“What the hell-” Jup exclaimed.
Without slowing, the two ships carried on towards the elves’ motley fleet.
“This doesn’t look good,” Coilla said.
The ships ploughed through the swarm of elves’ boats. Many were swamped, overturned or shattered. Elves jumped from boats to avoid the oncoming prows. Soon the water was peppered with bobbing heads, wreckage and the debris of tribute. There were shouts and screams from the swimming elves.
Emerging from the chaos, the ships began coming round, to close in on the shore.
“Looks like they’re not in the mood for trinkets today,” Jup said.
“It’s us they want,” Stryke told him. “ Weapons!”
The band filled their hands.
“Hey!” Coilla yelled, pointing. “There!”
They hadn’t been paying attention to the third goblin vessel. It was making straight for the orcs’ anchored ship.
Those on board had been watching. They saw the pair of goblin ships sail into the elves’ boats, sinking or upsetting scores of them, and leaving a trail of wreckage. Now the third ship was coming their way.
Pepperdyne glanced at his companions. Dallog, Wheam, Pirrak, Keick and Chuss; none of them veterans and one nursing a wound. And Standeven, who could be relied on to be useless or worse. So six defenders. He looked to the approaching ship. There were perhaps four times that number of goblins visible on its deck.
As Pepperdyne wasn’t a member of the band, and the band operated on military principles, he had no authority. Dallog’s rank put him in charge. Pepperdyne had his doubts about the wisdom of that, but rather than waste time arguing he opted for conciliatory.
“How do we handle this, Corporal?” he asked.
“The fewer who get aboard the better.”
“That’s what I figured. How many archers we got?”
“Good ones? That’d be Keick and Chuss. But Chuss-”
“Yeah, right.” He glanced at the tyro. Chuss’ wound meant his arm was bound and in a sling.
“I’m not too bad with a bow,” Dallog added. “You?”
“I’m a blade man. But I can use a spear.”
“So me and Keick as archers, Wheam, Pirrak and you with spears. Chuss’ll have to do what he can. Luckily it’s not his sword arm.”
The goblin ship was coming alongside; no mean feat in so narrow a channel.
“Unless you’re going to fight,” Pepperdyne told Standeven sarcastically, “you’d better hide yourself.”
Standeven nodded, and avoiding the others’ eyes, scampered for the hold.
“Here they come!” Dallog shouted.
The goblin ship glided in, its rail no more than a hand’s span from the orcs’. A splash sounded as its anchor went down. Goblins were rushing forward with grappling hooks to secure their charge on the Wolverines’ ship.
Dallog and Keick loosed arrows. One caught a goblin in the chest, the second found another’s windpipe. They kept firing as Pepperdyne, Pirrak and Wheam used their spears to impede the boarding, while Chuss slashed at groping hands and jutting heads.
The first, modest wave of would-be boarders lying dead or wounded, a second dashed to the rail. Mindful of the first wave’s fate, most of them carried shields. Now hits were rarer as orc arrows clattered against the shields and spears were deflected. The battle at the rail turned into a slog, and Pepperdyne discarded the spear in favour of his sword and knife. No goblin had set foot on the orcs’ ship, but the battle to keep them off was steadily being lost.
The orc archers carried on firing and managed to drop a couple more of the enemy despite their shields. Then an arrow came at them. Not from the mob trying to get aboard but from above. The bolt penetrated the deck close enough to Dallog that its flights brushed his leg. They looked up. A goblin was high in the rigging of the attacking ship, armed with a bow and aiming again. They scattered as his second arrow pierced the deck.
Keick nocked a shaft and sent it up at the sniper. It missed. The arrow carried on and curved in a great arc to disappear over the other side of the goblins’ craft. The goblin in the rigging returned fire, and would have struck Keick if Dallog hadn’t barged him aside, narrowly avoiding being hit himself. Dallog swiftly took his turn at the goblin archer. His effort was a much wider miss than Keick’s, who by then had his own bow drawn. Holding down the urge to let loose immediately, he took time getting his eye in. When he fired, his arrow sped true. It impacted in the goblin’s midriff. He hung on grimly but briefly before plunging to his ship’s deck with a shrill cry, landing on two of his comrades.
