"Look how they come to us! The stunted lizards! They begs us to destroy them!" Warlord Zholk waved his sword against the rapidly approaching dragons, like it was easy for him to just reach upward and pluck them from the sky. "Fire! Fire! Blast them from the sky! Let our pain become theirs!"
At his order, arcane machinery and gunpowder were unleashed. Matches were ignited, letting cannons roar. Cranks and levers were pulled, and the contraptions of the League howled and spat. Cannonall shots and arcane projectiles streaked the sky.
With a nimbleness that belied their size, the dragons dodged and weaved through the barrage, most of the shots failing to connect. The few that managed to reach them clashed against scales and arcane protection, exploding uselessly.
"Fire!" Shouted Zholk. "Keep firing!"
The barrage continued, and the dragons kept on coming. At the same time, all the artillery from both armies opened fire. Cannons and mortars thundered, while Eagle Bolt Throwers unleashed rains of darts. The Deepkin had the edge when it come to long-range fire, but now all the eyes were pointed over the Dragons.
As much as the headquarters troops of Zholk pounded them, they came forward relentlessly, weaving a path into the sky amidst the rain of projectiles, that, at best, could only slow them.
And this situation, where cannons were reloaded and fired by the frantic motions of soldiers, and the Mage Engineers kept the fire up while sweating in their fur, had been brought up by the ongoing discussion between Zholk and Imrik.
From the istant the battle had began, they had started to talk, to communicate. Through their deployements, their attitudes, their decisions.
Imrik wasn't a fool. He had seen that the headquarters of Zholk had been positioned in such an exposed way only to entince him to attack, and he had noticed as well the heavy concentration of defence around it. It was a challenge, plain and simple, and one he just couldn't let pass him by.
Bu he wasn't a fool.
If he attacked in such a brazenly way, it was only in part for his own aggressive attitude. He had complete trust into the power of his aerial squad. The defence of scales was augmented by the enchantement of the Dragon Mage, as well as the bardings on the dragons. Dragon flame, weight, claw and fangs, and, in addition, elven magic. There was little in the world that could go toe-to-toe against such a might. And still, there was another weapon upon which Imrik put his trust.
Shock terror.
Hardened battle formations of soldiers, no matter their origins, wavered and escaped before the airborne assault of the dragons. How could it be different? They were lowly earthborn, fighting against lords of sky and flame. Such a contest could end only in a way, and that broke any morale, no matter how sturdy. Imrik had seen the most disciplinated phalanxes of the Dark Elves break under the pressure, even the fear of their superiors' lash fogotten before that overhelming might bearing down on them.
Imrik of Caledor wasn't a fool. He could be rash, imperious, arrogant, but he wasn't a fool.
His trust in the dragons was absolute, and he he was sure that he wasn't understimating the ratmen to think them unable to bear such a strain.
Zholk had raised his fist against him and said: "come to fight me. With all my might around me, i challenge you to a bloody duel." Underneath the layers of conceit and disdain, Imrik couldn't but feel a grudging respect for that adversary. Yet, foolish. That gauntlet, he had picked up gladly., and now, boldly, as everything he did, he went to deliver his answer. "I come." It said. "You thought that what you could muster was enough, but it's not. I will destroy you with everything you have."
And it seemed that destiny was to prove him right.
The Deepkin of the headquarters were furious for the betrayal of the Elves, furious for the invasion that threatened their long-awaited Ur-Kot, but, most of all, they were furious for their Shaskar.
The loss of a Shaskar could be barely expressed into words amongst the Deepkin, and other races would struggle to understand it. It was an ache that went beyond the individual and was keenly felt by everyone involved. More than the loss of a revered figure, it was more akin to a physical pain, like something had bit off a chunk out of their own hearts. And it went even deeper, into the soul. Where before there had been light and hope, now there was an emptiness, and in that emptiness there was darkness, and in that darkness there were eyes, and the gnashing of teeth, and the peals of a bell. A seed of terror had lodged itself into their hearts, like they had been left alone in the dark, with something terrible stalking it.
At that pain and fear, they had replied with anger and thirst and longing. Bravely they fought, unleashing barrage after barrage. When the dragons came close, the Mage-engineers raised their paws and chittered incantations, throwing gouts of lava and red lightning into the sky. When they came closer still, guns and rifles and harpoon launchers were shot, relentlessly, again and again.
A dragon was wounded, but it didn't even slow him down. Like shadows of doom, they kept coming. Draconic flame was unleashed, and the Mage-Engineers struggled to contain it. Walls of fire and energy were raised to block most of the attack, but still some were caught. Engulfed, they hadn't the time to scream before the fire of the ages consumed them whole, leaving only charred bones.
Still, the Deepkin held their positions, unleashig their own defiance.
Another wound. Draconic scales flew into the air. Still the dragons came, roaring.
Eventually, that seed in the chests of the Deepkin, stubbornly contained by angry defiance, couldn't be kept at bay anymore. It blossomed into panic and terror and despair. The gunners's paws stilled, trembling convulsively over cannonballs and gunpowders. Rotating cranks stilled, arcane generators fizzled, sparks of energy remaining unused.
Only the Warlord, his Oathsworns and the Patriarchs maintaned the calm. The anger of the broken-horn ran deeper than their smaller cousins, their only reason of live to fight against the enemies of the Under-Kingdom. Not even the terror of the dragons could quench their fires. The Patriarchs', instead, was a cold thing, solid and unforgiving like the hearts of mountains. Death held no hold over them, no matter where it came from.
Zholk stood at the center of that maelstrom of budding panic and stubborn defiance. As a Warlord, that was where he was supposed to be. If the Shaskar was the soul, he was the head and the muscle. Upon his shoulders' fell the military leadership and logistical organization and, now, without the Shaskar, his job had just been made twice as hard. As much as he was able, he simply couldn't fill the void left by the priestess, none but a Shaskar could fill a Shaskar's role.
So, he did the only thing he could.
Imrik wasn't surprised to see the ratmen leave their equipment and scatter. It was just what he expected after all. What it surprised him was that they seemed to disappear at astonishing speed, vanishing behind bushes and grass like the earth had opened up to swallow them. In a matter of istants, where the headquarters' troops were stationated, remained only the empty savannah.
With their prey gone, the dragons stopped their assault, starting to circle into the sky in mild confusion.
Imrik gave a quick look at the empy space, now littered with abandoned warmachines. He was divided between the surprise for the quickness of the scurrying away and the disdain for a general abandoning his troops so callously. The second quickly took supremacy. Well, he supposed that was to be expected from vermin.
His gaze moved upon the rest of the battlefield.
The bombardment was still on-going, both forces hammering at each other while mantaining their own positions. His troops were at disadvantage, he noticed with a frown. The ratmen held the superiority in numbers about artillery and their cannons blasted holes into the High Elves' lines, while the darts of the Bolt Throwers reaped a noticeably smaller toll.
Responding to a call from the Dragon Mage, he decided to issue new orders on the nobles riding on the other dragons. They would swoop over the ratmen's army and unleash a volley of flame and spells. That ought to rebalance the fight.
Still, his mind kept on returning on the so-quick scurrying away of what he had presumed to be the Skaven general, and, in particular, over the boltholes that his troops had used. They looked to have been dug already and, judging from how many and how well-positionated, they were…
A suspect wormed its way into his mind. Imrik was about to communicate it to his comrades, when a blast exploded from beneath. What it followed was something he was keenly accostumed to, and that it still managed to seize his heart every time he heard it: a dragonic roar of pain.
Imrik's instincts as a commander took over his own heart. He looked at the ground far beneath, seeing smoke rising from the savannah.
There was another blast, followed by a sound that made his bones rattle, and then another roar.
Bewildered, Imrik finally watched his squadron. Two dragons had been wounded. They wobbled in the air, letting out roars of distress and gouts of blood from horrendous gouges in their sides.
