“I dunno about that.”
“Oh, come on, Spurral!”
“I’ve seen what it can do. We have to retreat!”
But retreating was the last thing on the band’s mind. Several of the heaving, sucker-encrusted limbs were towering over the beach. Others began to probe it, sliding in like enormous, bloated snakes. A group of orcs ran to the nearest with axes drawn. It lashed out, swiping them with enough force to bowl most of them over. Scrambling to their feet, they set to hacking at the appendage and succeeded in severing it, releasing a dark green, foul- smelling fluid. The remainder of the writhing limb was quickly withdrawn, leaving a trail of the glutinous liquid to soak into the sand.
The whole band pitched in, attacking the advancing tentacles with swords, spears and hatchets. It was Reafdaw’s misfortune to get too close to one particular limb. Quick as fury it whipped around him. Trapped in a crushing embrace, and bellowing, the grunt was dragged seaward. His sword was lost, but he held on to a dagger. He slashed at the tentacle, and what passed for the creature’s blood flowed copiously. But it didn’t weaken its grip.
A bunch of his comrades gave chase, Stryke in the lead. Catching up, they cut, stabbed and pummelled the limb. Its hold on Reafdaw stayed firm. Then it began to rise, hoisting the struggling grunt off the ground. Its destination was obvious: the creature’s cavernous maw.
Stryke leapt, caught hold of the tentacle and scrambled astride it, as though riding a horse. Its upward motion stalled a fraction. The other orcs got the idea. They followed their captain’s example, jumping to the raised limb and hanging there until their combined weight brought it down again. A frenzied onslaught saw the limb hacked off, freeing Reafdaw. There were vivid red sucker marks wherever his flesh was bare. He stumbled to snatch up his dropped sword and rejoined the fray.
Haskeer’s approach was direct. Scaling a large rock embedded in the sand, he threw himself at one of the questing tentacles. The spear he was holding, tip down, penetrated the thick hide and passed clean through. Temporarily pinned, the squirming limb was chopped to pieces by a swarm of grunts.
Emboldened, Haskeer tried it again. Launching himself from another rock, clutching his spear, he fell towards a snaking tentacle. The spear struck, and snapped in two. He was propelled sideways by the awkward impact, landing heavily on the beach. For a moment he lay there, the wind knocked out of him, his head swimming. Until he felt something nasty brushing against his leg.
The tentacle darted at him. Thicker than he would have been able to hug, had he wanted to, it moved with shocking speed. Haskeer rolled clear, narrowly avoiding its embrace. He kept moving, backing off, hands pushing at the sand, feet kicking; scuttling like a crab, the need to move outweighing his inability to get up. The tentacle came after him. He took a chance and scrambled to his feet, a whisker shy of getting caught. Still retreating, engaged in a grotesque dance to avoid being seized, he tried staving off the thing with a hastily drawn dagger.
Wheam arrived, along with a couple of the other tyros, Keick and Chuss, the latter still game despite nursing his wounded arm. They laid into the tentacle.
“What kept you?” Haskeer barked.
They were too busy to reply. He added a hatchet to his knife and joined in.
Pepperdyne and Coilla battled a rearing tentacle. Their blades slashed it in a dozen places, yet still it came on. After much dodging and swerving they managed to get either side of it. Their determined, coordinated hacking separated a goodly length of flesh, releasing its foul odour. The rest of the tentacle pulled away. But there was a legion of replacements
“This is hard work,” Pepperdyne said. He was panting.
“It’s gonna get harder,” she told him, pointing.
The Krake had got a lot nearer. It was not far off the shore now, a mountain of quivering grey flesh, uncurling more of its tentacle emissaries.
“Can it come on land, d’you think?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“We have to pull back!”
“Too right.” She looked around, spotted Stryke. “Stryke! Stryke! Look!”
He saw, and began bellowing orders.
The Wolverines disengaged, leaving the beach to the fleshy invaders, and headed his way.
“Inland!” he cried, urging them on. “ To the trees!”
Haskeer was the last to retreat. Passing a hunting tentacle on his way, he gave it a mighty kick, which proved ineffective but satisfying.
As the band ran for cover the shadow of the Krake fell across the beach. They crashed into the jungle, and kept going until Stryke judged they had penetrated far enough and called a halt. A movement in the undergrowth had them raising their weapons. Hoisting out the source, not too gently, few were surprised to find it was a cowering Standeven.
“What now, Stryke?” Jup wanted to know.
“I guess we wait it out.”
“That’s it, is it?” Haskeer said. “We hide in here and hope that thing goes away.”
“Got a better plan?”
“Fight it.”
“You go ahead.”
“It’s what we do, Stryke. We don’t run from a fight like frightened hatchlings.”
“And we don’t waste lives going against something we can’t fight. Maybe we’d stand a chance if we were an army and not just a war-band. But we’re not.”
“Well, I reckon-”
There was a sound from the direction of the beach. A rustling, splintering noise. Something was moving their way.
“Look!” Coilla exclaimed.
A tentacle ploughed through the jungle. It came to a particularly large tree, wrapped itself around it, uprooted it with ease and tossed it aside. Hardly slowed, it continued towards them. Some way to their left a second tentacle appeared, destroying all in its path.
“Back!” Stryke ordered. “Everybody back!”
They needed no urging. As they retreated deeper into the jungle the sounds of destruction kept pace, from behind and on either side. The vegetation was much thicker here, and the air was fetid with the sickly sweet smell of rotting things and stagnant water. A reminder that living places were also dying places.
A little further on, the commotion of the pursuing tentacles still plainly heard, they passed a small clearing. At its centre stood a modest-sized altar, made of stone and simple in its design. Four icons were carved on its face. To most in the band there was a familiar look about it.
They pushed on, everyone alert. The band were using swords to hack through the foliage; Jup and Spurral preferred to beat obstructions aside with their staffs. As usual the tyros stuck together, with Dallog to the fore. Wheam plodded grimly, his precious lute strapped to his back. Standeven shadowed Coilla and Pepperdyne, as though the latter was still his beholden protector. In the event, any rescuing Pepperdyne did was confined to hauling up Standeven every time he tripped over a root.
The next attack came with little warning, save a rustling in the green canopy overhead. Suddenly, a tentacle jabbed down like an angry giant’s finger, hit the ground and surged in their direction. The band lobbed spears, and peppered it with arrows. Coilla tugged out one of her throwing knives and tossed it with sufficient force to penetrate the tough flesh. The limb withdrew. Not completely, but enough for them to continue their flight.
“Looks like we slowed it down a bit,” Pepperdyne remarked to Coilla as they battled through the jungle.
“All I’ve done is lost a good knife,” she complained.
“Those tentacles are blind. Obviously, they’ve no eyes. So how do you think they home in on us the way they do?”
“Who knows? Instinct?”
“Maybe they can detect movement. You know, vibrations or-”
“Does it matter? Getting clear of the things is more important, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, course.”
