The slab of rock sheltering Haskeer’s group was swarming with goblins, while others were trying to round it. Attrition was the name of the game. The goblins were bent on overrunning the orcs, and the orcs were as keen to stop them. With fighting up close and vicious, tridents proved too cumbersome, and most were discarded. The goblins switched to their serrated, snub-bladed swords and crimped daggers. But trying to scale the barrier was a challenge. The rock ran with blood, making traction difficult.
A cleaver in each hand, Haskeer swung at the encroaching goblins, cracking skulls and shattering bones. When one of the hatchets caught in the hilt-guard of a goblin’s sword it was wrenched from Haskeer’s grip. Enraged, he struck out with the remaining hatchet, scything the creature’s belly and releasing its stinking contents. Swiftly bringing up the weapon he swiped at another goblin, striking him on the side of the head with the flat of its blade. As he fell, others took his place. Haskeer’s detachment fought on.
Jup and Spurral were in the vanguard of the group stationed at the fallen tree. Compared to Haskeer’s unit their cover was minimal. But they were just as resolute. They stood behind a barrier bristling with blades and spear-tips, and clad with shields, which the frantic goblins all but threw themselves against. Dispensing with staffs, the dwarfs employed their short swords and knives, thrusting and slashing at goblin flesh.
The pummelling on the Wolverines’ shields was as relentless as a rainstorm on a field of wheat. And when one of the rangy goblins struck Spurral’s shield particularly hard it was dashed from her hands. The creature followed through with a lunge to her breast. Fortunately, Jup’s reactions were quicker. He blocked the blade; and Spurral, swooping low, buried her sword in the goblin’s guts.
The shuffling of the combatants’ feet caused her shield to be kicked away, beyond reach. A goblin tried exploiting that vulnerability, slashing his blade as he moved in on her. She could expect no further help from Jup, who had his own problems with an axe-wielding opponent. Not that she needed it. Her stocky, robust physique belied the speed and agility she was capable of, as her foe discovered. Ducking, weaving, she eluded the blade, then gave the goblin’s shin a couple of hefty kicks. It was enough of an irritant to jolt the creature, and let Spurral deliver a lethal thrust. The vengeful goblins kept coming.
At the decaying lodge, Coilla perched on a heap of collapsed timber, looking down at the raging conflict. She was picking off goblins with her cache of throwing knives, plucked from her arm holsters. Choosing her mark, she lobbed a blade and struck a creature’s head, downing him. On reflex born of experience she instantly yanked out another knife. There was no shortage of targets, and her next shot winged to a goblin’s exposed neck.
She got a bead again, and threw. But the goblin it was aimed at managed to raise his shield. The knife bounced off it and landed a few paces away. Stooping, the goblin retrieved it, and swiftly hurled it at Coilla. It was an able throw, though not quite good enough. The blade embedded itself in the lodge wall, a hand’s breadth from Coilla’s head. That enraged her. As the goblin charged her way she tugged the quivering knife free, and with a grunt of effort pitched it at him. The blade caught him in the eye. Coilla reached for her sheath. There was one knife left. She flung it at the nearest attacker. It struck the creature’s midriff, not killing but inflicting a grievous injury. Her arsenal spent, she drew her sword and jumped into the fray.
Fighting raged on, close quarters and bloody. The orcs took wounds, but could have suffered worse had they not had the protection of their hides. Even so, the unfavourable odds were starting to grind them down.
A cry went up from the goblins engaging Stryke’s group at the trap’s entrance; a rasping, keening outburst quite unlike the gruff roar a similar-sized mob of orcs would have made. It was a yell of triumph. Stryke and his unit had given a good account of themselves, but finally, perhaps inevitably, they buckled. The goblins had broken through. With no choice but to withdraw as they flooded out, Stryke’s crew readied themselves to continue the battle as a brawl. But the corralled goblins stampeded past them and spilled onto the beach, leaving the killing floor littered with their dead and mortally wounded.
Stryke bellowed an order, calling the other three teams to him. They jogged his way, trampling over the corpses and cutting down the injured still game for a fight.
“Let’s finish it!” Stryke yelled, pointing seaward with his sword.
They gave chase, emerging from the jungle’s rim and dashing for the beach. What they saw there stopped them.
The fleeing goblins had joined the rest of their incoming contingent, a group of almost equal size, and they were forming up to face the orcs.
“ Shit,” Coilla mouthed.
A hush fell as the two groups eyed each other.
Then a goblin pushed through the ranks and swaggered out into the separating gap. He was more finely dressed than the others, and had a long bow slung over one shoulder. It was black, elaborately embossed with tiny hieroglyphs in gold, and made from a material it was hard to identify, appearing to be neither wood nor metal. At his waist was a leather quiver holding arrows that were likewise black and marked with golden symbols.
“Who leads you?” he demanded, his voice coloured by the distinctive sibilance peculiar to his kind.
“I do,” Stryke said, stepping forward.
The goblin looked him over, a contemptuous expression on his face. “I am Gleaton-Rouk.”
“I guessed that.”
“You owe me,” the goblin grated.
“How?”
“You killed some of my brood siblings.”
“The ones using kelpies for meat, you mean.”
“Whatever they were doing wasn’t your concern.”
“We made it our concern.”
“And for that you owe a debt of blood.”
“You think you’re going to collect it?”
“Have no doubts on that score, orc. Now throw down your arms.”
The Wolverines broke into derisive laughter.
Stryke’s smile melted. “That’s something we don’t do,” he informed the goblin evenly.
“Give yourselves up or die.”
“Like fuck we will,” Haskeer said.
The goblin glared at him. He indicated his force with a sweep of his bony arm and hissed, “Consider the odds.”
Stryke coolly appraised them. “Yeah, it does seem a bit unfair on your lot.”
Gleaton-Rouk began to seethe. “So you refuse?”
“What do you think?”
“Then suffer the consequences.”
“Fine by us,” Stryke told him.
The goblin turned his back on them and headed for his line. His parting shot was “So be it! Ready yourselves for hell!”
“See you there!” Coilla piped up cheerily.
The goblin ranks parted for him and he disappeared.
“Not taking the lead himself, I see,” Jup observed.
Haskeer nodded. “All mouth and breeches.” He spat on the ground contemptuously.
The Wolverines watched as the goblins prepared for an attack. They could have fallen back to the jungle and faced them there, or stayed put and met them with a defensive formation. But their blood was up.
Stryke didn’t need to give an order. By a kind of osmosis, intent spread through the band like a contagion.
As one, they charged.
Bellowing and whooping war cries, the Wolverines thundered towards the startled goblins.
They struck their lines at speed, wrong-footing the enemy and throwing them into confusion. The orcs laid into them with savage fury, severing limbs, piercing lungs and hacking off heads. Unprepared for wrath on such a scale, dozens of goblins fell like corn before the scythe.
Coilla worked a pair of swords as she ploughed through the chaos. She stove in a ribcage to her right, crushed a skull to her left. One blade slashed a goblin throat as the other slid deep into his comrade’s belly. Weapons ranged against her were dashed aside, their wielders’ impertinence paid for with cold steel. Like the rest of the band she was driven by bloodlust, the matchless trait of her race.
