Tales of the Old World (21 page)

As the lord’s hunting party, they were equipped with the finest weapons
forged from sturdy metal mined in the south-eastern foothills. Each of the men
also had a short hunting bow, carved from the horns of mountain cattle. The
warriors of the tribe were taught how to use the bows from the time they were
able to lift one, and even in the darkest night they rarely missed their mark.
Ansgar was proud to carry the champion’s bow, edged with gold and silver thread,
which he had won four times in the last six years. Whatever his words of
caution, Ansgar was as eager for a fight as any of them, looking forward to the
promise of more glory in battle. If there was some fighting to be done this
night, he would be ready for it.

The party moved on in silence, the forest around them in almost total
darkness as the cloudy sky obscured the twin moons. Now that they had dropped
into the dale the distant flicker of fire could no longer be seen, but the
scouts had taken their bearings well and they were headed almost straight to the
north to investigate the intrusion. Soon they would find out just who it was who
thought they could camp within their borders.

By the time the warlord was stood in front of his dwarf captives, most of his
warriors were behind him. His head cocked to one side with concentration, the
large orc looked at each of them in turn, assessing their remaining strength.
Noticing Snorri’s injury, the massive black orc’s mouth twisted in a cruel smile
and he stepped forward for a closer look.

It was just the opportunity Snorri had been waiting for. Lashing forward with
his head, the old dwarf delivered a smashing butt to the bridge of the orc’s
nose, sending a spatter of green blood spilling through the night air. The
mumbling throng behind him fell silent except for a few gurgling gasps of horror
and the clatter of the odd weapon or cup dropped in stunned disbelief. As the
chieftain shook his head to clear the dizziness, one of his lieutenants stepped
forward, a bared scimitar lifted above his head. His intent was clear. Angrily,
the chieftain pushed the orc back into the mob and grinned evilly at Snorri.
Wiping away the mixture of blood and mucus dripping down his long top lip with
the back of his gnarled, scarred hand, the battle-hardened orc chuckled. “I
likes dis wun—’e’s gorra lorra spirit, hur hur!”

When the stunned silence continued, the warlord slowly turned on his heel to
glare at his warriors. Under his hostile gaze, the mob broke into howls of
sycophantic laughter. Satisfied with this display, their leader turned back to
the dwarfs, his attention now firmly fixed on Kurgan.

“Wotcha, stunties! Are we cumfurtabble? Do yooze knows what I’m gonna do wiv
yooze lot? Dere’s lots of fings we can do togewer, and it’ll be a lorra fun. We
’ad a lorra fun wiv yer mates!”

To illustrate his point, the warlord let rip with an enormous belch,
spattering Kurgan with spittle. The stench of charred dwarf flesh and fungus
beer was nauseating and the dwarf king felt his stomach lurch uncontrollably.
With some effort, Kurgan quelled the bile rising in his throat and grimaced at
the warlord.

“Course, we woz ’ungry den, so we ’ad to be pretty quick wiv da butcherin’.
Yooze fellas, we’s gonna take our time over, ain’t we lads?”

The warlord turned to his ragtag army, his cavernous mouth yawning open to
display an impressive set of yellowing, cracked fangs in what Kurgan assumed was
the orc equivalent of a grin. This time the mob cheered on cue, laughing
heartily. Kurgan tried once more to loosen his bonds, without success.

“Da furst fing we’s gonna do is put yer feet inna fire. Dat’ll warm yer up
fer sure. Den we can stick fings in yer eyes, so’s you don’t see no more. Den
we’s gonna chop off yer fingas and toes and ears and noses and hack off yer
luwerly beards. I fink yer king’s beard will go well wiv me uwer mates.”

The orc stretched and grabbed a handful of Kurgan’s hair, dragging his head
forward until it was level with the vile decaying decorations on the orc’s belt.
The stench of rotting blood and filth emanating from the warlord’s unwashed fur
leggings made Kurgan want to retch, and he had to muster every ounce of
self-control not to heave up his breakfast. The warlord released his grip and
continued.

“Den I fink we’ll start boilin’ bits of yer inna pot, and we’ll feed ’em to
yer so’s yer don’t go ’ungry. Yooze stunties are tough ’uns, no mistake, and I
reckon dere’ll still be plenty of life left in yer after dat. So den we start
peelin’ yer skin off an’ feedin’ it to da boarz. Da last fing we’s gonna do is
cut out yer tongues, cos by dat time yer’ll be screamin’ really loud and
musical, beggin’ us ta stop ’avin so much fun.”

