Chapter III

Timisoara Castle.

While the rest of the world crumbled under the might of the fall of Tylos and the war of the beard, the city states of Achron were flourishing, picking through the secrets of the kingdom of Tylos and delving into the secrets of archemy and divinity. Today, they are the greatest repositories of knowledge and the inheritors of the glory that was once humanity's dominion. At least that is what the Locutors of the City States would have one believe. Their founders' aspirational objectives were short-lived, despite the city states' establishment resting on the most advanced and idealistic intellectual, ethical, and educational foundations that humanity could ever envisage. Using their rich history and advanced technology, the three councils that comprise the City States today—demagogue, militant, and academic—attack each other and anybody who daunts their authority.

The forces of the Achronean city states consist of a strong core of rigorously trained and drilled soldiers supported by an assortment of hulking automatons, towering spellcasting giants, and mechanically enhanced veteran warriors.

Professor Emeritus of the university of Nuln.

"FIRE!"

With synchronized firing, the Booming Empire's imperial gunnery school and the Castelite formations' Ironweld great cannons pounded the stone walls of Timisoara castle as the coalition army's regimented ranks threw their troops against them. A seething mass of armored bodies took cover behind the well-entrenched defensive works that surrounded the dreaded fortress. The air was thick with smoke as the siege towers were gradually driven closer to the castle walls, accompanied by the stench of their unclean bodies and the intensity of their battle cries, all while firing gunpowder armaments.

Despite having few cannons, the Vallachian army joined the onslaught with scores of trebuchets and mortars, while men-at-arms would join every assault on the walls.

"They can't hold much longer," said Anatoly, lying on his front beside Heron in the long grass of the gently sloping hill, a league to the east of the besieged castle. "The gates are not buckling an inch, and the walls are still standing."

Heron nodded and said," We have to wait for Elodie and the Dwarven miners to finish digging."

"If we wait much longer, there will be no army to save," said Zhou, all but invisible, swathed in his scaled green cloak.

"If we attack before she is in position, then we are lost," said Heron. "The undead are too many for us to fight head-on."

"There's no such thing as too many undead," snarled Anatoly as his hands balled into angry fists. "We've waited for days without a sign of the vampire counts; now here they are before us. I say we sound the war horns, and Morr, take the hindmost!"

"No," said Heron. "To fight such a host on equal terms is to die, and I have no intention of returning to Azyrheim upon my shield."

Despite his words to Anatoly, Heron longed to ride with his banner unfurled, the wind in his hair, and the clarion call of war horns in his ears, but he knew he must restrain his urge to slay the undead for now.

Concealed behind the ridge of the eastern hills, the Acheron companion cavalry had the element of surprise, for the vampire lords attention was firmly fixed on the Coalition army before him, but surprise would not be enough to take this castle, for surely thousands or more zombies and skeleton warriors awaited for them inside.

Timisoara castle sat among a series of low, rocky hills on a fast-flowing river of the plains that poured from the towering peaks of the gray mountains to the north. To see an open landscape had come as a shock to the young men raised in the metropolis of the Celestial realm and of Terra, when they had marched from the cities only a day previously, and Heron had not dreamed that the realm in which his father once lived was so vast.

The castle's rampart walls were formed from incredibly thick stone, absorbing the impact of projectiles fired from both cannons and trebuchets, and boasted interspersed defensive round towers. Hoardings formed from planks and wetted hides protected the walkway that ran around the edge of the ramparts, and here the men and women of the Sylvanian Peasant Levies shouted their defiance as they fired crossbow bolts and handguns into the heaving mass of attackers.

Heron was overjoyed as each missile killed a Sylvanian levie, but he could see that the attacks were not compromising the defense. The Sylvanian peasantry were an undisciplined rabble, fighting without apparent cohesion or plan, but one look told Heron that simple cannon fodder and numbers would carry the day without difficulty.

Scours of meatless skeletons sent flaming arrows over the walls of the castle, and one by one, the Coalition siege towers were ablaze.

Hulking Vargheist, with gray skin so gray that it was practically dead, attacked the warriors, manning the armored battering ram that was trying to bring down the gate with reckless abandon. At the far end of the army, an imperial great cannon fired

Thin lines of smoke were etched against the sky from hundreds of fires within the castle, and grisly banners have been driven into the hard stone with fetishes and bloody trophies dangling from the great, red banner of the vampire counts. The undead horde was easily the largest force of undead any of them had ever seen. Each undead was armored and armed with rusted blades, spears, and axes and a eerie glow in its eye sockets that somehow had a thirst for battle that was unmatched in all but the most frenzied berserkers.

