To clarify the summary I am planning to first do a series of short stories regarding a hypothetical war in which the Grand Legion of the Everchosen (Beastmen, Daemons, Warriors of Chaos, Skaven and Chaos Dwarfs) fight against the Defenders of Azeroth (Alliance and Horde primarily) . I have done much research into this prospect, and given my now acquired knowledge of both Warcraft and Warhammer Fantasy I believe it will be a extremely cataclysmic and closely contested matchup. Once I am done with the one-off short stories I will then attempt my hand at retelling a main, central conflict in a neutral battlefield (*hint* its a extremely popular anime right now) .
*Credit goes to Blizzard, Games Workshop, Black Library and everyone else who owns anything seen here. Also to my fantastic editor.
ASSAULT ON CLAN RECUNDUS
"Quick-quick. Through here now. Man-things approach-come!"
His proclamation was met with the excited chirp of dozens of Clanrats as they assembled themselves into something that might loosely be called a formation, making sure of course, to push the wretched Skavenslaves forward. The plan was based off of standard Skaven smart-genius stratagem: let the slaves take the fire meant for more worthy adversaries. Then, once the enemy was weakened, send in Clanrats to break through and overwhelm the exhausted foes. But Chieftain Squeeltwitch of Clan Recundus was clever-smart beyond normal Skaven cunning. To this genius, time-perfected Skaven planning he added his own twists.
Yes-yes victory would be his over the strange Man-things of the unknown fact that they had brought their allies, the Dwarf-things and elfish Purple-ear things would make this only more glorious. For they were marching into a trap, a trap made by a Skaven of infallible intellect and infinite cunning. These lesser races before him were fool-fools who, for a reason beyond the Chieftain, chased those enslaved by his glorious master race down even into Skaven lairs. It befuddled Squeeltwitch to think that the slave workers, pups and breeder female things would be held in such high value to them. Rescuing the wretched Man-thing non-warriors who had been captured in the last raid.
In the end they were fools, stupid and arrogant for thinking they held a chance against the superior race in their own lairs. Now they would serve as an abject lesson to those who would stand in the way of the Skaven and their destiny!
Squeeltwitch leered at his captives, a pair of Man-thing female breeders and a young pup. These Man-things would bring much profit-gain when they were sold to the flesh-works of Clan Moulder! He looked back at the encroaching enemy and his grin grew more malevolent still. Yes Moulder would pay a high price for worthy captives, while his own clan would most humbly only take the armor and weaponry of the enemy.
The unusual enemy lined up orderly in their formations, grouped and huddled together closely. It was an armored formation measured 15 by 3, though the enemy had enough room for another on the sides. Skaven foresight had seen to widen the tunnels to accommodate larger groups to raid the surface, something Squeeltwitch himself had organized, anticipating greater profit. Still he did not plan for his enemy to use the tunnels to come to him. How could they have known which tunnels to use?
The Skaven's keen eyes took in his enemy force composition and more besides. For a moment he blinked in surprise, noting that the entire force, disregarding a few purple-ear elf-things in the rear, wore entire suits of plate. This was something that the Skaven had come to associate with those that rode the horse-things and lorded over the lesser Man-things in a crude parody of Skaven culture. Squeeltwitch was aghast at his enemy's insanity-stupidity. Had they sent a force of all leaders to assault Skaven lairs with no fodder as shield-meat?
More so these lesser races fought side by side, not in their own units. Man-thing fought along Dwarf-thing which in turn fought along the Purple-ear-things. This puzzled Squeeltwitch. Didn't the Dwarf-things have a long hatred of the purple-ears' cousins, the Elf-things? But that was only a source of minor puzzlement compared to the next discovery.
As they marched closer his keen eyes focused on chests and faces—with utter shock he noticed almost half of them were female breeders! For a moment he was too stunned to even contemplate ordering an assault. They brought breeders to battle! He accepted that the Purple-ears might indulge in that sort of insanity, but Dwarf and Man-things too? Never had they before. Males fought while breeders hid, or only fought when cornered. But to take them to battle, to fight-slay? And in expensive hard armor at that?
"These Man-things are mad-mad yes?" He stated aloud to his Stormvermin, of which about forty of them were with him at the moment. "They rush into our lairs to save a bunch of fool-fools, bring breeders to fight-slay, and give them valuable steel at the same time?"