Imrik didn't have the time to repress his dismay. There was another blast, another ear-shattering sound and this time he clearly felt a projectile piercing the air at some distance from him, missing his dragon only because Minaithnir had the readiness to swirl aside.
Imrik found himself staring into his comrade's wide eye, seeing his own alarm reflected back at him. What new devilry was that? What weapon could unleash such high-powered projectiles?
Another blast exploded, and Calandrias' magic barriers flared a strained red as he and his dragon were engulfed by an angry explosion. Both emerged unscathed, but that was all that Imrik needed to see.
"Retreat! Retreat!" He called. The situation didn't give him time to chafe at the order, like he would have done normally. Now his dragons were in mortal dangers, and he had to save them. Nothing else mattered.
The squadron pivoted and flew away, trying to get away from whatever it was that was bombarding them with such ferocious accuracy. Calandrias' staff shone with silvery light as the Dragon Mage extended his protection over the two wounded dragons, that struggled to follow their brethren.
As they took flight, another projectile pierced through the sky. Imrik felt it pass him by, a vibration rattling through him, putting his teeth on edge.
Anger toward himself and toward those cowardly ratmen burned through him. It was clear that their preparations went deeper than he thought. That commander had challenged him to come forward, to fight in a duel, but in truth he had only put himself as a bait, wanting for him to push his dragons into an already built killing zone.
He had no idea what contraption could discharge such power, but, his pride burning fiercely, he understood to have been outplayed. He had understimated those vermin's craftiness, thought that their foolishness could have pushed them to some twisted sense of honor and then into open battle. And his comrades had paid for it. Even while he retreated, wracked by anger and guilt, Imrik swore that he would have his revenge.
A last shot streaked the clouds before the dragons managed to regain the sky above the elven formations.
The jeers and triumphant shouts of the Deepkin followed them, while the elves watched wide-eyed as their dragons allies, mighty kings of the sky, were forced back.
Ultra-coil pyro-cannon
The Leagues of the Mage-Engineers have produced wonders down the centuries, but when the Ur-Kot broke out, the Pyro-cannon stood as the cutting edge of their technology.
The weapon has the form of an enormous cannon attached to a wheeled metal chamber. Four great bellows are attached to the chamber, the energy necessary for their motion provided by four carriage-mounted pyro-batteries each.
The Pyro-cannon is extremely complex and extremely difficult to produce. The pyro-batteries alone are high-grade, precious technological marvels, the barrel can be built only using a special alloy made of minerals mined into the deep, and which mining is expensive and difficult. Great quantities for size of coal are needed to power it and it's a very temperamental technology. In fact, inside the iron chamber, warded magically, lays a furnace that countains a living flame harvested from the deep. The flame is a terrifically powerful, raging thing that has to be kept in perpetual slumber, lest it break out and ravage everything it finds. When the weapon is readied to fire, coal and magic is fed to the furnace, making the flame blaze back to life. The feeding has then to be continued to keep it in check. While the crew move the barrel in line with the target, the bellows are put in action, pumping air into the furnace, so that the flame is stoked even more. When the target is acquired, the bullet, usually made of enchanted alloy, is loaded into the barrel. It's only then that the furnace, kept under careful check until then, is stoked to anger, stopping both the feeding of fuel and air. The living flame inside will immediately explode into rage and the energy released will be channelled into the barrel, shooting out the bullet.
Bullets thrown in such a way acquire a tremendous speed and penetration force. There have been tests with consecutive fortress walls being pierced clean without the projectile even slowing down.
As it might be expected, to fire such a weapons is terribly dangerous, let alone time and resource-consuming. An entire Brootherood of mage has to be delegated only to keep the living flame in check at any moment, and this is a process that require the utmost concentration and effort. When the flame is angered, only by massive force of will can be subdued once again, with the ever-present risk of disaster. This slows down drammatically the shooting speed and even the rapidity with which the weapon can be relocated, since any movement require much attention to avoid that the entity inside awaken. Also, the stress caused by the blast is such that the barrel require often to be swapped.
All the investments in resources, ratpower, security and time generally relegate the Pyro-Cannon to static defence. The only reason Zholk managed such a success again the dragons was because the Land of Assassins was a warehouse already stocked full with war materiel, amongst them six of these monstrous weapons. The Warlord had them trasported from the Great Burrow as quick as possible and, disregarding any safety protocol, had them assembled and then fired one after the other. Considering what time constraints they have been forced to work under, almost all of the Mage-Engineers present during the firing consider a sheer miracle that the only problems were three of the six barrels melting under the stress. They were also all adamant that such a hurried deployement could not be repeated, even while having doubt if the weapons could be used again after that.
Shouts of alarm crossed their lines. The Skaven first line was starting to march forward. Their morale high, they were coming to seize the chance.
On the other side, the Elves had just seen their greatest champions just pushed back, and the bombardament had taken its toll upon them. Their morale wavered, but they were sons and daughters of Ulthuan and weren't going to give up ground without a hard contest.
Whispering prayers to their Gods, they met the Deepkin charge with closed ranks and lowered spears.
The two formations clashed fiercely against each other. Emboldened and thirsty for payback, the Deepkin pushed the Elves hard, their strong centre especially reaping a hard toll over their counterpart. The spearmen opposed a strong, disciplinated resistance, but their shields were smashed asunder by the savage assault of the Stormrats, mails and helms then crushed under flurries of angry blows. The Red Bands proved to be fearsome enemies as well, their own skill and discipline countering those of the elves.
On the flanks, things went better. The Silver Helms and Reavers countered with their superb training and skill the higher numbers of Warmolers and Runters. Especially the superior speed of their mounts helped them to keep an edge over their slower adversaries, allowing them to avoid being encircled. But even they managed only to keep the contest even, and not to tip it to their advantage.
Meanwhile, the Warmages not attached to the Headquarters duelled with the Ulthuan mages, both ignoring their own troops to counter the magic of each other. Even here, the power and skill of High Magic was kept at bay by the sheer numbers and stubborness of the Choirs.
For hours the battle went on, with the High Elves painfully managing to stem the angry tide of the Deepkin.
Then, with a terrible roar, mighty Minaithnir plowed into the fray. The ancient dragon smashed through the wedge of the Stormrats, crushing many Skaven under his bulk and savaging more with claws and fangs. Atop him stood Imrik of Caledor, his eyes blazing with terrible light as he wielded the Starlance with deadly effect. Many fell to him, pierced straight through like their armor was nothing but paper. Behind the deadly duo, the Dragon Mage Calandrias came atop his Moon Dragon Selenya. Calling to himself the elven mages, he formed a matrix of eldritch power, then unleashed it in terrible discharges of lightning. They had stood aside, attending to their dragons' wounds while waiting for the right moment to attack, but now they couldn't wait anymore.
Under the assault of the dragons, the offensive of the Deepkin center collapsed. They retreated frantically, barely managing to keep their formation as they did.
The elves made to surge forward, but the Shieldchiefs unleashed their stored spells, the fusillade of magical projectiles keeping them at bay. The dragons also didn't give chase, Imrik deciding to cut his losses after that Selenya had been grievously wounded by the spear of a burly Skaven and to avoid end as a target for the Skaven artillery. He had enough of dragon blood for that day.
Tired and ragged, the two armies retook their distance, returning to their starting positions.
The land where they had battled was filled with corpses. Two thousands Deepkin laid into the bloodied dust of the savannah alongside one thousand High Elves, the armors of the fallen rent and smashed. It had been a bloody day, and it had seen the Deepkin coming out decidedly on top. Their numbers allowed them to absorb their losses, while the Elves simply couldn't.
The Deepkin commanders decided that it was enough. They made sound the retreat, and their army retreated, before disappearing once again underground.
