01 - Heldenhammer

by Graham McNeill

  “It’s the drums, lad,” said Kurgan. “Orcs war drams. They’re close. We’ll be knee deep in greenskin blood by midmorning, mark my words.”

  Sigmar felt a flutter of fear at the thought, and quashed it viciously. All his life had been leading to this day, and now that it was here, he did not know if he was ready for it.

  “I have fought many foes, my king,” said Sigmar, his eyes taking on a faraway look as he gazed into the future. “I have killed beasts of the forest, my fellow tribesmen, orcs, the blood drinkers and the eaters of men who dwell in the swamps. I have faced them all and defeated them, but this… this is something else. The gods are watching, and if we falter even a little, then all I have dreamed of will die. How does a man deal with such awesome responsibility?”

  Kurgan laughed and handed him the tankard of ale. “Well, I can’t say I know how a man would deal with it, but I can tell you how a dwarf would. It’s simple. When the time comes, hit them with your hammer until they’re dead. Then hit the next one. Keep going until they’re all dead.”

  Sigmar took a drink of the dwarf ale. “That’s all there is to it?”

  “That’s all there is to it,” agreed Kurgan as the sound of orcs war drams grew louder. “Now, we’d best be getting back to our warriors. We have a battle to fight!”

  ——

  Black Fire Pass

  The first ragged line of orcs came into view less than an hour later, a solid wall of green flesh and fury. They filled the pass before the army of men, the booming echoes of their war drums and monotonous chanting, working on the nerves and heightening the dread every man felt.

  Great, horned totems waved above their heads, festooned with skulls and fetishes, and the wind brought with it the reek of their unclean flesh: spoiled meat, dung and a sour, fungal smell that worked its way into the back of every man’s throat.

  Though Sigmar had heard of the enormous size of the orcs host from the dwarfs and Cuthwin, the unimaginable vastness of their numbers still took his breath away. He looked to either side, and saw the same awe in the faces of his sword-brothers.

  Wolfgart tried to look unconcerned, but Sigmar could see past the bravado to the fear beneath, and Pendrag looked like a man who had just seen his worst nightmare come to life.

  The orcs were like some dreadful, elemental tide of anger and violence, their every action taken in service of the desire to wreak harm. This was unthinking violence made flesh, the aggressive impulse of a violent heart without the discipline of intellect to restrain it.

  Were a man to walk from one side of the pass to the other upon the heads of the orcs, he could do so without once setting foot on rock. Sigmar smiled at the absurdity of the image, and the spell that the orcs numbers had upon him was broken.

  The greenskins carried huge cleavers, axes and swords, the blades rusted and stained with blood. Goblins scampered between the ranks of orcs, disgusting, cowardly creatures, swathed in dark robes and clutching wickedly sharp swords and spears. Fangs gnashed and shields were beaten in a manic rhythm, and it seemed as though every band of orcs warriors strove to outdo the one next to it with its volume and ferocity.

  Snapping wolves, wide-shouldered beasts with frothing jaws, pawed at the earth on the flanks of the great host, and more goblins riding loathsome, dark-furred spiders scuttled over the rocks. Towering above the orcs, groups of hideous troll-creatures lumbered through the army, wielding the trunks of trees as easily as a man might bear a cudgel.

  “Ach, there’s not so many of them, eh?” said Wolfgart, undoing the strap holding his greatsword in place and swinging the enormous weapon from his back. “We fought more at Astofen, don’t you think?”

  “I think so,” agreed Sigmar with a smile. “This will just be a skirmish by comparison.”

  “By all the gods, they’re a ripe bunch,” said Pendrag as the rank odour of the greenskins washed over him.

  “Always stay downwind of an orcs,” said Sigmar. “That’s what we always said wasn’t it?”

  “Aye, but I’m beginning to regret it.”

  “No time for regrets now, my friends.”

  “I suppose not,” said Wolfgart. “How’s that warhammer of yours?”

  “It knows that the enemies of its makers are here,” answered Sigmar. Since dawn, the mighty weapon had sent a powerful thrill of anticipation through him, and he could feel its hatred of the greenskins coursing through him, filling him with strength and purpose.

  “Aye,” said Wolfgart. “Well, swing it hard, my friend. Plenty of skulls to split today.”

