Half of the orcs had stormed into the church, but that left another forty or so outside it. I know I am not the greatest archer, Christoph conceded. But even I can’t miss all these targets.

One orc lay dead on the ground; at least two more were injured. The orcs shouted in their own language; they looked around, as if expecting allies to appear and deal with The Bowman. Goblins, perhaps. But no goblins arrived, and not a single orc had brought a missile weapon. It left Christoph completely free to continue his work.

Though not for long, he reminded himself. There is the small matter of the fifty orcs rampaging through the building, coming to kill me.

A head poked up through the hole in the roof. ‘Time to go,’ said The Baron.

Christoph knew not to waste time, going straight for the hole. He passed his stave down to the thief, then clambered down into the room below.

The Baron had been busy. He no longer looked like Stiff. Instead, he was dressed all in black, though he still had Redblade, strapped to his back. Moreover, Christoph could smell smoke; maybe, above the shouts of the orcs pounding up the steps of the church, he could hear the roar of fire.

‘Bletcher?’ he asked.

The Baron shrugged. ‘He’s staying. Don’t ask me how or why.’

The Baron led him to the window, out of which a rope dangled. The thief quickly adjusted himself, touching the necklace around his neck—a parting gift from Wade—then he was out of the window. He hung onto the rope with one hand, then reached out with the other for Christoph’s bow.

Christoph fed him the bow stave, then The Baron was away, abseiling down the rear of the wall with remarkable speed, considering the encumbrances he carried.

Christoph was altogether slower. He took the rope, then struggled to exit the window, unsure where to put his legs. He was equally slow when descending. It wasn’t that he had a fear of heights. But he did have a fear of losing his grip and hitting the ground.

He walked down, his legs pushing against the wall while his arms took his weight. His hands ached, and only fear kept him clutching the rope.

‘Nearly there,’ The Baron whispered, and Christoph realised he was closer than he thought.

The thief grabbed him and Christoph’s feet felt solid ground. He let go of the rope, his fingers bent and his palms burning. Relief flooded him.

Inside the church, he heard the shouts of the orcs. They had changed: from anger, to fear.

***

Stricken had stirred up a little hornets nest of orcs, running hither and thither, looking for the killer in their midst. A couple of them ran past the back of the inn. That turned out to be a mistake.

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From his hiding place, Stricken saw one of them get struck by an arrow fired from the roof, taking seven points of damage. They ran to the building and began climbing it to get to the archer.

He appeared above them. A scrawny thing, with long hair, looking as much woman as man. No doubt one of Stiff’s latest recruits, the type who’d do whatever they're told. He fired, from point blank range, yet the arrow still didn’t penetrate the hide of the orc’s armour.

Stricken nearly laughed. Instead, he crept from his hiding place. He didn’t rush in. He let the three of them struggle—the orcs trying to pull themselves to the roof before he could shoot again; the archer hurriedly grabbing another arrow from his quiver.

Stricken lunged up at the orc still on full health. He managed to land his first cut, despite the awkward angle. Six points of damage was disappointing. His second blow was much more satisfying, sinking into the orc’s kidney. The creature cried out, lost its grip, and fell to the ground. Stricken’s final stab was slow, so he could watch it die.

The archer hit his target this time, and the orc fell to the ground beside Stricken, already dying.

Stricken cut its throat anyway. ‘That was my kill,’ he growled up.

Blondie looked at him blankly. It occurred to Stricken that this merc had no idea who he was, let alone the agreement he had with Stiff.

‘Thank you,’ the merc offered, before moving out of sight.

Stricken stopped to think, making a calculation in his head. At two shillings per kill, Stiff already owed him a small fortune. Peering around the corner of the inn, he saw a mass of orcs, about forty of them, making ready for an attack.

Realisation dawned.

Stiff’s mercs didn’t stand a chance. That fool on the roof would die. They’d all die. More to the point, Stricken would die. No wonder that bastard Stiff had offered him so much money. He knew he’d never have to pay it.

‘Play me for a fool, will you?’ he murmured. ‘I don’t think so.’

***

Wilson watched from The Pig and Iron as the fire in the church grew. They could see flames inside, while black smoke billowed into the sky. It was out of control, that was for sure. The only saving grace was that it was separated from the nearest village buildings by quite a distance, otherwise it might have already spread.

Not a single orc left the building—not through the main entrance, at any rate. If Wilson had doubts about whether Bletcher had any real power, they were being dispelled now.

Cap had done enough watching. ‘Our time to contribute, gentlemen.’

There was a sombre mood, as warriors hefted spears and fastened shields. Going to battle was always a serious business. But despite the inferno in the church, they would still be massively outnumbered.

Cap led them out. Izil and Usa followed. Ashlyn’s position was between Usa and Pecs, with The Hoffmeister holding the near end of the line. Wilson worried for the girl, who didn’t have the spear skill of the others. But they needed six for the shieldwall, and she had offered. It allowed them to hold the space between the inn on one side of the road, and the shop on the other. The orcs outnumbered them, but wouldn’t be able to get around the wall.

Behind the line of spears and shields, were Wilson and Fortune. Their role was to inflict maximum damage when they got the chance. Murder joined them. Mags had patiently explained his role to the giant—drag the injured back into the inn, for Mila to treat.

Stiff and Cap had come up with a plan. Wilson was reserving judgement on whether it was any good.

The orc warriors who had stayed with Queen Brid turned their attention from their brethren burning in the church, to the line of enemies who had appeared. They shouted their challenge to The Apples, pleased to see people on whom they could wreak their vengeance. Of course, they were confident. But there were only forty left. This was The Apples' best chance to kill Brid before the goblins arrived—with their bows, and their wargs.

Brid gave her orders, and about twenty five orcs left her and marched for the shieldwall, carrying maces, clubs, and hammers. Another five she sent off through the houses on the inn’s side of the village. They’d be able to come around and hit them from behind. Wilson would have to be ready for that.

One of the orcs ducked, as Jaelin’s arrow flew over its head.

His attack spurred the creatures on, and they ran at The Apples’ shieldwall.