Bundeskanzleramt Berlin
The security cabinet was at it again and to say the frustration level was high was an understatement.
Uwe Junge, the secretary of defense, gave off the air of a man annoyed by being asked a question where the answer should be clear to all.
"I mean the gal is nice to look at and all that, but why should we? These slaves are not Germans, they are not even affiliated with the Reiksbund. Intervening on their behalf will gain us nothing but more refugees, something we have more than enough of, thank you very much."
Chancellor Markus Söder spoke with the slow voice usually used to convey meaning to those of limited mental capacity.
"Uwe, the question was not whether we should intervene, but if we are able to do so. Could you answer that question please and remember that there are no cameras in this room?"
"When I still served the Bundeswehr we told fresh Lieutenants out of answers to look at the map, it would provide them. So, if you'd look at the bloody map the answer will be equally bloody obvious. Naggaroth is too far away for us to intervene. Does that answer the question?"
The temperature in the room seemed to cool down a bit when the chancellor fixed Junge.
"I had your job for quite a while Uwe and while I did not have your elevated position in the armed forces I served too, as did most here in this room. I dimly remember that we had the Hag Graef Raid more than 10 years ago and tore the Spitzohren a new one. Given that the Bundeswehr has far better capabilities than then: Could we successfully intervene if this cabinet says so?"
The defense secretary was about to explode and then visibly calmed himself. "Ok Markus, if we need the long version: It comes down to two different issues: time and need.
Yes, we sent a task force to Hag Graef and it did well. But you will remember that the navy needed a year to put it together. And yes, we have far better equipment than before, we do not need to build an ersatz-carrier among other things. But the other side gets a vote too and both the Druchii and the DawiZharr have gained vastly better capabilities. It is not that we can send two Flensburg-class DEs there and ask Malekith nicely. We would have to assemble a task force including a substantial ashore element. That would take a while and I am very unwilling to risk service members' lives by doing it on a shoestring like the Hag Graef raid. I would not be too surprised if such a task force would sail in four to six months. And now let us be realistic: These are former slaves. They may or may not have some weapons, they will not have much training or leadership. They go against one of the best armies in this world which is not affiliated with the Reiksbund. They will not last.
Even when we assume that the slaves would hold out two months or three: We could only go with very limited forces, which would be at risk.
We have discussed what Earth called the Powell Doctrine in here and the General Staff and I do believe it provides good criteria on whether we should mount such an operation.
First, we have to make sure that our operation is backed by a large part of the public.
Second, we have to go in with overwhelming force to achieve our aims quickly and with minimal losses.
Thirdly, we need to have well-defined aims and an exit strategy when they are fulfilled.
Let's have a look at these, shall we? First off, we could certainly win the voters' approval for a mission to rescue slaves from the evil, evil Druchii. Unless we have the light forces that we can send there in a hurry massacred that is. Or we come too late because we try to muster a serious task force. Which takes care of the second: I can muster overwhelming forces, but only if I have the time. And slaves who are holding a rifle or a spear for the first time in their lives will not grant us that time.
Last, but not least: The aim of such an operation. Let us say we manage to send enough soldiers into Naggaroth to stare down the Witch King, then what?
Do we ask Malekith not to torture, bred, and kill his slaves, scouts honor promises only please? Do we push the whole kingdom of torturers over and start nation-building?
Or do we simply ferry half a million slaves to Germany and grant them asylum as we did with a few thousand after the Hag Graef raid? And I can tell you right away that the Kaiserlichen will not stand for another wave of refugees, not after Bretonnia."
"Shouldn't we open up the scope of such an operation? I have read the Trevayne presentation as most of us should have. The picture painted there is a bleak one. Shouldn't we do something about this and use the slaves' plight as a way to rouse support for such an operation?"
Christian Lindner was, by now, the old hand of the cabinet. His time in government had not diminished his cynicism any. His relationship to Uwe Junge was not the best, given that their respective parties jousted for the same voters. Which caused the secretary of defense to go for it hammer and tongs.
"Are you really sure you know what you are talking about? We are looking at taking on two of the more capable armies on this world very, very far away from home. If and when we do that we need to occupy a territory the size of the Old World. We have to reform beings which have murdered, tortured, and slaved away for millennia while taking care of countless slaves and improve everybody's lives. And the cherry on top of that shit cake is that we receive another long border with the Chaos Desert free of charge. We would need to station half a million solders over there for a long time to come. Of course, if we want to take it easy, we could actually ally ourselves with Malekith, the bleeding Witch King himself. Will give us bases, boots on the ground, intel, and occupying forces. I just have a hard time dreaming up a worse asshole than this old torturer and our best chance of making this work would make him our ally ally. What was in that coffee Christian?"
Everybody was sitting back for the return barrage when the chancellor intervened.