  A mob of greenskins, more armoured and darker skinned than the others, stepped from the rippling battle line of orcs, a tall, bull-headed totem held proudly above them. They began roaring in the guttural tongue of the orcs, brandishing their axes and swords in some primitive ritual of challenge or threat.

  “Holy Ulric’s beard,” said Pendrag as they all saw the huge winged beast appear above the orcs. Sigmar’s eyes narrowed, and he shaded them from the eastern sun. Riding the flying monster was an orcs of such colossal size that it must surely be the leader of this army.

  The warlord was huge beyond imagining, and was protected at least as well as Sigmar’s most heavily armoured riders, with thick plates of iron fastened to its flesh. Its axe was taller than a man, and rippled with green flames.

  The beast it rode was a wyvern, and, though Sigmar had never seen such a monster before, he had heard them described by his eastern allies enough times to recognise one. Yet, as much as the sight of it filled him with dread, he longed to match his strength against it.

  “What do you think?” he shouted. “Shall I mount that beast’s hide on the longhouse wall?”

  “Aye!” shouted a warrior from the ranks behind Sigmar. “Skin it and you can use it to make a map of the realm!”

  “I may just do that,” answered Sigmar.

  The warlord swooped low over his army, and the orcs redoubled the fury of their roars, clearly eager for the slaughter to begin. The booming of cleavers and axes on shields rose to a deafening crescendo, the metallic ringing echoing from the sides of the pass, until it seemed as though the very mountains would crumble and fall.

  The front ranks of the orcs host began shaking, and just as it seemed as if they were having some horrific seizure, a terrifying war shout erupted from every orcs throat in unison.

  Immense and powerful, the sound was torn from the heart of their violent core, an ancestral expression of hatred and fury that had given birth to their race in blood and fire.

  As the primal roar continued, the orcs began to jog towards the army of men, hatred gleaming in their eyes, and their tusked jaws bellowing for blood.

  “Here they come,” said Sigmar, hefting Ghal-maraz in one hand and his golden shield in the other. “Fight bravely, my friends. Ulric is watching.”

  Ulfdar watched the advancing line of orcs through a haze of weirdroot and hemlock, their movements appearing sluggish as though they charged through sucking mud. Beside her, King Otwin beat his bare breast with spiked gauntlets, drawing blood and pushing his berserk fury to even greater heights. The king foamed at the mouth, and bled from the golden spikes hammered through his temple that formed his crown.

  Ulfdar could feel her own battle fury threatening to explode from her at any moment, the bitter herbal infusions she had swallowed before battle surging through her heart and driving her into this paroxysm of rage. Her arms and neck were ringed with iron torques, her bare flesh painted with fresh tattoos to ward off enemy blades, and her golden hair was pulled into a tall mohawk with handfuls of smeared blood.

  Her king raised his mighty axe, chained once more to his wrist, and let loose a wordless shout of rage and fury. Along the line of Thuringian warriors, the king’s war shout was answered, and Ulfdar felt the wild beat of her heart hammering like a frenzied drummer against her ribs.

  The king screamed again, his eyes wide and his mouth pulled back in a rictus grin. His body shuddered like a tether
ed colt, and he leapt forward, unable to contain his berserk fury any longer. King Otwin charged towards the orcs, a lone warrior against a horde, and his lust for battle swept through his warriors in an instant.

  With a cry of rage equal to that of the enemy, the Thuringian berserkers charged towards the greenskin lines. Ulfdar easily caught up to her king, her twin swords spinning in her grip as she ran and gnashed her teeth, chewing the inside of her cheeks bloody. The sharp, metallic flavour mingled with the intoxicating anger that consumed her, and she screamed as she saw the face of the first orcs she would kill.

  King Otwin’s axe hammered through an orcs, cleaving it in two, and the king leapt amongst the foes behind it. Ulfdar’s sword plunged into a body, and tore upwards as she leapt, feet first, at another. She felt bone break and landed lightly, spinning on her heel and slashing her sword through another greenskin’s face.

  A spear stabbed for her, but she swayed aside and thrust both her blades though her attacker’s throat, ripping the blades free in a spray of blood. Orcs were all around her, stabbing and chopping, but she wasted no energy in defensive strokes, simply attacking with all her strength. Her swords were twin blurs of iron, slashing throats and opening bellies as she spun amongst her foes.