At the center of the castle, a figure in dark armor waved his outstretched hand, and even from this distance, it was clear that the creature must surely be the host's master.

"Come on, Heron," hissed Anatoly. "Unleash us!"

"Do you want to die?" asked Zhou. "We have to wait. Elodie's will not fail us."

Heron fervently hoped that Zhou was right as he looked along the rutted earth road that led from one of Timisoara's gates and followed the course of the road as it bent southwards another hill a couple leagues away. Beyond the hill, the road petered out past a line of trees, and the landscape opened into plains of hard, scrubby grass.

He shielded his eyes from the sun and ignored Anatoly's impatient bristling, hoping to see a waving banner, but there was nothing, and he silently willed his friend to hurry.

"As Ulric wills it," whispered Heron, chewing his bottom lip as he watched the fighting unfold below, knowing that if they did not attack soon, the siege would be lost.

Heron returned his attention to the castle below as the vampire lord hurled a colossal orb of purple-edged darkness at the defensive works, and a roar of unleashed magical fury rose from the earth. The screams of the dying rose on the battlefield, and the armored tide of black knights surged towards the soldiers climbing the ladders.

Grunting, sweating spearmen were rushed forward to the frontlines, their spear tips lowered to face the gruesome remains of the black knights. More flaming arrows arced over the horde, and the clash of iron blades against one another rang like a war cry to the brazen gods of battle.

"There!" cried Zhou. "Look! By the hill!"

Heron's heart leapt as he followed Zhou's shout and saw a green banner fluttering in the wind before a stand of trees to the east of the hill. At the same time, the eastern gate began to open.

"I told you!" laughed Zhou, leaping to his feet and sprinting back to his men.

Heron pushed to his feet with a wild war cry and followed Zhou, with Anatoly right on his heels. Two hundred and seventy companion cavalry waited out of sight of Timisoara, their mounts whinnying impatiently and their faces alive with the prospect of battle. Spear tips gleamed in the noonday sun, and the silver rims of Gromril shields shone like gold. Zhou vaulted onto the back of his horse and swept up Heron's banner, a streaming triangle of crimson cloth with the device of a great boar emblazoned upon it in black.

The sunlight caught the richness of the color, and to Heron's eyes, it seemed as though the banner was a sheet of blood bound to a spear. He gripped his dapple gray stallion's mane and swung onto its back, silently praying to his father, Sigmar, for strength.

Heron's heart beat wildly, and he laughed with the sheer joy of the waiting being over. The agony of watching his father's people suffer and die was at an end, and the undead would pay for their ill-advised aggression. Heron slid a long spear with a heavy iron point from the quiver slung around his horse's neck, and he accepted his shield from a nearby warrior.

He lifted his shield and spear high as Anatoly began chanting his name.

"Acheronians!" roared Heron. "We ride!"

Heron dug heels into his mount's flanks, and the beast surged forward as eager for the fight as he. With a howling war cry, his warriors followed him out of the other side of the tunnel and lifted their own spears high as Anatoly blew a soaring, ululating blast of the war horn.

His horse crested the rise before him, and he leaned forward over its neck as it thundered downhill. He threw a glance over his shoulder as his warriors came in two ragged lines, one after the other. Their armor gleamed, and brightly colored cloaks were streaming out behind them like the wings of mighty dragons.

The ground shook with the hammer blows of their hoof feet, and Anatoly blew the war horn again and again, its valiant note easily carrying through the air. Heron rode hard and fast, urging his mount to greater speed as he passed through the now open gate at full speed, passing cheering Thorakites under Elodie's command who went under the walls and through the tunnels that the Dawi miners had built, overpowering the sentry's then opening the gatehouse to allow the cavalry inside.

Riding through the vast maze of Timisoara's many gloomy roads and under maintained streets to the section of the walls where the fighting was most concentrated. Once it was in sight the tempo of battle ahead paused and both undead and man turned to see what fate ran towards them.

Cheers erupted from on top of the rampart walls as the attackers saw the hundreds of riders galloping to their aid. Heron gripped the flanks of his horse with his knees, lifting his shield and spear high for his following warriors to see.

In disdain for the foe before him, Heron had eschewed armor and rode without mail or a plate, leaving only a leather cuirass to protect him. Like an ancient warrior of a forgotten age, Heron rode tall in the wind, his hair a black stream behind him, and the muscles in his chest pumped for battle.