"Sorry Christian, I see the same things that you do, I am not saying that you or this presentation was wrong. It is just more than we can do presently. Given that the Spitzohren and the Chaos Stumpies kill each other off, we should have some breathing space. And if push comes to shove, we can still tell the survivor that he should behave himself or else."
"The Chaos Dwarfs are about to win and soon Markus. Pretty soon after that, we can no longer threaten the Stumpies with cutting off their foodstuffs as they can raise them in Naggaroth."
Markus Söder's shoulders went into a shrug.
"I would not be too sure about that. First off, the BND asked the Celestial Order about Naggaroth's future. Their answers were pretty vague, something about a sundering, but there was no great threat in the futures they see. And the mercenaries Malekith hired will arrive soon. They could very well turn the tide of this war. They have done so for Cathay, I do not see why they should not repeat that feat."
"But they won't help those slaves."
"Nobody but God can help those slaves."
Quay, Kar Karond
The ship was an ugly box. Whoever had built it had priced utility and ease of production over nearly any other aspect. Several plates on the bow and between frames were dished in and a steady stream of water pumped overboard indicated that safety had been one of the secondary concerns. Its payload was currently unloading itself, an unending stream of DawiZharr warriors walked down the plank and formed up on the quay. Many of them had stumbled down the gangplank, most showed very pale skin coated with cold sweat. Obviously, they had not enjoyed the trip from the Dark Lands. That should have lifted Theros Fatewaver's spirits, but the need to hide any elation from his masters and sheer exhaustion prevented even this simple pleasure.
He was the last true Elf in the chain gang that waited for their turn, all the others were humans and a Dawi. They did not harm him too much, but that his place was very low on the totem pole was very well established. They all had to work hard at loading and unloading the unending procession of ships that came from whatever hell the DawiZharr called theirs. The invaders had enslaved any able being regarding neither rank nor race. Whoever could not perform to their standards was taken away and never seen again. Most Druchii males did not last long, many had been injured in Kar Karond's defense. Others could not accept their new station in life or their new comrades in misery made sure they died.
Theros had survived that long as he was afraid. Nobody had seen any true elven women and children since Kar Karond had been taken. Even most males were missing, and each rumor about what might happen to them was ugly. Theros would do anything to keep from learning the truth the hard way. And so, he pushed himself to haul any weight, he would eat the worst of food and endure the indignities his chain mates heaped on him.
"Must be a nasty sight, all these DawiZharrs coming to kick your oh-so-strong-and-noble elven asses. What goes around comes around I say."
That had been Brunin, the Dawi in their chain gang. If the rest of the gang would not have to haul the same load with or without Theros Brunin would have killed him a long time ago.
Be that as it may, he had to hide his face.
It was true that more DawiZharr warriors arrived every week. What was also true was that neither he nor his chain gang had to unload more ammunition or other supplies. To Theros Fateweaver that meant that a lot of DawiZharr died in Naggaroth.
The Druchii smiled when nobody could see his face.
Pi=3.147 Naggaroth
Malus Darkblade's world was dark, streaked with white. It was dark like this Khaineforsaken bit of Naggaroth was so far north that the sun never rose for months on end. And it was streaked with white as he was marching through a snowstorm. It tore at his uniform; it made the Cold One under him more aggressive and gusts crawled under his cold weather gear and felt like blades cutting his skin. There were already cases of frostbite, the first warriors who could not continue the march and had been abandoned. Others sweated and cursed while they helped to free the rails of snow so that the train that accompanied them could clear the rest. Malus Darkblade did not cuss the storm as he had asked for it. Lady Virrion, who headed the mages of his army had called on a storm that would cover the retreat and she had succeeded in spades.
And while this storm would kill his own warriors it would save many more. Let the Chaos Army hunker down under the storm and find him gone when it abated. They would probably take some time amusing themselves with the wounded of the rearguard he had left in the camp. Some might even succumb to the poisoned food he had left there, but he did not think it would be many. The army that had besieged him had been very low on ordinary beings and very large on denizens of the warp recently.
No matter, he would bring his army back to Naggaroth proper, he would end that slave revolt himself if he needed to and he….
At first, he did not know what stopped his thoughts dead in his track. When his brain parsed it, a cold shiver ran down his spine and his whole army tensed. Silence.
The storm's fury had abated within seconds, leaving only a stark, clear night. Morslieb and a breathtaking starfield illuminated the Druchii, the windswept plain, and the Chaos army that surrounded them.
Pi= 3,147
There is no word for coward in the Druchii language. The only words approximating that were always compounds with some of the lesser races. A coward would simply not survive childhood in Naggaroth.
