They were endless. No matter how many hand gunner salvos pumped into them, no matter how many cannon balls carved into their ranks, the Beastmen kept coming. They were not Skaven of course; the Skaven were just a myth, feared only by idiots, drunks and rambling sewer patrolmen. Their foe let loose their own volley of firepower. Bullets pumped from strange guns shredded apart proud Empire state troops, crackling balls of arcane energy reduced cavalry blocks into little more than blood, gore and charred metal. The troops had never seen the primitive Beastmen use such weaponry, but they reasoned that the day Chaos made sense was the day the proud lands of Sigmar fell.
Their magic was even worse. Strange, ram horned, grey robed figures chittered and greatswords lit aflame, the elite of The Empire screaming as the fire licked away their flesh. Hideous, rotting figures, no doubt followers of Nurgle, raised their staffs and the skin of men flaked away, their muscles dripping from their bones. In combat the stern, disciplined state-troops had the edge over the Beastmen. The foul servants of Chaos had clumsy thrusts and frankly pathetic blocking. Yet they were numerous, so very numerous. All over the battlefield one would be cut down, before being swamped by at least five others, dragged down screaming to the floor. Rats the size of hounds scampered around the feet of the Empire army, led by Beastmen with whips and prods, forming a mass of teeth and claws beneath each army.
The rats were not the only foul creature the taskmasters led forth. Hulking masses of weapons, muscle and stiches were goaded forward by their strange devices, roaring, baying for the blood of man. A mixture of gunpowder and sharp steel eventually cut several down, but not before they ripped horses apart like they were nothing more than soaked parchment. One hulking figure of a taskmaster, with a third arm growing out from his side and a ravenous look in its eye, held a strange iron trapper in his hand. He trust it forward, caught an unfortunate boy, barely a man, in the weapon's jaws and split him in half, dropping his mutilated corpse to the ground with a release of his corpulent finger. He cast his gaze around, snapping his whip at a mass of hulking beasts. They roared, then stomped towards the men, teeth sharp enough to bite through steel visible to the quaking soldiery. Still they held firm, refusing to give their lands to Chaos.
Then a sound came. A dreadful sound. A sound worse than the chittering of their foe, the screams of their dying comrades, the roars of their beasts. It was the tolling of a bell. It was slow at first and distant. But it got louder, echoing not only in the ears of the state troops, but their minds. They covered their ears and feel to the floor, their enemy shrieking with glee and cutting the up mercilessly while they were down. Those observant could see that the rings came from a giant bell atop a set of wooden scaffolding, strange iron marking welded into the frame. A large bestial figure drove a hammer into the bell's iron body, sending the sounds of hell itself across the battlefield
A robed beast-wizard stood atop the bell, staff raised towards the heavens, sending forth flame, thunder and smog to batter the ranks of Sigmar's realm with its chanting. A mass of Beastmen pushed the base of the hideous contraption, inching towards the lines of the Empire, murderous gleams in their eyes. Canons split across the middle, falling apart with a loud clanging sound. The Steam Tank- Dominance, let out a terrible scream, before exploding in a shower of metal plates and gore. Great holes were rent into the ground, sending countless men plummeting to the bowls of the earth.
Yet that wasn't even the worse part. With each toll the resolve and might of the Empire army slipped away as they screamed and fell to floor, doing anything they could to keep that sound away from their ears. Some even cut them off, the agony of such act heaven compared that hellish cacophony.
With each toll the Skaven grew more frenzied, surging forward with greater speed, ripping the throats out of men with their blood-soaked teeth and claws. A few tattered pockets of resistance remained, using faith and steel and gunpowder to show their enemies the might of the Empire. A stout warrior priest bellowed a prayer to Sigmar, then broke the skull of several armoured Beastmen with a single sweep of his warhamer.
But it wasn't enough and with time they were drowned in a sea of frenzied Beastmen, lighting and fire.