“As surely as any other in the band. He’s already proving himself. Like Wheam.”
She weighed his words. “All right. I’m obliged, Dallog.”
“You’re welcome, Corporal.”
Coilla left thinking he was a wise judge of character. She was impressed.
Heading back towards Pepperdyne, she saw Standeven shuffling away from him. Halfway there, Spurral joined her.
“Know what I’m thinking?” she said.
“Nope,” Coilla replied. “Mind-reading’s not one of my talents.”
“I’m thinking how much Stryke’s search for Thirzarr mirrors what happened to me and Jup.”
“When the Gatherers took you, you mean. S’pose it does. It was a hard time for you both.”
“Yes, but that ended happily.”
“You think this won’t?”
“I don’t know. I hope it will, of course. But the difference between my situation and Thirzarr’s was that you had some idea of where I was being taken.”
“Yeah, it’s tough knowing what to do next.”
“Coilla, do you ever wonder…”
“What?”
“Do you ever wonder what you’d do if the same thing happened to you and Jode? If you were parted and-”
“It hadn’t occurred to me. Go a bit nuts, I expect.”
“You feel that strongly about him, then.”
“That’s a sneaky way of getting me to open up about it, Spurral.”
“Sorry.”
Coilla grinned. “I don’t mind.”
“Does anybody else?”
“What do you mean?”
“You must know there are some in the band who frown on what you’re doing.”
“You one of them?”
“Me? Come on, Coilla, you know me better than that, I hope.”
“Well, I don’t give a damn what any of the others think.”
“Nor should you. And Jode feels the same way?”
“I guess so. Why do you ask?”
“To give you a little support, if you need it, and to say I know how Jode might feel as an outsider. Like me, a dwarf in an orc warband.”
“Do we make you feel like an outsider? Or Jup?”
“No, far from it; and I wouldn’t expect it from orcs. If anybody knows what it’s like to be outcasts it’s your race. But when all’s said and done you’ve got your ways and we’ve got ours. We can’t help our differences. Though it has to be said that dwarfs are more acceptable to orcs than humans, given your history.”
“I can’t argue with that.”
“Mind you, Jode doesn’t seem typical of his kind.”
“No, that’s Standeven.”
They shared a low, conspiratorial chuckle over that, and both of them glanced at Standeven, picking his way through surly groups of Wolverines lounging on the sand.
“I just wanted you to know somebody in the band backs you,” Spurral said, “and I suspect Jup and me aren’t the only ones.”
“Thanks, Spurral.”
“Hey, look, here comes Stryke.” She nodded in the direction of the jungle’s fringe.
“Let’s hope he’s bearable.”
As he drew nearer, Coilla’s impression was that Stryke seemed a jot restored. There was a hint of purpose in his gait that had been missing earlier.
He acknowledged them with a slight bob of the head. “What’s happening?”
“We were hoping you’d tell us,” Coilla replied. “Got a plan?”
“An issue of brandy tots to buck up the band. They look as though they could use it.”
“That’s not much of a plan, Stryke.”
“For where we go next, no, it isn’t. That I don’t know. What I do know is that this fighting unit works best, and figures things out best, when it’s in good order. Let’s get ’em up and busy.”
“Then what?”
“We’ll see.”
Spurral felt a little superfluous. She wandered away, just a few paces, and stared at their ship, gently swaying at anchor offshore.
She noticed splashes of foam on the otherwise calm surface. As she watched, the splashing became more of a commotion. Others saw it, too. Orcs were standing, and some were calling out.
Stryke and Coilla joined her.
There was a great disturbance in the water now.
“What the hell’s going on?” Stryke wanted to know.
A large area of the sea was churning. Through the misty spray they caught a flash of glistening, leathery skin.
Spurral whispered, “My gods…”
“What is it?” Coilla said.
Something very big and bulky was rising out of the water.
Spurral tried to speak, but nothing came.
“ What is it? ” Coilla repeated.
Turning to her, Spurral managed, “The… Krake.”
12
For what seemed an eternity the band was rooted, staring at the spectacle.
The mass of grey, rubbery flesh rose ever higher, streaming cascades of seawater. Thick as mature tree trunks, a dozen tendrils emerged and swayed menacingly.
Stryke was the first to come alive. “ It’s moving this way!” he yelled. “ To arms!”
The band took up their weapons. Coilla and Pepperdyne found each other, as did Jup and Spurral. The tyros gathered around Dallog. Standeven backed away, stumbling in the direction of the jungle, hands shaking.
With amazing swiftness the creature came towards the beach. Its progress threw up a vaporous haze, but beyond it was the impression of multiple eyes as big as hay-cart wheels and rows of fangs the size of gravestones. The forest of tentacles wriggled horribly and gigantically like independent organisms. Water displaced by the leviathan’s bulk rushed towards the island and lapped its shore.
At Stryke’s order seven or eight members of the band fired their bows. They used bodkin arrows, the meanest they had. All struck, but at least half simply bounced off the toughened skin. Others lodged but didn’t seem to have any effect. The archers kept firing.
“We have to do better than this,” Jup said.
“We can’t fight the thing,” Spurral insisted.
“If it lives it can be killed.”
“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.