The undead's screaming became louder with each heartbeat. The wall of rotting, decaying flesh and armor drew closer. They rotated their worn shields, which were filled with missing pieces, decaying wood, or big holes, and pushed their long spears towards the riders. Fighting intensified upon the battlements with renewed hope as the warriors rode onwards, and the vampire lord at the center of the horde bellowed and directed, his orders accompanied by sweeps of his sword with a sharpness that could slice a man in two.

The undead were so close that Heron could smell the rank odor of their unclean or rotting bodies and see the terrible, life-threatening scars of their last moments worked into the flesh of their arms and faces. The skeletons' eyes were a cold blue, set in stern skeletal features with blackened fangs jutting from their lower jaws.

Just as it seemed that the thundering line of horsemen must surely crash into the jagged line of iron, Heron hurled his spear with all his might. His throw was true, and the heavy iron tip smashed through a grave guard's shield to impale its bearer. The sharpened tip exploded from the grave guard's back and plunged into the zombie standing behind it. Both collapsed to the ground as a hundred more spears cut through the air, and the undead fell by the dozen. Heron gripped his horse's mane and pulled hard to the side while pressing his knees against its flanks.

The stallion gave a snort of protest at this harsh treatment, but wheeled immediately and galloped along the length of the undead line, more than two spears's length from the enemy blades. Heron howled in triumph as black-shafted arrows leapt from Sylvanian bows but flew wide or over his head.

He heard a whooping yell and saw Zhou behind him, a trio of arrows wedged in the metal of his shield, yet Heron's crimson and black banner still held proudly aloft. His friend's face was alight with savage joy, and Heron gave thanks to Ulric that neither Zhou nor the banner had fallen.

The undead line was still a solid wall of shields and blades, but already Heron saw that it was beginning to buckle as the vampire lord sought to grapple with the new threat.

Another thunder of hooves announced the arrival of the second line of Acheronian horsemen, and Heron saw Anatoly charging at their heads. Each horseman carried a short, recurved bow; the strings pulled taut and arrows nocked as they controlled their wild ride with pressure from their thighs.

Anatoly blew a strident note on the war horn, and a hundred goose feather-flitched arrows flew straight and true into the undead line. All found homes in rotting flesh, but not all were fatal. As Heron wheeled his stallion once more and drew another spear, he saw many of the grave guards simply standing there with shafts sticking out of their bodies and ignoring them with frightening stoicism. Another volley of arrows followed the first, before Anatoly's warriors began pulling back and running away.

This time the Sylvania levies could not restrain themselves, and the line of shields broke apart as their human contingents charged wildly from their battle line in pursuit of Anatoly's men. Spears and arrows gave chase, and Heron yelled in anger as he saw wounded warriors fall to the ground.

Anatoly's horse pulled to a halt beside Heron, and his swordbrother put up his war horn to draw his great sword from the sheath across his back. Anatoly's face was a mirror of his own, with a sheen of sweat and teeth bared in ferocious battle fury.

Zhou rode alongside, his Tang Heng Dao's unsheathed, and said, "Time to get bloody!"

Heron raked the back of his heels and said, "Remember, two blasts of the horn and we ride for the bridge!"

"It's not me you need to worry about!" laughed Zhou as Anatoly ran forward, his huge sword swinging around his head in wide, decapitating arcs.

Heron and Zhou thundered after their friend as they pursued undead and peasant levies. The re-formed Acheaon followed their leaders, charging with all the fury and power they were famed for—a howling war cry taken up by every warrior as they hurled their spears—before drawing swords or hefting lances.

More undead fell, and Heron skewered a thick-blooded Sylvanian who wore a great, antlered helmet, the spear punching down through the creature's breastplate and pinning the man to the ground. Even as the spear quivered in the levies chest, Heron reached down and swept up his hammer, Soul-Taker, the mighty gift presented to him by his mentor earlier that spring.

Then the two mortal enemies slammed together in a thunderclap of iron and rage.

The charging horsemen hit the undead line like the fist of Ulric that had flattened the top of the Fauschlag rock of Midenheim in the north. Shields splintered, and swords cleaved undead flesh as the bone-crushing force of the charge crashed through the scattered skeletons.

Heron swung his hammer and smashed a human skull to shards; the thick iron of its helmet provided no defense against the ancient runic power bound to the weapon. He smote left and right, each blow crushing heads and splintering bone and armor. Blood sprayed his clothing, his hair thick with gobbets of blood, and the head of his hammer dripping with the gruel of their brain matter.

