Winter had transformed Erengrad into a strikingly beautiful city, nestled at the mouth of the Lynsk River along the Claw Sea. As Kislev's main gateway to the Old World, Erengrad had historically served as a vital hub, established by the ancient Elf Empire. A lake island hosted its main trade port, protected from the harsh northern winds, with its walls modest in height—sufficient for a trade center but not a fortress. The city had only one gate, located in the southeast, connecting it to Ostermark and Middenland in the Empire.
Now, in late November of the Imperial Year 2514, the Frosthaven Inn had been converted into the wartime command center for Erengrad's Defense Coalition.
Inside were Marshal Konstantin Rokossovsky, commander of Erengrad's defenses, Admiral Kuznetsov, former Cheka warden Josef Brutz, now acting Minister of Internal Affairs, the youngest chosen of Ursun and High Priest Bagratyon, and the venerable elder Ice Witch Ivanovna, a legendary and seasoned spellcaster who had surprisingly chosen to stand with them.
The situation worsened by the day.
On November 19, the Norscan mountain legions appeared at the edge of the Grovod Forest, surrounding Erengrad from the north and east. The defenders used ambush tactics in the forest to stall the advance, winning a few skirmishes but failing to halt the Norscans' relentless push. Norscan High King Vamir Aesling, a chosen of the Chaos Gods, split his forces, taking the northern and eastern routes. The town of Kvas soon fell to their assault, forcing the defenders to retreat.
By November 23, the few outposts and defenses set up in Grovod Forest by Rokossovsky had been overrun.
On November 26, the Norscan legions crossed the Lynsk River, capturing the southern town of Jone. An attempt by Erengrad's defenders to reclaim it failed, and with it, the river's upper flow was cut off.
By November 30, Norscan forces seized Goshtov Castle to the southwest, severing Erengrad's last overland route to the Empire, cutting off all possible supplies and reinforcements.
The situation in Erengrad grew increasingly dire. The city's population swelled to 400,000 as refugees crowded within its walls, yet their food supplies totaled only about 4,000 tons, barely enough to last a month under siege.
The Frosthaven Inn was an opulent setting for a war council, its furnishings crafted from fine Kislevite bearskins and imported Empire pieces. A dwarven-made grandfather clock stood with intricate carvings, while the elven-imported carpets and Tylean wood floors went unnoticed in the grim atmosphere of impending battle.
Marshal Rokossovsky, visibly worn from recent events, was the first to speak. Though his uniform was pristine, his face was haggard, and his white gloves smudged with dirt. "The enemy surrounds us on all sides; Erengrad is braced for an assault from every direction."
"We've tried repeatedly to break through, but every attempt has failed." Admiral Kuznetsov added, his face darkened. "Our soldiers have launched wave after wave, but we've not managed to open even a small breach. Ostermark's forces are unprepared for war. They crumbled before a mere fraction of Chaos's forces, retreating to the Shadow Forest. We can no longer rely on the Empire to relieve us."
"This battle will be more grueling and protracted than any before," vowed High Priest Bagratyon, the youngest to be chosen by Ursun, with dark, curling hair, prominent eyes, and a resolute expression. "But I swear, as Ursun's voice, that we will prevail."
"None of us know how to defeat them—not even Ursun." Brutz said with a grim edge, his pessimism receiving cold glares from Bagratyon and Ivanovna. "All we can do is hold on and pray that aid from the Empire or Bretonnia arrives in time."
"Enough. We're all that's left of Kislev," said Rokossovsky, lifting his gaze, his face set with a fierce resolve. His words hinted at a sense of loss. Once, Kislev was a mighty realm, resplendent with talented commanders under the Red Tsar Boris, with a future that seemed destined for greatness.
But in only a few short decades, Kislev's greatness had crumbled. Heroes who had once served were either dead, gone, or exiled. Notable figures like Cheka's founder Felix and Prime Minister Toshin had fled to Lustria, Chief Engineer Shalgo had died in prison, and others had joined Bretonnia. Brave commanders like Zayev, Konev, Fedorov, and Romanov had all fallen at Zedovka.
As for Katarin? Best left unsaid.
Though this group had formed the Erengrad Defense Coalition, they were a lone, isolated island in a sea of enemies, unsure of their future. Could they still consider themselves Kislevites? Dying defending Erengrad would bring some closure, but what if they actually managed to hold the city?
The room's chilly air grew heavier with an unspoken tension, a pressing, invisible weight as palpable as an iron grip tightening around their hearts.
"What we need now is to figure out how to defend against Aesling's army," said Admiral Kuznetsov, trying to defuse the tension.