Battered and bloodied, the High Elves remained master of the battlefield, with only the dead and the dust as company.
Sea Helm Iryien watched grimly her soldiers perform the rites of the after-battle. Patrols stalked the battlefield, searching for the dead. The corpses were then gathered in an orderly fashion in a pre-arranged open space outside camp. There, armors were stripped, wounds closed or covered up and features arranged into something much more dignified that rictus of pain or terror. It was a sad, hushed endeavour, with the elves moving in measured movements and talking in whispers. Many had lost comrades and dear friends that day.
Iryien's expression was serious as she oversaw everything, but behind her cobalt eyes a tempest raged.
The number of the fallen dismayed her. At least one tenth of the army had been ripped apart in a single day. The enemies paid at least double that number, but what there was to be cheerful for? They had deployed so many soldiers that she doubted their numbers could be so much but dented by those losses. The elves on the other hand…
Iryien repressed a surge of anger. So many dead, and all for that stupid piece of land! If it fell to her, she would have reimbarked and fled back to Ulthuan right away. Yes, fled. Whatever stupid pride her superiors had in the renitence in uttering that word, it didn't find purchase over her. Uttering, let alone actually undertaking it. To the nobles of Caledor, it seemed that retreat was akin to death to Slaanesh. During the council after the battle, those that had tried to put the possibility forward had been promptly thrown out. Better to stay and die for this land forgotten by the gods, of course.
"It doesn't look good, Sea Helm."
Iryien gave to Sea Captain Ferrien a scowling glance. She didn't need her second's remarks right now.
"Our commander will decide how the situation looks, Sea Captain." She said stiffly. "Look to your task."
Too disciplinated to reply, Ferrien only bowed and went back to work.
Watching him go, Iryen regretted her sharp words, but what else she could do? Imrik had eyes and ears everywhere and didn't take well to those that doubted. Her precedent superior, Terillian, could well vouch for that.
Iryien's scowl deepened. She knew what the soldiers said. Them of Cothique and Eataine weren't forced to obey those of Caledor, but in truth the situation was much more complicated than that. Imrik was part of the war council of King Finubar and his authority reached long, intertwining in a thousand ways with the other Realms. Elven sages could have passed months arguing where and when the Caledor King could exercise his command, and surely such a discussion went over a Sea Helm of her rank. The only thing she could do was to obey.
And that worried her deeply.
She watched the corpse-strewn battlefield, where her soldiers moved corpses around for the gathering. They were meticulous, making sure to pick up any personal object. They were to be shipped back to Ulthuan and then consigned to the families of the fallen.
Iryien pressed her lips into a thin line. How many would have to cry for a son, a daughter, a husband, fallen into a far-away land, with only a memento to remember them?
There was nothing to gain from those gloomy places, so she moved her thoughts away from it.
Her soldiers touched the Skaven only to extricate their fallen. For the rest, they took care to not even brush against them, like the corpses could suddenly jump back and go for their throats any moment.
Iryien would have wanted to be different, but found that she couldn't.
Those Skaven… they scared her.
She had heard tales of the ratmen, of course. Evil beastmen, coming forward into hunger-maddened swarms to reap and tear and gorge, uncaring of any loss, while from behind gree-glowing contraptions unleashed hell upon friends and foes, uncaring of what they hit.
Well, these Skaven weren't like that.
They came forward into disciplinated formations, their weapons aimed true and were deadly enough to scare away dragons.
Iryien repressed a shudder at the thought. Morale between the soldiery wasn't good after that, and she couldn't blame her. And still, it wasn't what concerned her the most. Those Skaven… she hadn't felt hunger or desperation or madness from them.
She had felt anger. Terrible, all-consuming, devouring anger. She had felt it like the scalding air coming out from a forge. They were angry, terribly so, and all that anger was directed at them. And they chanted, she could still hear that terrible chant, that name repeated again and again, hitting deeply inside of her each time it was uttered. They called the name of the one they had killed - she stopped herself short from thinking assassinated - in the city.
She had met that ratman, together with Terillian, and from her, in her words, in her eyes… she was scared, terribly scared that they were making a mistake, one that went over the simple overstimating themselves and clinging to stubborn pride. She…
"Sea Helm? Are you okay?"
Iryien returned from her thoughts with a start. Since when her second had been calling her?
With dismay, she noticed that a few eyes were directed at her also. She must have been daydreaming a little too much.
She swallowed, noticing only then that she was sweating cold.
"Yes… yes, i am okay, Captain. I was just… thinking."
The Sea Captain nodded, but his eyes told another story. With a jolt of dread, Iryien noticed comprehension, and a fear that reflected her own. The same she saw on the few eyes that watched her.
But then, everyone returned to work, and the moment was gone.
Iryien remained to watch the sun dip into the sea, hoping against hope that their own light wasn't fading as well.
Caledor's decision to stand and fight wasn't met with approvation by the non-Caledorian part of the army, both them and his own soldiers having their morale brought low by their losses and by seeing the dragons pushed back; but he was a commander that knew how to have his way and the high-command was all composed by like-minded Caledor nobles anyway.
So, the Elves prepared themselves to make battle once again the day after. They gathered and burned their dead, a somber affair that did nothing to better their morale. Their main encampment was further fortified, with a ditch dug around it, stakes driven into the ground and the palisade made higher and stronger. The Elves didn't try to man the entrance of the peninsula, lacking the numbers to do so, but set a strong network of scouts to pick night attacks.
All set, they retired to their tents and to an agitated sleep, their dreams troubled.
While the pires burned into the night, keen-eyed scouts and mages kept control over the sorrounding countryside. Their surveillance was to prove itself a very good thing.
Despite the tiredness, Elves sleep lightly and with their armors on, and so when the clarions sounded the alarm, they were quick to take up arms once again. Disciplinately, they streamed out of their tents and gathered under the command of their officers, ready for orders.
Anur
In Deepkin society, one of the few crimes considered more grievious than killing one's own parents and children is the killing of a Shaskar. Shaskars carry within themselves a light that touches any Skaven soul not enslaved to the Horned Rat, a purity that defy words and that the Deepkin consider to be a shard of the Goddess. To kill such holy prophets means to become an enemy of all Deepkin and to be awarded the title of Anur, a word that can roughly be translated with "Killer of Light" or "Blasphemer".
No Deepkin will ever give hospitality to an Anur, nor assistance of any kind. The only thing that an Anur can hope to receive from him is hatred and anger.
If possible, the Anur will be hunted down and killed. Their body will be then vivisected and all the parts will receive a particular destiny. The hands and heart, for example, will be burned and the ashes scattered to the wind. The eyes, mouth, nose and ears will be stuffed full with excrements and buried in not consecrated land, the bones will be broken and the pieces used to adorn the tomb of the killed Shaskar. The list continues on meticulously. Should the culprit be beyond the reach of Deepkin justice, he or she will be banned forever from all lands subjected to the Under-Kingdom on pain of death. All of this has always been enforced as law by the Under-Kings that have succeded along the centuries, but it has never needed to be actually enforced, as any Deepkin will gladly proceed in the prescribed way against any recognized Anur.
A famous case of Anur happened under the regency of Under-King Iriucus, when a young Deepkin killed a Shaskar by accident. The culprit submitted willingly to the process and then killed himself inside his cell, by breaking his head against the walls.
The names of those that commit Shaskar killing are kept upon scrolls prepared only for such use. These unhallowed scrolls bear sigils of shame and condemnation and the names that they contain are then registered into a master scroll kept into Haven into the Hall of Blasphemy. Only when the culprit has known its punishment or, in exceptional cases, has somehow atoned for their crime, their name will be crossed over, but not removed.
The name of Imrik was written on one of the scrolls by the paw of Zholk himself and there's no doubt about what destiny the Dragon King would incur if he happened to be caught by the Deepkin.