Each and every solder in Malus Darkblade's army knew he or she would die. The army that surrounded them was vast, they had fought them often enough during the last several months. Then they had been on the other side of a wire belt and the true elven warriors had been protected by properly emplaced support weapons. Now they were caught in the open, in march formation and the enemy was already far too close. There was only one thing left for the true elves and that was killing as many enemies as possible. Their god was the god of murder and they would please him mightily.
A human general's heart would have swelled with pride when the warriors broke the marching columns of four abreast into lines of two each. Filled with despair at the approaching doom regardless of his soldier's skill, determination, and courage. Maybe crippled with self-doubt at having been cornered by an army of this size or perplexed by the question on how the enemy anticipated his plan.
Malus Darkblade was many things, human he was not. He was Druchii and so much more. His heart was filled with hate. Hate at the enemy who would kill him, hate at the Germans who failed to supply him, hate at his very warriors that would not be able to save him. And while his emotions raged in his chest an ice-cold mind looked for ways out. Preferably with parts of his army, but alone if needs be.
He saw many things. He saw the waves of Chaos Warriors, surging forward with the eagerness of soldiers who had been on the receiving end for too long. He saw the rapid fire his warriors poured into them at such close range. He saw so many shots, but no misses. He saw so many dead, but no end to the living enemies. He saw the baleful flickering light of the train-mounted machine guns and more death. He saw the arching trajectories of the first hand grenades that ripped Chaos Warriors apart. He did not see a single Druchii trying to flee. But try as he might, he did not see a way out for the most important being in his universe, himself.
He should take command. He should inspire his warriors and reinforce the steel in their spines. He should take the measure of the enemy and devise a stratagem to make them pay for every true elven warrior they ended.
He could not do any of these things. He was becoming something greater than the sum of his parts.
Pi= 3,147001
Barak ar Varbadaudassoda saw the fulfilment of all his wishes, the culmination of so much effort, death, and pain, the miracle that made it all worth the while.
For so long he had seen the enemy, but could not touch them. For so long barbed wire had kept his troops away from the dandelion eaters and their armaments had much better reach than his troops. He thought he had known hate before, such was the nature of the Chaos Desert. The war against the new Druchii had taught him better. Now he knew what hate was. It was a burning thing that ran through his veins and his heart. It gave power when he should be exhausted and endurance when he should have given up. It gave him a target, a focus, and the means. It also burned away caution and rational thought. Like fire, it was a good servant and a terrible master.
Serving all four gods had given him the strength to rein in his hate and be its master most of the time. Never had it been harder not to succumb to hate's siren call than now and yet he had to. Here was the one chance to best the damned Spitzohren, now was the time to capture the weapons that made them mighty and learn their lore. If he were to give in to hate, to storm forward and collect the blood the Druchii were due he would die. And that would be the end of this Chaos Crusade, that was not to be.
Barak watched the Daemonettes charge on their strange mounts. They were so few meters from their foes and so fast. They would rend their enemies with claws and sword, would feast on their flesh, and sate themselves on the corpses. They were also targets, brightly colored, high on their mounts, and unable to take any cover. Barak could hardly make them out from his vantage point, but the muzzle flashes were just too clear. There were the baleful, flickering lights of the fast shooters, and wherever they pointed warriors died. His education in the new form of warfare had been an expensive one, paid in blood, pain, and lives. It had shown him that these were the weapons that broke armies. A few of them could reduce regiments to companies in minutes if they were allowed to ply their trade.
Here there were few of them, they were close and there were only frail Druchii weapons between him and them. They would be silent soon enough. Till then they could expend their wrath on the strange warriors N'Dhama had enticed from the Chaos Desert's depths. And the strangers paid for every meter they closed with the enemy. Yes, the Druchii were so much closer this time, but that meant that they were not missing much. From where he stood, he could see each warrior shoot a dozen times a minute or more. And most of these shots hit something, as his warriors were packed so densely.
A mortal would not have heard the clinking of metal and the creaking of leather over the din of the battle. Barak ar Varbadaudassoda had not been merely mortal for a very long time. He knew that Sodalane was watching him and the battlefield at the same time. Sodalane, who had accompanied him on so many campaigns, one of the few both capable and loyal at the same time, a true gift from the gods.
A companion who understood the slight shake of Barak's head well enough. Both could see that the Daemonette's charge was about to hit the thin Druchii line. Both wished to use the moment, the moment when the elven formation would shatter and the glorious slaughter begin.
Only Barak had seen enough war, the old and the new to anticipate what would come next. Small objects sailed half-seen through the dark night, ending their short flights under the Daemonette's mounts. The objects might be hard to spot, the explosions that ended their existence were not. Throwing razor-sharp metal at the speed of sound they eviscerated the steeds and flayed the riders. The lucky ones died then and there; the others cursed every second they had to spend on this plane of existence.
"They have three or four of these things on them when they march, no more. Give N'dhama's favorites another go or two Sodalane. Then we can show the dandelion eaters what war is about, shall we?"