"There isn't much we can do," admitted Rokossovsky. "All attempts to break out have only depleted our forces. Norscans excel in open field battles, which we cannot afford. Right now, our sole hope lies here, on Erengrad's walls."
No one disagreed. Bagratyon nodded solemnly, "Our only hope."
Footsteps approached hurriedly from outside, catching everyone's attention.
General Fezhuninsky of the Bear Riders entered quickly, allowing a gust of cold air to follow him. Rokossovsky's gaze flicked to the hearth with concern; the city's wood and coal reserves were limited, and even heating was now a luxury.
"They've arrived."
Fifteen minutes later, on Erengrad's eastern walls.
Outside the city, hundreds of campfires dotted the icy plains, filling the sky with smoke as thousands of tents stood erected around the city. The Norscan mountain legions had fully encircled Erengrad, and the stench of chaos polluted the air, thick black smoke hanging over the area.
It felt absurd, almost farcical, for this was not the first time Kislev had faced Chaos. The sons of Ursun had fought here for generations, countless warriors staining these frozen fields with their blood. And yet, Chaos had returned with its unyielding power, determined to destroy once more.
How much Kislevite blood would be enough to sate Chaos's thirst?
The bitter truth was that Chaos would never be satisfied. Even the complete destruction of the world would not end its hunger. The gods of Chaos would simply move on to the next world, waging their wars endlessly.
A gust of wind brought a shiver to Rokossovsky, who suddenly wished he had worn a bear-fur coat like Bagratyon, who stood beside him clad in a heavy fur-lined cloak and hat.
"The enemy numbers more than 50,000, is that correct?" asked Bagratyon.
"More, far more." Rokossovsky pointed to the distance. "Chaos dragons, beastmen tribes, and other twisted creatures—this is an army we've never seen before."
Bagratyon's voice boomed with defiance, his words enhanced by divine magic, carrying like the roar of a great bear along Erengrad's eastern wall. "Whatever their numbers, I thank you, Konstantin."
"Thank me? I'm a condemned man," Rokossovsky replied with a wry smile, his tone weary. "I fear no death, but the Ice Palace's walls always seemed insurmountable."
"You're a true soldier, Konstantin. You saved what little hope Kislev has left." Bagratyon's gaze was steady. "Kislevites are the toughest people in the world. We'll make Chaos pay dearly for every step they take forward. Remember, the northern gods are with us."
Inside Erengrad, every able-bodied man had been conscripted. Every last coin had been spent on defense, and the Kirov Factory operated non-stop to produce firearms and cannons. Smiths toiled day and night to arm the citizens, and surviving veterans from Zedovka joined alongside Erengrad's original defenders, with ice witches reinforcing the city's fortifications, while the Red Navy abandoned their ships to stand atop the walls.
"This is all thanks to you, Konstantin. Without you, Erengrad wouldn't be in fighting shape," said Bagratyon, bowing deeply. "If we survive, I'll make Katarin see reason."
Rokossovsky doubted that even Bagratyon's influence could sway Katarin, but as he looked at the thousands gathered on the walls, he felt a swell of pride.
Spears, halberds, and blades gleamed under the cold sky, while rows of Ugol archers readied their bows and riflemen loaded their weapons. The marshal's heart swelled with fierce pride—his people were the most resilient.
Erengrad would not fall, not until the last Kislevite breathed his final breath.
"Yes, their numbers are vast," Bagratyon declared, "but so are ours. We will hold."
And then, with a thunderous voice, Bagratyon began to sing, "The Chaos horde is a black raven~"
The walls echoed with song.
"The Chaos h
orde is a black raven~"
"Seeking to trample us underfoot."
"From the Lynsk to Praag's eastern plains."
"Ursun's might is unmatched."
"Kislev's warriors, sharpen your blades!"
"Hold your guns tight."
"We will grow only stronger with each fight."
"And die if we must, but with honor bright."
In response, the Norscans began to bellow their own songs and war cries, their horns blaring as they extolled the virtues of Chaos. They sang of the gods who brought "civilization," of the warriors who ascended to daemonhood, and of heroes who failed in their ascension. Some of their verses recounted sorrowful epics of exile, tracing back to times when they and the people of the Old World had once been kin.
Perhaps, without Chaos, they would still be kin. Standing atop the wall, Rokossovsky allowed himself a fleeting thought of what might have been.
But the moment of sentiment passed swiftly. The Norscan High King Vamir Aesling gave the signal, and the air filled with the clang of weapons against shields and the roaring of thousands of voices.
"It begins," Rokossovsky muttered to Bagratyon.
"For Erengrad, for Kislev!" Bagratyon replied, gripping his staff tightly.
"May the strength and flame of the northern gods never fade."
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