Axe's and notched swords rang from his shield, and his horse snorted and stamped with its hooves, kicking with its back legs to stove in the ribs and skulls of zombies that sought to hamstring it with cruel knifes.

"In the name of Ulric!" shouted Heron, urging his men deeper into the disorganized mass of undead and laying about himself with mightful sweeps of his hammer.

At the center of the mass, Heron could see the dreaded vampire lord that ruled this castle, the vampire known as Khaled Von Munstasir. Its massive bulk was clad head to toe in armor forged from sheets of red iron, fastened to its flesh with great spikes. A crested helmet covered its skull, and bloodied, bloodied fangs jutted from its jaw.

It seemed that the beast was aware of him too, for it jabbed its thick sword towards him, and the press of undead warriors around the achreaons grew thicker and more numerous. With every stroke of his hammer, Heron knew their time was running out, and he risked diverting his attention from immediate threats to see how his sword brothers fared.

Over to his right, Anatoly's great sword swept left and right, hewing half a dozen zombies to ruin with every blow. Behind him, Zhou's mane of hair was as red as the banner he carried, the curved blade of his sword cleaving through armor and flesh with deafening clangs and thuds. That Zhou also carried Heron's banner seemed not to hamper him at all, and it too was a weapon, the iron point at its base smashing through helmet visors or punching through the tops of unprotected skulls.

Heron wheeled his horse, sending one grave guard sailing backwards with a mighty underarm swing of Soul-crusher and crushing another's chest with the return stroke. All around him, Achronean warriors were cutting a bloody path through the undead, but for all the carnage they caused, the undead had the numbers to soak up such death without flinching.

Hundreds more were pushing forward, and as the furious impetus of the charge began to diminish, Heron could see that the undead were massing for a devastating counterattack. Packed in like this, with their backs to the walls of Timisoara, the undead would eventually come.

Acheronian warriors were being dragged down from their mounts one by one, and horses fell screaming as zombies opened their guts with quick slashes. The noose was closing in, and it was time to make their escape.

"Anatoly!" shouted Heron. "Now!"

But a knot of howling Cairn Wraiths, their scythes tearing at his lamellar armor, surrounded Heron's swordbrother. Without a shield, Anatoly's lamellar armor was battered, and links of chain mail hung down from his body in weeping sheets of iron rings. His sword hacked and cut, but for every ghostly warrior that died, another two stepped in to fight.

"Zhou!" cried Heron, lifting his bloody hammer.

"I'm with you!" answered Zhou, urging his mount onwards with the banner held high.

Together, Heron and Zhou charged into the creatures, attacking their swordbrother, Hammer, and sword, forging a gory path through the sprites. Heron's hammer smashed the head off a wraith's shoulders, and he shouted, "Anatoly, blow the horn!"

"Da, I know!" replied Anatoly breathlessly, putting his sword through the chest of the last of his attackers. "What's the rush? I would have killed them all in time."

"We don't have time," said Heron. "Blow the damned horn!"

Anatoly nodded and switched to a one-handed grip on his sword before lifting the curling ram's horn from the loop of chain around his waist and giving voice to two sharp blasts.

"Come on!" bellowed Heron. "Ride for the open ground across the bridge."

Barely had the echoes of the war horn faded when the Achroneans had turned around and were sprinting hard for the south with practiced skill. Heron waved his hammer and shouted, "For Ulric's sake, ride hard, my brothers!"

The horsemen needed no encouragement, leaning low over their mounts' necks as the spirits of the damned howled at their enemy's flight. Heron held his horse back from riding alongside its fellows as he scanned the battlefield to make sure that he left none of his warriors behind.

The ground behind the walls of Timisoara was littered with the detritus of battle: bodies and blood, screaming horses, and shattered shields. The vast majority of the dead were...well, undead, but too many were armored men, their bodies sliced apart by zombies or bludgeoned unrecognizable by roaring Crypt horrors.

"Are we waiting for something in particular?" asked Zhou, his horse nervously flicking its head as the dead gathered for the pursuit. The vampire lord bellowed orders at living warriors, and lumbering mobs of corpses with rusted weapons held in each fist set off towards the retreating Acheronian horsemen.

"So many dead," said Heron.

"Two more if we don't move now!" shouted Zhou over the moaning of charging undead and cannon balls smashing houses.

