CHAPTER 67 Torj
Torj
‘An army is only as strong as its weakest man’
– The Midrealms Chronicles
THE FIRST CLASH of steel upon steel was deafening. The impact jarred Torj’s entire body as he braced himself behind his shield. The soldier to his left fell almost instantly, blood spraying as a spear found his exposed neck.
‘Hold the shield wall!’ Torj bellowed from beneath the onslaught. ‘Hold it steady!’ All around him, men and women of Thezmarr reinforced the barrier between them and the enemy’s swords, shields slotting into place.
Torj glanced to the parapet above, his own voice sounding strange to him as he called, ‘Archers!’
Cal’s voice carried across the chaos. ‘Loose!’
A volley of arrows blocked out the watery light as they rained down upon the enemy and the first wave of them fell.
From the flashing glimpses Torj saw, the enemy was comprised of those corrupted by shadow magic – more animal than man, clawing for violence and blood – and those who were part of the fanatical People’s Vanguard.
He fought all his natural instincts to break free from the defensive wall and send his hammer swinging into the second wave of attackers that launched themselves at his company. Instead, he braced himself again.
‘Shield wall!’ he commanded, feeling the ranks close in, taking the places of those who had fallen.
The press of bodies was overwhelming, with the enemy assaulting their front and their own numbers enveloping the weakening flanks.
The strike of blades and shields became distorted sounds echoing around the swell of the conflict, the scent of metal and blood thick in the air already.
Their formation held, and from above Cal sent another volley of arrows down upon the attackers. Screams sounded, strangled and desperate as the second wave fell, giving Torj and his company mere seconds of breathing room.
‘Now!’ he yelled.
Torj dropped his shield. For those first few moments he needed no strengthening potions or energy-boosting aids to lift his hammer; it went swinging. Bone crunched beneath it, and the slap of warm blood – not his – hit the side of his face and coated his neck.
‘To the Bear Slayer!’ someone shouted behind him, and he felt his forces surge.
Torj realized the enemy leader was using none of his deadly concoctions in the first wave of attack.
The screams that surrounded him were born of flesh injuries and terror, the usual symphony of battle.
Even in his weakened state, Torj was easily the strongest, most experienced warrior among those fighting, and he led the counter-assault, beating the enemy back.
The wave of collision between the forces rippled from the point of impact outwards, like the drop of a stone in a still lake, and the mass of armoured bodies surged.
But Torj followed his orders, utilizing the choke point between the walls for its intended purpose, cutting the People’s Vanguard down as they charged through the narrow funnel.
The bodies of the fallen lay at his feet, piling up, creating another barrier. Silas’s soldiers blanched as they realized they had to climb over their own dead to advance. But there was no sign of the Kingsbane himself that Torj could see.
Wren! he called. Any sightings of Silas?
He’s certainly not leading his own army, came her strained reply. He’s got a handful of alchemists in his ranks – they’re masked and protected by their own units – but no one from our forces has laid eyes on him yet.
He won’t be far, Torj warned as he knocked an attacker back with a punch to the throat. He might be a coward when it comes to the fighting, but he’ll want to be front and centre if there is victory to be had.
Stay safe, Bear Slayer, was Wren’s response.
Torj’s muscles strained as he swirled his hammer over his head and brought it down into the masked face of one of his attackers.
Sweat and blood stinging his eyes, he looked around wildly, the claustrophobia of battle closing in around him.
The narrow pass had become a killing field, the stench of it almost overwhelming.
Beneath both enemy and ally boots, the ground was treacherous with blood-slicked rubble and discarded weapons, as many people slipping as being felled by blades.
Torj craned his neck to glimpse the state of the second choke point – Vernich and Graves were at the heart of the fray, their faces contorted in matching snarls as they fought back yet another wave of Silas’s army while Wren and Thea’s storms continued to rage around them.
As with Torj’s unit, the soldiers rotated to provide brief respite to those on the frontlines, but the Warswords stayed at the helm, where they belonged.
But the enemy was gaining ground. They were hitting the remaining wall with a battering ram, creating more space for their forces to surge through.
Wilder’s choke point fell, Wren’s voice sounded in his mind. Get Cal to create cover for you and Vernich, then retreat to the secondary position.
And you? Are you alright? Torj sent his panic through the bond, unable to glimpse Wren upon the parapet where she’d been before as he ploughed his hammer through a line of enemy soldiers, their screams echoing off the piles of bodies.
I’m fine, came her distant reply. Secondary position, now.
Torj cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘Cal! We need a volley!’
‘Nock!’ Cal’s voice cut through the bedlam. ‘Draw!’
Torj turned back to his unit. ‘Retreat to the secondary position,’ he barked, just as Cal’s final order sounded above.
‘Loose!’
‘Pull back!’ Torj shouted, the muscles in his arm spasming violently as he raised his hammer to gain his unit’s attention. ‘Pull fucking back!’
His commanders saw him and barked their own orders across the ranks.
Arrows rained down, creating a much-needed pause in the fighting as the enemy pulled back to lift their shields.
The dull percussion of arrows embedding in metal reverberated across the ranks, and shrieks of pain followed.
Torj didn’t look back. He clambered over the bodies alongside his company, hauling the injured to their feet and pushing them towards the rallying point.
As they retreated, the masters’ alchemy rained down in clouds of powder that reacted with the enemy’s armour, accelerating any existing rust – corroding the metal so drastically that it caved inwards upon the wearer. All around him, people screamed.
The enemy swarmed the choke point, obliterating the stone walls that had created the narrow path.
Someone shoved a set of reins into Torj’s hand, and he swung himself up into the saddle, the motion second nature to him.
His stallion was sturdy beneath him, and he urged Tucker towards the secondary position, where the remaining Thezmarrian forces were gathering, falling back into their ranks.
He spotted Vernich and Graves taking their places in the frontlines astride their own stallions, and Audra rallying bands of shieldbearers at the rear, but there were notable absences.
‘Vernich!’ he called across the mayhem. ‘Where’s Hawthorne? And Thea?’
The Bloodletter’s gaze snapped up, wild with adrenaline. ‘Up top,’ he yelled back, pointing to one of the remaining walls. ‘An enemy unit attacked the archers. The happy couple are fighting them off while Whitlock covers our retreat. Get ready, the next assault is coming!’
Torj didn’t look to the enemy; his eyes went straight to the rampart, the one where his soul-bonded had been stationed.
Wren? he shouted down their bond. Wren!