The Battlefable Chronicles A history of warring armies in the savage world of Warhammer This is a story, of great battles and mighty heroes, dark warlords and evil deeds. This tome recounts the events written in blood upon the battlefields of the Warhammer World and tells of the great enmity between the forces of Good, and the minions of Darkness. Scribed by Brother Andyn BATTLE OF WAYSTONE RIDGE

The newly arisen Daemon Prince, Cronus, has sent his underling Aeolus Scarheart to claim an ancient, elven waystone in the northern reaches of the Empire. With this stone under his control, the Daemon Prince will gain much favour in the eyes of the Dark Gods. Naturally a force of High Elves sent from Marienburg isn't going to let the stone go that easily…

SCENARIO STATISTICS

Points:

1000

Participants:

Chaos Beasts

(Andy Bain)

High Elves

(Simon Marshall)

Scenario:

Pitched Battle

Location:

Laurelorn Forest, northern Empire

Timeline: 2522 (Empire Calendar)

THE ARMIES

Chaos Beasts:

The Horns of Hellfire

General:

Aeolus Scarheart

High Elves:

Unnamed High Elf force

General:

Unnamed High Elf Commander

THE STORY SO FAR…

The newly created warband, known as the Horns of Hellfire, has rampaged south from the Chaos Wastes in the wake of Cronus' ascension. A Daemon Prince, he was once a High Elf of the realm of Chrace. His complete history can be read elsewhere – now he is engaging in a bid for power against the many other Daemon Princes of the four Chaos Gods. A series of waystones, monoliths and other great menhirs of power have therefore attracted Cronus' attention as a sure way to gather power, and to summon hosts of all things chaotic to his command. Aeolus Scarheart, Cronus' fellow once-High Elf, has accepted the mission to venture south and claim the first of these stones. Now all that stands between The Horns of Hellfire and gaining prominence is a small force of High Elves dispatched from the port of Marienburg. If they are successful in stopping Scarheart and his beasts the northern forests of the Empire will be safe, for a while. But if Aeolus is victorious…

TURNS 1-6

With a bray of battle-lust, the beastmen surged towards the enemy lines. The earth shook with thundering hooves as Gors, Ungors, Minotaurs and Tuskgors churned up the rocky soil. The hounds also pounded across the field, heading for the flanks and centre of the High Elf army. The Elves stood proud and tall, the wind fluttering on pennants and the sunlight glinting on shining silver armour. Beneath azure skies they were clustered on the ridge, around the elven waystone. Today the fate of this waystone was in their hands. Silver Helm Knights held their ground, awaiting the storm of blood. A company of archers nocked arrows to bows, and standing ready was an Eagle's Claw Repeater Bolt Thrower. Dire consequences lay in wait for the beasts that dared to charge against them. On the left flank, the Shadow Warriors took up their positions within the forest, out of sight but bringing their lethal bows to bear on the hated beasts. The Elf Commander smiled grimly. Surrounded by his bodyguard of spearelves, he was confident of victory. The beasts would be whittled down by the missile fire and then smashed in bloody close combat as the enemies tried to get a foothold on the higher ground.

Aeolus Scarheart narrowed his eyes as his host of mutated monstrosities powered forwards. It amused him to fight his once-brethren. For a moment he let his mind flicker back to the days as a High Elf, in Ulthuan. Those glorious days, they were full of warmth and friendship. But those days were gone. Now it was a new age, of blood, magic and power. Here, in the heart of Laurelorn, he would achieve his first victory in the name of Chaos. Cronus trusted him greatly; and he in turn would not displease his godly master. As the wind picked up and howled like a wounded wolf, disturbing the leaves on the trees sparsely dotted around the glade, he glanced over at the object of his reasons for being here.

The waystone stood in the centre of the ridge, a tall, white obelisk that gleamed with iridescent power. It thrust upwards like a horn from the spine of a dragon, and strange, elven runes ran down its glorious length. It was beautiful. It was crafted from the hand of a true master. And it was exactly what Lord Cronus wanted.

