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 trajectory became more acute. Impossibly gathering speed, it descended so fast they couldn’t see it.
The arrow struck Bhose in his chest.
“Back!” Stryke yelled. “ Pull back!”
The band hastily retreated, making for the trees, keeping low and dragging Bhose with them.
As soon as they reached shelter, Jup examined their comrade.
He looked up at the circle of Wolverines. “He took it square to the heart. He’s dead.”
Coilla gazed out at the departing goblin ships and said, “How the hell did they do that?”
9
Surrounded by his brothers-in-arms, an orc lies dead on the edge of a beach, his blood seeping into the sand.
The sand consists of an untold number of grains. The number of grains of sand on all the beaches of all the islands is trivial compared to the number of worlds that exist.
The void between them is unimaginably great, and terrible. But tenuous, spider-web bridges connect the worlds, woven by the power of the instrumentalities.
An endless expanse. A blue-black canvas speckled with infinite points of light.
One speck, no brighter and no dimmer than most, was verdant. Ceragan, a blue-green world, was home to orcs. It was largely unspoilt, but a small part of it had been defiled.
At the encampment, they were still clearing up the damage. Their own dead had gone to their pyres; the attackers’ corpses, far greater in number, had been disposed of less ceremoniously. Now the orcs were repairing their dwellings.
Nearly half of the lodges had been wholly or partly destroyed by fire. The corrals were broken and the livestock had scattered. Wagons were upended, and a barn stood in ruins. The carcasses of horses and cows were being hauled away.
The settlement echoed to the sounds of hammering and sawing. Timber was unloaded from overburdened wagons. Smiths pounded anvils next to braziers of glowing coals. Lengths of rope were woven and roofs re-thatched. New fortifications were being erected.
Wandering through all the activity were two young male hatchlings. They were siblings, the eldest over four summers old, his brother three. Each clutched a skilfully crafted hatchet. They were much smaller versions of the weapons carried by the adults, but just as sharp, and woe to anyone who tried parting the pair from them. Not that it would occur to orcs to do so.
The hatchlings roamed with no particular purpose, driven by boredom, curiosity and a certain amount of anxiety. Their parents had been snatched from them, and although they were being cared for, they were adrift and fretful. They were more careless than they would have been if adults they respected were watching over them. It showed in their mud-caked boots and mucky britches.