Nobody was hit by the first volley, but those defenders with bows began shooting back into the trees. "Save your arrows!" shouted Morris. "Don't shoot until you've got a target."

     Young children were running to the barn and emerging again with bows and arrows that they carried to the defenders on the walls. The orcs were shooting their arrows over the wall now. They had little hope of hitting anyone by chance alone and Randall supposed that the aim was simply to terrify the townspeople, but one arrow did find a target and a girl of around ten was hit in the leg. She fell with a cry and another small child ran over to help her until an older woman picked her up and carried her into one of the houses.

     Some of the arrows were on fire. They hit the tiled rooves and slid harmlessly down to fall to the ground. Only one stuck in place between two slate tiles, but there was nothing there for it to set fire to and nobody paid it any attention.

     Randall ran to the barn as instructed. It was half full of a great pile of hay with smaller piles of root vegetables along one of the long walls. A group of young and elderly people was huddled in the corner. "Is there anything I can use as a weapon?" he asked. An elderly man pointed to a wooden pitchfork leaning against the wall. Randall ran over and picked it up.

     His first instinct was to join the elderly people and huddle there with them. Let the fit young men do the fighting while he hid. Safe, unless the town was broken into and overrun. If he did that, though, then he would always be a nothing in this new world. Doomed to find some menial job such as sweeping floors or stacking hay and he couldn't endure the thought of that. If he couldn't rise to power and wealth in this world then he would rather be dead. He took a firm grip on the pitchfork, therefore, and ran back outside.

     He returned to the wall and climbed the steps back up to the high walkway. Morris glanced over at him before returning his attention to the forest. He felt a hand tugging at his sleeve and looked down to see a small child, no older than five or six, staring up at him with huge blue eyes while holding a bow and a quiver of arrows up to him. Randall took them and slung the quiver over his shoulder. "Go find somewhere safe to hide now," he told the child. "Go hide in the barn."

     "He won't be doing that," said a townsman next to him, though. "His job is to collect up the orc arrows and bring them to us so we can shoot 'em back."

     "Oh." Randall looked back to where the child was running back down the steps and then across the town to a storage shed where the bows had been stored. Seeing that it was now empty, though, he and a few other children hid inside it while they waited for the initial barrage to stop. One arrow hit the inside of the door just beside the stubby fingered hand of the small child who was pulling it closed. He snatched his hand back in alarm, then reached out again to pull the door the rest of the way closed.

     The initial barrage was slowing now, though, and some of the defenders were peeping cautiously through the gaps in the wall to see if they could see the orcs. Randall looked at his bow. It was five feet across and strung with what looked like catgut. He pulled the string and felt his heart sink at how much effort it required. Beside him the other man gave him a strange look. "You look like you've never held a bow before."

     Randall cursed himself for his stupidity. With the orcs an ever present threat, all the people of this new world probably practiced with the bow since earliest childhood. Anyone who didn't know how to use one would stand out. He thought quickly. "I suffered an injury to my shoulder a few years back," he said. "Left me weak on that side."

     "They can be used left handed."

     "I never got the hang of it that way."

     The man looked at him again. "Go back down to the ground," he said. "Grab a spear and join the ground defenders. You know how to use a spear, right?"

     Randall quailed at the thought of being on the ground if the orcs broke in, but he had no choice. He nodded therefore and went back to the steps, leaving the bow and quiver of arrows leaning against the wall for someone else to use. The wooden pitchfork felt pitifully inadequate in his hands, but the tines had been tipped with steel, probably with the deliberate aim of being used as a weapon if necessary. The thought dismayed him. Every aspect of life outside the walls of a big city seemed to be geared towards defence. The prospect of having to fight for one's life was so ingrained that it never left these people for a moment.

     Most of the men on the ground were standing right against the wall, he saw, and going closer he saw that they were looking out through peep holes. Finding an unoccupied hole he looked through and saw the occasional orc arrow still rising from the trees. They were answered by the occasional arrow being shot back by the defenders on the high walkway whenever they saw something that might have been one of the attackers.

     "You're one of the new guys," said a man standing beside him. He glanced sideways at Randall before looking back out through the peep hole. "They say you went back for someone. Gutsy."

     "The guy's now here with us, helping the defence, instead of being food for the orcs," Randall replied. "The momentary risk resulted in a longer term benefit." He realised he was talking like a businessman at a board meeting and felt a moment of almost hysterical amusement. He got himself back under control with an effort.