Heron nodded, turned his horse to the south, and bolted, unleashing a huge curse on the heads of vampires everywhere as a nasty barrage of arrows slashed through the air. Heron retaliated by calling down the wind of Aqshy, a raging inferno that swiftly gathered into a column of churning fire, destroying everything in its path and preventing the vampire lord from resurrecting any of his warriors' corpses to join his army. Setting alight on some of the buildings in the process

"That's right, you undead basterd," said Heron. "Come and get me if you can."

Deep within the shadows of the buildings on either side of the bridge, Elodie watched the retreating Achroneans with a mixture of excitement and sadness. Too many of the horses galloped towards his position without their riders, and she felt an aching sadness in his heart as she recognized many of the mounts and recalled which riders they had borne.

"Stead ready!" She shouted. "And Myrmidia, guide your thrusts!"

Beside her, three hundred and forty hoplite warriors in heavy hauberks of mail and breast plates stood with thick-shafted spears with long, stabbing blades. These were the heaviest, strongest men in Heron's force, thick of limb and stiff of back—men for whom the concept of retreat was as unknown as compassion was to an orc. Another ninety were hidden above the buildings across the road; ninety were hidden on top of the buildings across the road: four hundred and thirty, with very specific orders from their young leader.

Elodie smiled as she remembered the pained smile on Heron's earnest face as Elodie stepped forward when Heron had asked for a volunteer to lead this desperate mission.

"I'm counting on you, sister," Heron had said, taking her to one side before the battle. "Hold the undead long enough for us to rearm and reforge our strength, but only that long. When you hear a long blast of the war horn, get clear, you understand?"

Elodie had nodded and said, "I understand what is expected of us."

"I wish-" began Heron, but Elodie had interrupted him with a shake of her head.

"It has to be me. Anatoly is too wild, and Zhou must ride at your side with the banner."

Heron had seen the determination in her face and said, "Then Ulric will be with you, sister."

"If I fight well, he will," said Elodie. "Now go. Ride with the wolf lord at your side, and kill them all."

Elodie had watched Heron return to his men and raised his sword in salute before swiftly leading his hundred men around the eastern hills, hidden from the vampire lord's gaze, until they had reached this place of concealment on the other side of the bridge.

Looking at the faces of the men under her command, she saw tension, anger, and solemn reverence for the fight to come. A few men kissed wolf-tail talismans or blooded their wolf-skin pelts with cuts to their cheeks. There were no jokes, no ribald banter, or ludicrous boasts, as might be expected from warriors about to do battle, and Elodie understood that every one of them knew the importance of the duty they were about to perform.

Retreating Acheronian horsemen rode south towards the bridge in ragged groups of three or four, scattered and tired from the frenetic battle. Their arrows and spears were spent, and their swords bent and chipped from impacts with unliving weapons and shields.

Their shields were dented and their armor torn, but they were unbowed and rode with the soul of the land surging through them. Elodie could feel it—a thrumming connection that was more than simply the thunder of approaching horsemen.

In the last few moments left to her before battle, she instinctively understood the bond between this rich, bountiful land and the men who inhabited it. From the distant realms, they had come in ages past and carved a home amid the wild forests, taming the earth and driving back the creatures that sought to keep them from what the gods had seen fit to grant them.

Men tended the land, and the land returned their devotion tenfold in crops and animals. This was a land of men, and no vampiric warlord was going to take that which he had worked and fought to create.

The sound of hooves rose in pitch, and Elodie looked up from her thoughts to see the first of Heron's warriors riding hard across the timbers of the bridge. The structure was ancient and dwarf-made, the stones pale and bleached by the sun, laid across stone pillars decorated with carvings long since worn smooth by the passage of centuries.

Horsemen rode across the bridge, pushing hard for the fresh weapons that Elodie and his men had stacked beyond the buildings further south. Scores rode past, their horses' flanks lathered with sweat and blood.

"Who would have guessed Heron would be the last to quit the field of battle, eh?" shouted Elodie as she saw Anatoly, Zhou, and Heron riding at the rear of the galloping horsemen.

Grim laughter greeted her words, and Elodie snapped down the visor of her battle helmet as she saw the undead pursuing the riders with relentless, single-minded purpose. Obscured by the dust clouds thrown up by the riders, they looked like misshapen demons or shadows, their bodies hunched, and only the inextinguishable coals of their eyes distinct. Despite their graceless, rotten limbs and monstrously heavy iron armor, their speed was impressive, and Elodie knew that it was time to perform her duty to the god king's son.