His Stormvermin would typically nod along with his musings, eager to stay in their master's favor. Today they did so as well, but with a degree of sincerity. His Fangleader, his right claw Skribbit squeaked up. "You are undoubtedly correct, oh most perceptive of chieftains. But please consider this unworthy one's thought-musings. Wouldn't it have been easier to collapse the tunnel earlier to kill-slay these villainous interlopers? Then we could have picked-claimed armor from their corpses, enslave the survivors. Your plan is truly without flaws, mighty lord-leader, so surely your mighty-cleverness thought of easier alternative?"
Squeeltwitch had to resist the urge to bare his teeth. Lately his Fangleader's ambition had risen above his station, and he most obviously wanted his master's position. He had taken to little annoying, needling criticisms masked behind the veil of sycophantic prattling. It would not have been bad except he made such statements aloud so others could hear him. Perhaps it was time for the Fangleader to have an unfortunate accident-death.
He turned to share a glance with his brood-brother, Snarltwitch, his second claw born of the same litter as he was. Yes-yes it would have to happen soon. Unlike Fangleader Skribbit, he did not need to worry about Snarltwitch. This insane brood-brother was one of those few who sought to emulate the mad Mors warlord, Queek Headtaker, and so Snarltwitch cared only about fighting and much less about scheming. So long as Chieftain Squeeltwitch gave Snarltwitch something worthy to kill-slay, he would obey.
"You would normally be correct-right, Fangleader Skribbit. Yet I perceived before that many of these were breeders and thus easy prey-food. There is no need to kill-slay the majority of them when there are so many slaves to make a profit with Moulder."
Of course, he left out the part that he already tried blowing up a support structure as the things were crossing it. Fangleader Skribbit did not need to know. What happened was beyond him, either the device failed or he had been betrayed by sabatoge. Stupid-useless Clan Skyre device!
Nevertheless he was confident now more than ever that his genius would win the day, if his minions could be counted on to serve well-good.
"Now-now. Charge mighty Skaven, charge and kill-slay the foe-enemies of the Horned Rat."
With a chippering, squeaking battle cry the Clanrats pushed, prodded and sometimes even stabbed the Skavenslaves forward in one large, terrified, chittering mass. Slaves by the dozens rushed forward with squeaks of rage and terror.
The enemy line stood calmly—Man-thing armed with swords in the front locked shields however the weapon set was hardly uniform. The Dwarf-things predictably carried maces and axes, while those Man-things towards the middle held an assortment of swords, axes, and at least one had a poleax. The rear contained about ten Purple-ears, with bows and strange circular blades at their side along with two unarmored Man-thing breeders and between the pair stood a heavily armored, giant hammer wielding man that must be their leader.
The Purple-ears began to rain well-timed volleys onto the Skavenslaves slaying them by the dozens—just as planned! But they were still urged forward; there were so few enemies surely the legion of two hundred would slay-eat the foe. At roughly a hundred skitter-feet away many of the shielders pulled out small crossbows. Already loaded, they fired into the Skaven mass. Behind them the archers loosed another hailstorm of arrows. At that range, with so many Skaven present, it was hard to miss.
Two score fell from the combined volley, dead either immediately or faltering in their charge by wounds were trampled to the ground by their charging companions. The chittering, terrified mass never let their fallen companions get up as they ran right on top of them. Other fool-fool races might try to help their companions up but never the strong-mighty Skaven! The weak-worthless were unworthy of life.
The shielders hastily put their crossbows away, knowing they did not have time further to reload. Once again Squeeltwitch marveled at how well equipped his enemy was. Surely these were all leader-chieftains of the Man-things, what was called in their crude tongue "nobles"?
Archer fire continued to impact the ever-changing frontlines, expert shots seeking throats, faces and chests, though in truth no matter where they hit they would probably incapacitate. To be fair Squeeltwitch had to admit that he could have ensured that his slaves were at least equipped with some small rotted wooden shields to stop as many dying prematurely from ranged projectiles.