'Fire!' The captain of the archers waved his sword in a swift arc, and a wave of white-fletched arrows descended upon the chaotic hounds. Numerous hounds were cut down by steel-fanged death, their corpses littering the slopes like oversized, twisted insects. Yet they were expendables, by dying in the name of Chaos they were serving their one purpose. Attracting the missile fire away from the deadly Kallicantzari and the Sons of Aries was why the Daemon had utilised their speed and aggression. There was no other reason.

Then the rain of fire and death began to fall upon the beast herds. At first it was only the Ungors that fell, their corpses pitching backwards, pin cushioned, spears dropping from clutching claws. As the hosts neared the elf lines the Gors felt the power of elven archery. The dreaded Eagle's Claw struck like bolts of lightning from the heavens, bringing down Gors and protruding from the woodwork of the Thunder of Cronus. It looked like it could be the end of the beastman hordes.

Snarling in rage, Aeolus let his mind reach out to the Realm of Chaos. His magic was powerful but whimsical. If he could reel off a spell now it could turn the tide of war. Gathering energy to him, he felt the green fires of Tzeentch pooling in the palm of his hand. Spreading his fiery wings, he let out a roar that split the skies and sent a bolt of power flashing towards the High Elf knights.

As the young nobles lowered their lances, preparing for a charge that would crush the beast herds beneath silver-shod hooves, the green fires enveloped them. Gripped by the bizarre magic, they were turned towards their fellows, striking out with swift sword strokes.

The High Elf Commander turned from his position amongst the ranks of glittering spears. Battle had been joined! Or had it? The ear-numbing clang of steel rang through the air, but it was steel on steel, not steel on bronze. Thus he was confused and horrified to find his own cavalry fighting amongst themselves.

The infighting was vicious, brutal and short. A single noble was thrown from the saddle, another's sword impaling the elf through the chest. Briefly, the magic wavered, then died, and the horsemen realized with dismay what they had done. As the Daemon flapped his wings and let out a sinister laugh, the leader turned tail and fled, the rest routing with him. A mild rumble pealed as the riders fled the field, disappearing into the darkened forests.

'Charge! Destroy them for your god, Cronus!'

The Thunder of Cronus crashed into the elven archers. Bodies were trampled beneath bloodied hooves, limbs ripped from sockets and blood stained the earth. It was all over in a few minutes, the archers turning and being brutally run down by the beast-driven chariot.

The time for battle had come as the spearelves met the beasts in combat. On the left flank of the battlefield, the Shadow Warriors put up their bows to engage the Kallicantzari. The clamour of war tore the dimming atmosphere and cries both elf and beast assailed the senses. It was hard-fought and bloody, and in the Realm of Chaos the gods were smiling. But the beasts had the elves outnumbered and outflanked. Time after time their tough hides turned the elves' blades while their bronze axes and sickles scythed down the elves with furious passion.

'You dare to challenge me?' Aeolus raised a brow at the High Elf Commander. The elf did not respond but lifted his blade, one that shone with killing power. As battle raged around the generals, they duelled with hateful lust and steely determination. Blows rang loud and sparks flew as daemonic claw parried slaying sword. But, imbued with the gifts of gods, Aeolus had a clear advantage, eventually wearing the elf commander down. The skies overhead turned dark and thunderheads covered the sun, as if nature herself anticipated the end of this clash of elf versus shadow-elf. The hero, battered and exhausted, stared up at the one who was once like him. His armour was split, his spirit broken. It was time to ascend to join the High Elf Gods.

'Traitor…abandoning your people to the likes of daemons!'

'And now, you die!' Aeolus replied, his daemonic claw closing around the commander's neck. The elf's head leapt from his shoulders with a spray of blood.

With the commander's death the elves were broken, their fighting spirit gone and they turned to flee. Surrounded, they held as the Thunder of Cronus bore down on their position. The chariot had destroyed the Eagle's Claw and cut down its crew. Now, in the shadow of the waystone the elves made a last stand against the beastman hordes.

'Retreat!' The Shadow Warriors, seeing that there was no purpose in laying down their lives, fled the field. Perhaps they would have their vengeance in time; for now they would live and spread the word of a growing evil.

GLORY TO CHAOS!

Aeolus Scarheart closed his eyes. He sat cross-legged beneath the towering waystone. He could feel both the wind of the mortal plane and those of the Realm of Chaos whispering about his feathered wings. Below the beasts made camp, rifling through the corpses. Their vile laughter and the bellowing of the Blood Hunters echoed through the night.