Such it's the hatred and vengeance that the Deepkin reserve to those that wound their precious light.
The scouts had spotted three strong contingents of Skaven, numbering in the hundreds, making their way across the savannah in loose formations. They looked to be directed toward the ruins of the forts.
Amidst his warcouncil, Imrik thought the news over.
After the battle of the day earlier, he had taken a new, wary respect for this enemy. These Skaven had proved themselves crafty enough to draw him in with a feint and anyone capable of mustering power enough to wound a dragon in such a way was not to be underestimated. Upon these basis, it was clear that even this was only bait for another ambush.
On the other hand, he had passed a sleepless night, made restless by the guilt and the continuous visits to the wounded dragons and their riders. The reassurances by the healers that the dragons would heal in a matter of weeks did nothing to ease his burden, nor the companionship of Minaithnir. Only bloody vengeance would, he knew that.
And still, wounded pride aside, he had three dragons wounded and effectively out of the fight and an enemy out there that challenged him forward once again, maybe having ready weapons as much as powerful.
His instinct, as well as common sense, told him that such weapons couldn't be used easily, nor moved with speed. They would be known the world over otherwise.
And still, he couldn't risk it.
Even as his pride stung, he ordered that no soldier leave camp if not ordered otherwise. The irony was a painful one, since only the previou night it was the ratmen that had to hole up inside their camp, but nothing else could be done. Still, Imrik felt a flicker of satisfaction ordering the scouts to harass the ratmen as much as they could. They were ordered to keep the risks at a minimum, though. Providing information came before anything else.
Ilvac of Cothique, chief-explorer and commander of the scouts, was fiercely relieved by the orders. His sister had been captured and barbarously stripped of her beloved belongings. He was still replete with bewildered joy at having had the chance of seeing her again, he couldn't explain to himself why the ratmen hadn't just killed her, but had ended on settling over the insult. Probably the Skaven had wanted only to pour salt over the wound. Well, they were going to get what they deserved now.
The scouts, almost invisible between the grass of the savannah, stalked their quarry. Even they had acquired a healthy respect for their foes during the previous months and so kept a respectful distance.
The Skaven moved quickly, scampering on all four across the flat terrain. They carried no torches, the light of the moon apparently enough to light their way, but their armors rattled loudly, announcing their presence even before the sounds of their stomping.
Despite their chief's eagerness, the elves remained cautious. They had seen the ratmen scouts move in a much more stealthy way. This was a clear trap.
Some arrow was loosed, but few did more than whistle into the air or tunk into the dirt. The few ratmen wounded were just grabbed by their comrades, that carried them without slowing down.
Eventually, the three groups reached the ruins of the forts.
Under the elves' narrowed eyes, they started to rummage between the burned wood and fortifications. A strange hum reached keen elves' ears as strange contraptions were unearthed and reactivated. Still, they observed.
As the minutes and then hours passed, the Skaven went to patch up the fortifications. They dug a ditch, used axes and picks to break down the burned fortifications and erected new ones. There wasn't enough materiel to rebuild the fort, so they just heaped the ruins into low barricades.
Bewildered glances passed between the scouts. The Skaven were actually building patchwork fortifications with a bunch of broken and burned wood and nothing else. Even as they watched, new, smaller forts were taking shape. Yeah, they weren't nothing to be impressed at but they were always fortifications that could be used.
Imrik, that had been constantly uptaded, was concerned. Now that his dragons weren't as a secure asset as before, his battleplan hung over his cavalry. If completed, those forts could be a serious issue to it, acting as obstacles to his quick, hard-hitting units.
He was still pondering over this last piece of information, when another came, a garbed scout being hushed into his tent.
More Deepkin were arriving.
Mounted forces this time, thousands of ratmen mounted upon the same, strange rat-like creatures that had acted as cavalry during the battle. What was more, the banner of the Warlord was signalled amidst them.
That sent Imrik even deeper in thought. He cursed the fact that the ratmen could disappear underground and reapper whenever they wanted. It gave them the initiative, forcing him only to react, a role that he hated.
He forced those thoughts off, focusing on the matter on hand.
It was time to stop thinking about these monsters only as savages. It was clear that they had somewhat of a grasp of strategy. And it was clear that their commander was aggressive, incredibly so. Barely half a day had passed and he returned to challenge him to come and fight. Imrik had to push back the irritation at a stray thought: that Skaven warlord followed a style close to his own.
But enough of that, what to do now?
He could do two things from his perspective. He could take the prudent way, hole up in his camp and allow the Skaven whatever they wanted to do, or he could take the bait and go on the offensive. If he allowed them to do what they wanted, it wasn't unclear how far they could go. Maybe they would move those weapons forward, and he would have to concern himself with them during the battle of tomorrow, as well as those forts. He hadn't much faith in the soldiers of Eatain of Cothique. They were brave but foolish. On the other hand, if he went to the offensive, he would maybe have a shot at the Warlord himself and cut the head of the snake here and there.
It was a gambit, of course. Nothing told him that those weapons moved under the constraints he supposed they were, even if he felt he could make a pretty good case in favor of it. Also, he felt to a visceral level that the Warlord would be there and his instinct rarely left him down when it spoke to him like that. Finally, that warlord was challenging just to charge forward and would be ready to welcome him, but the rewards…
In that moment of decision, Imrik showed himself once again for what he was. Arrogant, driven, aggressive, confident, with the instict of a dragon and the courage of a white lion. Many could have called those mix of traits overbearing or reckless, but that was what he was, and what he was had made him one of the most succesfull generals of his generation.
So, he decided.
And the High Elves moved out, toward danger and uncertainty, with courage in their hearts, charging once again in the mouth of the beast.
The Deepkin were waiting for them.
Atop his mount Rock, Zholk surveilled his soldiers deploy across the savannah.
He was fiercely satisfied by how disciplinately they wheeled into position, forming into wedges. As soon as the elves scum came into sight, if they came, they were about to be for an ugly ride.
Anger and hatred returned quickly, and he gritted his teeth. It was like this from when the Shaskar had been killed. It was like someone opened a hole in his gut and that hole periodically tried to fill with sevage water. It was unpleasant, but he embraced the sensations. They kept him sharp and ready. But not all his soldiers would, and a reason of his satisfaction was seeing them move like nothing had changed, like that damned hole didn't exist.
Oh, but it existed, and the elves would feel it.
"They come! They are coming!" Zholk turned, seeing a Runter galopping in his direction.
"Do they have dragons?" He asked when the scout stopped his mount before him.
"No, Warlord." The scout replied, both him and the Moler panting. "They come on horseback. All of their knights if i reckon right."
Zholk kept a straight face, but inside he felt fierce joy rising.
"It looks like your bluff has worked." Grok laughed, goading his mount to the Warlord's side.
Zholk grunted. "Better like this. I never thrusted League grinders."
"Well, they did their job, haven't they now?" Grok scratched his ear, smile on his muzzle as he adjusted his shield's straps.
"Bah! Not even a dragon killed! You call that work?"
"Ah!"
Zholk didn't regret the Pyro-cannons not killing any dragons - the eggheads had said that it was already much that they hadn't blown up -. Pushing them back and wounding them had been enough. Still, he would have loved to have some of those contraptions working right now. He bet that seeing those prancing elven being blasted to bits would have been a lovely show. But three had melted like cakes over the fire and the Mage-Engineers refused to move the other three, saying that the flames inside were in risk of breaking out or some nonsense. That was why he hated fancy technology. In a sword, you could always trust. It didn't risk to blow up in your face if you swung it too much.
Still, even out of commission, those weapons had done their jobs once again,, meaning to put the fear of the Goddess in those blasphemers and now push them to come out and fight without being tailed by those flying lizards. If a dragon came out, he would have to call the retreat, but like this, like this they could fight at their heart's content.