However the choice at the time was between that or spending ten minutes with a female breeder. Squeeltwitch had most-wisely chosen the latter; he must ensure the continuation of strong Skaven through his superior future pups! Was not just his right of course, but his expected responsibility. Better than that he had actually clever-bargained a total of fifteen minutes by selling away the most of his slaves' knives (those that were in hand or belt and not hidden up some foul orifice) to be used as scalpels by Clan Moulder specialists, who at the time were in need-want of them.
After all, couldn't his slaves simply pick up rocks or sharp sticks on the ground? Come to think of it they could simply pick up weaponry off the fallen dead, yes-yes!
Suddenly there was a flash of teal followed by twin bolts of ice crashing into a pair of slave-rats, impaling them with meter long ice shards. A second later and a ball of fire hit a third slave in the chest, instantly setting him alight. The slave screeched and desperately dropped to the ground to try to smother the flames in dirt.
Under normal circumstances, the other rats would have simply trampled right over those that had fallen. However a rat-torch was not a normal circumstance. The Skaven behind screeched and panicked, forced by momentum to continue the charge but desperate to avoid the fiery demise of their comrade. Several leapt over the soon to be corpse successfully, however two did not. They fell (or perhaps were pushed?) on top of the blaze, their screams and squeaks joining the first torched rat. Others, unable to react in time, floundered and fell into the growing, writhing pile of meat. But at least after the pile had grown three stacks from the ground, they managed to smother-extinguish the fire through sheer press of bodies.
By now more than half his legion of two hundred slaves were down, either dead or soon to be. Fortunately he had another, and another if need be.
"Second legion, forward-go!"
The first had just now reached the armored shield wall. Those in front only now coming to terms with their obvious disadvantages, slowed and desperately tried to turn back. But momentum drove them forward and hurled them bodily into the shield wall.
Shielders dug their feet into the ground and pressed forward, aided by their brethren to the back. Sword strikes swung overhand, every blow hacking into mangy limb, torso or skull. Second ranks added to the carnage with powerful hammer swings or prodding spear thrusts. Dwarf-things shouldered the bottom portion of their ally's shields, forming an anchor even as they maneuvered their weapons under the large shield to hack at the slave's legs. Expert Purple-eared archers shot in arcs to catch the ones just behind through the ranks even around the Skaven or point-blank, into their foes glowing red eyes. For their part slaves scratched, stabbed with crude spears or else tried to smash with basic rocks. All either clanged or shattered off of the steel armor. They were feisty and quick but could not prevail at more than irritating or flesh-wounding the foe. When they tried grabbing weapons or prying limbs to reach softer joint-flesh, the Dwarf-things would smash or stab the offender relieving the Man-thing of his danger.
The second full legion of 200 slammed into the remnants of the first, their momentum adding to the overall horde and slowly starting to push the second rank back. Progress! That a few slaves were crushed to death as a result was of course barely noteworthy. Still, the chieftain could not help but be surprised at how the breeders continued to fight along with the males. Surely such weak creatures should have perished to even an armed slave?
Squeeltwitch turned to his Stormvermin; now was the time to reveal his glorious cunning-craft!
"Send the claw pack of Squilch forward; let the Clanrats distract the shielders and keep the slaves in battle. Together we go to achieve great victory for the Horned Rat!"
Incredulous Fangleader Skribbit looked at the melee. Those at the front were now trying to flee, spraying their fear musk everywhere. In time this would cause the other slaves to flee, and though the Clanrats would forcibly press them to the front, the fact that the armored Man-things had yet to take a single causality—if even a scratch!—was worrying.
"Mighty Chieftain. The slaves are being useless-meat. Thanks to their incompetence the enemy isn't even wounded! How tell-share can our clan achieve now, oh glorious one?"
Squeeltwitch was indulgent.
"Why through your cunning-skill as well as my brilliant foresight! Our engineers dug for little anticipated raid on our mighty den, and constructed multiple tunnel-routes one could use to escape. Through your bold maneuvering you will take the second claw-pack and assault the unarmored things from the rear! Once done the shielders will be surrounded, press-crushed and destroyed! My servant stands by the entrance of the tunnels over there."
The Fangleader looked doubtfully at the entrance, but made a good show of feigning excitement. It was unusual to give the task of assaulting from the rear—and a chance of escape—to the lesser.
