The band's banner thrust into the ground beside him, the aged corporal was offering the young recruit a drink from his canteen. Wheam took it with trembling hands.
'Why the idling?' Haskeer snapped.
'He was shaken by the crossing,' Dallog explained.
'He can speak for himself.' Haskeer turned his glare on Wheam. ' Well? '
The youth flinched. 'Going through that… thing… really… unsettled me.'
'Oh, what a shame. Would you like your daddy?'
'You don't have to be so — '
' This is no fucking picnic! We're in the field now! Get a grip! '
'Go easy, Haskeer,' Dallog advised.
'The day I need your advice,' Haskeer thundered, 'is the day they can take me out and cut my throat. And it's Sergeant to you. Both of you.'
'I'm only doing my job, Sergeant.'
'You're nurse-maiding him.'
'Just cutting the boy some slack. He doesn't know the ropes.'
'You and him both. You've never been on a mission, and you don't know this band.'
'Maybe not. But I know orcs, Sergeant, and I know how to mend 'em.'
'Only been one Wolverine could do that, and you ain't him.'
'I'm sure Alfray was a — '
'You're not fit to use his name, Dallog. Nobody matches Alfray.'
'Pity you were so careless with him then.'
Haskeer's face darkened dangerously. 'What'd you say?'
'Things change. Live with it. Sergeant.'
Wheam gaped at them.
'Being old don't excuse you from a beating,' Haskeer growled, making fists.
'Whenever you want to try. But maybe this isn't a good time.'
'Now you're telling me what's what?'
'I meant we shouldn't brawl in front of the band.'
'Why not?' Haskeer said, moving in on him. 'Let 'em see me knock some respect into you.'
Somebody was shouting. Others took it up.
'Er, Sergeant…' Wheam pointed.
Haskeer stopped and turned.
A group of riders could be seen, moving their way across the sward. It was hard to gauge their number.
'We'll settle this later,' he promised Dallog.
'What's happening, Sergeant?' Wheam asked. 'Who are they?'
'I doubt they're a welcome party. Be ready to account for yourselves. And try not to shame the band by dying badly.' He left Wheam looking terrified.
By the time Haskeer reached Stryke and Coilla, the approaching riders were recognisable.
'Oh, good,' Haskeer muttered. 'My favourite race.'
'What do you think,' Coilla said, 'around sixty?'
'More or less,' Stryke replied. 'And they look ragtag; no uniforms.'
Dallog arrived, exchanging glowers with Haskeer as he passed. 'What are they, Captain?'
'Humans.'
'They're… freakish.'
'Yeah, not too pretty, are they?'
'And they're getting closer,' Coilla reminded them.
'Right,' Stryke said. 'We assume they're hostile.' He addressed Haskeer and Dallog. 'Get the band into a defensive formation at that table rock over there. And keep an eye on the new recruits. Move! '
They rushed off, barking orders.
'What about me?' Coilla asked.
'How many good archers we got?'
'Five or six, counting a couple of the tyros.'
'And you. Get yourselves on top of the rock. Go! '
The rocky outcropping Stryke had indicated was a slab the size of a cabin. It jutted out of the ground at an angle. But its highest point, tall as a tree, was flat.
Band members were drawing blades and discarding their heavy furs, the better to fight.
Coilla steered her archers to the rock and they scrambled up. Stryke joined the rest of the Wolverines under the tapering overhang at its base.
The humans were galloping in at speed, and a clamour rose from them. Stryke was sure he heard them chanting the word monsters.
He slapped the rock above his head. 'We've got a good natural defence here,' he told the band, 'as long as we don't break ranks.' The veterans knew that well enough; he was thinking of the recruits. 'Let's see those shields!'
The old hands deployed theirs expertly, slipping the shields from backs to chests in a single, deft movement. The newbies fumbled. No more so than Wheam, who got himself in a tangle trying to swap his shield for his beloved lute.
'Like this,' Stryke instructed, extricating the youth. 'And hold your sword that way.'
Wheam nodded, grinning dourly and looking bemused. Stryke sighed.
A greater racket went up from the riders.
They charged.
Coilla's unit had arrows nocked and were stretching their bowstrings. Some preferred kneeling. She stood.
The leading humans were no more than a spear throw away, horses white-flecked and huffing vapour.
' Hold fast! ' Haskeer bellowed.
Coilla waited until the last possible moment before yelling, ' Fire! '
Half a dozen bolts winged towards the charging attackers. One of the leading riders took a hit to his chest. Unhorsed by the impact, he tumbled into the path of those following, bringing several down.
A handful of the humans had bows, and returned fire. But shooting from the saddle meant most of their shafts were wide.
The orcs' next volley found three targets. Arrows struck the thigh of one man and the shoulder of another. The third grazed a rider's temple. He fell, to be trampled.
Coilla's team kept on firing.
Within spitting distance of the rock the humans slowed and their charge turned into a confused milling. Shouts were exchanged, then they broke into two groups. The largest turned and began galloping around the outcrop, hoping for a breach. The rest advanced on the orcs at ground level.
Some of Stryke's cluster carried slingshots. As the humans approached, they deployed them. The salvo of hard shot cracked a couple of skulls and fractured an arm or two. But there was no time for more than a few lobs before the raiders were at their line.
Their horses gave them the advantage of height, and flailing hooves could prove deadly. The snag was reach. To engage the orcs they had to lean and hack, making themselves vulnerable.
All was churning mounts and slashing blades at the base of the rock. Blows rained on the orcs' raised shields. They struck back, and fought to bring down the riders. A dagger to the calves was sufficient in some cases. In others, concerted efforts were needed to drag horsemen from their saddles. A grinding melee ensued.
Around a dozen raiders dismounted of their own accord, the better to engage in close quarters fighting.
One human singled out Stryke for particular attention. He was burly and battle-scarred, with an overlong, disorderly beard. Like his fellows, he wore mismatched, raggedy clothes. And he swung a double-headed axe.
Stryke dodged and felt the displaced air as the weapon skimmed past. Before it reached the end of its arc, he lunged, slashing with his blade. The human moved fast, pulling back in time to avoid contact. Then he attacked again, unleashing another murderous swing. Stryke dropped and kept his head.