  A club struck her a glancing blow to her shoulder, spinning her around. She hacked the wielder’s arm off at the elbow, revelling in the pain, noise and confusion of battle. Hundreds of her fellow warriors tore through the enemy lines, a mass of screaming, berserk warriors intent on killing.

  A warrior with his pelvis crushed stabbed orcs from the ground until a massive green fist flattened his skull. A berserker used his own entrails to strangle his killer, while yet another had cast aside his weapons in his fury and tore at the orcs with his bare hands. Ulfdar shrieked at the sensations flooding her body.

  The blood, the violence and the noise were incredible. She bled from a handful of wounds she could not remember receiving, but even the pain was intoxicating. A sword slammed into her, cutting into the metal of her torques and breaking her arm, but sliding clear before severing the limb.

  Ulfdar yelled in pain and swung her good arm to behead the orcs. More and more of the greenskins were attacking, yet still her king was pushing deeper and deeper into their ranks, his huge axe sweeping out in great arcs to cut down anything in his way.

  Everywhere was blood and death, her fellow warriors cutting a bloody swathe through the heart of the greenskin ranks. The pain in her arm was intense, but Ulfdar used it to fuel her anger, and she leapt into the fray once more, her sword cutting and stabbing.

  More blades stabbed for her, and she felt a spear plunge into her back. She twisted and the point was wrenched clear. Her sword smashed the speartip from the shaft, and the return stroke slammed down on the orc’s helmet. The metal crumpled, and her sword was torn from her grip as the dead beast fell backwards.

  She heard a rumbling thunder around her, but her world had shrunk to the foe in front of her and its death.

  She swept up a fallen axe and threw herself forward, the blade biting flesh and armour alike as she laughed and screamed with hysterical fury.

  Her copper hair streaming behind her like a war banner, Queen Freya pulled back her bowstring and let fly with deadly accurate arrows. She gave a whooping yell with every orcs she felled, though there were so many it was impossible to miss. One might as well applaud an archer for hitting the sea.

  The queen’s chariot was high-sided and armoured with layered strips of baked leather, its wheels rimmed with iron and fitted with deadly blades. Maedbh held the reins loosely in one hand, holding a throwing spear aloft in the other.

  Two hundred chariots thundered towards the orcs in a staggered line, a swarm of arrows slashing from each one as Asoborn warriors loosed their shafts into the enemy. The sandy plain of Black Fire Pass was ideal ground for chariots, and Freya felt a delicious shiver of pleasure as Maedbh drove them ever closer to the enemy.

  Otwin’s berserkers had broken ranks, and charged forwards as soon as the orcs line had twitched, but that was no surprise. Sigmar himself had bid her protect the Thuringian king, fully expecting him to charge wildly at the enemy. The berserkers fought magnificently, their fighting wedge plunging into the enemy army and driving deep into its heart.

  The greater numbers of orcs was now telling, however, and, like the jaws of a trap, the greenskins were surrounding and butchering the Thuringians. Freya could see King Otwin atop a mound of dead monsters, his huge, chained axe cutting down foes by the dozen. Hundreds of berserkers pushed ever deeper into the orcs, but their pace was slowing, and more and more were being dragged to their deaths.

  Across the battlefield, Freya could see a furious exchange of missile fire between the armies. Black-shafted arrows flew from darting goblins, but most of these thudded into wooden shields or bounced from shirts of iron mail. In contrast, the arrows of the Unberogens and Cherusens were wreaking fearful havoc amongst the orcs, thousands of iron-tipped shafts slashing downwards and punching through orcs skulls.

  Galloping horsemen rode in wild circuits before the charging greenskins, riding in close to loose frantic volleys before galloping clear. Some were swift enough, others were not and were brought down to be torn limb from limb by vengeful greenskins.

  “Be ready, my queen!” shouted Maedbh, dragging Freya’s attention back to her portion of the battlefield. The orcs were close, and she loosed a last arrow before dropping her bow and drawing her broadsword. A spear was a better weapon for use in a chariot, but Freya’s blade had belonged to an ancient hero of her blood, and she could no more wield a different weapon than she could stop loving her sons.