As if sensing the dubious thoughts of his right-claw rat, Squeeltwitch almost bowed politely. "You shall of course, earn-take the first pick of armor as a reward. As is right for a hero's position."
This caused Fangleader Skribbit to perk up but he still looked doubtful, and with good reason. Still to disobey a direct order would mean automatic death, and Squeeltwitch was looking for an excuse. The Fangleader looked once again at the front, where above the Skaven forces icicles the length of his arm were formed out of thin air before dropping onto the unfortunate slave rats below, impaling them in several places. That decided that, a sneak attack in rickety tunnels was made preferable.
"Very well-good, oh my generous of patrons. I, humble Skribbit, shall destroy-extinguish this foe in the name of his most wise chieftain."
And, with that little bit of sycophancy, Skribbit took twenty of the Stormvermin and left.
Squeeltwitch let his smile drop slightly, but not totally. The tunnels would indeed take him to the rear of the enemy force, but he "forgot" to mention that they were rickety things built in the event Squeeltwitch needed a sudden escape. It was not built for large numbers of troops moving through it.
This is why Squeeltwitch would be ensure his most loyal servant received much needed reinforcements in the form of Clanrats from Clan Gestous. And from the other tunnels, his real plan for winning the skirmish.
"Skribbit shall not be coming out of that tunnel alive-well, I take it?" Snarltwitch asked.
Squeeltwitch practically growled. "Correct, broodling-brother. And with that, a major thorn in our backside shall be removed."
Snarltwitch just grunted. "This back stab-stab all just a waste of time. I would rather make Man-things die-die."
Squeeltwitch grinned indulgently at his brood sibling. This is why he could almost come close to trusting him, for like his mentor from afar Snarltwitch seemed to only enjoy the fields of battle over plotting.
At the front of the battle, the first Man-thing had fallen with a shiv shoved straight through his visor. Another had simply fallen and frenzied Skavenslaves swarmed over his body, desperately trying to find chinks or remove pieces of his armor. Skaven teeth and claws were as good as small knifes. As it was, they would likely crush him through pure weight first or else suffocate him.
Without warning a bright beam of light shined down on the fallen Man-thing. It was so bright and so intense that Squeeltwitch could hardly bear to look at it especially in the dark tunnel, and he had to raise a gauntleted glove to screen his eyes. Those Skavenslaves on the body writhed and screamed as the cursed light scorched them as thoroughly as a blazing inferno. A few seemed to practically disintegrate instantly, while others leapt up screeching as they clutched charred faces, tails, and melted limbs. It was only a few lucky slaves that got up apparently unharmed, though even they were screaming their pain to the entire world, as if the light had bypassed the body and scarred the soul, and others had lifeless eye sockets from the sudden piercing light in such dark depths.
The fallen Man-thing meanwhile, leapt up with a sort of vigor that one who had enduring Skavenslave assaults while wearing heavy plate had no right to feel. The shield bearer retook his place in the front line, slaying faster than before.
From his perch most bravely and safely at the rear of the battlefield, Squeeltwitch espied the creator of the light, the heavily armed hammer individual at the rear of force. He had thought the Man-thing just the commander; he had not realized there he was a third mage among the group.
But finally yet another Man-thing had fallen, and the archers to the rear were clearly out of ammunition, this rate of attrition was unacceptable even to the Squeeltwitch. Two or three deaths and some wounded at the cost of almost 400 Slaves? Time for the chieftain to reveal his cunning.
"Snarltwitch, raise your banner high. Then order-command the next Clanrat unit through the tunnels. Skkkrit," he motioned another underling, a messenger, "tell Enginmek to prepare his team."
Yes, his ingenuity would pay off soon. Already fortune seemed to favor him, as a gap in the shielders appeared, which new fresh Clanrats and the few remaining slaves that hadn't died or somehow managed to flee exploited.
He looked over at the Skyre weapon team commander Enginmek, who along with his two assistants sported a Doom-Flayer. The bulbous, all-metal machine had cost a small fortune for a clan of his size. But part of its construction supposedly demanded quality weapons from 40% of his Clanrats (which after he most assuredly wins this battle he will get his claws on more weapons anyway) along with swearing to hand over a small "tithe" of 5% of loot gained every month until it could be paid off (he could have sworn that he had only signed for two weeks, but Skyre representatives inform-tell that it was actually 2 months, then 2 years).