     "Good point," the other man replied. He held out a hand. "Deeks Harrow.

     Randall took the offered hand. His palm was heavily calloused. It felt like holding a piece of sandpaper. "Watt Fletcher," he said.

     "Pleased to meet you." Deeks ran his thumb across Randall's soft palm. "City man?" he asked.

     "No, I was a farmer once," replied Randall. "Until last year. My son..." He broke off and looked away as if in a moment of grief. "I lost my son, and then I lost my farm."

     "What happened?" asked Deeks softly.

     "Taxes," replied Randall, putting anger into his voice. Acting wasn't something he had much practice with. Lying, yes. He'd become an accomplished liar on his rise to business prominence, but faking an emotion, especially such strong ones as grief and anger, was new to him. He prayed he'd be able to carry it off. "The King's taxes," he added, putting extra bitterness into his voice. "I had to sell everything I owned to help him pay. He lost control, beat up a tax collector. Ended up in a dungeon where he.. He died."

     "I'm sorry," said the townsman, putting a hand on his shoulder. "The taxes are hard on everyone. Some of my folks went into the city looking for work but that wasn't much help either. The Decree of Labourers..."

     "With the labour shortage it should be us with the whip hand," said Randall angrily. "We should be able to demand a living wage or withdraw our labour. They can't just pass a law putting a limit on what we can be paid!"

     "And yet they did," replied Deeks, also growing angry. "We work hard. Dammed hard! If one company doesn't pay us what we're worth, we should be able to go to another who pays more. The one who pays the most gets the best workers."

     "But the King says they all have to pay the same," said Randall, "and the taxes go up and up and up... someone has to take a stand! Someone has to go up to them and say 'no more!'"

     "And be hanged as an agitator," said Deeks gloomily.

     "They wouldn't dare hang us if there were enough of us. If every working man in the city stood up as one, and every man in the towns around as well, then they'd have to listen."

     "But who would lead such a crowd?"

     "I would! Why not? What more have I got to lose? I would lead it!"

     Deeks stared at him in admiration. "By VIX, and I'd follow! If we could get a crowd large enough..."

     "Here they come!" someone shouted suddenly and Randall and Deeks looked out to see what was happening. Something was emerging from the woods, they saw. A large structure of wood. Treetrunks lashed together with rope to make a shield a dozen metres across on top of which sheets of steel were fixed with nails. A horde of orcs was holding it above their heads to shelter from the arrows shot by the defenders on the walls.

     "They're not heading for the gates," said Randall in confusion.

     "Of course not," replied Deeks. "You know how this goes, they've been attacking us for enough centuries now."

     "Yes, of course." The gates were an obvious weak spot in the town's defences, he realised. The townspeople would probably have surrounded them with traps. Then there were the turret weapons. Even now there were townsmen loading them with cartridges each containing about a hundred arows while another two men pulled on ratchet operated tension levers to pull back the throwing arms. He heard a sound behind him and saw another two weapons of similar size and design being wheeled from the back of the storage barn. A man on the raised railing was pointing in the direction from which the orcs were advancing and the townsmen positioned the weapons to point at that section of the wall.

     Randall was about twenty metres to the left of the spot the orcs were advancing upon and he was able to see clearly as their siege shield reached the wall, legs unfolding beneath it so that the orcs sheltering under it could stand freely. Some of the orcs immediately began attacking the wall with axes while others stood beside them with conventional wooden shields to protect them from arrows shot by defenders inside the wall. Randall was dismayed by the speed with which they made progress against the massive upright tree trunks of which the wall was composed. At the speed they were going they would be through in just a couple of minutes.

     Above them, the defenders on the walkway were carrying barrels of oil, tipping them on top of the siege shield and then dropping flaming torches to set it alight. Most of the oil simply spilled off the metal to form puddles of fire on the floor, but the orcs were wearing iron boots with guards that rose high up their shins and they stood in it without any visible inconvenience.

     Randall imagined orcs attacking human towns again and again over the centuries with the humans adopting new defensive tactics each time to try to stop them and the orcs devising counter measures to overcome them. The battle he was seeing now was the end product of this arms race, he realised. Tactics had been perfected on both sides, eventually reaching the point where the outcome of the battle would be decided by individual hand combat between attackers and defenders. Against a larger town the orcs would probably have catapults and siege towers, but they evidently didn't think them necessary against such a small community. They wouldn't have started the attack at all, Randall guessed, unless they believed they could overcome all opposition with what they had. He gripped his pitchfork tighter and felt himself begin to tremble with fear.