Kurgan spat again, and raised his head to stare straight at the old orc.
Clearing his throat of smoke and ash, the dwarf king’s voice rang clearly out
over the camp.

“You have plagued us for many years, Vagraz Head-Stomper, and we have never
been afraid of you. You don’t frighten us now! You will never get me to beg
anything from you, you worthless dung-head! I’d bite off my tongue before I
would give you that pleasure. You can torture us, but you’ll never break our
spirits.”

The warlord frowned at the interruption. With a non-committal grunt, the orc
delivered a short punch to Kurgan’s jaw, smashing his head back against the post
and splitting his lip.

“You mite not fink I’m very smart, but I knows a few fings about yooze
stunties. F’rinstance, I knows dat da worst fing for you is gonna be to watch
yer mates gettin’ it furst.” Gazing at the roaring fire and then back to the
dwarfs, Vagraz gave an evil chuckle. “Enough words. Let’s get started!”

With that he spun and delivered a mighty kick to Snorri’s midriff. The
ancient counsellor fell to his knees, doubled up with pain. Another kick from
the iron-capped boots knocked Snorri sideways, spiralling down the pole until he
was left choking in the mud. Eager to regain his lost standing, the burly orc
with the scimitar pushed forwards again, two swift hacks severing through the
ropes binding Snorri. As a goblin darted forward to wind more cord around the
dwarf’s wrists, the orc subordinate leant down and snarled into Snorri’s ear.

“Lucky you, da boss wants yer furst!”

The moons broke from the cloud and the party halted briefly by a
swift-running brook. The men sat down in the undergrowth along the bank,
splashing the cold water onto their faces, swallowing a few gulps of the cool,
refreshing liquid and chewing on the odd meat twist or fruit they had brought
along. Soon they were moving again. Slipping silently into the darkness,
disturbing the bushes and branches less than the touch of a breeze, the scouts
ran off ahead.

Soon the first of them returned, melting back from the shadowy darkness. They
gathered around the hunt lord to report. The oldest of them, Lando, spoke first.

“It’s an orc camp, lord. It’s difficult to say how many, they keep moving
around, but by my reckoning it’s odds of at least four to one in their favour.
They’ve got a few guards, but they’re all drunk. We could slit their throats
without any problems. From the trails they seem to be heading westward, from the
mountains.”

Frodewin carved a picture of the scene in the dirt. “The most sheltered
approach is from the west. We can circle round the Korburg and move up Aelfric’s
Vale to attack. The moons are almost set; soon it’ll be completely dark. With
that massive fire they’ve got burning, their night vision is going to be
worthless. We should be able to pick off half of them before they realise
there’s anything amiss.”

The blond curly hair of Ringolf bobbed up and down with excitement as the
young lad pushed his way to the front to add his news.

“They’ve captured somebody, but I couldn’t get close enough to find out who.”
The young man gulped a breath. “There’s a whole horde of them. Maybe we should
wait for the others to arrive.”

Steel-eye sighed and looked at each of his men. Without a word, he turned and
started off towards the orc camp at a run. The others exchanged confused glances
and then followed without protest. The going was easy, following a deer track to
the west through the ferns that studded the base of the mound known as Korburg.
The scouts slipped ahead once more, spreading out to silence the slumbering
sentries they had located. The main party continued around the tor, breaking to
the north when it reached a small stream which splashed down the steep slope
from a high spring.

Quickly and carefully, the hunters passed through the woods without a sound.
The twin moons dipped out of sight and the forest was plunged into blackness.
Steel-eye signalled a stop and then moved forward, tapping Ansgar and Eginolf to
indicate they should accompany him. They half crouched, half ran towards the
clearing. Ansgar could hear the drums and the chants of the orcs quite clearly
now—and smell the stench of burning flesh on the breeze. The old huntsman
uttered a whispered curse and Eginolf placed a warning finger to his lips. He
pointed towards a small thicket where a dozing orc leant against a tree, its
crude club lying next to it.