'My lord Cronus, the waystone is ours. We will soon be favoured by the gods.'

A voice, deep and resonating with the tones of daemonic nobility, answered him then. Two gleaming red eyes materialized, flanked by a pair of curled horns, glowing with hell-fires.

'Good, my friend Aeolus, you have done well. Soon the heavens will unleash their wrath against the Empire. But first, my brother, there is a little inconvenience to deal with.'

'My lord?'

'A Slaaneshi warband attacks a Tzeentchian monolith I have yet to capture. We must repel them, and take what is ours.'

'Which path, my lord?'

'The Wind-Torn Oak; bring the Horns of Hellfire on the eve of the third day after Festag.'

'My Lord Cronus, I will be there.'

With a flurry of bright power the visage of Cronus vanished into the darkness.

A CLASH OF EVILS

Aeolus Scarheart has led The Horns of Hellfire through the Paths of the Old Ones, back to a place deep within the Chaos Wastes. Here lies a Tzeentchian monolith. It is under threat by a Slaaneshi warband, led by a six-armed female champion of the Lord of Pleasure. Will Aeolus succeed in driving away her army, or will the stone fall into the hands of a rival god?

SCENARIO STATISTICS

Points:

1000

Participants:

Chaos Beasts

(Andy Bain)

Chaos Hordes

(Mark Wilson)

Scenario:

Pitched Battle

Location:

Shadow Valley, Chaos Wastes

Timeline: 2522 (Empire Calendar)

THE ARMIES

Chaos Beasts:

The Horns of Hellfire

General:

Aeolus Scarheart

Chaos Hordes:

Tribe of the Mighty Serpent

General:

Andariel Serpentsword

THE STORY SO FAR…

The Horns of Hellfire are in control of an elven waystone in Laurelorn Forest. With this they can summon more beasts and monsters, attracted by this glowing beacon. Those that flock to Cronus' unholy banner will replace any beasts slain in battle and, in time, strengthen his army. Now, if Aeolus can take the monolith of the God of Sorcery, he will be able to open a portal to the Realm of Chaos. Then he can summon forth the daemonic minions of Tzeentch, thus supporting Cronus' army with heavenly creatures of the gods.

Naturally, if the forces of Slaanesh gain control of the monolith, the Tribe of the Serpent will be able to use the monolith for their own, twisted ends…

TURNS 1-6

The Tzeentchian monolith stood amongst a cluster of broken rocks and shattered stones, erupting in their midst like a titan surfacing from the deeper hells. It glowed softly, chaotic runes burning slowly with multi-coloured flames that hurt the eyes to look upon. Aeolus knew that this was no mere shrine to the God of Sorcery. It was a portal, one that allowed the Daemons of Tzeentch access to the mortal realm. Above the valley, the skies shone with a purple hue, an aurora twinkling in the violet background.

As the drums of the Marauders rolled out across the plain, like the thunderous impact of boots stamping in the heavens, the sounds were joined by the alternate clashing of weapons on shields. A cry broke out from the battlelines, echoing in the dim shadow of the stony valley. In every voice there spoke fervour, uncontrolled desire and excitement.

'Glory, glory, glory to the Serpent!'

Andariel Serpentsword uncoiled her serpentine body and rose up, unsheathing her six double-edged blades, a pair at a time. They glinted coldly in the flickering northern lights. She slitted her eyes and gazed out at the enemy army. Beasts, beasts and more beasts, nothing but uncivilized, unruly monsters braying for the blood they craved. Her personal warband was well protected and well armed, for the Tribe of the Mighty Serpent was well known for its passion and skill in battle. Such pleasurable experiences were there for the taking; the stealing of another's life with blade-art was unparalleled. Especially when it came to slaughtering mere beasts that understood nothing but destruction and bloodshed. There was so much more to life than that. Then she saw the figure flanked by the aura of his bright wings, standing atop a hillock behind the beasts. A corona of power played about his body. Interesting, she thought. Perhaps the beastmen were not so dull as she had thought. It seemed they could at least recognise someone worth being worshipped: mentally and physically.

'Kill the beasts,' Andariel hissed. 'Leave the daemon. He is mine alone.'

