‘Lovely. At the sharp end again, eh, my lady?’ Stregga said, drawing her sword and sighting down the length of the blade.
‘It’s where we belong,’ Neferata said, flinging off her cloak. The tribes had done their job well; the orcs streaming into the valley were disorganised. They were still dangerous for all that, and there were still enough of them to prove troublesome for Razek’s throng further up the valley. They needed to get their attention.
‘Sound the drums,’ Neferata shouted, her voice carrying across the slope. ‘Form up the dragon’s scales!’ In answer to her cry, the war-drums sounded, bone striking stretched skin in a deep, thudding rhythm. A thousand heavy bronze and wood shields, each the size of the warrior wielding them, were slammed down onto the hard-packed soil of the slope. The spikes that lined the bottom of each shield bit into the earth and anchored the barrier even as the shield-wielders crouched low at the barked order of the ajal in command, bracing the shields with their bodies. The ajal roared out another command and the second line of men stepped forwards, extending the pitch-hardened wooden stakes they held over the top of the shields. The heads of the stakes were equipped with bronze cross-pieces, to prevent the surprisingly durable orcs from pulling themselves down the length of the spear. The Strigoi had learned over the decades that the best way to handle the urka was from a distance. Pin them and butcher them at leisure.
The drums continued to thunder dully as the Strigoi battle-line settled into the position they would hold for the entirety of the battle to come. There would be no retreat. ‘Curious strategy,’ Vorag grunted, eyeing the line. He was already mounted and his frame trembled with eagerness.
‘Cathay is a curious place,’ Neferata replied. Drilling the rambunctious Strigoi in Cathayan military manoeuvres had been a battle in and of itself — one she had only accomplished by pricking Abhorash’s vanity. She needed soldiers, not warriors. He had grasped the tactics and strategies of the armies of the east and adapted them to the Strigoi’s more brutal methods of warfare with instinctive ease, and she suspected that Abhorash had spent some time in Cathay, though he never admitted to such.
Indeed, Abhorash rarely spoke to her at all. He kept to his men, training his armoured riders in the arts of the Arabyan Kontoi and the Khazag riders of the eastern steppes, crafting an elite core for Ushoran’s growing army. She wasn’t offended. Far from it, in fact; the further Abhorash stayed away from her, the better. She knew the others felt the same way, especially W’soran. Abhorash’s honour was an anchor around all of their necks. It weighed them down and reminded them of what they had once had, and what they would never have.
‘The orcs are a flood, Timagal Vorag,’ she continued. ‘We must let them bleed themselves on our rocks rather than attempt to match them, savagery for savagery.’
‘As long as I get a taste of that blood,’ Vorag growled.
‘Have no fear in that regard,’ she said. Neferata swept her sword out, and the drums thudded. The third rank stepped forwards, raising their bows. The Strigoi bows were stubby recurved things, meant to be fired from horseback at the gallop. Crafted from wood, horn and sinew and bound together with animal glue, they possessed a startling punch for their size. She jabbed the air and the archers reared back, aiming upwards.
‘You remember the plan?’ she said, not looking at Vorag.
‘Of course,’ he grunted. ‘Have no fear, Neferata. The Bloodytooth will not fail you.’ He snapped his reins and wheeled his horse about. In moments, Vorag’s riders began moving back around the hill, secreting themselves in the thick trees. Neferata raised her sword, letting the iron catch the moonlight.
The valley had become a vast, seething ocean of green beneath the moon. There were thousands of them, like ants fleeing an ant hill. Larger shapes moved through the tide, carried on savage currents — giants and trolls and howling, shrieking crimson things that were more fungus than beast.
Neferata’s sword dropped. Bows twanged and a solid cloud of arrows momentarily blotted out the moon. The horde below heaved like a wounded animal biting its flank.
‘That got their attention,’ Stregga said.
‘And now we need to keep it,’ Neferata said, raising her sword again. Two more volleys followed the first, and the mass of orcs disintegrated, a huge wave breaking off from the main body to crash towards the slope where the Strigoi waited. Neferata hissed. There were more of them than she had thought. She cast a calculating eye over the battle-line. The Strigoi were orc-fighters without peer, save for perhaps the dwarfs, but even they could be overwhelmed.
‘Sanzak, get them ready,’ Neferata said. The ajal in charge of the closest section of the line nodded; his eyes were red in the gloom. He was one of Vorag’s get and bore his master’s brute stamp upon his features. He began snarling out orders as the first line of Strigoi readied themselves, and his commands were echoed up and down the line by his fellow ajals. The men stank of nervousness and battle-lust. Neferata waited just behind the line. She signalled for another volley.
Orcs fell even as they ascended the slope, but the creatures pressed forwards. Their green flesh daubed with savage azure tattoos and hideous war-whoops on their lips, the orcs were a terrifying sight. They struggled up the hill hour after hour in a wave of grunting, howling bodies, each one striving to be the first to reach the crest of the hill where the Strigoi waited for them. The stakes were heavy with brackish orc blood and the men wielding them were exhausted. Replacements scrambled into position beneath the shields, to give their wielders a moment to rest.
Momentum alone would have carried the orcs up and over eventually, despite the rain of arrows that cut through their ranks time and again, and that same momentum would carry them over the line of spearmen. They were stubborn creatures, fond of battle and inured to setback.
The only hope in thwarting an orc charge was, therefore, to surprise them.
‘We’re running low on arrows,’ Sanzak called out.
‘Not surprising,’ Stregga muttered. ‘If we can’t keep them off the line, they’ll roll right over us.’
‘I know. Now it’s our turn,’ Neferata said, looking at Layla. The girl bared her fangs and drew her sword with a flourish. Without another word, Neferata charged down the slope and leapt into the air, her sword flashing out. An orc’s howl was cut short as her blade separated its head from its shoulders. As she landed, she gutted a second, nose wrinkling at the stench of its spilling innards. Crude stone weapons shattered as they struck against the armour she wore. Spinning, she bisected another of the brutes.
Neferata spun, and orcs died. Nearby, Stregga copied her mistress’s action and bounded down the slope, unleashing months of repressed savagery on the hapless greenskins. The vampire shrieked wordlessly as her sword licked out, lopping off limbs and heads with abandon.
Layla was, if anything, even more vicious than the other vampire. Her flesh rippled, sprouting a coat of thick, dark hair, and her skull elongated into something more vulpine than human as she crashed into the orcs, singing a Strigoi death-song. Her claws raked out, gutting a goblin even as she cut an orc in two at the waist with her blade.
Several of the ajal followed suit, the Strigoi bounding out of the shield-line with red-eyed eagerness. They fought like animals, wielding massive hammers and swords that pulped bone and meat alike. All in all, a dozen vampires had crashed into the orcs and within moments they were wading through corpses and blood in a savage frenzy.