She pulled out her swords, the blades polished and bright, and kissed the image of a half moon worked into the top of the shaft. She lifted the weapon towards the sky and felt a cold shiver as she saw a single raven circling the king's son.

The last horsemen rode across the bridge, and Elodie looked down in time to see Heron staring straight at her. As the moment stretched, she felt the simple gratitude of her friend fill her with strength.

"Acheronians, we march!" she shouted, and she led her men onto the road.

Heron spat dust as he jerked his horse's mane and circled the cache of spears and swords. Elodie had cleverly left her weapons beyond the bridge, where they formed a wedge and faced the bridge. Heron noticed her hand in their placement, which resembled the natural forms of horsemen.

"Hurry!" he cried, leaping from his horse and accepting a skin of water from a warrior with bloody arms. He drank deeply and emptied the rest over his head, washing the blood from his face, as he heard the screams of the damned and the clash of weapons behind him.

Heron wiped a hand over his dripping face and pushed through his warriors to better see the furious combat raging on the bridge. Thunder flashed and stabbing spears as Heron saw the proud green of Elodie's banner borne, borne aloft at the heart of the battle.

Screams of the damned rose in bellicose counterpoint to the shouting oaths to Ulric. Although the fit hoplites fought with iron resolve, Heron could already see that their line was slowly bending back under the fearsom and pressure of the attack.

"Give us spears and swords and remount!" shouted Heron, his voice filled with fierce urgency.

"Elodie is buying us time. We won't be wasting it."

His urging was unnecessary, as his warriors were swiftly hurling aside their bent and broken swords before rearming themselves with fresh blades. Every man knew that this time was bought with the lives of their friends, and not a second was wasted in idle banter. The name of Ulric was roared, warriors offering the kill they had made to the fearsome god of battle. Heron, let them rejoice in the exultation of battle and survival.

Zhou nodded to him. Heron's banner stabbed into the earth as he ran a wet stone over the blades of his sword.

"Boy," said Heron, angerly wiping the head of Soul-Taker with a ragged scrap of leather, unwilling to let the undead blood and brain matter, to foul its noble face the second more.

"How much longer?" asked Zhou.

Heron shrugged. "Not long; they must sound the retreat."

"Retreat!?" asked Zhou.

"No, they won't be retreating, you know that!"

"Then what? or else all will be lost," said Heron.

Zhou put out his hand and stopped Heron's furious grieving.

"They won't be retreating," repeated Zhou.

"They knew that, as did you. Do not dishonor their sacrifice by denying it."

"Denying what!" bellowed Anatoly as he rode to join them, his expression eager as though he fought a skirmish against disorganized bandits instead of undead. Heron ignored Anatoly's question and looked deeply into Zhou's eyes. Seeing an understanding of what he had ordered Elodie to do, in full knowledge of what that order inhaled.

"Nothing," said Heron, swinging the heavy head of the soul-taker as though it were nothing at all.

"The Stormcasts weapon is earning its name," said Anatoly.

"A magnificent gift, right enough. But there's more skull to be split before this day is out."

"True." Agreed Anatoly, hefting his great sword meaningfully.

"We would get to them soon enough."

"No. It won't be soon enough," said Heron, swinging back to his horse and looking north to the battle raging at the bridge.

Blood pulled down Elodie's boot. A deep wound in her thigh was washing blood down her leg and sticking to the wool of her tunic. A zombie cleaver smashed one of her swords to shards and cut into her leg before she had gutted the beast with a swipe of her sword. Her arm started acting as though it were weighted down with iron.

Her muscles were throbbing painfully with the efforts of the fight. Screams and roars of hatred echoed deafeningly within Elodie's helmet, and sweat ran down her face. The warriors with her fought with desperate heroics, their spears stabbing with powerful thrusts that punched between the gaps of the rusted armor and into their rotten flesh. The pale ground beneath their feet was dark and loaded with blood, both human and undead, and the air stank of sweat and the coppering produce of death.

Spears and swords clashed. Wood and iron broke apart, and flesh and bone were carved to ruin. With no quarter asked or given from either side.

The warrior next to Elodie fell, a grave guard's blade smashing through his shoulder. He cut deep into his torso before coming fast to his chest. The grave guard fought to drag its weapon clear, but the jagged edge remained wedged into the man's ribs.

Elodie stepped in, her leg on fire with pain, and swung her sword in a furious two-handed swing. That smashed into the grave guard's open jaw and cleaved the top of its skull away.

"For Myrmidia!" She shouted, channeling all her hatred for the undead into the blow.