Zholk barked some orders, putting his officers on movement. Those that needed to reach their units, spurred their mounts, gallopping away.
"So, we're doing this, uh?" Grok said.
Zholk nodded. "We're ending it, now."
The Shieldchief laughed. "I like this. Knight versus knight. It feels romantic."
"Bah! Romantic!" Zholk sputtered. "Away to the front line with you, and bring your romantic with you!"
Grok laughed, and spurned his mount. He gallopped away, still laughing, attracting many eyes.
Zholk watched him go. Old Grok. He probably was the only one that wasn't affected as deeply as the rest of them. He just was so strong.
His expression darkened. Romantic? No, never. War wasn't romantic. Maybe giving quarter? Before, they would. They would speak to prisoners, let them go with letters, give hostages, allow for parley, search for understanding, hope for peace. Not anymore. Now, there was only a thirst that only blood could quench. He felt it in his throat and saw it in his soldiers' eyes. They would kill the elves, all of them, with no mercy, until their fur was red and their noses were clogged with the stink of guts.
Romantic? Maybe he would have thought the same, before, joked about it. Now, he could only think how good it would feel to tighten his fingers around Imrik's neck.
The moon was full that night, its light more than enough both for elven and Skaven sight to see just as well if the sun was up.
It was Imrik this time to choose the battlefield. He had a plain, north of the Skaven position, controlled inch by inch by his scouts and, once it was sure that no trickery was in place, had his cavarly deployed in an orderly fashion.
The Elven knights made for a marvelous sight under the light of the moon. Their ithilmar armors shone with silvery brightness, making look like each of them, knight and mount, was enveloped into light, like it was the stars themselves that formed up upon that plain, come down from the firmament to make battle.
With their deployment done, the elves waited. Not a sound passed through their lines, only the breaths of elves and horses.
First, they heard the vibrations, passing through the earth and to them, making the harnesses tinkle. Then, it came the rumbling. Deep, foreboding, like a storm was approaching. And then, the Deepkin were in sight.
Thousands of them, rank after rank of ratmen atop their strange mounts, a sea of metal and muscle. The mounts were bulky, not even half of the grace of Elven steeds, but they were strong, and their fangs and claws bit deep, as the long weapons of their riders did. A great cloud of dust come after them, like they truly were a stormcloud.
The elves saw, but heard no battlecry no angry chittering. There was only the silence that promised death and that terrible tang into the air, like blood poured over a blade, that terrible wrath. In that moment, many doubted, but none dared to move.
With discipline, the Deepkin deployed. They mirrored the elven formation. A strong center, formed by their heaviest units, with the light cavalry at both sides and two reserve formations behind. No trick this time. It would be a ferocious battle, fist against fist, to the death.
Imrik gave a brief speech, urging his soldiers to stand fast against the enemies of Ulthuan, those that would dare to rob the children of Asuryan of their rightful possessions. He appealed to identity, to nation, to the dreams of empire renewed. He spoke well, covering the ashes of doubt with the flames of determination and pride.
Zholk gave no speech. He had a rider parade before his line with the banner with the name of Zzkrit, all his soldiers bowing to it.
Clarion calls were sounded and each army launched its warcry. The elves shouted, clanking their weapons together, calling for their Gods to give them strenght. The Deepkin let loose a terrible chittering, that single word being repeated over and over again, a prayer of vengeance and hatred.
Orders were launched. The armies set into march.
They started slowly, their mounts setting into a simple pace.
There was no hesitation now, just the shared breathing of horse and knight, Moler and ratman. A tension, settling just in the pit of the stomach. Settled jaws and frowned eyes as one took in the line before himself.
Both formation moved quicker, their steads' pace rising to a trot.
Where before there was only tension, now there was energy, building up, the knowledge of the strenght of one's hand, the solidity of the weapon tightly gripped. It rose, like the air was charging with electricity. It rose.
The trot became quicker, almost a gallop.
Dusts rose and it seemed like the two formations were like thunderclouds, moving against each other. The energy was a crescendo now, a torrent of power raging through muscles, knight and mount alike. It set teeth on edge, sent emotions to a peak. Terror mixed with exaltation, anger with fear. Each front could see the other, and each shuddered at the wall of steel that came thundering against it, at the might that coursed through its veins.
Lances were lowered. Each formation was thunder made manifest now, the wrath of the gods, making the earth tremble. Ratmen and elves, horse and Moler, they shouted and screamed and raged and cursed at each other. And closer, ever closer.
And then, for a moment, everything seemed to stop.
Under helmets, faces could be seen now, expressions made out, pennants and blazons distinguished. Each knight chose his target and held his breath. Silent prayers flew to the Gods.
For a moment, it was like one of those painting depicting glorious war, with the enemies about to clash, their expressions rictus of determination, anger and hatred.
Then the world retook its spinning, and elves and Deepkin met.
The two formations clashed with a deafening sound, enough to drown out the thunder. Mounts and knights smashed against each other, mangled bodies flying into the air. Spears broke against shields, armors were rent, knights thrown out their saddles and trampled underfoot. Elven knights pierced armors straight through with their superb weapons, their lances reaching with pinpoint accuracy eyes and armpit and groins. Deepkin hammered at helms and limbs, breaking bones and smashing mail, their mounts trampling Ulthuani steeds and savaging and mangling them with tooth and claws.
Such was the impetus of the charge that the first lines found themselves mixed together. The Elves threw away broken lances and drew gleaming swords, while the Deepkin moved their longlaives from piercing to cutting.
Zholk's heart sang with fierce joy as left himself be swept into the maelstrom of battle. The air was thick with dust and blood as all around him his soldiers battled the cursed elves.
"Kill them all!" He howled, and the Deepkin around him picked up his warcry, making it echo again and again.
A knight came to him, expression tightened with hate as he thrust his lance forward. Zholk caught the blow on his shield, scoffing at its feebleness. The Warlord brought his longlaive in a wide curve, the heavy blade catching the elf right where shoulder and neck joined. He felt it cut through mail and flesh and bone with satisfaction, then he wrenched it out, a spurt of blood following.
"Pitiful point-ears!" He bellowed, bringing his weapon around again. He caught the staggering elf in the side of the head, smashing him down from his mount and between the dust, where he disappeared under hooves and claws.
Zholk let out a proud cry. Ah, how his blood sang! Sweet, sweet revenge at last! He could almost feel poor Zzkrit watching over him from the Goddess' side, her shade rejoicing to long-awaited retribution. Ah, it felt so sweet, that terrible hole filling with blood made into wine!
"More!" He howled. "More blood upon the tomb of the murdered!"
He barely had to spur Rock as his ferocious mount, sharing his rider's thirst for violence, carried him to another enemy.
The elf wore a magnificent suit of armor, glazed and polished and enamelled to the point of looking a thing divine rather than mortal, and his gaze was full of noble disdain.
Zholk charged him with a warcry just as the elf turned his steed to face him, a downed ratman behind him. The longlaive bit the air, meeting a shield with a loud clang. The elf was almost blown away by the brute force of the Warlord, but his mount reacted with superb intelligence and skill, moving like silk to slacken the momentum upon its rider.
A spear flashed and Zholk grunted at feeling it punch through his armor enough to graze his side, but he didn't waver. Instead, he grasped the haft of the weapon and twisted it out of his flesh and his owner's grasp.
He laughed at the elf's incredulous expression and, throwing the spear away, spurred Rock to attack. The mount reared up, grasping at the elf's stead with talons as big as shields. The horse whined, trying to escape, but the Warmoler leaned against him with his corpulent bulk, holding him fast. Unbalanced, the elf rider didn't react quick enough to the blow of Zholk. The longlaive caught him right on the head, smashing him down the saddle and sending him tumbling into the dirt with a crack of broken bones.