'Yes, my queen,' her lieutenant bowed his head in reverence.

In answer to the Slaaneshi warcry, the beasts roared their response, waving their bronze axes and sickles in the air, before bounding forwards with eager bloodlust. All across the bestial line the monsters bellowed in anticipation of the butchery to come. The tribesmen echoed with their own vocal poison, charging forwards with the excitement of the conflict. As the two armies rushed blindly towards their doom, like two waves of pain and death, Aeolus spread his feathered wings and took to the purple skies.

From up above, resembling a circling hawk amidst the Aethyric winds, he looked down upon the combatants. The Chaos Warriors, disciplined soldiers of Slaanesh, marched in unison, all humanity lost behind their close-visored helms. Amongst these heavily armoured soldiers he spied an intriguing figure. The lower half of her shapely body was that of a snake, and no less than six, slender arms sprouted from her slim, leather and steel-clad shoulders. She was twirling six longswords with consummate ease, each glimmering with magical fires. Her hair was divine, her face, although twisted into a savage mask of sadistic pleasure, equalled the beauty of elf-women he had once known. Something unbidden rose to the forefront of his mind. Should he really be fighting such a woman? His pupils dilated as they lingered on the female. Her warriors faced the Kallicantzari, the strange beastmen spinning their twin axes in figures of eight. On the right flank advanced the tribesmen of the Serpent, fuelled by potent drugs and confident of their heightened prowess. Beasts, no doubt slaves for those who considered themselves above such creatures, thundered forwards to meet the Blood Hunters. On the left flank a pack of daemon-girls, skipping towards the Sons of Aries with wild, perverse delight. Pushing aside his feelings, Aeolus summoned the Cerberus Hounds to him, snarled like a hungry wolf and swooped down towards the Slaaneshi lines. As he did so, the lines of Chaos began to tighten as both forces rushed into battle.

With a mighty crash the armies met and warriors of both sides were thrown into turmoil.

Like a bloody lance the Thunder of Cronus and the Blood Hunters speared into the foe-beasts. Hacking wildly left and right they severed heads and arteries alike. Blood fountained but still the beasts fought back. Horns and fangs came into brutal contact, eyes were ripped from sockets and jaws shattered by powerful blows. Locked in a war of physical toughness and weight of numbers the slave beasts were slowly worn down.

At the heart of the storm, the Kallicantzari stampeded straight into the charging Chaos Warriors. Axes rang from infernal armour. With deft sword strokes bestial blood was spilt and horned heads were toppled from brawny shoulders. The Warriors cut and thrust as the beasts rotated their axes with vicious wrath. The beasts were strong, but the Warriors were stronger. Brutish force was no match for passionate fury. But the beasts held their ground.

'Die before me, you filthy scum!' Andariel shrieked as her six swords fell, each taking the life of a beastman independently. Her blades were a whirlwind of steel, slashing and slicing with dexterous precision. 'Is there not one among you who is not so barbarous?'

The hounds crashed against the barbarian shield wall like a wave washing against a cliff. With zealous shouts and wicked laughter the Marauders cut down the first rank of dogs. Barking and growling in voices of hate, the hounds responded but the shields slammed before them and beat them down. The fighting was short and vicious. As the dogs fled in fear, scurrying away as fast as they could, Aeolus hurtled into the barbarians from the side and he cast his mind into the void, attempting to unleash the fires of Tzeentch. But the winds of magic are fickle.

'Lend me the power I need, ye gods of Chaos!'

The powers of the gods would not come.

The Daemonettes were far superior to the Sons of Aries. With fatal swiftness the daemons danced amidst the muscled monsters, marionettes upon the bloody stage of war. Scythe-like claws snipped vitals and limbs were severed as axes swept through air and barely glanced from the daemons' naked, blood-soaked bodies. Ungor spears could not pinpoint targets as necks were crushed and hooves separated from goat-like ankles. Viscera splattered the ground.

