THE NEMESIS CROWNHIGH ELVES VS CHAOS HORDES

THE WOLF BITES

Cerandar has retreated back to the main army of Tor Karandell, with a dire warning of the Black Wolf Templars, a newly arisen Chaos warband. With key captains slain in the previous battle, the mage has some serious explaining to do to his superior, Prince Elreth Aeraendar. That is, unless he can compensate their loss with a quick and merciless raid on the chaos troops' stronghold in the Howling Hills…

SCENARIO STATISTICS

Points:

1000

Participants:

Chaos Hordes

(Andy Bain)

High Elves

(Pat Quinnell)

Scenario:

Pitched Battle

Location:

Foothills of the Howling Hills, north of the River Talabec

Timeline: 2525 (Empire Calendar)

THE ARMIES

Chaos Hordes:

The Black Wolf Templars

General:

Vorak

High Elves:

The Warhost of Tor Karandell

General:

Cerandar

THE STORY SO FAR…

Cerandar and his contingent have been handed an inglorious defeat at the claws of the Black Wolf Templars. This resulted in the heavy losses of good troops, and, unfortunately for the Warhost of Tor Karandell, the deaths of key captains in the elven army. With Prince Elreth on a diplomatic mission to the nearby manor, seeking lodgings, Cerandar has decided to launch a raid on where he suspects the chaos warriors have a stronghold, in the foothills of the Howling Hills. If he can beat the enemy, and lay the decapitated bodies of the slain to rest properly, he may just retain some personal honour. However, if he suffers another defeat, Prince Elreth will not be pleased with the further loss of good, elven soldiers…

TURNS 1-6

Vorak watched through slitted eyes as the shining ranks of elf infantry advanced. Giving a wry smile, he slammed his visor and motioned deftly to his cavalry.

'So, the elves try again, eh? The injured wolf is most dangerous when cornered.' Kicking his monstrous, black steed, he galloped away down the wooded slopes. The thunder of the Black Wolf Templars followed, a trail of dust and earth rising behind them. There was the clink of chains and an ear-splitting roar as another spawn of the war god was unleashed. Thrashing its way forward, it wrenched trees from its path and down towards the prey. Lastly, the ever-present menace of the black armoured templar foot troops marched after their masters, eager to serve the Black Wolf.

The drums of war resounded from between the thickly forested hills. Here, in the foothills of the Howling Hills, Cerandar knew he was being watched, every moment. Once again the Black Wolf Templars were marching to war. There was no possible opportunity to ambush them, not in this terrain. If he was correct in his analysis, their stronghold sat atop one of the hills, surrounded by dense forest and dotted with sentry posts. Every possible angle had been covered. This warlord was indeed different, he thought. This was no war-mongering barbarian from the north. This man was acting with strategy, with tactics. This was a general, a man who knew how to play war, and had experience in the field. He wouldn't be surprised if that man had once served the Empire. Praying to his own gods, he hoped that this day his little grudge match would pay off. If it didn't, he would have to face Elreth alone.

Once again the spearelves faced the chaos infantry. The regiments clashed, spears against axes and hammers in the bloody heat of battle. The elves were brave, and courageous, but their steely discipline was no match for the anger and rage of the chaos warriors. Here the elves were, thinking they could despoil lands claimed by the Black Wolf Templars, threatening the base Lord Vorak had established. Within minutes the elves were thrown back, their retreat ending in a bloody slaughter as the templars hacked out with their gory weapons.

Not a single elf warrior was left alive.

On the other side of the battlefield, the second company of warriors, retainers of their lord and master, advanced towards the hated elves. Overhead a bolt the size of a man flew through the darkening skies. This time the Asur had brought a war machine with them, perhaps to cut through the heavy armour the Black Wolf Templars wore. But it glanced off many times, and soon the templars bore down upon the High Elf crew.

Needless to say, it was a short fight, and a brutal one. The crewmen fought valiantly but were simply slain, their blades useless against the infernal steel of the templars.

'Engage! For our lord Cerandar!' The silver helms crashed into the retainers like a white wave upon a blasted shore. The combat was thick and fast, horses entangled with fur cloaks and axes alike. Lances tore through men's bodies, but the servants of the Black Wolf stood firm. With their master galloping at breakneck speed through the woods, they knew it was their duty to hold their ground. Soon Vorak and the chaos cavalry would outflank the elf riders and destroy them.

'Who will face me?' Vorak roared, as the black knights poured from the forested hills. The silver helm captain, aware that his squadron was in danger, turned in the saddle to see a group of mounted knights charging towards his position. Daemonic-looking steeds with breath of fire churned the soil beneath their iron-shod hooves; templars of hell armed with flaming lances bellowed their war cries. In the templars' midst rode a giant warrior, a blood-weeping axe gripped in his gauntlet. Doom was upon them, but this was a chance for glory.

'I accept,' the captain replied, raising his silver-bladed sword in response. 'A duel!'

'Then come and die!'

As combat raged in the swirl of combatants, dark knight met noble captain.

Charging through the ranks of the fighting warriors, they sped forwards atop their diverse steeds like mounted gods, war cries on their lips. The nightmare beast and the angelic creature, both felt the elation of single combat, the surge of battle splendour.

The duel lasted a burst of sparks as elf and man clashed. Then the elf's head was separated from his shoulders with a splash of blood. Axe raised, Vorak roared his praise to the Black Wolf, and his fiendish mount reared up on hind legs. It was another victory to Chaos.

Cerandar cursed the gods. The winds of magic were not with him today, the followers of the Blood God, Lord of Skulls, for that was the true incarnation of the Black Wolf, had dissipated the magic he needed. Finally, he succeeded in battering aside the defences of Khorne. Unleashing a bolt of Khaine, he watched with satisfaction as an enemy warrior was engulfed in white flames. But his pleasure was short lived. All across the field his troops were dying.

Uryllion, apprentice and son of Cerandar, cast another Fury of Khaine spell against the loathsome retainers of the templars. He was having marginal success, perhaps more so than his father. He recognised the energies required to cast the High spells, grasped the incantations and was fast becoming a competent mage. But the anti-magic of Khorne was frustrating him. Yet he understood, for the High Magic was the most potent in the world. To let it succeed was to invite disaster for an enemy general. This Vorak was cunning. Suddenly a bestial roar burst through his thoughts, interrupting his spellcasting. A huge, muscled monster, rusting chains flailing from its hairy arms, smashed into way into the clearing through a copse of trees. His eyes wide with horror, Uryllion took flight, skirting the beast as it loped past. Truly the creatures of chaos were terrifying.

The field stank of blood, and death. As a red sun sank below the horizon, Cerandar shook his head in despair. From his perch in a tree, he watched as the piles of headless corpses grew. The skulls, mounted on stakes were being rammed into the ground, like a fence of the dead. Blood was pouring into huge clay urns, draining the bodies. It was terrible to behold.

Mountains of Skulls and Oceans of Blood, these are what Khorne demands.

Vorak and his elite cavalry sat atop their steeds, motionless, lording over the proceedings. Around the glade stood the silent ranks of the templar infantry and the retainers. Again the elves had lost the battle, and this time it was worse. Cerandar swallowed. He had taken a great risk, and it was a gamble he had lost. Prince Elreth would be angry. He would return to the Tor Karandell encampment to find half his army gone. And it would not be coming back. Cerandar considered exile. He could atone for his mistakes.

'Uryllion, come, we must fly. If they see us, we are surely dead.'

Hanging their heads in misery, the two surviving elves fled towards the river and life.

VENGEANCE LEADS TO DISHONOUR

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