Rock forced the horse up and then, by sheer brawn, smashed him down, before crashing its head under his massive bulk.
A paw over his fallen victim, the Warmoler reared up and left out a chittering howl, echoed by his rider.
Bloodthirt barely slackened, his heart crying for more vengeance, Zholk turned his eyes upon the battle raging around him, searching for more victims.
The first clash saw the Elves take the worst of it. Their steeds were tough and quick, and their armors heavy and strong, but the Deepkin wore heavier protections and their Warmolers trumped elven horses when it came to weight and brute strenght. Many knights of Ulthuan were killed in the first moments of combat, riders and mounts cloven through with heavy blades or savaged with tooth and claw.
Only in the center, where the Dragon Princes led by Imrik were, the Ulthuani gave better proof of themselves, even Zholk's elite knights struggling to best the scions of Caledor.
Imrik himself was at the fore, his sword a blur as he hacked his way through the Deepkin. His eyes burned with the fires of anger and vengeance and none could stay before him.
As combat devolved into melee, the Elves' superior skills began to tell. Many Deepkin fell to lightning-fast thrusts or dizzling displays of swordplay, their guards and armors breached. But still the Children of the Goddess came, their angry chittering never abating. The center soon devolved into a hard-fought melee, with no clear victor in sight.
There was no strategy here, no quick thinking or manuevers. Both commanders had pointed all their cards over brute shock force and martial prowess, and had joined personally the fight to spur their troops to fight with brutal courage.
It was a thundering clash of weapon against weapon, skill against skill and endurance against endurance, with the two contenders smashing at each other with sheer abandon.
Different situation was on the flanks.
Here, the lighter-armored Reavers had found their match into the smaller Runters. The runts lacked the mass of their bigger cousins, but each of them carried not one but two riders. When the moment of melee came, the second riders jumped down from their mounts, attacking the elves by surprise with long lances. Caught between fighting two enemies at once, many Reaver were felled, brought down by spear and sword.
Dragon Mage Calandrias, on charge of the reserve, saw the flanks falter. Shouting quick orders, he divided his soldiers into two formations and sent them to steady the line, taking personal command of the first.
The Mage unleashed bolts of lighting from outstretched hand as he led the reinforcement into the fray, single-handedly blasting scores of Deepkin to pieces. Under his command, and with bolstered number and resolve, the Reavers on the right flank began to push back the formations of Runters, treatening to open a hole between the Deepkin left flank and center.
Zholk's Chiefs sent in the reserves, but even like that they only managed to slow down the elves' advance. The might of Calandrias, bolstered by the other elven mages with him, seemed to be unstoppable. The Mage-Engineers that tried to attack him had their gouts of flame and fireball smothered by blazing light, before white flame devoured them whole, leaving naught but smoking skeletons.
Steadily, the mage led his knights on, threatening to open a hole into Deepkin formation.
Grok felled another knight before quickly turning.
At some distance, the elven mage stood sorrounded by his coterie of warriors and acolytes, a halo of light crowning the group. As he watched, the mage flicked his fingers into a pattern and three bolts of light shoot forward, roasting the dozen of Deepkin trying to push their way to him. More came to replace them, but the elves formed a ring around their master, protecting him even as they kept on advancing.
Grok pulled the reins of his Runter with a grunt, spurning the mount to charge toward that direction.
A Reaver barred his way, long sword ready to strike. Grok smashed him out of the way with a blow from his spear's shaft, barely slowing down.
Keen eyes spotted him coming, and some knights of the mage formation turned to face his charge.
Grok smashed a spear out of the way and took another clanking against his shield, and pressed on. He pushed his spear forward, feeling it sink through Ithilmar barding as it was butter and then through meat. A knight fell and disappeared, his mount giving out beneath him with a hole through its head. Another replaced him, sword flashing quickly.
Grok fended off the assault with the bulwark of his shield while keeping the other knight lance at bay with his own. Something flashed in his peripheral vision and he drew back out of instict. The lance that would have impaled his eye clanged instead against his helm, snatching it away from his head.
He felt the hot air directly on his fur, blood and pain licking a side of his head as the world went hazy for a moment. A lance smashed against his shield, something clanged against the side of his armour.
Grok gave himself a good shake, and the world returned into focus. Laughter bubbled at the back of his throat and he let it roar to the heavens.
One of the elven knight hesitated, but the other two didn't. Sword and lance came from both sides, quick as lighiting and just as flashy. Grok parried one and the other and then reposted, quick as a snake. Rageshutter met a knight's chin, punching through armor and bones and emerging from the other side. His shield found a helmeted head, and the elf went limp and disappeared into the dust beneath.
The third knight blinked, but Grok was already on him. His expression was just changing when Rageshutter punched through his chest.
Grok threw the corpse away, freeing his spear and charging forward into the encirclement's hole.
The mage had his eyes on him now. He was chanting, arcane light soffusing his dancing fingers and giving his cold expression an alabaster luster.
Grok knew that he wouldn't reach him in time. Grinning wildly, he lifted his shield and intoned a single word. The runes branded over its surface flared with wrathful light, just as the mage brought his hands toward him, a mighty curse leaving his lips.
A forked lightning shot forward, smashing straight against Grok's shield.
He felt agony surge through his arm, tongues of fire greedily lapping at his flesh and crackling drowning his ears, but he didn't budge. Grinning wider, he pushed forward. The lightning opposed him, but he was stronger and would not be denied.
Across the lightning's roar, he heard the mage's shout and felt the force opposing him surge. Grok saw the world disappear into blinding light, felt his fur start to fizzle and his whiskers to curl as a tremendous heat sought to pierce his barrier.
He pushed on, again and again, clutching his spear enough to feel the shaft bend and smiling wide enough that his cheeks hurt.
He waded into flame and lightning, and then, he thrusted his spear forward, feeling bite flesh.
The lightning abated, and the heat disappeared. The world returned in a blurry of dark outlines, and Grok had the distinct impression of seeing a shape resembling the mage pulled back form his cohort, a shadowy hand pressed on the side of his neck, from where black blood flew freely.
Grok noticed this but had no time to make sure that it was so. Another shadow was upon him, and, laughing, he went to tussle with it.
The wound of Calandrias was such that the Dragon Mage had to retreat from the battlefield to seek immediate medical assistance. Without him, the wedge that the elves had driven between Deepkin side and center was first stopped and then pushed back, restabilishing the line of the ratmen.
On the other side, things were looking grim for the Ulthuani. Calandrias had brought with him the bulk of elven mages, hoping for a breakthrough, and now those same mages were embroidered into combat,unable to redeploy. The elves left side found itself undermanned and soon retreating under the pressure of Deepkin numbers.
The Sea Helms in command would have wanted to disengage, but in doing so they would have left the center, still in the middle of fierce battle, exposed. They were forced to stand and fight, taking growing casualties.
In the thick of the fighting, Imrik couldn't see the rapidly deteriorating situation. He had eyes only for the battle raging around him, searching for the banner of the Warlord even as he dispatched an opponent after the other.
Zholk was doing the same, the two commanders searching for each other in the thick of combat, savage anger burning in their chests.
When they met, there was only the istant of recognition and the two charged at each other, their weapons meeting with crushing anger.
Imrik called Zholk a shedder of dragon blood, Zholk called Imrik a murderer and betrayer. They clashed in a maelstrom of angry blows and spouted curses, their mounts dancing around each other beneath them.
Zholk howled the name of Zzkrit, calling vengeance upon her murderer; he told of the Deepkin, of their long-awaited vengeance, of their seeking salvation and how they would have seek for peace with the Elves while now they would have only their blood. Imrik closed his heart to it, still hearing in his ears the roar of pain of his beloved dragons, the death-screams of his soldiers.