The body swayed a moment before dropping, and Elodie screamed as her injured leg threatened to give way beneath her. A hand reached out to steady her, and she shouted her thanks without seeing who helped her. The noise of battle seemed to grow louder; the cry's of dying men and the chilling screams of the undead sounded like they were bellowing right in her ears.

Elodie stumbled, dropping to one knee as her vision grayed, and the clamor of the fighting suddenly diminished from its previous volume—something heard from a great distance. She planted the blade of her sword on the ground as she tried to force herself back to her feet.

All around her, the warriors of the Acheron were dying, their blood spurred from open belly or torn throats. She saw an undead ghoul lift a wounded hoplite and slam his body down on the stone arabas of the bridge, almost braking him in two before hurling his limp corps into the waters below. The Sylvanian peasant levies behind the shambling corpses loose crossbow bolts into the midst of the battle. Uncaring of which components their arrows hit,.

Elodie felt the warmth of the wet ground beneath her, the sun on her face, and the coolness of her sweat plastering beneath her armor. However, for all the deaths around her, there was heroism and defiance too.

Elodie watched as a warrior with two spears punched through his back spread his arms and leapt towards a group of undead, forcing their way past the flanks. He knocked three of them into a building that was on fire, to burn. Sword brothers fought back to back as the numbers of Acheronian's thinned and of the undead pressing against the phlenx with ever greater numbers. As a spear thrust towards her, instinct took over as the sights and sounds of battle returned with all their viscous din.

Elodie's blade smashed the blade from the spear shaft, and she pushed from her feet with a cry of pain and rage. She swayed aside from the blunted weapon, forcing down the pain in her injured leg and swinging her sword at her attacker.

Her blade cut the undead's arm from its body, but its charge was unstoppable, and its sheer bulk carried her to the ground. Its blood sprayed her, and she spat the foul, reeking liquid from her mouth. Too close for a proper strike, she slammed the half of her sword against the undead's face, the pieces of bone splintering beneath the blow.

The undead's head snapped back, and Elodie rolled from beneath it, rising from one knee and hammering her sword into its skull. Shrinking pain exploded into her back, and Elodie looked down to see a long spear jutting from her chest.

The blade was wider than her forearm, and blood squirted from either side of the metal. Her blood. She opened her mouth, but the weapon wrenched from her body and, with it, any breath in which to scream.

Elodie dropped her sword, strength, and life, pouring from her in a red flood. She looked around at the scene of slaughter, men dying and torn apart by the undead, as the hoplites couldn't stand it any more and began to fall back. The archers on the roof were taking down as many as they could, making every shot count.

Her vision dimmed as she swung forward, but as her face pressed against the bloody ground, a hand suddenly grabbed her by the shoulder, dragging her within the safe confines of the phalanx. But with the last of her strength, she reached out and curled her fingers around the grip. Ulric's halls were no place for a warrior without a weapon or wondering if she was worthy enough in the eyes of Sigmar to become one of his stormcaste.

A squawking cry of something out of place penetrating's the sound of slaughter, and she lifted her head to see a large raven sitting on the wood of the buildings. The depthless starkness of its eyes bows through her with an unflinching gaze. Despite the carnage, the bird remained unmoving, and Elodie saw her banner fly in the wind behind it. The green fabric is bright against the brilliant blue of the sky.

The pain fled her body, and she thought of her twin brother and father as she laid her head down on the rich earth of the land she fought and died to protect. She heard a distant rumble of the ground and a rising thunder of drums—a sound that made her smile as she recognized the source.

A sound of companion cavalry was on the charge.

Heron saw Elodie fall to Kaled Von Munstasir blade and let out a great howl of anger and loss. The undead were across the bridge and had fanned out past the buildings, a jagged line of charging bodies.

After a hard fight at the bridge, any cohesion in their force was lost, and although Elodie and her men were dead, they had reeked a magnificent tally of undead corpses. The dead were still chasing the remaining hoplites, and Heron saw Munstasir was still in its battle lust until he realized what was happening around him and desperately tried to form its warriors into a fighting line before the horsemen reached them, however, it was already too late for them.

Riding at the tip of the wedge were nearly one hundred and fifty horsemen. Heron rode with fire and hate in his heart, soul-taker held high for all to see.

The ground trembled with the sound of thundering hooves as Heron conveyed a message of triumph. Zhou rode to his right, the crimson banner snapping in the wind, while Anatoly galloped to his left, his blade unsheathed and ready to take more heads.

