Stan Nicholls - Orcs:Bad blood

The terrain slipped past at a clip. Copious trees and lush pastures. A glimpse of a small lake ringed with jade hills. Fields with flocks of sheep and startled shepherds. The sight of distant cerulean cliffs, shimmering in sunlight.

They rounded a bend. The river became wider and faster. They were drenched with the spume, rafts bouncing on the surge, bow and stern see-sawing.

"Hey!" Spurral yelled.

"What?" Stryke bellowed.

"Back there!" She pointed to the rear.

He squinted through the vapour and made out oblong patches of white. The mist cleared a little and he realised they were sails. They belonged to an armada of boats coming round the bend after them.

As they drew nearer they were noticed by the occupants of other rafts.

On Coilla's, she turned to Haskeer and said, "Now we know where they disappeared to."

"The bastards are on to our every move."

"There's gotta be a spy."

Haskeer snarled, "If I get my hands on him — "

"We've more pressing problems. Hold tight!"

On the raft carrying Dallog, Wheam and Pepperdyne they were counting the pursuing craft.

"Twenty-one," Dallog said.

"Twenty- two," Wheam corrected. "You missed one."

"The number's not important," Pepperdyne interrupted testily. "Outrunning them is."

"They're gaining!" Wheam cried.

Brelan and Chillder's raft was at the back of the orc flotilla. Close enough to the boats chasing them to see who stood at the prow of the leading vessel.

"It's him all right," Brelan confirmed, shading his eyes with his palm, "Kapple Hacher."

"It was no fluke him being here," Chillder reckoned. "This whole thing stinks, brother."

The river meandered for a mile or two, the turns and curves taming its pace. That slowed the rafts, dependent on current, and forced the orcs to work their paddles. The boats trailing them, under sail, began to close the gap. And even when the river straightened and flowed quickly again they continued to catch up, until the foremost were within an arrow's flight.

The humans proved the point by loosing a salvo. Arrows zinged over the orcs' heads, or fell short, cutting into open water. Orc archers returned fire. Their footing was unsure on the heaving rafts and the results were ragged. But the exchange carried on, and there were hits. Through skill or luck, two orcs were struck by bolts. One plunged overboard and was lost. The other fell wounded into the arms of comrades.

A human paid with his life, taking an arrow to the chest. Another was injured and dragged clear of the rail.

By this time the boats had closed in. But the rafts had a small advantage over the larger craft. They didn't have sails to tack, giving them a bit more leeway to manoeuvre. That kept most of the boats clear, though some got in close enough to engage. Spears were lobbed. Arrows, throwing knives and slingshot clattered against raised shields on both sides.

The speed of the river's flow hampered ramming attempts by the boats. Instead they tried to get alongside the rafts and board them. Others did their best to outpace the rafts, hoping to block their way. The orcs fought to stop them.

In this way the two small fleets played cat and mouse along the river. Harrying and assailing, bumping and swerving, hurling weaponry back and forth.

At length, a change came over the river. It flowed even faster, and up ahead it seemed to disappear into a boiling cloud. A deep rumbling could be heard.

"What the hell's that?" Jup said.

"Must be the falls," Stryke explained.

"So what do we do?" Spurral asked, a little uneasily.

"Brelan's got it worked out. I hope. Just be ready to hold on tight."

Every rudder operator on the orc rafts was a resistance member, briefed on what to do and when. As the chase progressed they steered nearer to the left bank and stayed alert for a signal.

The roar of water grew louder, the misty cloud loomed higher. Several boats were neck and neck with orc rafts.

On the bank, perilously close to the deafening lip of the falls, stood a cluster of mature trees. They were taller than any others on that stretch. From high up on the tallest there was a spiky flash of light. It repeated a number of times, proving it to be a confederate holding something reflective.

As one, the rafts veered sharply towards the bank. The orcs braced themselves. At the same time bands of archers ashore, some hidden in trees, peppered the human's boats.

The well chosen spot was shallow near the bank, and the majority of the rafts simply ground to a halt. Their occupants leapt off and splashed to shore. Some rafts were barred from quite reaching the shallows by the clutter of vessels. They tossed anchors of iron and rock overboard, then their passengers waded waist high to the riverbank.

The suddenness of the move confused the humans, though they must have known the orcs had no plan to go over the falls. A number of them tried copying the move and beaching in the shallows. But the deeper hauls of their bigger craft ran aground far short of the bank, leaving the troopers loath to brave the fast-flowing water.

Other boats dropped anchor in full flow, but had no benefit. There was such force in the tide that rather than holding, the anchors were dragged along the riverbed by the swiftly drifting boats. Some struggled to turn away from the attraction of the falls and head back the way they'd come. All the while, arrows rained down on them.

One boat, losing all control, slowly spun like a child's paper toy in a gushing stream as the river pushed it past the chaos of vessels and towards the falls. Men jumped from its decks, only to find that the river had as powerful a hold on them as their abandoned craft. Boat and men, black dots in a torrent of foam, rolled into the vast cloud of water vapour. The boat, dark outline showing through the mist, tipped, and for a second seemed to stand on its nose before plunging out of sight.

The last of the orcs swarmed ashore and into the trees. Humans who made it to the bank met a hail of arrows that kept them pinned down at the water's edge.

The resistance had horses waiting, along with a couple of wagons for kit and the wounded. Everyone quickly mounted. In minutes they were on a trail and heading out of the woods.

Their path took them to a rise that ran parallel with the river, so that they could look down to the tangle of vessels, and the humans milling on the bank. One figure was unmistakable. Kapple Hacher stood apart from his men, his fists balled. He looked up and saw the escaping orcs. Even from that distance they could sense his impotent rage. The orcs spurred their mounts and pushed on.

A while later, well clear of the river, they allowed themselves to slow down.

Riding next to Stryke and Brelan at the column's head, Pepperdyne had a question. "Does that count as a rout or a success?" he wondered.

"Bit of both," Stryke replied.

"I'd say that's a generous way of seeing it."

"We did damage. And the way the humans tried to spring their trap could have been handled better, lucky for us."

"I'm wondering if it was worth upward of forty of our lives," Brelan said.

"And now we've got a traitor to contend with," Pepperdyne added.

"We don't know that," Brelan came back irately. "It could have been chance."

"Oh, come on."

"Maybe Hacher was doing a snap inspection or something, and — "

"And at the same time they just happened to find the entrance to the catacombs minutes after we went in? Listen to yourself."

"Face it, Brelan," Stryke said. "The odds are somebody informed on us."

"The resistance are loyal," Brelan stated indignantly. "You'll find no betrayal in our ranks."

"Didn't say there was."

"What are you saying then? Because if there is a spy, and it wasn't an Acurial orc, that doesn't leave much scope, does it?"