  Freya lifted her sword and swung it around her head. The foetid odour of the orcs was strong, and the billowing clouds of dust caught in her throat.

  She saw the gleam of hatred in their red eyes and felt the hot reek of their foul breath.

  “Now, my brave warriors!” she yelled.

  Freya braced herself against the side of the chariot and looped a leather thong around her wrist, as Maedbh wrenched the reins, and the horses veered to the side.

  Almost as one, the Asoborn chariots turned to run parallel to the orcs lines, the scythe blades on their wheels tearing the front ranks of their enemies from their feet in a storm of blood and severed limbs. Freya hacked through skulls as Maedbh skilfully guided the chariot along the front of the greenskin horde.

  Bellows of pain followed the Asoborn queen as her host of chariots cut the front ranks of the enemy down. Spears stabbed the survivors, and hissing arrows slashed into the orcs further back. Without a word from her queen, Maedbh turned her chariot away, and those following behind followed her example.

  Roaring orcs leapt forward, and a handful of chariots were brought down, splintered to matchwood by enormous axes.

  Freya laughed with the joy of battle and waved her bloodied sword in the air once again.

  The chariots of the Asoborns wheeled and turned back towards the orcs.

  Sigmar swung Ghal-maraz in a looping arc, and smashed the head into a bellowing orcs that had its hand wrapped around his horse’s neck. The greenskin collapsed, its skull a splintered ruin, and Sigmar kicked the dying beast from him as he guided his horse forward once more. Beside him, Pendrag held his banner high in his silver hand, the sight inspiring all those around him to greater effort.

  Attack was the best form of defence, and Sigmar watched with pride as King Otwin led his berserk warriors in a screaming charge. The furious melee had halted the orcs in their tracks, and though Otwin was surrounded, Freya’s chariots were cutting a bloody path towards him.

  As the arms of the trap had closed around Otwin, Sigmar had raised his hammer high and led his Unberogen riders forwards in a charge to glory. Armoured riders slammed into the orcs and trampled them beneath iron-shod hooves as swords cleaved through crude helmets and spears stabbed unprotected backs.

  Arrows arced overhead in a constant rain, and the swelling roar of battle
was building into a rolling wave like the boom of surf on cliffs. Sigmar blocked a sword blow with his shield, smashing his hammer down and feeling its joy singing in his veins. Blood sprayed him, and his horse reared, the stink of blood a foul stench in its nostrils.

  Sigmar gripped his horse’s flanks with his thighs as it lashed out with its hind legs and crushed a handful of goblins that sought to hamstring it. The warhorses of the Unberogen were trained to fight and defend themselves as well as any warrior, and this horse, the roan gelding King Siggurd had gifted him, was just as ferocious as any bred by Wolfgart.

  Sigmar’s sword-brother rode alongside him, his mighty sword swooping around his body in deadly arcs that smashed through iron plates and shattered shields. Arterial blood sprayed around him, and, though he carried no shield, Wolfgart appeared unwounded.

  “Unberogen!” shouted Sigmar. “To me! Onwards!”

  A roar of approval followed Sigmar as he rode deeper into the orcs, bludgeoning a path with Ghal-maraz and killing any foe that dared come near him. A dozen fell before his fury, and then a dozen more. His every strike was death, and the orcs before him saw their doom in his eyes as he rode through them like a vengeful god.

  Ahead, Sigmar could see King Otwin fighting for his life in the centre of a mass of howling foes. Perhaps a score of berserkers fought alongside him, and Sigmar saw that one was Ulfdar, her left arm hanging useless at her side. The orcs pressed in, scenting victory, but the crash of horses and the whooping yells of Asoborn women were drawing ever closer.

  If Otwin knew his warriors were surrounded, he gave no sign, and simply kept on hacking his way through as many orcs as he could reach. His body was a mass of deep wounds, a long gash on his thigh pouring blood down his leg, and a broken sword blade jutting from his shoulder.

  Most of the berserkers were similarly wounded, but fought on regardless. Sigmar saw Freya’s flame-coloured hair, and felt a flush of excitement at the sight of her standing proud and fierce atop her chariot, lopping heads like ears of corn with her long, golden-hilted broadsword.