     The men on the raised railway had mostly stopped wasting arrows on the orcs and were looking down into the town, waiting for the orcs to come charging through without the cover of their overhead shield. The men on the ground, meanwhile, were congregating near the spot where the orcs would break through the wall. Deeks beckoned Randall over to join him. "I can see you're scared," he said. "We're all scared. You'd be mad not to be, but our best hope of survival is to make our stand here and show them a unified front. Your biggest danger is to find yourself facing an orc alone. They're way bigger and stronger than we are. One on one, only the greatest warriors have a chance, but like this, a line of men each one watching the man beside him, this way we've got a chance. Towns sometimes succeed in driving them away. Maybe we'll be one of them."

     "Does the chieftain look different from the others?" asked Randall. The priest in Tettlehall had hold him that orc chieftains were flesh covered robots, like him. If that were so, he could use yama666 to take control of it and tell it not to let the orcs kill him. He could survive this.

     "I know what you're thinking," said Deeks, "but forget it. The others will only fight all the harder if you kill him. Besides, they're bigger than the others. Head and shoulders bigger."

     "They won't have a chieftain with 'em," said another man. "Not against a town this small. Just a band leader, and he'll look no different from the others."

     "Maybe the army will come," said the man beside him hopefully.

     "The army's down south," the first man told him. "Dealing with a huge army that attacked Tettlehall a couple o' weeks ago. There might be a couple of patrols around here somewhere, but we got no way to get word to 'em."

     "Maybe we can call for help from the city. Elmton will come."

     "By the time a rider could get to Elmton it'd all be over here. Besides, they'll want to keep every man they've got in case there's a bigger band of orcs planning to attack them. For all we know this might be just a diversion. Nay, lad, we're on our own. On the other hand, though, think of the glory if we drive them off!"

     "Yay, the glory!" cried Deeks in a loud voice. "Come on, lads, give us a cheer! Let's show those bastards what kind of men they've got waiting for 'em in here!"

     He gave a great cheer, but only a few of the other men joined in, a weak, pitiful affair. Deeks cheered again, though, and this time Randall added his cheer to that of the other man, shouting as loudly as he could. He wasn't ready to give up yet. If there was any chance of getting out of this alive then he would still want to take his place as a big, important man in this new world. That meant taking the lead, and to be a leader he had to make other people see him as a leader. He cheered loudly, therefore, and this time more people joined in.

     "You think they heard that?" shouted Randall derisively. "That was pathetic! Come on, lads! Let's cheer so loud that they'll hear us in Elmton! Cheer so loudly that the dead will rise and fight beside us! CHEEEEEEER!"

     He roared at the top of his voice, and this time every man joined in, both on the ground and up on the walkway. A cheer so loud that, for a moment, the sound of orcs chopping at the wall stopped as they hesitated in doubt and uncertainty. Then the sound resumed, but to his surprise Randall found that he had lost most of his fear and he sensed a new firmness and determination in the men around him as well. Someone patted him on the back and Randall's heart surged with a strange jubilation. He gripped the pitchfork more tightly and stared at the treeteunks of the wall that were now visibly trembling from the impact of axes too heavy for a human to lift.

     "Go for their legs," said Deeks, loudly enough to be heard by everyone around him. "There're gaps in their armour at the groin and the back of the knees, aim for them. And once they're down on the ground go for the throat. Don't let them get up again."

     Then a treetrunk splintered and bowed inwards, nearly severed at two points, one five feet above the other. A few more blows and the section of treetrunk fell inwards, hitting the ground with a solid thunk as it landed on hard packed earth. Several defenders shot arrows through the gap. One hit an orc but the others merely thudded into solid wooden shields.

     A moment later the trunk next to it was also penetrated, forming a gap wide enough for an orc to leap through. Instead, though, several orcs aimed crossbows through the gap and shot in at the defenders. Those who had shields, standing at the front, raised them and everyone crouched down behind them.

     That was what the orcs had been waiting for. With the threat of arrows momentarily ended the first of them leapt through the gap. He didn't charge the defenders, though, but stood just inside the wall and raised a shield, where he was joined a moment later by two others to form a beachhead. Then, now safe behind them, the other orcs continued to widen the hole even further...