As they fought, Rock closed his mouth around the neck of Imrik's mount, holding the struggling horse fast. Imrik was unbalanced and had to grasp at the reins to not fall form the saddle. He parried a blow from Zholk with his shield, then another caught him on the cheek, sending as purt of blood into the air. He wavered as the Warlord brought his weapon around and for a moment it seemed like the Dragon King would meet his end there.
But in him the rich blood of dragons flew thick and Imrik surged forward with a shout of defiance. The slash seeking for his head was deflected aside and his sword flashed forward, impossibly quick, piercing Zholk's defence and then his gorget.
The Warlord fell from his mount and tumbled into the dust, defeated.
Imrik took a moment to regain his breath. He could feel blood rushing in his ears. For a moment, death had come really close to him, enought hat he had felt its dread talons threatening to reach his neck.
A choked sound reached him, and he turned to the skaven on the ground.
The Warlord was holding his neck, blood staining his fingers. He was bloodied and battered, his armor stained with dust and blood, but the hatred in his eyes was undiminished.
Imrik was surprised of seeing him still alive, but quickly reined his emotions in.
"Curse… you…" The Skaven said, his voice barely a choked whisper. "Mur… derer…"
Imrik watched him, unpassive but for the panting of exertion. He spied a spear jutting from the ground at some distance, and spurred his mount to it. He wouldn't get down from horse to finish this monster.
The Warlord pawed at his weapon as he returned, fingers too weak to grab hold of it. At some distace, his mount struggled uselessly to get back on its feet.
"Zz…krit…" The Warlord said as Imrik towered over him, lance raised to strike. Imrik hesitated, remembering the words of the skaven he had killed in the city. "I ha…ve… failed…. you…"
The Warlord squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing with pain and wrath even as he accepted his defeat.
Imrik hesitated, anger wavering for a moment, but then he steeled himself.
Just then, a shout sounded.
Imrik felt the air move. He whirled around, just in time to smash a javelin aside.
Another ratman was galopping toward him, his mount much smaller than the monster of the warlord.
Imrik snarled and spurred his mount to meet him.
As they met, he had the vision of a heavy-set, robust ratman in an ornated armor. He wore no helmet and his head was half-covered with blood. Imrik caught his thrust with his shield, even while punching his own weapon in the mount's eye.
Turning his horse aside, he saw the ratman hurrying to his feet, his dying mount beside him, Imrik's lance jutting from its head. With a cry, he drew his sword and charged again.
The ratman didn't try to escape. He stood his ground, shield and spear held high.
Imrik felt doubt assail him again, but pushed it back with anger. His sword came down as he passed, catching the ratman shield and making him stumble. With a mighty shout, Imrik began to pivot around his opponent, making fall a rain of blows upon him.
"Weak beasts!" He screamed. "For your presumption to fight dragons, for your lies and your wickedness! Die! Die!"
His last blow came with all his anger and frustration behind it, so powerful that the ratman's shield cracked and splintered. A spear whistled, and Imrik drew back hurriedly, the weapon coming barely short of reaching his face.
He stopped, trying to still his breathing. Suddenly, the ratman made a strange sound. Astonished, Imrik realized that he was laughing.
"Still not getting, uh?" He said, amusement bubbling in his voice. One of his eyes had swelled, forcing him to holding it close. He was almost completely caked in blood, but his smile was strong and firm.
"We're just like you, fool." He said amidst laughter. "We love our dragons, we cherish them, we argue for them and you can be stay sure that we'll avenge them." He opened his arms wide, laughing loud and clear. "We love to fight and we love to live. We have our destiny to follow and our great fight to fight. We have our longings and our hopes. We are stupid, prideful, pissy, wuss, good, strong, loyal and goddammit you better not make us angry!" He laughed again. "Just like you elves! Just like you, brother! Come! If words don't have gotten to you until now, steell will!"
Imrik stood silent for a moment, wide-eyed. A storm battled in his head, that doubt, that horrible horrible doubt gnawing at his anger and determination.
Unable to bear it, he charged forward, shouting his conflict into the dust-soaked air of the battlefield.
The ratman threw away his spear and drew a hefty blackjack.
Imrik swung his sword at him, all his might in that single blow.
The ratman jumped.
Imrik saw him soar above his own swing, pivoting into the air to bring the blackjack into a rock-shattering blow that had all the strenght of his momentum. For a moment, he saw everything clearly. He saw the hulking muscles of the ratman, tensed like heavy ropes as they brought that blow home, he saw his own shield raise to intercept.
His shield was smashed to pieces under the impact, shards of metal and wood flying everywhere. Imrik felt his arm break, splinters jab at his face. Arcane energy rolled through his body, setting it aflame with agony. He screamed, tried to hold the reins, but the sky skidded away from him and the earth rushed to embrace him.
The last image he had before the impact was the ratman, landing amidst the corpses dotting the savannah. Sadness rushed inside of him. There were so many bodies. Elves and Skaven, all intertwined, made egual in the cold embrace of death, forever embraced, in peace.
Then, darkness took him.
When Imrik came back to, it was at the desperate urging of a elf. He watched that face etched with fear for a moment, blinking slowly as his mind tried to remember who and where he was. As memory returned, surprise blossomed. Why was he still alive?
Imrik wanted to ask, but found that all his body was coursed by pain and that he couldn't move a muscle.
The expression of the elf above turned to relief, and he turned to shout at someone outside of Imrik's camp of vision.
Imrik wondered why that soldier looked so relieved. He sure felt there wasn't nothing to be happy at. The world was simple that morning, with a clear enemy to destroy. Right now, it felt like it had become a lot more complicated.
After the fall of Imrik and Zholk, the fighting had changed dramatically. The elves, their morale already low to begin with, lost their will to fight and started to retreat. The Deepkin, thinking their Warlord dead, went into a killing frenzy, pressing on the retreating Ulthuani and killing many in the process, even as many Skaven died to their lances in the uncoordinated attack.
Eventually, the Warlord, gravely wouded but alive, showed himself to his troops and their terrible anger was replaced by relief, enough that the officers managed to regain control.
By that point, it was hours since the battle had began and both contenders were exhausted.
With tired eyes and aching limbs, Elves and Deepkin took in the corpse-strewn battlefield a last time, before retreating where they had come from. On the horizon, dawn was just starting to paint the sky.
The battle had been a slaughter. Both armies had lost at least half of their numbers, leaving a wide stretch of savannah a trampled ruin covered with corpses.
On both parties' arrival, they found their encampments into uproar. An unexplicable thing had happened. As soon as the first news of the battle had arrived, the scouts had been suddenly been unable to find the battlefield. Where it was supposed to be, a deep fog covered everything, and anyone that had tried to brave it depths had only returned from the point through which he had entered, even without having ever diverted from a straight path.
This had kept going for all night, with both forces completely unable to understand what was happening or how to reach their allies, no matter how many magical means were put into motion.
Now, delight and relief quickly turned to horror at seeing how few returned from the battle. Medical assistance was quickly given to the wounded and the soldiers, weary of battle, retired to rest.
Still, the question remained, along with deep-seated unease. What force had acted during that night? And why?
The air in the infirmary stank of a mix of unpleasant odors, but that wasn't the reason why Zholk couldn't concentrate on writing the damn report. Nor it was the pain still stabbing his neck, or the layers of bandages keeping him stuck on that cot from a week.
"Can you stop doing that?" He hissed, lowering the document he had been pouring about.
Grok watched him with a hint of puzzlement, still going on with his tremendous chewing. He even popped a couple more fried mushrooms in his maw, filling all the room with the sound of crunching.
Zholk caught himself from crumpling his work there and then just barely.
He tried to gaze a hole in his Shieldchief for a moment, hoping that the blockhead would finally get it, but Grok just kept watching.
