Free Orcs: Bad Blood by Stan Nicholls Page A

others, concerted efforts
     were needed to drag horsemen from their saddles. A grinding melee ensued.
    Around a dozen raiders dismounted of their own accord, the better to engage in close quarters fighting.
    One human singled out Stryke for particular attention. He was burly and battle-scarred, with an overlong, disorderly beard.
     Like his fellows, he wore mismatched, raggedy clothes. And he swung a double-headed axe.
    Stryke dodged and felt the displaced air as the weapon skimmed past. Before it reached the end of its arc, he lunged, slashing
     with his blade. The human moved fast, pulling back in time to avoid contact. Then he attacked again, unleashing another murderous
     swing. Stryke dropped and kept his head.
    The man fell to hammering at Stryke’s shield, looking to dislodge it. Stryke weathered the battering, and at the first let
     sent back a series of blistering swipes. He failed to penetrate the human’s guard. But it seemed that, for all his heftiness,
     his opponent was starting to slow under the effort of handling the axe. Stryke wasn’t about to break the formation, regardless
     of that. He forced the man to come to him.
    The human rushed in again, spitting fury. Another pass whistled by Stryke’s skull, too close for comfort. Stryke powered forward,
     using his shield as a ram. There was a tussle, orc and human straining with all their strength against each other. At its
     height, Stryke sidestepped, wrenching the shield out of play. His balance spoilt, the man stumbled forward, losing his grip
     on the axe. It dangled on a thong at his wrist, and he scrabbled to bring it into play. Stryke was quicker. With a savage
     downward sweep, he lopped off the human’s hand. The man howled, his wound pumping crimson, the axe in the dirt.
    Stryke stilled his pain with a thrust to the heart.
    As the axeman fell, a confederate barged in to take his place. Scowling, broken-toothed, he took on Stryke with knife and
     sword. Their pealing blades added to the melody of clashing steel.
    The orcs’ line still held. But the fights boiling at the base of the rock were making it indistinct.
    Up above, Coilla’s archers continued to take their shots where they could. Though as the struggle became fiercer, and friends
     and enemies began to mingle, their task was harder. Coilla judged the attackers to be as undisciplined and ill-assorted as
     the way they dressed. Not that it made them any less determined, and there was an unpredictability in disorder that could
     be more dangerous than facing a well-organised force.
    Coilla switched to throwing-knives, which she felt she used with more expertise than a bow and were more precise in chaotic
     situations. Taking in the scene, she spotted two likely marks. Mounted on a white mare, a wild eyed, mop-haired human was
     laying about an orc with a broadsword. She got a bead on him and hurled a knife with force. It buried itself in his windpipe.
     He flew backwards, arms spread wide, and met the ground. As a bonus, his horse panicked and kicked out with its rear legs,
     downing a man on foot.
    Her second target was also on foot. Bald and beardless, he was built like a stone slab privy. As Coilla watched, he broke
     into a run at the defensive line, a javelin outstretched. She drew back her arm and flung hard. Her aim was true, but the
     human made an unexpected move, swerving to avoid a fallen comrade. The blade pierced his side, near the waist, proving painful
     but not fatal. He bellowed, nearly tripping, and went to pull out the knife. She swiftly plucked another and threw again.
    This time she put it where she first intended, in his chest.
    Stryke wrenched his sword from a human’s innards and let him drop. He glanced around. Bodies littered the ground, slowing
     the raiders’ advance, but there were still plenty to deal with.
    Further along the line, Wheam cringed under the onslaught of a human with a mace. The metal ball’s continuous pounding was
     distorting the shape of