The flanks of the field belonged to Slaanesh. But the heart of the battle was turning in Cronus' favour. As the Horns of Hellfire slowly gained the upper claw, the storm of blood surged, the slave-gors were trampled into the earth, and the numbers of the beasts began to tell. Surrounded by raging Gors, spiteful Ungors, massive Minotaurs and even the Thunder of Cronus, the Chaos Warriors found their hellish armour was finally pierced. Blow after blow rained down on their steely shells, and warrior after warrior fell to the numerical superiority of the beasts. Andariel screamed in frustration as her bodyguard was hacked down, yet every blow of her blades left a beastman as a broken ruin. As her guard fell apart she continued to whirl and kill. Her breastplate was spattered with beastman blood and her hair was tangled and wild. But she cared not. Each kill sent a jolt of pleasure through her, as the life force flowed with liquid fire. But just when the unit was swamped by a horde of claws, horns and Kallicantzari axes, her lieutenant went down and the banner of Slaanesh was ripped asunder, the champion breathed a prayer to her god, swords still slicing. If He heard her, perhaps another conclusion might be reached. She didn't want to die this day.

His glittering bronze armour breached in a dozen places, Aeolus battled with desperation against the tribesmen. Axes and swords cut at him from a multitude of directions, each wielder obsessively trying to experience the exaltation of felling a heavenly being. Suddenly the winds waxed and he was flooded with unholy power.

'Enough!' Aeolus roared; his voice amplified a thousand times as he rose, god-like above the field on feathered pinions. The heavens split and scarlet bolts of flame fell from the skies, splitting up the combatants and forcing them to disperse. As one, the fighting ceased: the clang of steel and the roar of beasts gradually faded away. 'Cease your childish infighting! It is time to put aside our bickering. Together, we can do so much more. Is that not so, Andariel of the Serpentswords?'

At last, the beasts withdrew from her. Breathing heavily, the champion of Slaanesh raised her eyes to the one called Aeolus. He shone brightly to her, like a god hovering, demanding to be treasured. She lowered her swords and found the ability to smile.

'Come down to me, Aeolus Scarheart. Come down and we will…talk.'

Aeolus raised an eyebrow at her.

'Very well,' he replied, a slight smile spreading across his own, elven features.

TZEENTCH DEFEATS SLAANESH

Inside the tent, a structure erected from the skins of men upon a framework of ogrish bones, the two champions worshipped each other. Passions were unleashed and desires fulfilled. Aeolus satisfied his savage lust, realising what great experiences and pleasures he had come to forget. Andariel, also, satiated her deepest cravings, the like of which she had yearned for, ever since joining the Tribe of the Serpent.

After a while of aggressive negotiations, they decided to make a pact, an alliance.

'Together we can rule over the next elven menhir that we will conquer,' Aeolus breathed, his wings changing from green to blue to purple as he spoke. 'My lord Cronus has informed me of a crumbling, lost temple off the coast of the Southlands. This can be our kingdom. Or yours, as I will be away fighting most of the time.' At this he grinned, revealing his fangs.

'I like it, Aeolus Scarheart.' Andariel shifted her body slightly, rustling the silken sheets around them. 'After all, should not a queen have her own realm?'

'In return you will simply provide Cronus with mortal warriors, Chaos Warriors of Slaanesh.'

Andariel shot an inquisitive look at him.

'Will they follow you? I thought you were…'

'It might seem that I am devoted to Tzeentch. But as I have been gifted by all the gods, I can lead them with my own Slaaneshi influence.' Aeolus gestured with his curved, lobster claw.

'I should've known,' Andariel said. 'Then lead my troops well, my champion.' She smiled beguilingly.

Champion of Andariel, Aeolus thought. I like the sound of that.

ANDARIEL'S KINGDOM

Having marched inland through the leafy jungles on Sunstone Isle, Aeolus' forces soon discover the ruined temple mentioned by Cronus. It is well defended by a natural plateau that rises up from the forest. Unfortunately, a High Elf expeditionary force has also landed on the island, seeking ancient artefacts. Aeolus must fight to keep his promise to his beloved Andariel, or the temple will be taken by the elf expeditioners.

