Free Orcs: Bad Blood by Stan Nicholls

Haskeer reached Stryke and Coilla, the approaching riders were recognisable.
    “Oh, good,” Haskeer muttered. “My favourite race.”
    “What do you think,” Coilla said, “around sixty?”
    “More or less,” Stryke replied. “And they look ragtag; no uniforms.”
    Dallog arrived, exchanging glowers with Haskeer as he passed. “What
are
they, Captain?”
    “Humans.”
    “They’re… freakish.”
    “Yeah, not too pretty, are they?”
    “And they’re getting closer,” Coilla reminded them.
    “Right,” Stryke said. “We assume they’re hostile.” He addressed Haskeer and Dallog. “Get the band into a defensive formation
     at that table rock over there. And keep an eye on the new recruits.
Move!
”
    They rushed off, barking orders.
    “What about me?” Coilla asked.
    “How many good archers we got?”
    “Five or six, counting a couple of the tyros.”
    “And you. Get yourselves on top of the rock.
Go!
”
    The rocky outcropping Stryke had indicated was a slab the size of a cabin. It jutted out of the ground at an angle. But its
     highest point, tall as a tree, was flat.
    Band members were drawing blades and discarding their heavy furs, the better to fight.
    Coilla steered her archers to the rock and they scrambled up. Stryke joined the rest of the Wolverines under the tapering
     overhang at its base.
    The humans were galloping in at speed, and a clamour rose from them. Stryke was sure he heard them chanting the word
monsters
.
    He slapped the rock above his head. “We’ve got a good natural defence here,” he told the band, “as long as we don’t break
     ranks.” The veterans knew that well enough; he was thinking of the recruits. “Let’s see those shields!”
    The old hands deployed theirs expertly, slipping the shields from backs to chests in a single, deft movement. The newbies
     fumbled. No more so than Wheam, who got himself in a tangle trying to swap his shield for his beloved lute.
    “Like
this
,” Stryke instructed, extricating the youth. “And hold your sword
that
way.”
    Wheam nodded, grinning dourly and looking bemused. Stryke sighed.
    A greater racket went up from the riders.
    They charged.
    Coilla’s unit had arrows nocked and were stretching their bowstrings. Some preferred kneeling. She stood.
    The leading humans were no more than a spear throw away, horses white-flecked and huffing vapour.
    “
Hold fast!
” Haskeer bellowed.
    Coilla waited until the last possible moment before yelling, “
Fire!
”
    Half a dozen bolts winged towards the charging attackers. One of the leading riders took a hit to his chest. Unhorsed by the
     impact, he tumbled into the path of those following, bringing several down.
    A handful of the humans had bows, and returned fire. But shooting from the saddle meant most of their shafts were wide.
    The orcs’ next volley found three targets. Arrows struck the thigh of one man and the shoulder of another. The third grazed
     a rider’s temple. He fell, to be trampled.
    Coilla’s team kept on firing.
    Within spitting distance of the rock the humans slowed and their charge turned into a confused milling. Shouts were exchanged,
     then they broke into two groups. The largest turned and began galloping around the outcrop, hoping for a breach. The rest
     advanced on the orcs at ground level.
    Some of Stryke’s cluster carried slingshots. As the humans approached, they deployed them. The salvo of hard shot cracked
     a couple of skulls and fractured an arm or two. But there was no time for more than a few lobs before the raiders were at
     their line.
    Their horses gave them the advantage of height, and flailing hooves could prove deadly. The snag was reach. To engage the
     orcs they had to lean and hack, making themselves vulnerable.
    All was churning mounts and slashing blades at the base of the rock. Blows rained on the orcs’ raised shields. They struck
     back, and fought to bring down the riders. A dagger to the calves was sufficient in some cases. In