Heron gripped the mane of his stallions hand ring; the great beast was tired but eager to ride back into battle. Arrows and spears filled the air as the Acheronian riders released one last volley before impact.

Undead, skeletons, and levies fell before their spears and arrows as triumphant cries changed to agonizing screams. Heron charged home. The wedge of Acheronian horsemen cleaved through the undead, weapons flashing and blood spraying as they avenged the brothers in arms. Next came the surviving hoplites, who resolutely held their position.

At the same time, the gates of Timisoara were breached at last when a force of over hundred stormcastes eternals from Azyrheim arrived in force. The small army of Hollow knights slayed tens of thousands of coalition soldiers swarmed the streets of Castle Timisoara.

Heron's hammer split skeleton skulls and crushed chests as he screamed his friend's name. Strength and purpose flood along his limbs, and whatever is strong dies. No enemy in the world can stand before him and live. The soul-taker was the extension of his arm, its power incredible and unstoppable in his hands.

Blood sprayed the air as Acheronian riders trampled the undead, easy meat now that their numbers were thinned and were scattered, with room to maneuver thanks to the artillery bombardment as the horsemen were in their element charging hither and tither, killing the sprits of the damned with ever spear throw or sword blow.

Undead were crushed under iron-shut hooves and smashed into the ground as the horsemen circled and charged again and again. They have the open ground in their favor. Heron killed Undead by the dozens, his hammer sweeping out and crushing the line in front of them, as though they were little more than irritants.

Stallions flanks were drenched in unliving blood, and his leather cuirass dripped with their gore. At the center of the host, Heron saw the mighty vampire lord that ruled these lands. Acheronian warriors surrounded Munstasir, eager to claim the glory of killing the warlord, but its unholy strength and ferocity were unmatched by any vampire his men had fought, and all who came near it died.

"Father, guide my hammer! Mother, guide my sword!" He shouted, urging the stallion towards the furious melee surrounding Munstasir. He leapt piles of undead bodies, smashing aside those skeletons foolish enough to get in his way with the wild, magnificent swigs of his hammer. The battle around him faded into little more than a back drop to his charge; a muted coras accompanied his performance. His every sense turned inward until all he could hear was the roar of his breath and the frenetic pounding of his heart as he rode towards his foe.

Munstasir saw it coming and bellowed a challenge, bloody foam gathering in its fanged jaws as it spread its arms wide and hand full of dark magic. Its sword was towards Heron's horse, and as the stallion leapt over the last pile of corpses, Heron released his mane and hurled himself from its back.

His mount veered away from the thrusting sword as Heron sailed through the air, taking his hammer in a two-handed grip. Heron let loose an ordinating yell of ancestral hate as he swung his hammer at the warlord. Soul-Taker smashed down Munstasir's skull and destroyed it.

Utterly.

Hammer driving on through the body and finally existing in a bloody welter of smashed bone and meant. Heron landed beside the body before it fell and spun his heel, pulling out his sword to deliver a thunderous blow to the headless vampire's spine.

The vampire lord, who had once been the scourge of the lands of Asmeria, toppled to the ground. With its body pulverized by Heron's fury, he swept his hammer around, slaying the vampires' so close to their lord in a furious, unstoppable carnage. Within moments, the ancient and most powerful vampires were dead, and Heron bellowed his triumph to the skies. Smothered from head to foot with blood, his hammer pulsed with the lifeblood of battle.

A horse drew to a halt before him, and Heron looked up to see Anatoly staring down on him, with a look of awed disbelief and not a little fear in his eyes.

"The castile is ours!" shouted Anatoly.

Heron lowered his hammer and sword and blinked, his senses turning outward once again, as he took in the slaughter they had reaped upon the undead. Hundreds of corpses were on the ground, trampled by horses or cut down by Acheronian warriors. What little remained of the undead host were returning to their dead state while their living servants were in complete disarray, the power for their lust for battle broken by the death of their leader.

"Chase them, brothers," spat Heron. "Break them down and leave them non-alive."

Slim A Lou Prime: Love your story man.

Guest: I will continue.

Mad thought: Yes Heron will going to get the training but the weirdest pets on the other and he won't get but he will get the weirdest mounts.

Guest: Thank you.

Guest: Took me some time to think about.

J: Of course he'll receive his own Warhammer but not powerful as Ghal Maraz though.

As for the bridge part I discovered that in some siege battles that designers added bridges in Warhammer total war 3.

Okay leave any reviews to tell me what you think.

Next will be on Terra on a littlie school trip to the history museum.