SCENARIO STATISTICS

Points:

1000

Participants:

Chaos Beasts

(Andy Bain)

High Elves

(Stuart Nichols)

Scenario:

Pitched Battle

Location:

Sunstone Isle, east coast of the Southlands

Timeline: 2522 (Empire Calendar)

THE ARMIES

Chaos Beasts:

The Horns of Hellfire

General:

Aeolus Scarheart

High Elves:

Prince Menethal's Expeditionary Force

General:

Commander Mithrean

THE STORY SO FAR…

Aeolus Scarheart and Andariel Serpentsword have made an alliance. With two mighty standing stones under Cronus' control, the Horns of Hellfire are certainly favoured. With Slaanesh warriors secured, the army is set to include troops both mortal and immortal. Cronus' power swells, and now Aeolus seeks to gain a third menhir to add to his master's collection. In doing so, he will also carve out a kingdom for the beautiful champion of Slaanesh Andariel, from which she can send troops to share in the glory and might of Chaos. However, the quest of Prince Menethal of Ulthuan to find several magical artefacts has clashed with their ambitions. Commander Mithrean and some of the prince's expeditioners are scouting out the coast, searching for lost temples where artefacts might be concealed. Only one side can claim the temple and any artefacts that may or may not be contained within. Once again Aeolus is plunged into battle against his former kindred…

TURNS 1-6

The ruined temple sat atop the plateau like a behemoth, a hulking, stone monster daring any to challenge its ancient might. Surrounded by a fringe of leafy jungle plants, its entrance gaped maw-like and black as pitch. Deep in the bowels of this titan lay the promise of gold, jewels and valuable artefacts.

'We have secured the area, Commander,' the High Elf informed his leader. The commander dismounted from his elven warhorse and nodded his gratitude. Handing the reins to his retainer, he strode over to the edge of the highland, gazing out across this strange land.

'Good, return to the temple and prepare to begin the search. Lord Menethal will be pleased with our discovery.'

Beyond the steaming jungles he could see the faint light of dawn appearing on the eastern horizon. Sunstone Isle: what an excellent place for a secondary gate fortress, he thought. It could be another Fortress of Dawn, another Island of the Sun, policing the ships that sailed into the eastern seas. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He could hear the sounds of birds as the jungle slowly came to life. Here, on the eastern coast of the Southlands, away from the troubles of the world, he could establish a base from which to venture forth on his master's quest. It could be great.

'Commander,' came a voice from behind him, towards the western side of the plateau. He ignored it, trying to contemplate in a moment of balance, peace and serenity.

'Commander,' the voice of his captain came again. 'Commander Mithrean.'

'What is it? Can't you see I'm trying to concentrate?' Mithrean looked around, mightily perturbed. He twisted around, removing his helmet and rubbing his furrowed brow.

The captain looked anxious, and yet tried not to show it. He held a sack in one hand.

'I have just received a report of beastmen marching this way. They will be here in…'

'Beastmen! Unheard of, they don't dwell this far south.'

'Commander, the scouts are not mistaken. However unlikely, they have brought this back, as evidence.' The captain held up a grisly, severed head. It resembled something like a man's head, with short, stumpy horns. It was unmistakably that of an Ungor warrior.

'Damn the gods of chaos, how long did you say we have?'

'Two hours. Shall I prepare the Eagle's Claws?'

'Of course, of course. By the blood of Khaine, we shall destroy these foul beasts.'

'First rank, fire! Kneel, reload! Second rank, fire! Kneel, reload! First rank, fire!'

Volley after volley of arrows sped through the sky, like a hail of steel rain. Warhounds, Gors and Ungors alike fell to their bite as the beasts rushed up the sides of the plateau.

Minutes turned into hours as the missile fire continued. Half the Horns of Hellfire had been felled by the High Elves' deadly bowfire. The archers were aided by two formidable Eagle's Claw Repeater Bolt Throwers, and an escort of the famed Ellyrian Reavers. The bolts and arrows scythed through the beastman ranks like the swords of gods, reaping the vile mutants and whittling down their overwhelming numbers.

This was not going well for the Horns of Hellfire. Not yet, at least. Aeolus slitted his eyes, watching the battle unfolding through the branches of the vine-choked trees. Thick forest clustered around the south and north sides of the plateau. The Sons of Aries, some of their number flaming as the dreaded High Magic took its toll, were making their way through the trees. The Kallicantzari were also engaging in a similar strategy, led by Aeolus himself. With all the missile fire directed forwards, the elves would be vulnerable on their flanks. Soon, the beasts would fall upon them from both sides and crush them in a pincer attack. They would be swept away in a hurricane of blood and death.

