03 - Sword of Vengeance (15 page)

“No mercy!” he bellowed, breaking into a run. All along the
lines, his men were doing likewise, striking back at the greenskins and turning
the counter-assault into a rout.

Even as he went after them Bloch could see the indecision in
the orcs’ inhuman faces. Some opted to stay and fight, while others had broken
from the horde and were racing back to the Keep. Speed was of the essence now.
If Drassler’s men were left isolated for too long then all they’d achieved would
fall apart.

A hulking warrior loomed up before him. It crouched down low
and let fly with a spittle-laced roar of defiance.

“To me!” cried Bloch, calling to the two halberdiers on
either side of him. As one, they charged the greenskin, blades aimed for
ribcage, legs and face. The orc was big, clad in plate armour and swinging a
mighty warhammer around its head, beckoning the charge with wild-eyed relish.

The halberdier on Bloch’s right plunged his blade in high,
aiming to catch the shoulder. The orc whirled around, smashing him aside with
the hammer, before lurching back to counter the thrust of the other blades.

Bloch ducked low, feeling the hammer-head whistle above his
ears, before stabbing the shaft of the halberd up. The blade struck true,
halfway up the orc’s torso, but deflected from the armour and left nothing but a
long scratch on the metal. Bloch staggered back, arms jarred from the impact.

The halberdier on his left had better luck, and his blade bit
deep into the orc’s muscle-bound arm. The creature roared in pain, shaking off
the fragile shaft and swinging the warhammer round in response. Bloch’s
companion sprang back, but too late. The iron head crunched into his ribcage,
crushing the bone and sending him sprawling in agony across the ground.

Bloch was exposed. There were men all around him, grappling
with the ranks of orcs, but none were close enough to come to his aid. He
grabbed the halberd from the first soldier who’d fallen, picked it up on the run
and charged straight back into range. The orc saw him coming and heaved the
warhammer round for the killing blow.

He had to strike hard and true. If he missed, the hammer
would do for him as it had done for the others.

“Sigmar!” Bloch bellowed, plunging forwards with all his
might, keeping the tip of the halberd high and controlling it with both hands.

The steel bit deep between the orc’s breastplate and collar,
driving into the flesh beneath and sending up a spray of hot, black blood. The
warhammer flew from the orc’s flailing hands, spinning into the air and sailing
high over the heads of the struggling warriors. Bloch pushed the halberd in
deeper, twisting the blade, churning through the flesh and severing the head
from its massive shoulders.

The roars were silenced. The orc crashed to the ground,
taking the shaft of the halberd with it, hitting the stone with a dull thud.

Panting, Bloch looked around for a fresh weapon. Time was
running out.

“Faster!” he roared, stooping to collect the halberd of
another fallen soldier and breaking back into a run. His men were still on the
offensive, hammering at the retreating orcs, trying to hack their way through to
the Keep. “Faster, damn you!”

Ahead of him, Bloch could see the Keep looming closer, still
cut off by the horde of greenskins. The fighting was frenzied and brutal—both
sides knew what was at stake.

Bloch raised his halberd, the blade streaked with blood, and
roared his defiance. From every direction men answered his call, hurling
obscenities at the orcs and slamming into their disordered defences. The
counter-assault was in full swing, the fruit of the tactics he’d spent so long
devising. All their hopes were with Sigmar now.

Bloch got his head down, picked his next target and
charged.

Drassler’s men were hemmed in, surrounded on all sides by the
orcs and pinned back close against the open gates of the Keep. The two companies
had formed up into ranks three deep on either side, fighting under the shadow of
the mighty ramparts and repelling the assaults coming at them from both
directions.

The orcs returning from the sortie were the biggest and most aggressive—they’d been the vanguard of the attack and were the most heavily armoured
greenskins left. Those remaining on the inside were the weaker breeds, less
nakedly belligerent than their larger kindred though nearly as deadly at close
quarters. Seeing the danger of losing the gates entirely, scores of them had
torn across the courtyard and thrown themselves at the rear of the mountain
guard position, heedless of the steel fence waiting for them when they arrived.

Drassler heard the cries of anguish as the lines clashed, but
he couldn’t pay them any attention. Hochmann had taken the rear ranks, and he
was busy enough with his own counter-assault. The first of the returning orcs
slammed into the ranks in front of him, tearing their way back to the Keep with
desperation. The orcs lived for fighting, but even they could see when their
position had become exposed. As savagely as they’d fought to break out of the
Keep, they now fought to recover it.

“Form up!” Drassler shouted. In the midst of the ranks of
defenders, he’d assembled a detachment of his own. Twenty men, all from his home
village, all experienced and tempered by a lifetime fighting the greenskin. As
the battle raged around them they formed into a tight column, four men deep and
five across. Drassler stood in the centre of the front rank, leading as ever
from the front.

“Charge!” he roared, breaking into a run. The men swept
forwards, thrusting aside their comrades as they surged to the front. All were
swordsmen, carrying the blades of their fathers, handed down from each
generation to the next and stained with the blood of countless orcs.

Drassler’s unit crashed into the front rank of the enemy,
sweeping it aside and ploughing onwards. The greenskins were disorganised,
broken up by their headlong race to recover ground. Each of them alone was twice
as strong and quick as a man, but by acting in concert a disciplined detachment
made up the shortfall.

“That one! Break them!” Drassler pointed to the right,
spotting a vast, dark-skinned monster hammering away at the mountain guard’s
right flank. It was surrounded by a heavily-armoured bodyguard, all wielding
human weapons. There were swords, maces and warhammers. Not a curved scimitar or
cleaver to be seen.

