193. Sacrifice (4)

Mordren Girardet thought, I should cry.

Should I?

I should cry. They're all dead, so I should cry.

Should I?

He smiled. The bitter, freezing wind scraped across his face. An Orc raised the terrifying axe in its hand and hacked at him. He smelled blood, smelled gunsmoke—and none of it shook him in the slightest.

The blade thrust out.

Flesh was pierced. He watched the Orc's pupils slowly lose focus. Mordren Girardet laughed again, twisted his wrist, and hastened its death.

"For Dorn!"

A battle cry rang beside his ear, and a Crimson Fist pulled the trigger of the Bolter in his hands. Three bolts spun from the barrel and drilled into the body of another Orc.

The bolts punched through the layered plates of metal armor on it, blasting a great hole in its chest and exposing its blood-soaked spine.

"Good shot," Mordren said softly. "How many is that for you?"

"Thirty-one," the Crimson Fist replied coldly. "You?"

"Thirty-seven."

Mordren gave a teasing smile. "Looks like I win?"

"It's too early to draw conclusions." The Crimson Fist looked back at him while changing magazines, and even in the gap between motions he still had time to raise a hand and hammer down a Gretchin the Orcs had thrown over to die.

Perhaps the Orcs had meant for it to come over and do something useful. After all, it was holding a jagged blade. Unfortunately, the Gretchin itself clearly did not think so. It fell to the ground screaming and tried to run, but failed.

The Crimson Fist lifted his foot and brought it down. A spray of blood blossomed across the snow. Mordren clearly heard the sound of the Gretchin's skull being crushed into pulp by steel, and his smile was growing ever wider.

"All right, all right.