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.
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.