Down below another shielder had finally fallen, beaten over the head repeatedly with crude clubs. Another should have fallen, for he was bleeding from a slash to his throat, but then the same light from before illuminated him. The Man-thing promptly ceased bleeding, and fought with a new zeal.
The cowardly Man-things were cheating. No matter, that gave the Skaven the right to cheat too.
"Quick-quick. Send clawleader Scritz through the tunnels to help-aid dear Skribbit!
Though the Purple-eared archers at the rear had now exhausted their ammunition, the mages had not, even if their movements were becoming slower. The ice mage hurled a bolt of frost at a Clanrat to the rear, freezing him solid. The Fire Mage chucked a ball of flame into the crowd. Clanrats scattered and tripped over each other trying to avoid it, but it was for naught as the ball, once it landed, exploded outward, burning those closest.
Yet the mage was not paying attention to all of his surroundings. From the rear came a trio of black hooded Gutter Runners armed with poisoned stars. These were not from Clan Eshin however, but from one of the clans trying to steal Eshin's secrets to use for their own benefit. As they were cheaper than Eshin's services Squeeltwitch had bought them, not truly expecting to have to actually follow through with the commitment. After all such clans usually only lasted until Eshin got annoyed enough to send a Deathmaster after the offending clan. Squeeltwitch had no doubt that Clan Snitchk would be feeling their wrath soon.
The first mage turned too slow. Before the fire mage could unleash a fireball three fast-flying blades ripped through the air. Two hit his throat while another buried itself right in the forehead. The mage dropped before he could even begin an incarnation.
Far faster than a Man-thing could, long Purple ear-things abruptly flipped around just as a hail of blades-shurikens headed their way. A few fit in arms and legs regardless, with one taking a purple ear out through a throat hit. Many however missed, courtesy of the incredibly agility of the purple ear breeders.
But the breeders hurled blades of their own—large, disc-shaped things that twisted through the air. The mage commander, whose odd armor adjourned with jewels had blocked the blades, turned and with a spoken shackles of light bound themselves around the Gutter Runners' knees. The Runner screeched out as if the chains were made of fire. Unable to move, a disc-blade buried itself right in the runner's chest. The other two used training honed in at mysterious Eshin temple-sects (or whatever Snitchk had) to jump over the blades, throwing more poisoned stars even as they dodged over the discs.
Several of them grazed the purple-ears, but they were not their target. Men in the rear ranks of the shieldwall cried out as tiny blades buried into their backs, the fast acting toxins soon to follow. However one of the disc blades hit a stone, then changed angles and crashed into another, then another before, in an unbelievable display, heading back the way it came. Clever-smart Purple ear-things!
It crashed into an unsuspecting Gutter Runner's blade first. Part of the blade punched out the back and through the Skaven's chest, the momentum driving the Skaven closer before ending almost at the disc-blade's wielders' feet.
The last prepared to retreat but was heartened by the sudden sight of four more tunnel holes—clever hidden for just this reason—opening all at once! Stormvermin and Clanrats burst through. Cries of surprise, shock and even a little fear played through the enemy ranks at their sight as the back row of shielders hastily turned around even as those Skaven at the front pushed harder than before.
Squeeltwitch however cursed. This was not to plan! His servant Skribbit was supposed to only emerge from one tunnel not several. Now it would be harder to collapse in on him, as Squeeltwitch could hardly know which support beam to collapse to crush his disloyal minion. Unless he did them all at once…
No, that would wait. First things first. Squeeltwitch motioned at Enginmek to start turning the machine.
Yes-yes, he would order the Skyre weaponsmith to charge straight for the rear commander. Surely he could not be blamed if his lieutenant Fangleader Skribbit was "accidentally meat-flayed" holding the Man-thing leader to his doom. Tragic but the death of him in glorious line of duty would suspend any doubt of assassination altogether.
At the rear meanwhile the last Gutter Runner had hurled his last shurikens directly at the mage-breeder's chest, burying two in, but shortly paid for it as the light-twitch magic leader blasted him with brightness of such intensity that half of the Gutter Runner seemed to dissipate instantly. The mage-leader reached down and pulled the breeder Man-thing back as several of the shielders charged forward, covering their master's retreat. Stormvermin and Clanrats crashed into these shielders, forcing them to reel as their backs came ever nearer to those still fighting from the front. The Stormvermin were met by the remaining inner soldiers shooting the small crossbows in a last-ditch effort to stave off what was now inevitable.
