The Lost War, Karl Gallagher [recommended reading txt] 📗

“When I’m out of arrows we’ll advance,” he said.

Instead orcs came to them. Not in a line. It was a gaggle, orcs deciding individually to attack this new threat. They closed fast enough the pole swingers didn’t have a chance to gang up on any of them.

Newman tossed his bow aside as two came for him. One had his last arrow sticking out of its chest. He drew his Ka-bar knife and let them close.

The one with the arrow rushed around, coming at Newman from his right. Newman hopped to the side, making it come between him and the second orc. A pivot let the spear go past him.

He braced the knife, holding it still as the spear slid over it until the orc rammed its hand into the blade. It grunted, lifted the hand off the spear, two fingers dangling loose, and stepped back.

Newman followed, pushing the spear up with his left hand. The point of the Ka-bar went under the orc’s ribs. A twist as he pulled it out released a gush of orange blood.

The other orc jabbed at his head, almost too fast for Newman to duck. He felt it brush against his hair.

It was too far away for him to reach. The orc braced the spear with one hand while the other thrust it at him in quick jabs. Two hops kept him alive but he couldn’t keep that up. One stumble would kill him.

On the next jab he spun forward, pressing knife and hand and chest against the side of the spear, shoving it away.

The orc swung the butt of the spear at Newman’s leg. That would bruise. He continued the twist, pulling his knife through the orc’s throat. Rancid blood sprayed into his face.

Newman wiped his eyes with his left hand. A glance told him his militia wouldn’t hold much longer.

Poles met spears to become a shoving match. The orcs were stronger. Sweetbread, at the end of the line, was already down on one knee.

Newman rescued his host with two quick stabs to the orc’s back. He lunged to the next one and stabbed it in the back of the neck before it realized its neighbor had fallen.

The orc facing Pernach heard the death grunts. It pivoted, raising its spear to knock Newman’s knife arm aside with the haft.

The blow stung. He didn’t drop the knife but pulled back to make sure of his grip.

The spear turned, point aimed at Newman’s belly. Then it dropped as Pernach smacked his pole into the orc’s shoulder.

Newman side-stepped to stay clear as Pinecone swung his like a baseball bat into the orc’s face. Blood sprayed. It fell.

He ran along the back of the last three orcs. Attacked from side and rear they died quickly.

“Great work, men! Now let’s get the line straight again.” Newman saw one of the volunteers stagger to the fence and sit down against it. Blood squeezed through fingers pressed over a belly wound. Dealing with the casualty would have to wait.

Cheers came from men among the tents still standing.

Newman grabbed an orc spear off the ground. He flung it sideways at the nearest cheerer. “Never mind words! Grab a spear, grab a pole, join the line!”

A dozen men came forward with a mix of improvised weapons. Two men with swords came out of the melee and joined the line. Newman stood in the middle with a spear. The line now reached from the fence to the lane, facing the besieged Wolfheads.

Newman called instructions. “We’ll walk slowly. Keep the line straight. When anyone’s fighting stop the line. Keep it straight. Now, walk!”

When they were all moving he shouted, “Wolfheads, we are coming!”

Some of the orcs attacking the Wolfheads ran when they realized they’d be hit from behind. Others were too angry or too focused. They died, and the heavy fighters facing them unfolded their circle to outflank the rest.

Orcs in threes or sixes came out of the scrum, looked at the line, and went back in search of easier prey. One stepped out and flung a spear at them. A man went down with a groan.

The orc picked up another spear and hefted it. Newman flung his at it. He missed. The orc looked at the other spearmen changing their grips and went back into the melee.

Someone handed Newman two more spears.

The Wolfheads gave a cheer as the last orc facing them died.

Alpha stepped out of the pack facing Newman. “That won’t let us have a continuous line,” he said, waving at the pile of debris that had been the Royal Pavilion. Even collapsed it was taller than a man.

“Agreed. I’ll take my men around to the left.”

Wolfhead Alpha held his sword vertically in front of his face in salute.

Newman waved a spear in reply. He turned back to his men. “Start walking! You men at the tent, come stand behind us. Take the place of anyone who falls.”

The melee gave way before Newman’s line. Orcs went down under the poles or were distracted enough for one of the humans in the fight to stab them.

An orc lunged at the poleman beside Newman. The man flinched back, leaving a gap in the line. The orc grinned, looking for a new target.

Newman met the orc’s gaze. They thrust at each other simultaneously. Newman pivoted, deflecting the orc’s spear with his own and sliding it to push the point toward the orc’s belly.

That didn’t work on this one. It leaned in, pushing Newman’s spear flat against his chest. The human dug in his feet and pushed back, trying to keep from being forced out of the line.

The orc had more weight and strength. This was a contest Newman would lose.

Then a sword cut into the orc’s neck, splashing more orange blood onto Newman. The