The ferocity was shared by Jup and Spurral, who battled with a berserk fierceness that near equalled the orcs’. They had become separated when they penetrated the enemy line, but proved as formidable fighting singly as they had as a team. For Spurral, the goblins were so much flesh to nourish her ravening blade. Jup, brandishing a pair of daggers, followed in his mate’s wake, bringing down her leftovers. Blocked by a particularly obstinate foe, he came at the goblin low and with force, toppling the creature onto Haskeer’s waiting sword.
Typically, Haskeer had attacked with as much, if not more frenzy, than any in the band. Heaving his blade from the goblin Jup tossed his way, he swiftly reemployed it, severing another’s leg. The mass of targets kept it busy.
Stryke had made it his business to seek out Gleaton-Rouk and settle with him. But there was no sign of the goblin chieftain. And now Stryke’s attention was on his band. The shock of their charge was wearing off and the goblins were rallying. A counter-attack was beginning, pushing the Wolverines back by sheer weight of numbers, and the band was taking wounds.
To Stryke’s right, no more than a good spit away, one of the veterans, Bhose, was tussling with a trident- wielding goblin. Bhose lost. The goblin breached his defence and struck him with the trident, its razor-sharp tines passing clean through the orc’s shoulder. Bhose went down under the impact, causing his assailant to lose his grip on the lodged trident. The goblin leapt forward, stamped his bony foot on Bhose’s chest and attempted to pull the trident out. Hands clasping its shaft, face wreathed with pain, Bhose struggled to stop him.
Stryke quickly disposed of the opponent he was facing, then waded Bhose’s way. By the time he got there the goblin had wrestled his trident free and was raising it for a killing blow, while Bhose stretched a hand for his sword, lying just beyond his reach. Stryke buried his blade in the goblin’s back. Retching blood, the creature collapsed.
Bhose wasn’t the only orc to sustain a wound. For all their bravado and martial skills, the Wolverines were being too severely challenged by the recovering goblins and were close to becoming overwhelmed. Stryke judged it prudent to disengage and regroup. On his signal a couple of nearby privates took hold of the recumbent Bhose and began dragging him clear. Then Stryke yelled an order. As one, the band pulled back. All got clear, as much by luck as dexterity. Wary of some kind of ruse, the goblins didn’t pursue them.
The Wolverines arrived back at the spot they started from. They were paying the toll of combat. Some had injuries, and all of them ached from the exertion of battle. They were blood-splattered and out of breath, and Jup and Spurral ran with sweat.
Stryke quickly assessed the wounded. Supported by a pair of comrades, Bhose looked the worse. Coilla was checking his shoulder.
“How is he?” Stryke asked.
“It’s a nasty wound,” she told him, “and it’s bleeding a lot.”
“I’m fine,” Bhose protested.
“Pity Dallog’s not here to dress it,” Jup reckoned.
“Balls,” Haskeer said. “Who needs him? Anybody could staunch a wound like that.”
“Anybody but you, maybe.”
“How’d you like me to cut a piece out of you and try?”
“Shut it!” Stryke barked, jabbing a thumb at the goblins. “Save your bile for them.” He turned to the grunts holding up Bhose. “Get him to the rear.”
“I’m fine,” Bhose repeated weakly.
“Do as you’re told.”
They hauled him away.
The goblins were forming up for an attack.
“Brace yourselves!” Stryke warned.
The orc archers had a few arrows left, and nocked them. Everyone tensed.
There would be no charge from the Wolverines this time. That tactic was spent. It was the goblins’ turn.
Somebody on their side shouted an order. They began to advance, slowly at first, then with gathering speed.
“Steady!” Stryke yelled.
The goblins broke into a trot, then started to run.
When they covered about half the distance to the Wolverines, something strange happened.
An abnormality occurred in the space between orcs and goblins. The air itself seemed to turn heavy, and took on a ruddy, dusty glow. A film appeared, shimmering like the surface of a giant soap bubble, rippling with pulsing scarlet. It stood as a semi-transparent veil across the charging goblins’ path.
Most slowed or stopped. Some, the brave, foolhardy or crazed, kept running. Deceived by the veil’s translucence, these few dashed headlong, thinking to break through. Three or four of them struck the barrier simultaneously. It repelled them. They flew back as though flung by a giant invisible hand. And from the instant they touched the glistening wall, they ignited. Wreathed head to foot in flame, they landed heavily, to writhe and scream as they burned.
The Wolverines felt a wave of heat, and involuntarily stepped back.
Haskeer gaped. “What the-”
Coilla pointed. “ There!”
Farther down the beach a large group of elves had gathered. Mallas Sahro, their elder, was to the fore.
“They’re using their magic,” Stryke said.
“So they do have some backbone,” Haskeer muttered.
The burning goblins’ comrades were vainly trying to beat out the flames when another, stronger heat wave throbbed from the veil.
The band drew back again. They saw that the veil had emitted a sheet of fire that swept towards the milling goblins. When it reached the first of them, those tending the fallen, they too burst into flames. It didn’t stop. Continuously regenerating itself, the burning curtain kept moving at a walking pace. Ignoring the agonised screams of those on fire, the remaining goblins backed away, then quickly retreated as it herded them in the direction of the shoreline.
The band noticed that one goblin risked himself to retrieve a dropped trident. He went for that particular weapon rather than any number of others, even though it put him in danger of contact with the advancing wall of flame. Once he had it, he ran full pelt for the sea, holding the trident high above his head as he splashed in. The others entered the water close behind. To their rear, the fiery veil halted at the shore’s edge.
Stryke and the band watched as the mantle of fire slowly faded, along with its heat. Beyond it, the goblins were waist-deep, making for their ships.
Jup was shielding his eyes with a hand. “Is that their chief?” he wondered.
A figure was standing on the prow of the biggest ship.
“Yeah,” Coilla confirmed.
“Fucking coward,” Haskeer murmured.
“What’s he doing?” Jup said.
Coilla squinted again. “Looks like he’s drawing his bow.”
Haskeer gave a derisive snort. “Bloody fool. What’s he hope to hit from that distance?”
“What’s up with them?” Spurral asked, nodding at the crowd of elves along the beach. They were shouting and gesturing, but they were too far away for their words to be made out.
“Probably celebrating,” Stryke suggested.
From his ship, Gleaton-Rouk loosed an arrow.
“It’s way off target,” Haskeer sneered. “Even if it got this far it’d miss us by a mile.”
Most of the Wolverines agreed, showing disdain with mocking jeers. Their scorn appeared justified as the arrow soared well to their right and far too high to do any damage except to treetops.
But then there was a change. Defying nature, the arrow altered course. It turned sharply and began to descend, heading straight for the band.
“Down!” Stryke bellowed.
Everyone dropped and hugged the ground. Bhose was already sitting, nursing his wound. One of the attending grunts gave him a shove and with a moan of pain he slumped onto his back.
The arrow soared towards them, and for a moment it looked as though it would pass overhead. Instead its