Without a sound, Eginolf drew his long hunting knife and slipped into the
trees. A moment later he was rising out of the bushes behind the orc. His hand
clamped around its long jaw and the knife flashed down in one swift stroke.
Eginolf laid his prey down carefully before rejoining his fellow huntsmen who
lay in a clump of ferns at the edge of the clearing. From here they could
clearly see four dwarf prisoners tied to stakes, two of them pretty badly
wounded. As they watched, an immense black orc walked over to the dwarfs,
followed by almost the entirety of his warband. There was a brief exchange,
during which the chieftain was knocked sprawling by a head butt from one of the
captives. All three of the humans grinned in appreciation of this act of
defiance, and both Eginolf and Ansgar nodded when their lord started to string
his bow and gestured for them to fetch the other warriors. Before long, the
whole war party was hiding along the western face of the clearing. In the centre
of their line, Ansgar and Eginolf flanked the hunt lord. One of the dwarfs was
being dragged from his post and they watched as he started to fight with his
captors before being savagely beaten into acquiescence. Ansgar spat and
whispered another curse, before shooting an inquiring look at his master.

“As much as it riles me to see such creatures on our lands,” he whispered
urgently, “why should we risk ourselves for the stunted beardlings? They’ve
never offered a hand to us.”

Steel-eye spoke for the first time that evening. His voice was strong but
quiet. It had an authoritative ring to it which forestalled any quarrel.

“I don’t like orcs. Any being, man or dwarf, who can still put up a fight
when bound certainly earns my respect.” He pulled an arrow from his quiver and
rose to one knee.

Snorri was hauled roughly to his feet. As the orcs jostled him towards their
leader, the venerable dwarf lashed out with his foot, smashing the knee of one
of his guards. As the other orcs grabbed him, Snorri stamped on the fallen orc’s
neck, producing an audible crack. He was bundled to the ground, the orcs kicking
him and jabbing him with the butts of their spears. Throughout the cruel,
mocking laughter of the warlord cackled out over the roar of the fire. Bloodied,
smeared with mud and half-fainting from pain, Snorri was dragged across the camp
towards the fire. The orc mob gathered around, whooping and cheering, eager for
blood.

The air was suddenly thick with black-feathered arrows, each picking out a
separate target with lethal accuracy. The orcs had no time to scream before they
were dead. Even as the others in the camp looked around with dumbfounded
disbelief, a second hail of shafts picked off another swathe of greenskins. The
air was filled with startled, raucous cries. The drunken orcs fumbled to get
their weapons ready, stumbling over their dead companions and tripping over the
stashes of loot that littered the clearing. Another deadly volley poured from
the dark trees, followed by a series of whooping cries as a band of humans broke
from their cover, dropping their bows and drawing long knives and swords from
their belts.

Kurgan strained again at his bonds, then looked up at Thorin’s yell.

“This is our chance, uncle! Let’s try to get out of here while the greenskins
are diverted by these primitives.”

A glance to his right confirmed to Kurgan that Borris was still unconscious,
hanging from the ropes like a tattered rag doll. The massive bruise on Borris’
head was as dark as coal and dried blood stained the whole side of his face.
Escape didn’t look very likely, but Kurgan was not one to look a gift pony in
the mouth. He clenched his teeth and wrenched at the ropes once again.

The orcs had now recovered from their initial surprise and had started to
organise themselves. Compared to the mass of greenskins, Kurgan thought the
humans looked pitifully few. Gnashing his teeth in frustration, he strained at
his bonds until his arms went numb, but there was no give in the ropes. Despite
their lack of numbers, the humans were taking a heavy toll of the stunned,
drunken orcs. One young man in particular was cutting a bloody path through the
horde, slaying another orc with every swing of his sword. The greenskins were
beginning to surround their attackers though, and Kurgan feared the reprieve
from the orcs’ bloody attentions would be shortlived.

Ansgar was grinning with the rush of battle, even as he parried another
serrated orc sword. Lunging forward with his left hand he buried his hunting
knife in the savage’s midriff. As the orc dropped gurgling to the floor another
stepped forward, only to be felled by a blow from Eginolf, who fought to his
brother’s right. The twins looked around for more foes. Their hunt lord was
surrounded by a throng of greenskins, but even if they’d been sober the orcs
would have been poor match for the mighty human lord. Although covered in a
dozen light scratches and bruises, he paid no heed to his wounds and fought with
the ferocity of a bear. Roaring the tribe’s battle cry, he plunged his sword
through the neck of a goblin and, with a backhand blow of his knife,
disembowelled another.