"Yes Lord."
Barak's closest followers thrived on war, had willingly given up any chance of salvation, many earthly pleasures and parts of their sanity to become the best at war. This new war had challenged them like never before. War had a tendency to weed out the weak, the slow, and the unlucky. Now it also killed those who could not wait for the right moment and remain in cover till then. Barak's army had always contained followers of all four gods. Those who followed Khorne were very thin on the ground these days. Those who were still behind the Chaos General had learned the worth of discretion and observed. The scene before them was certainly worth watching.
The Druchii had learned that not all their enemies would go down by hot lead and cold steel. They had adapted and their bullets now contained a bit of phosphorous which would burn inside their targets. That usually killed the victim with lots of pain, something the dandelion eaters enjoyed even more than Barak's people. The shots left glowing trails in the air and showed how many bullets were going out. They also indicated the ebb and flow of Chaos attacks, of warriors and demons surging forward and dying, of demons releasing their grasp on reality and those who fled when they were too few. Lines of explosions walked through the Chaos lines where the few mortars the Druchii could unlimber weighted in. Spirited assaults led by beautiful beings failed when machine guns were turned on them. Barak saw all that beauty, but he looked for something special. It took quite a bit of suffering and dying for the moment to appear, he watched for a few seconds more to make sure of it. More and more Druchii fumbled at their belts and packs, something was passed to them from the rear, but not enough. The elves had used up whatever made their rifles work and needed more of it. Now was the time.
Lifting his axe, he and the weapon shouted in unison: "For the Black Legion. For victory and glorious slaughter. Charge."
And charge they did. Like hounds slipping their leash, they charged as one towards those who had hurt them so much while being safe from revenge. This was the moment every one of Barak's warriors had dreamt about ever since the never-sufficiently damned Druchii started to fight with their new weapons and bury them under artificial avalanches. They were big, strong, and stout, far past the limits set on mere humans. Still, the speed of their charge was not all they wished for. They were clad in heavy armor and wielded weapons too heavy to be used by lesser warriors.
Their boots were not so much bigger than those worn by lesser warriors, their weight was very much so. Like his warriors Barak sunk into the top of his armored boots with every step he took. He certainly had enough power to do it again and again without stumbling, faltering, or exhaustion. He could not do it very fast though. And so, Barak ar Varbadaudassoda had all the time in the world to see the Druchii receiving boxes from their rear and opening them. Could see the dandelion eaters stuffing their pouches and reloaded their weapons. Watched as they shortened their line when some of them were overrun and massacred those who had killed a few Druchii.
He had the best view to be had when some elven asshole waved in his direction, and could see the barrels that turned towards all too well. The shots were hard to hear above the battle's din, but the muzzle flashes and the projectiles' glowing paths were easy enough to see. The first ones seemed to vanish into the night behind Barak, but soon enough he heard sounds like a hammer meeting iron. Some of these would waste themselves against armor. Some of them would burn otherworldly flesh and provide nothing but fuel to the hate, many of them would kill.
Barak ar Varbadaudassoda was as experienced a warrior as any he would name, fast, strong and good. All he could do was pull one boot from the snow after the other, lean forward like into a storm and hope. It did not matter how good he was or what rank he had. If a bullet decided it was his time that would be it. A life lived for a thousand years or more would be over without any chance of revenge. Oh, how Barak hated the new face of warfare.
Even when it seemed he was running at the same speed as his nightmares, fated to never reach his target, he was much closer now to the enemy. Every one of the last hundred steps had been paid for with the life of a warrior he had known for a century at least. Now that the hated elves were finally nearly close enough for his axe to feast he saw a barrel turned right at him. He saw it as clearly as he had seen anything in his long life. The gloved, slender fingers that turned and pulled the bolt, the shiny brass cartridge that tumbled into the red-colored snow, the face contorted by a hate equal to his own that disappeared behind the sights again. The muzzle blast blossomed directly in his face and he was too close to the Druchii to miss. There was a hammer blow, felt as much as heard, and a strangely muted pain in his side. The fastest of glances showed a glowing trace on his armor where the bullet had ricocheted off.
Barak ar Varbadaudassoda felt so alive as rarely during the last years. Fresh energy coursed through his limbs and he jumped nearly all the distance to his foe.
"The four gods are with us. Black company and no mercy." Left his lips and carried wide over the battlefield. And then he was between the elves.
The oh-so-slender Druchii turned fast and a bayonet searched for his helmet's eye slit. A minor movement made the blade meet steel instead of flesh. His axe descended in an arc that went through arm, shoulder and chest in one mighty go. Parts of the Druchii disappeared inside the hungry weapon while Barak stepped inside the thin Druchii line.
A fast shadow went through his field of vision in a moment barely perceived. Barak ignored it, there was a glorious revenge to be had.