Zholk sighed, letting all the tension vanish. Damn, he was sore.
The two remained engrossed into their own thoughts for a moment.
"How many?" Asked Grok, breaking the silence.
Zholk grimaced, passing a paw over his face. "Too many."
There was nothing else to say. Silence fell once again.
After a while, Zholk glanced at his Shieldchief, wondering why exactly he had come there. Grok was the type that did things with the regularity of a machine. Wake, training, breakfast, go visit the friends in the sickbay. He was precision incarnate, and that day he had already passed once. Zholk didn't think that he broke his prized regime only to hear things he already knew, even if with precise numbers.
He watched him, feeling discontent well inside his stomach. He decided that it depended from the fact that Grok had been fighting from the start of the battle right to the end, possibly single-handedly changing its result, and looked barely worse for wear. In fact, amidst the forest of scars covering his body, Zholk couldn't make out any new ones, apart from the bandage covering his head. That didn't feel right, like, at all.
He was about to ask, fed up with the silence, when Grok closed the bag of mushrooms he had been shoveling down.
"We got some prisoners." He said, turning his eyes straight on him.
Zholk barely suppressed the shudder. "Why the hell did you come all the way here only to tell me that?" He grumbled. "Just kill them and be done with it." He tried to sound firm, but couldn't meet his Shieldchief's gaze. There was a question there, an expectation, one that pinned him like a pitchfork.
On his peripheral, he watched him settle back on his chair, a thoughtful expression settling on his face.
"How many?"
Zholk jumped, and turned to look at Grok fully with a frown.
The Shieldchief didn't avert his gaze. "How many?" He repeated.
Grow narrowed his eyes. "Too many." He replied slowly, not understanding.
"But enough?"
Those two words him like a slap.
Wide-eyed, he made to jump at his feet, but his wounds gave a sharp cry and he crumpled back into the cot with a pained snarl.
For a moment, the two held each other gaze, the Warlord's full of hostility and anger, Grok's calm and collected.
Zholk hated it, with a visceral hatred that burned like acid. He wanted to rip those two eyes out of their sockets, wanted to run out that place, shouting that they bring him an axe and the prisoners, he wanted to grab all those elves, drown them into the sea, he wanted… wanted…
All his wrath, all his hatred. They drained out of him like blood from wounds. Only that metallic tang on his tongue remained, only the image of a field filled with bodies.
He covered his face with both hands, sobbing.
"It had to be done." Grok said. It wasn't an attempt to console him. It was the truth, just that. The crime had to be avenged. And now, it had been, all their bellies filled with the blood of the fallen, for all the good it could do.
Still, Zholk needed a moment to compose himself once again.
"Yes, it had." He said. He didn't feel like a mighty Warlord now. He felt weak, aching, tired. "Do what you must."
Grok nodded slowly. The hint of a smile appeared on his face. "I thought something funny, you know."
Wishing to remain alone, Zholk just grunted.
"All that business of that night… i think that it was him. You know, to let us work out our anger."
Zholk jumped and whirled around, but Grok had already left his seat. The Warlord heard his Shieldchief's steps getting away.
"I will return tomorrow. Get back on your feet quickly. There is still a lot to do."
The door of the sickbay closed behind the Shieldchief, leaving Zholk alone with his thoughts. Only later, he would notice the small, inversed triangle etched into the wood of the cot.
A group of elven scouts, comprising the commander and her sister, had been overzealous during the battle. Trying to ambush Deepkin explorers, they had pursued them too far, only to get ambushed on turn and taken prisoners. These scouts were now sent, tied up like chicken and without weapons, back to their camp. They carried a proposal of cease-fire. The elves would retreat, the Deepkin would do the situation would return as it was before, with the merchants free to come and go as they wanted.
Imrik, forced in bed with many broken bones, thought long and hard about it. Realistically speaking, he could keep going. Yes, his army had suffered fierce losses, but he could use those same losses to ignite hearts back in Ulthuan and have Finubar send more reinforcements. Tyrion would jump at the chance to settle a perceived score, and his judgement would tip many balances in favor of a renowed effort in the Land of Assassins.
Yes, Imrik could, and still… he didn't. Doubt had set roots inside of him. Deep inside, now he feared to have committed a mistake, to have thought monsters those that monsters weren't, to have killed what had not to be killed. His pride stung, fiercely, but he was no fool and his heart had grown heavy with shed elven blood and the doubt of unsleeping nights. He wouldn't admit it, not even to himself, but he longed to return to Ulthuan, to shores where things were less complicated and those doubts didn't gnaw at his soul.
To the surprise of many, he accepted the offer.
Voice ran through the sentries that a veiled lady had been seen pausing before the Dragon King's tent, but none lent it much credence, - no noble lady had accompanied the expedition - and the matter was quickly forgotten.
There was no official parting between High Elves and Deepkin. On a day that the wind and the sea were good, the Ulthuani loaded their ships and, silently and gracefully as they had come, they sailed away. Hidden eyes of Deepkin followed the beautiful ships as they took to the sea. For a moment, as the glare of the sun painted the waves in gold, they had the impression of seeing an elven lady, swathed into flowing robes of silver, watching them silently from the leading ship. In the same moment, elves on board saw a great Skaven on the shore, his massive form cowled and robed, assisting with solemn countenance at their departure. Both parties had the impression that the apparitions lifted a hand, like to greet or to offer regards of safe travel.
But it was just a moment, and the moment after they found themselves blinking at desert shore and empty parapet, wondering what it was exactly that had taken their attention, before that thought too was swept away by other concerns.
Imrik returned home after a quick navigation, the fleet accompanied by exceptionally good weather for all the journey. Carried on shore on a litter, he was welcomed by King Finubar himself along with all his highest dignitaries and a great crowd of Ulthuani. Many chants of mournings were raised for the ships that returned with many less soldiers compared to when they had left, but still a hero's welcome was given to the Dragon King, the Dragon Mage and his brave soldiers, that had returned by bloody war with their honour held high.
To the surprise of many, Imrik didn't hide the fact that his expedition had been a failure, but he carried word of great new tidings in the Southlands, words that King Finubar listened to with great interest.
And it was so that the doubt that set roots into Imrik's heart spread its seeds into many more souls, and which before was impossible, now became wild hope.
Zholk returned to Truzor a hero, his expedition considered a complete success. The losses had been grievious, but how many others would have died if the elves had not been contained and repelled? The Warlord was greatly praised for his efforts and presented with accolades, that he firmly refused. Zholk felt unworthy of them, feeling that he had given in to hatred and anger, forgetting where the right path was. He would go into a period of healing, before being re-assigned to the south along with his soldiers, given an important command post in the on-going struggle against Pestilence. Soldiers working with him said that he had lost nothing of his bad temper, nor of his strenght.
Shaskar Zzkrit's death was deeply lamented, and a great funerary monument was raised in her honour in the Valley of the Honored Dead in Haven. The bones of the revered priestess, conserved by the inhabitants of Abu Hamed, were interred there also and the site became frequented by errant Shaskars searching for guidance and pilgrims.
Regarding Grok, he was given a shiny new medal and a brief leave for his efforts, that he passed writing a small account of the battle on behalf of the office of history. The expedition was always the first contact of the Under-Kingdom with the High Elves, after all, and the first-hand writing of a direct partecipant was highly prized. On his part, he was happy to speak of the battle of Dragon's Blood, as it came to be impropriately called, of the brave Warlord that had led them to vengeance and then returned from it in name of the greater good and, why not, even of the elves, and of even they could sometimes pull their heads out of their arses long enough to see reason, even the most thickheaded ones. But, more than anything, he was honored to speak of the fallen, Deepkin and Elves alike, that, with their blood, more than the dragons', had allowed the seed of wild hope to find good soil, a seed that maybe, one day, will raise to give good fruit, for all of them.