Nep and Breggin among them.
Leaving Pepperdyne to deliver a death thrust to a wounded faun, Coilla caught up with Stryke. He stood over his latest kill, eyeing a bunch of circling foes.
“Need a hand?” she asked.
He gave her a sidelong glance and she saw that he was in a killing state, an almost dream-like reverie that came on when the bloodlust took hold. It was something she knew and respected.
No words were necessary. Together, they advanced. One of the fauns who had been holding back warily lost his nerve and fled. It was enough to trigger the others. They turned and ran, and it had a knock-on effect. Those fauns still standing began to withdraw.
“I think they’ve broken,” Coilla said.
Stryke was coming to himself. The crazed look was leaving his eyes. “Maybe. But we have to-”
There was a high-pitched whistling sound. Something hit the ground close by.
“Archers!” Coilla yelled.
Several more arrows winged from the tree houses, peppering the sward.
“Everybody down!” Stryke bellowed.
Those of the band who weren’t still actively engaged with the enemy dived for whatever cover they could find. Several, including Stryke and Coilla, used faun corpses for shelter, meagre protection as that was.
Band members armed with bows, principally Reafdaw, Eldo, Zoda and Finje, immediately began returning fire.
The advantage wasn’t entirely with the faun archers. They had to avoid hitting their own kind remaining below. The orcs had no such restraint.
A faun was struck and fell, drawing a ragged cheer from the orcs. Seconds later another plunged to earth.
“We’ll never get ’em all at this rate,” Coilla complained. “They could keep us pinned here till doomsday.”
Arrows continued to rain down.
There were shouts behind them. Stryke and Coilla looked to their rear. An orc had taken an arrow.
“Can you make out who it is?” Stryke said.
“One of the tyros,” Coilla told him. “I think it’s Chuss. But it looks like it’s just his arm.”
“And who the hell’s that? ”
A Wolverine was dashing towards Chuss. He was running a zigzag path, trying to avoid the arrows zinging all around him, and it was hard to make out who he was.
“It’s another newbie,” Coilla realised. “Harlgo.”
“Take cover!” Stryke shouted at him. “ Get down, Harglo!”
Too late. An arrow pierced Harglo between his shoulder-blades. The impact threw him off his stride but he kept going. Slowing, his stride uncertain like a drunk’s, he managed a few more steps before a second arrow struck the back of his neck. He went down, a dead weight. It was the fauns turn to cheer.
“Shit!” Coilla hissed.
“Burn ’em!” Stryke hollered. “ Burn ’em out!”
The Wolverine archers were prepared. Their kit included bolts wrapped with tarred cloth. Quickly striking sparks, they began igniting them. In seconds, flaming arrows zipped towards the tree houses.
It must have been some time since rain, because the dwellings were tinder dry, as was the foliage they nestled amongst. The burning arrows hit the houses’ walls, and passed through open doors and windows. Fires instantly broke out.
Even as the houses blazed the fauns carried on showering arrows on their tormentors. The orcs likewise continued sending up their fire-tipped bolts. Soon almost all the lofty huts were alight and the fauns were forced to bail out. Some climbed down, braving orc shafts. Others fell, in many cases burning and shrieking.
It was the final blow for the surviving fauns in the clearing. Those who were capable fled into the jungle, chased off by vengeful band members.
But the Wolverines’ triumph was tempered.