The distraction had taken Dallog and Keick’s eyes away from the rail. Now they saw that it was a scrum, with several goblins aboard and more about to follow. They dropped the bows, drew their blades and ran to join the fight.
Because there were so few defenders to repel boarders they were well spaced out along the rail. Which meant Wheam was a good twenty paces from Pirrak, the next in line, and could expect no aid. He thought he needed it. Still clutching his spear, he was pointing it at an advancing goblin. The goblin was armed with an ornate double-headed iron axe and a boiling fury.
The tyro had the benefit of reach, but the goblin had the skill and confidence of a seasoned fighter. As he had been taught, Wheam used his spear to make it as hard as possible for his opponent to properly deploy his weapon. The goblin, his anger stoked by Wheam’s determination to keep him at bay, tried to dislodge the spear with wild swings. When they connected, Wheam could feel the transmitted impact in his sweating hands, and struggled to hold on.
The goblin was dealing blows with the axe’s flat, the better to knock the spear aside. Now he deftly flipped the axe, lurched to one side and swiped downwards. The spear was sliced in two, leaving Wheam clutching about a third of the broken shaft. Certain of a kill, the goblin advanced, still swinging. Wheam backed-off fast, lost his footing, stumbled and fell. Then the goblin was standing over him, a grimace of triumph on his face, the axe raised for a death blow.
Wheam still had the broken shaft in his hand. In desperation, bellowing with the effort, he thrust it upwards with all his strength. The shaft, unevenly severed so its head was like a stake, plunged deep into the goblin’s belly. Crying out in shock and pain, he staggered rearward, the axe slipping from his horny fingers. Then he fell and lay writhing, his hands on the protruding shaft. Wheam scrambled to his feet, fumbled his sword from its sheath and buried it in the creature’s chest.
He turned away. He was panting for breath and shaking. But he had never felt so good. More goblins were climbing over the rail. Wheam brought up his sword and prepared to meet them.
For Pirrak, the situation Wheam had faced was reversed. Many of the goblins now getting aboard carried their traditional weapon: a spear-length metal trident, its forks sharpened to a wicked keenness. Armed now with a sword, Pirrak was at a disadvantage, and he didn’t dare try to retrieve his spear. So he took to dodging, stooping and sending in low blows. One such pass had him hacking into a goblin’s sinewy leg, liberating a gush of dark, almost black blood. Wailing, his victim fell away, to be replaced by another trident-bearing goblin.
They circled, Pirrak turning away the trident’s thrusts with his blade. The goblin lunged, driving the trident forward, and only Pirrak’s nimble footwork saved him. He managed to hit the trident’s metal shank a couple of times, but his blade merely raised a melodious din. Pirrak knew that at any instant he could be set upon by further opponents, but he couldn’t overcome the goblin’s defence or experience. He opted for a charge, dashing parallel to his foe, slashing as he went. The best he could do was catch the other’s shoulder, opening a gratifying but superficial wound. That only outraged the goblin, who renewed his efforts to impale Pirrak.
The duel continued for what felt like an age to Pirrak. He was beginning to believe that he would be the first to weaken, or make a wrong move from inexperience. Feigning, thrusting, stabbing and swiping at each other, they moved through a bizarre lethal dance.
Suddenly it was over. In a brief hiatus at his front, Dallog looked for Pirrak. What he saw had him reaching for a hatchet. The goblin was closing in on Pirrak again when the hatchet struck the creature between the shoulder- blades. He spun and fell. Tyro and corporal exchanged a look, then both returned to fighting.
Dallog and Keick had entered the fray together and stayed that way. Their work was a grind of hacking and chopping, ducking and twisting. Keick slashed his blade across a goblin’s face, forcing him back. Knocking a shield clear, Dallog plunged his sword into an opponent’s trunk, crunching through its hard, almost insect-like