Drassler’s unit swung into battle, keeping their formation as
they assaulted the knot of larger orcs. Drassler himself got into position
quickly, pulling his sword back to strike, knowing his back was covered by those
around him.

His bladed flashed, slicing clean through an orc’s extended
forearm. The greenskin bellowed with pain and swung a halberd straight back at
him. Drassler dodged it, and a swordsman to the left of him leapt in with
another strike. The orc, bleeding heavily, turned to face the new threat. Then
the man on Drassler’s right struck, plunging his blade deep into the orc’s back.

Working in unison, swords spinning and jabbing in a united
front, Drassler’s men carved their way into the heart of the fighting. The
greenskins retreated further, knocked aside and bludgeoned into submission by
the organised ferocity of the human assault.

But the charge only lasted so long. With nowhere to go, the
orcs regrouped and struck back. Dragged into a melee, the detachment formation
lost its edge and soldiers began to fall. Whenever a grey-clad swordsman went
down, another rushed to take his place, maintaining the line and keeping the
pressure on the greenskins. The orcs were strong, though, terribly strong. When
they got close, their heavy fists and crushing blows began to tell.

Drassler worked like a blacksmith at a forge, his sword
heaving in arcs of destruction. Ahead of him loomed the warlord, the heart of
the orc forces. Drassler lowered his sword-point and bellowed a challenge. The
language of battle was universal, and the lumbering brute turned to face him. It
was nearly as broad as it was tall, covered in bunched muscle and draped in
plates of ill-fitting armour. It carried a halberd in one hand and an axe in the
other. Seeing Drassler come at it, the orc thundered its defiance, opening its
tusked mouth wide and roaring like a bull.

Then they came together. The orc struck first, bringing the
axe down hard. Drassler sprang aside, dodging the blow and sweeping his sword
back for a counterthrust. The orc punched the halberd up, and the blades met
with a jarring clang. Drassler withdrew a pace, keeping his blade raised,
watching for the next blow. The axe fell, followed by the halberd again. The
flurry of blow and counter-blow was fast and deadly. Drassler matched it as best
he could, but he was driven back.

Then there was another man at his side, jabbing a halberd
into the fray, going for the patches of exposed flesh. The orc turned to face
him, swinging its own blade to meet the attack.

Drassler joined in, catching the axe with a sharp upward jab
and knocking it out of position. Now the orc withdrew, unable to cope with every
warrior at once. The halberdier pursued, working his stave with incredible skill
and precision. Drassler followed suit, knowing his men around him guarded his
flanks.

Together, halberdier and swordsman battered the mighty orc to
its knees, raining blow after blow onto its desperate parries. Seeing the
danger, it tried to break back out, powering up to its feet with a heavy lunge.
The halberdier was knocked back by the thrust, rocking back on his heels and
staggering two paces.

That gave Drassler the opening. Leaping forwards, he spun the
sword-tip round in his hand, gripped the hilt with his fists and rammed it down.
The point sank deep into the orc’s ribcage, snaking between plates of metal and
lodging deep.

The greenskin bellowed like a wounded ox and whirled round,
axe flailing. Then the halberdier was back, scything his blade mightily. The arc
swept through the creature’s defences and took its head clean off. The severed
hunk of flesh and bone flew high into the air, before hitting the rock and
rolling to a standstill.

The decapitated body swayed for a moment, pumping hot blood
into the air like a fountain, before it too slumped to the earth. Drassler
pulled his sword clear as it fell. The orcs weren’t bellowing now, and a kind of
sullen hush fell over the entire horde.

All around him, mountain guard pressed home the advantage,
sweeping past Drassler and tearing into the demoralised orcs.

Drassler turned to thank his comrade. Markus Bloch grinned
back at him, his face streaked with blood. Only then did Drassler notice the
swarms of Averlanders and Reiklanders breaking through the mass of orcs and
smashing them aside. The relief had arrived. The orcs were broken.

“Good timing,” Drassler said.

“Not finished yet,” said Bloch, heading back into the melee.
Before long his coarse voice was raised above the general roar, uttering every
obscene curse known to man.

Smiling like a wolf, Drassler plunged after him. There was
hard fighting left before the day was over, but the outcome was no longer in
doubt. The orcs were in disarray, the halberdiers rampant, and soon the Keep
would be theirs.

Pain. That was all that remained. Sometimes a dull, throbbing
ache, distributed evenly across his body. Other times, they made it sharp and
sudden. There were long, drawn-out sessions, and mercifully short ones. It all
depended on her mood. He’d stopped being able to mark the passage of time, and
couldn’t truly remember what had brought him here. Maybe he’d been in the Tower
for a few hours, maybe a few weeks. Only one thing was certain. The pain.

There was a noise, somewhere close. With effort, Tochfel
dragged his eyelids open. He was suspended. He felt the flesh of his wrists, raw
and angry, chafe against the rope. The muscles under his ribs had been pulled
tight. He should have been dead long ago. He had no idea why he wasn’t. Down on
the stone floor, beneath his gently swaying feet, he could see pools of his own
blood. The sight no longer nauseated him. After a while, the horror became a
long, numb dream. There was only so much screaming a man could do.

He moved his head carefully, trying not to inflame the
exposed muscles of his neck. The chamber looked much as it always did. There
were tables on either side of him. One had the instruments. They were
astonishingly beautiful, forged from steel with the precision of a master
craftsman. From time to time, when they came to have their fun, he’d tried to
remember which ones they’d used. It was the little things, the repetitions and
rituals, that kept a fragment of sanity lodged in his mind.

The other table had the items. Some of them had already been
added to him. Others had once been part of his body. His extracted organs still
sat, glistening and viscid, slopped in the metal bowls.