'Now, I will create your Kingdom, dear Andariel,' Aeolus Scarheart snarled. 'I will fashion it from the bones of elves, and whet it in their blood.'

He spread his wings wide and raised his hideous claw to the skies. From the heavens there came a deafening crack of thunder and a bright burst of incandescent lightning as the winds of magic responded. As one unit of hounds was engulfed by bolts from an Eagle's Claw repeater bolt thrower, a blast of orange-yellow fire streaked across the field and enveloped the other pack of hounds. Arrows bounced from the gleaming shell, bolt shafts cracked and in a trice the hounds were upon their antagonists. Fangs ripped throats, claws slashed open tunics and the crewmen went down under a flurry of fur, snapping teeth and writhing tentacles. The Eagle's Claws and their Ellyrian Reaver escort were soon overwhelmed as the horde of beastmen poured from the forests and burst up onto the plateau. In the wake of the hounds' attack came the Blood Hunters and the Thunder of Cronus. Flickering fingers of orange power flashed amidst the machine's wheel spokes, driving it with incredible force up the slopes. The roars of beasts split the air as Bestigor and Ungor crewmen waved their crude weapons in bestial fury. To them the chariot was certainly a gift of the gods.

The High Elves stood firm, holding the high ground. They were led by a mage, flames shooting from his fingertips, scorching and burning with each new fireball. Several small comets exploded amidst the Minotaurs' number, but the beasts only roared in rage and charged towards the elves, their bloodlust invigorated. As the monstrous creatures bore down on them the archers unleashed another salvo of shots. Arrow shafts protruded from the woodwork on the chariot, and one Minotaur came crashing down the slopes, its muscled torso full of arrows. But the beasts were unstoppable. They smashed into the spearelves, cutting left, right and centre spilling crimson blood in torrents. Blood soaked the soil and bodies were thrown through the air with every stroke of the Minotaurs' huge weapons.

As the Horns of Hellfire closed around the High Elves and the bloody hack and thrust of close combat ensued, Commander Mithrean knew what was coming. His carefully laid plans had gone to naught and now the elves were suffering in desperate close fighting.

Summoning up his reserves of courage, the elf hero fought valiantly. His sword sliced through beastman flesh, unleashing black blood and yet the beasts didn't pause in their savage fury. They hacked and slashed in wide arcs, throwing elf bodies from them. Mithrean backed his horse off, glancing left and right. All around him, elves died defending him. The clamour of war broke unwanted against his senses. The High Elf banner was trampled into the mud. The Ellyrian Reavers were pulled from their horses and stabbed to death by multiple attackers. The mage was sliced in half, his body flopping to the ground like a broken doll. This was no battle; this was a massacre. There was only one thing he could do.

'To hell with the artefacts! Retreat! Retreat! We must retreat!' Mithrean turned his horse, dismayed to find the company musician already dead and his horn lying smashed and broken beneath the Blood Hunter's feet. It was too late. As the last of the spearelves were brutally cut down, Mithrean fled, his warhorse kicking up clods of earth in its haste.

A giant, bronze axe slashed the horse's legs from beneath it. With a whinny of terror, it died as the next blow decapitated it. Mithrean struggled upright and rushed towards the archers of Sea Company. Here they would go down in history.

'Last stand of Sea Company!' He roared and the archers nocked arrows to bows. 'Fire!' Another Minotaur was pin-cushioned and collapsed, a last howl of agony ripping from its jaws. All across the plateau beastmen hacked down the last of their foes. Only Sea Company stood, defiant. Aeolus perched atop a heap of elven dead like a hungry raven and chuckled. They would not last long. Andariel's Kingdom had been forged in blood and death. The Blood Hunters, their red eyes blazing with bloodlust, thundered down on the archers.

'Go,' the archer captain told his commander. 'Go, we'll cover your retreat.'

'Never,' Mithrean twirled his bloodied sword. 'I'll…'

'Go!' The archer shrieked at him as the Minotaurs drew closer. 'You alone must live…live to inform our Lord Menethal!'

Mithrean sighed. The archer was right. Grimacing, he gripped the other elf's shoulder tightly, before releasing him and running towards the eastern side of the plateau, and safety.

THROUGH BLOOD AND DEATH, A DARK KINGDOM IS BORN