Brot aus Luft Chemical Plant, ZharrNaggrund

The overseer's office was a spartan affair, showing all the signs of fast construction on a budget. The only sign of the DawiZharr's high station was the light bulb that hung prominently from the ceiling. These were still rare and anybody who could afford them presented them proudly. Currently it illuminated the desk which was shared by the stocky overseer and a diminutive woman. The woman diligently examined the tubes before her, especially the insides. Finally, she placed the last of them on the surface before her and breathed a sigh of relief.

"Looks like the latest batch of chrome-nickel tubes do the job, there is no pitting that I can see."
"Yes, we did not have a single failure during the last weeks, not even when we increased pressure."
"Finally, we got it right. Lamagon, from now on nothing will stop the production. I do not care what it takes, there can be no stoppages. We cannot have enough fertilizer."
"I hear and I obey Frau Hartwig."

"Then we are in agreement."
"That we are. Kindly remember that we need additional storage if the use is not stepped up."
"I will see to it Lamagon. But I have been told that the fertilizer is much needed, there will hardly be a need for more storage."
"From your mouth to Lord Mordred's ear."

Martina Hartwig pushed her chair back and got up when she caught sight of the wicked whip at the overseer's hip for a moment and froze.

Her mind was back at the last "motivation session" with Jasla and Mordred. It was not so much the memory of the pain and humiliation that drew cold sweat to her brow. It was the realization of how close the session had come to shatter what went for her sanity these days. Under no circumstances would she allow herself to be in that position again.

"No stops in production, none. Lord Mordred wants us to reuse the fields once the last batch of his blessed flowers have cleansed the lands. The next harvest of them is to be the last and then we need to have all the fertilizer to make these fields grow food again. The German hands have been on our throats for too long."
"Yes Frau Hartwig, no stopping and full production. I promise no more failures."
"You better make good on that, for both our sakes."
"Yes."

Site Alpha, Kislev

"Will there be any problems with freezing this layer Valera?"
"I do not think so, the test batch went well enough. But tell me why there are so many wood splinters in there Jacub. The ice is not that slippery and we could lay down some walkways if needed."
"Yes, but planes cannot land on wooden walkways or we need too much planking to make that happen."
"Planes, like ones that brought you here?"
"Probably, maybe to bring people and provisions to this thing. It certainly will not fit many harbors. And those it would fit are not being the most welcoming ones."
"I once heard of this place of wonders, how did they call it Wilhelmshafen?"
"If Habakkuk were welcome in Wilhelmshafen we had no need to build it."

Train close to Neustadt, Naggaroth

The muscle had once been connected to a wrist, had given it the combination of power, speed and fine control that only the true elves possessed. Once.
Now it was the part of of a bundle that terminated in an ugly stump. The arm's owner had to cut off the hand himself. It had been hit by an arrow that had screamed with glee when it had hit. It had turned in the wound, had bitten and was about to remake it and its owner in its image. The cut had not been clean and the stump reflected that.

Now the left arm ended in a simple looking vambrace that ended in a finely crafted glove. Its owner had the muscle contract in a way that would have pulled his wrist up when it was still there. Now it pulled on a small lever and powerful springs propelled a blade from the vambrace. It was long enough to project past the glove, had a fine tip that would pierce any flesh and serrations to torment once it was inside.

Tevil Magestalker would have liked nothing better than a target for his weapon, a slave or better a Chaos Warrior who would last much longer. He had much frustration to work off and few occasions to do so. And his current mission was unlikely to offer such opportunities. "Fact finding" and "making sure Darkblade's requests were met" sounded far too much like being a spy and a messenger boy to Tevil Magestalker. He was an accomplished officer, having led one of the best new model Druchii regiments, beating his enemies time and time again. And now this insult was heaped upon his injury. He would have called Darkblade to a duel if he would not be so right.

He had smelled Neustadt a few minutes ago despite the best olfactory screen the train's engine might provide. There was the smell of burning iron, of alchemy the Germans swore not to be magic and the odor of fired coal that powered it all. The clear, cold sky was covered by a dirty veil of mundane making and the sun's pale light was diffused by the dirt in the air.

The train rounded another corner and Neustadt finally came into sight. Tevil Magestalker had been here before when his regiment drew their new weapons. The town had changed since then. Back then it had been plants and living quarters that dotted the landscape like chess pieces on a board. Now the industry had swallowed the valley whole, had transformed its bleak whiteness into a labyrinth of buildings, smokestacks, alleys and railroads. Thick smoke rose from many stacks, orange glow emitted from many edifices and small figures moved between them it as ants in a cathedral.

This was the place where the Druchii would be reborn as a major power on this world. Tevil did not know whether he liked the face of that rebirth or not, nobody would ever ask him.

When the train drew nearer to the station, he saw the lines of barbed wire, the low-roofed bunkers, the guard towers and the trenches. He nodded approvingly; this was the face of modern defenses on this remade world. Given the steep sides of the valley there was only one way into it and that was well fortified. Good, the Druchii needed to defend their sole hope to win the two-front war forced on them.

