A great silver beast hurtled out of the jungle, sailing through the air and landing on the orc’s back. Blood sprayed as it ripped at the orc’s neck with its teeth, and the club fell from nerveless fingers. Edmund followed moments later, crumpling to the ground.
The orc spun and twisted for a half-dozen seconds, flailing its arms as the slavering creature savaged its head, the fangs sinking deep into its prey’s skull. Then it fell, lifeless, as the demon took a deep, savage bite out of its neck.
Gelert. Covered in mud and grime, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, legs trembling as he pulled himself toward Edmund’s inert body.
There was a garbled bellow of pain, cut short as Rotter skewered his own orc through the throat, withdrew and sliced the tusked head from the giant’s shoulders. Behind him, Sacharissa licked her wounds beside the corpse of the hyena, where a deep bite on her haunch seemed to be the worst of the damage.
Seeing the pair were now safe, Arcturus headed to Edmund first, where Alice had finally reached him. Tears cut runnels in the blood that smeared her face, the source of which Arcturus saw was a split lip and a copious nosebleed.
She was frantically sketching a heart shape in the air, the healing symbol fizzling as she struggled to keep it in place. Her breathing was thick and fast.
“Slowly.” Arcturus knelt beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Show me how to do it.”
The girl gulped and nodded. Slower now, her finger carved through the air, leaving a glowing blue line in its place. Beneath, Edmund wheezed through his wounded throat, his eyes closed, body near-motionless. The only other sound was Gelert’s whining as he nuzzled his master’s boots.
The heart symbol pulsed once as it fixed to Alice’s finger, then Alice and Edmund gave a mutual sigh of relief as healing white light streamed through the symbol and flowed around his wounded neck. Slowly, the red bands of swollen flesh shrank and paled until it looked good as new, and Edmund breathed easy once more, though his eyes remained closed.
A scream broke into the moment. Arcturus spun round, only to see the orc he had blasted barreling toward him, its body hunched over in pain, a muddied tree branch clutched in its giant fist.
Arcturus fell back, his hand grasping for the dirk, meeting nothing but wet grass. Sacharissa was limping toward them, with Reynard hard on her heels, but they were too far away. Rotter could do nothing but yell.
Gelert struggled to his feet and staggered in front of them, his chest still heaving with the exertion. He wouldn’t last long. Arcturus pulled on his mana reserve, his finger twisting in the air once more. The orc was but a dozen paces away.
Gelert leaped, only to be slammed away by the tree branch, yelping in pain as he tumbled into the long grass. The orc roared in triumph, spewing blood from its lips—Arcturus’s spell must have damaged its insides. Yet it charged on, even as Arcturus’s spell flickered and died.
The orc’s head jerked sideways. It fell and rolled along the ground, sliding the last few paces to press up against Arcturus’s feet. Its glazed eyes stared up at him, and it was only then that he saw the bloody bolt that had pierced its skull from temple to temple. And beyond, Elaine, a crossbow in her arms.
CHAPTER
36
EDMUND REMAINED UNCONSCIOUS EVEN when they splashed water in his face. Despite this, and their injuries, they only allowed themselves a few minutes to regroup before they decided to move on. Rotter knew more orcs would follow soon enough.
Still, before they left, Rotter sent Alice and Arcturus among the bodies to salvage what they could. Arcturus found himself wandering among the many corpses, trying to avoid their dead stares while searching the ground for anything useful.
Though they were leaving orc territory, there was no telling if there were more rebels hunting them. Hell, for all they knew the kingdom had been overthrown and the rebels had taken power. They needed to defend themselves … and clothe themselves for that matter. Now that they had left the warm confines of the jungle, it would become colder as they moved north, back toward Corcillum.
As he stumbled through the corpses, Arcturus tried to read the battlefield, the same way that Rotter had. At first, it seemed random, bodies scattered like seeds across a tilled pasture. But his eyes were soon drawn to the orc bodies, for their skin was stark against the black soil of the jungle’s edge.
There were as many as four of them in a group, lying together in the shadow of a dead tree split down the middle where lightning had struck long ago. Now that he looked closer, there was a cluster of human bodies there too, fallen in a rough semicircle.
Arcturus stopped on his way, removing an undershirt from a rebel boy roughly his height—the cloth miraculously unsullied by blood from the owner’s head wound. He pulled it on and found it to be a good fit.
As he approached the tree, Arcturus saw a man better dressed than the rest among the bodies. The leader of the group, Arcturus thought. He crouched beside the body, examining it.
The man was of a solid build, with a bushy beard that obscured the bloody throat wound that had taken his life. He wore a black cloak of fine wool that fell to his knees, complete with a deep hood to keep the wearer warm—a guardsman’s cloak by Arcturus’s guess, proofed against the rain and wind. Arcturus pulled it from the corpse’s shoulders and threw it around his own. Instantly, he warmed, and it was a blessed relief from the cool wind that chilled his flesh.
“We’re leaving soon,” Rotter called. “Grab what you can and get away from there.”
Arcturus looked up to see the soldier tugging on a bloodied black cassock from a body on the border of the grasslands. Beside him, Alice and Elaine had found dark overcoats of their own, and were in the process of constructing a hasty stretcher from scavenged clothing and two spear hafts.
Arcturus turned back to the bodies, searching for a new weapon. His dirk was sharp, but short and useless for parrying. He needed something with more stopping power.
“Now, Arcturus,” Rotter called again.
There were no swords among the rebels’ weapons—the orcs had looted the best of them. Most seemed to be farming implements or kitchen utensils—scythes, billhooks, skewers and knives. In fact, there was not one true weapon among them—even the leader appeared to be armed with little more than a makeshift spear, similar to the one they had picked up earlier.
Arcturus sighed and moved to pick up the spear … only to see a wooden handle sticking out beneath one of the orc bodies. Curious, Arcturus tugged at it, struggling as the other end was pried loose from the orc’s flesh. It came free in a spatter of blood, and Arcturus grinned as he held it up to the light.
It was an axe of some kind, perhaps once used as a felling axe. The handle was made from a dark, solid wood, with a leather grip wrapped around the bottom. The head itself was a gleaming single-edged blade, perfect for splitting logs … or an orc’s rib cage, as the case may be.
Arcturus hefted it to feel the weight, letting it rest on his shoulder. It felt familiar, and so it should—he had known axes for as long as he could remember. Splitting firewood for the tavern’s hearth had been one of his most onerous chores, along with his stable boy duties. It had given him a wiry strength to his arms, and he reckoned he could wield this one as well as any warrior.
He removed his quiver and slid the axe handle through a leather loop on the back. It fitted well beside where the crossbow slotted in, and though the wooden butt occasionally knocked against his lower spine as he walked, it seemed as good a place for it as any.
Smiling, Arcturus hurried back to the others, where they were busy lifting Edmund onto the stretcher. Arcturus’s weapon choice earned him an approving nod from Rotter.
Arcturus looked down into Edmund’s face. The boy looked almost peaceful, and someone had covered his body with a blood-stained fur coat.