Those Purple-eared things that remained took a position behind the shields, hurling and stabbing outward with their disc-blades when able. However their effectiveness was clearly limited to Squeeltwitch's eyes, for they had difficulty maneuvering their big blades around the backs of the Man-things without hitting them. Meanwhile the shielders, which had done all too well against the Skavenslaves and proved a good counter to the Clanrats, were finding a foe that could be considered more equal in the Stormvermin. He was pleased to see an arrogant shielder take a halberd to the helmet, even if the Stormvermin who did was stabbed through the neck by a companion of the slain soldier.
"Go-go, Snarltwitch. Wait till after the Doom-flayer hit them and go to kill-kill and seize the loot!"
Thus commanded, Snarltwitch gratefully nodded, for Squeeltwitch knew that Snarltwitch greatly desired to shed blood. His broodling-brother took the other half remaining Stormvermin before heading towards the front, watching Enginmek carefully in the corner of his eye. Squeeltwitch felt a sort of faint gratitude for his brother, whose simple minded desires made him somewhat reliable. A rarity in the Skaven world, oh yes-yes!
Finally there was a loud grinding sound. It was a bloated sphere of metal with a spinning drill at the front sporting a whirlwind of clawed blades so that every direction was a carving sword storm of shield-ripping power. And what tried to dart from it would be severed at the knees by the wild scraping scythes on either unequal side.
Squeeltwitch prided himself on his genius. The Doom-Flayer was as cheap to maintain as a Ratling Gun, but did not kill-kill Skaven as much. Not that the warlord cared but one could never know if a Skaven leader could put enough bodies between himself and the infernal death-spitting device in the event of an accident. IT was even safer compared to the much more expensive Poisoned Wind Mortar or Warpfire Thrower. Indeed he bore witness to a "paid" team to lob a deadly orb at his own commander in an early time, and the Warpfire was known for explosive and unpredictable results equally killing the enemy as it did the Skaven—and more importantly, the employers who bought them.
But a Doom-Flayer? Just stand behind it and march into the exploited gap.
The few remaining Skavenslaves and Clanrats attacking the front could hear the oncoming sounds that were unmistakably from a Clan Skyre infernal killing machine. Those in the rearmost ranks had the longest chance to look and flee to the flanks. Those near the front face-to-face with the enemy—not so much. The elfish Purple ear-things made warning, but the Man-thing shielders busy at keeping the front stable had little time to heed.
The Doom-flayer impaled a Skavenslave who screeched up and flailed about but only for a few moments before bits of his bones and organs were slung everywhere. The scythes on the side split bodies on the ground, both dead and wounded while tangling up tails and pulling in those who dove-quick. The shower of Skaven bodies did no real damage to the Man-things, but the Doom-flayer barely slowed as it rammed the first shielder in the way. The drill spun like a screw into a wine cork before twisting the shield and the arm attached before splitting a growing hole at the center of it. The Dwarf-things nearer the ground crouching low were crushed and smashed underneath, their heads and limbs twirling about the tornado of carnage.
Over a dozen Skaven in its path died. It was a great success. Enginmek squeaked with excitement as he lashed his lackeys to drive more power into the machine. It was the first time the foe actually bothered holding fast rather than running. The worry of being flanked or hurt was overwhelmed by the fact that fast food in the form of severed limbs were raining around him—a heap of rare carnage.
Squeeltwitch rose up and pointed his curved sword towards the gap in the enemy ranks. "Go-quick! All Skaven attack!"
Though more than half his clan's forces had died, the foe was almost destroyed. Survivors and other Skaven vainly tried to shuffle together as several were caught and overwhelmed by screeching hordes, terrified by the potential death of the whirling Doom-flayer more so than the enemy, but emboldened by the prospect of flesh-meat in front of them.