Druchii command post, close to Darklight Tower, Naggaroth

The watch's hand moved minutely and met the next mark. Human eyes would not have been able to perceive that, but Lord Silverhawk was no mere human and neither was his staff. All could easily see the hand that chopped down from chest height and had anticipated the movements. Runners left the tent, the clacking of a telegraph indicated how the order reached the farthest elements of Silverhawk's forces. While the recipients were still making sure that their orders complied with the plan they had rehashed more than a few times flashes lit the clouds over the Sea of Malice from below. And while pale, slender hands pushed teardrop-shaped projectiles into waiting muzzles death made it way tearing apart the air with the sound of an approaching freight train.

The first two rounds fired by the Claw of Domination tore deep craters into the innocent beach that bordered the DawiZharr beachhead. Lord Silverhawk watched their impacts and could just assume that the observers would correct the fire support. From where he stood the mortars his forces had brought into many a crater during the night were more impressive. Their crews were easily capable of dropping a dozen rounds onto their targets and currently they went through their ammo supply with frightening speed. The rounds met their counterparts fired by two Black Arks somewhere above the DawiZharr beachhead and dropped on the mass of bunkers and trenches dug by the Chaos Dwarfs during the last months. Some exploded when their timers told them to do so, lashing the ground with shrapnel. Others went off as soon as their fuses touched the ground, blasting their surroundings with shockwave and fragments. Still others buried themselves into whatever they hit, collapsing what spaces were around them.

The beachhead before Lord Silverhawk was shrouded by explosions, the ground below him shook with their power. It seemed inconceivable that something, anything could survive the artillery and yet experience had shown the Dread Lord that many did. Hiding in bunkers, trenches and foxholes they were spared by the fury. Clawing into the very ground that sheltered them they put their faces against the very earth and prayed that they would survive the hate. And by doing so they fulfilled the barrage's purpose. The Druchii would be happy for every DawiZharr killed by the hurricane bombardment. They did not count on it killing enough defenders, such was hardly possible.

Lord Silverhawk commanded all Druchii besieging the beachhead, two-thirds of Malekith's mightiest warships were placed under his command. Even he could not dictate the movement of the watch's hand and it took its time to move to its new position. Every second it failed to do so was punctuated by new explosions, by baleful, flickering light that lit the battlefield and by countless deaths. And while the mortars tried to kill and cower the defenders the mortars took their toll from the Druchii as well. Silverhawk could hardly see them, but black shadows crawled through blood and water drenched craters, inching ever closer to their foes while they were unable to shoot back.

Covered with mud, not daring to lift their eyes as not to give away their position and sometimes killed by their own artillery. They were the farthest thing that Lord Silverhawk could imagine from the proud warriors he had led just a dozen years ago. And still they displayed every bit as much courage, if not more than they had then, if one had the eye for it. No longer could they believe that they were better than their foes, that their skill would save them. That time would come, and soon. But now fickle fate decided who lived and who died. They had reached the high-water mark of many an assault, the dreaded wire which caught and cut. The explosions revealed the silver coils that held corpses here and there, it also revealed the all too few gaps that his true elves had cut during the first hours of the night. Oh, how the haughty assassins had disdained their task and how few had returned from it. Now these gaps drew his warriors like a deadly mistress, beckoning to an early death. Now the mortars shifted their fire deeper into the beachhead and now the shrill signals of the whistles signaled the beginning of the true bloodshed.

Nothing should have survived the storm of fire and iron he had unleashed, but some DawiZharr had managed to do just that and get their heads from the mud while his troops were still vulnerable in no-man's land. The flicker of rifle fire rose here and there, a couple of explosions showed where somebody was employing hand grenades. And then the worst thing that could have happened, happened. The bunker was low to the ground, barely distinguishable from the torn ground around it. At least one crater sat atop it and it did not like like any field work of note. Still the baleful flickering eye of no less than two machine guns illuminated the firing slits. The weapons covered two of the main breaches through the wire and pinned his warriors into the ground. If they were to stay there for any length of time more DawiZharr would find their wits, weapons and units again. Every second his troops were lying down in their craters would be paid for in lives and limbs later. Yet if his warriors were willing to pay that price now was a different matter. A dozen years ago he would have taken the lead himself, would have roused the true elves by example and threat. Now this would be an expensive folly and he had to trust his captains to follow the plan.

Salvation came in a form he would hardly have recognized a few years ago. Even with his binoculars and knowing where it might be employed, he could hardly make out the shadows that moved against a lesser darkness. A small team of warriors pushed a small contraption to the rim of a crater, something that looked like a toy cannon. A muzzle blast briefly lit the landscape before the gun rolled back into cover. At least one shadow slid alongside, no longer moving under his own power. The process repeated itself twice before a shell found the bunker and penetrated. A flash illuminated the firing slits for a second before it went dark. All along the line his Druchii rose from the ground like avenging spirits, leaving the small field gun behind that had shot them inside the DawiZharr beachhead.

Lord Silverhawk could not see the fighting, he just knew it to be the worst kind. Going through trenches and tunnels built by the very defenders his Druchii would have to take every bloody meter fighting. They would break up in small teams, made up from grenade throwers, shotgun users and rifleelfs. They would enter the DawiZharr lair itself and kill them. And they would do a lot of the dying themselves.

The next morning showed him how much he had been right about everything. He had lost nearly a third of his warriors, he had used nearly all of his modern munitions and he had thrown the enemy from one of the few footholds he had. As long as the Druchii could keep the DawiZharr from the Sea of Malice the true elves could rearm and ready for the next rounds of fighting.