Then the mage-leader who wielded the holy light rose, his eyes alight with the same terrible brightness as before. The commander began chanting a song, foul and unnatural to Skaven ears. A golden shield, at first faint, then bold but translucent, shimmered into being around the commander and his remaining troops. Bits of bone, armor and weapons ricocheted off the golden screen as the commander chanted louder and louder. At his side breeder females began motioning and speaking softly, no doubt to cast another foul spell.
"No! I will not be cheated out of my victory-conquest, Man-things!" Squeeltwitch screamed in hoarse rage. "Enginmek, concentrate on shield. Destroy-kill it!"
The Skyre weaponsmith obliged, angry nearly as much as the Chieftain at the prospect of his enemy surviving. With a snap of his whip and a bloody flesh-spitting screech (from a hasty snack on a Dwarf-thing arm) Enginmek urged the machine be pushed to its limits. It rammed into the shield, and the gory foam of his saliva slopped everywhere as the drill struck head-on with the golden shimmer. The Man-things' mage commander struggled louder and louder, his arms raised and shaking as if carrying all the burden of the world upon him. Cracks began to emerge in the shield at the point of impact but amazingly it persisted.
Now the mage-commander was weakening, his legs sagging and blood pouring from every orifice. Yes-yes, thought Squeeltwitch, it's over now.
It was, just not in a way that the warlord could have anticipated. The mage-breeders by his side completed an incarnation and, with a flash of light, the remaining ten of the enemy's varied racial force disappeared without a trace!
For a moment the Doom-flayer crew kept going, unbelieving of their own eyes. Squeeltwitch snarled and quickly ordered them to shut it off lest it overheat and experience an 'accident' that Clan Skyre products were famous for, or else plow into a dozen ranks of the rear-flanking Skaven without cause.
"Treachery! Incompetence!" Squeeltwitch was in a fury, and raged against the Skyre weapon team, closing the distance before they could even think of turning the Doom-flayer on him. He grabbed Enginmek by the scruff of the neck and shook him, forcing him to drop the last bits of his meal. "Why did you not hit more-harder idiot? Why couldn't your weak inferior-product penetrate the golden shield, weaponsmith? Why…"
His eyes caught something, or rather a lack of something. Normally not a something he cared for but the Man-thing slaves—the breeders and the pup—were gone, as if they weren't there to begin with. They were supposed to be part of the treaty-pledge for Clan Moulder! Squeeltwitch tossed Enginmek to the floor before rounding on his slave-holder.
"Where is Man-things slave meat? Where are they?"
The Skaven stuttered and prattled quickly about them disappearing from thin air, adding in sycophantic praising for good measure. In this mood however, Squeeltwitch could only see subtle criticisms aimed at his ability, and responded accordingly. Several moments later, he kicked the decapitated head of the Skaven in frustration.
Then, from the tunnels, a new subject of his rage emerged. Skribbit, now clad in Man-thing plate and wielding a longsword, marched triumphantly together with what remained of his bodyguard in the same equipment. Things started falling into place as Squeeltwitch saw through his clever scheme. He, Squeeltwitch, was not responsible for the failure of his cunning scheme—Skribbit was! The Man-things and their allies had not randomly found his den: Skribbit had arranged to lead them into it. It was he who had fed his Skavenslaves drugged meat to sap their strength so they couldn't even overcome breeders, he who had bribed Skyre to charge on the wrong foes first and depower the Doom-flayer. Then it had been he who had let the mage and his allies' skitterleap out with Man-thing prisoners in tow, knowing it would humiliate Squeeltwitch and slow down the rise of Clan Recundus' inherit-earned ascendency.
Squeeltwitch swore right then and there that he would make his overreaching lieutenant Skribbit pay. Pay slow and painfully for his crimes against Skavendom, the Horned Rat and of course himself Squeeltwitch. Oh yes-yes!
Perhaps if his ire had not been solely fixated on his ambitious lieutenant, he might have been more observant of the rats around him. Particularly, he might have seen the slightest hint of a grin on his broodling-brother Snarltwitch's lips.
Finally to answer the Reviews on my last piece of work...
DasPeas thank you for the compliments!
Guest Review you are absolutely right on the nature of the Beastmen, however it is also true that a Beastman would have a warped viewpoint on what is natural and what is not. From their perspective centered around the Chaos Gods and their creations, he might indeed think he is natural and the Others (like the Wood Elves )are not!