The winter of 2515 IC was one of blood and fire.
"Nordland is no longer able to provide us with any support," Boris Todbringer muttered grimly, his finger tracing the map. Alongside Ryan, Morgiana, and High Priest Emil Wagel, the White Wolf Elector discussed the dire state of their campaign beside the marching columns of the 75,000-strong human army. "That cowardly wretch, Gaisler, has retreated at the first sign of Chaos forces spilling from the Brass Keep. He's pulled his troops back entirely. We can expect no reinforcements from Nordland."
"The situation in Ostland isn't much better," Emil Wagel added. "Von Zhukov Castle holds for now, but Chaos forces have nearly surrounded it. The castle is effectively cut off, with only a narrow corridor still under Imperial control. The defenders will soon find their position untenable without reinforcements."
Morgiana sipped from the Chalice of Potions as she studied the map. White markers denoted Ostland's forces, while Chaos was represented in ominous black.
The outlook was grim. Despite the bravery of Oleg von Zhukov and the strategic brilliance of Marshal Modell, they faced the relentless onslaught of Motkin's Chaos forces. The Black-Iron Avenger's unyielding vengeance had rallied countless reinforcements from the Northern Wastes. While the defenders inflicted heavy losses on Chaos, they could not stop the tide.
The castle now stood as an isolated salient, surrounded on three sides. Only a narrow, 10-kilometer corridor at the rear allowed supplies and reinforcements to reach the fortress.
"At this point, they should consider abandoning the castle and retreating," Ryan suggested, shaking his head. "But they won't."
Silence fell.
Abandoning the fortress wasn't an option. Its name alone, Von Zhukov Castle, made its defense a matter of pride and honor for Ostland's forces.
"If the castle falls, Ostland will have only one major stronghold left: its provincial capital, Wolfenburg," Boris said, pointing to the map.
"We should march straight to Wolfenburg," Morgiana proposed.
"No," Ryan countered. "We must first secure supplies at Herzig, Hawkland's capital. Logistics come first."
"Then we press on," Boris agreed with a nod.
---
The army resumed its march. Middenland soldiers in their blue-and-white checkered uniforms formed loose but imposing lines, contrasting with the more orderly Bretonnian troops clad in their duchy-specific regalia. Snow blanketed the landscape, and the air was thick with frost as the troops trudged through the silent valleys and marshlands.
These lands held the remains of countless warriors, their bones scattered across the damp earth, guarding their eternal resting place. For 3,000 years, the Turingian people had called these lands home. Time and again, they faced extinction, yet the stubborn Middenlanders endured. Their fierce independence and adherence to tradition set them apart, with many elders still speaking the ancient Turingian tongue and rejecting foreign influences.
This stubbornness extended to their culture. In Middenland's taverns, visitors boasting of their homeland's glory or ordering foreign dishes often found themselves on the receiving end of a brawl. Such fights had two possible outcomes:
1. The outsider lost, earning a thorough beating and permanent unwelcomeness—or worse, a fatal outcome.
2. The outsider triumphed, earning the Middenlanders' grudging respect, an invitation to drinks, and newfound camaraderie.
This cultural eccentricity made Middenlanders natural allies of the dwarves, who admired their obstinacy and fiery temper. Many dwarves settled in Middenheim, considering it a home away from the mountains.
"Brothers, sons of Ulric!" Emil Wagel called out, his voice echoing across the columns. Clad in holy plate and wearing a great wolfskin cape, he raised his hammer high. "Our allies have come from afar. Shall we show them our Middenland hospitality?"
The response was a thunderous cheer.
"For Ulric! For Middenheim!"
Their wild enthusiasm brought a scowl to Morgiana's face. She nudged her horse closer to Ryan, distancing herself from the rowdy Middenlanders.
"Let us sing them a song from our homeland!" Boris shouted, laughing heartily.
The Middenlanders began singing a folk tune, and as soon as Ryan heard the familiar melody, he couldn't help but smile and join in:
"In the heather blooms a little flower~"
"Its name is: Erika~"
"Many bees swarm around this flower~"
"Around her: Erika~"
"Her nectar's so sweet, her petals so bright~"
"In the heather blooms a little flower~"
"Its name is: Erika~"
The song, Erika, sounded rough and martial in the Middenlanders' booming voices, yet retained a rustic charm, like the hearty black forest sausages they were known for.
Not to be outdone, Morgiana motioned for her Grail Guardians to prepare a response. Moments later, the rousing strains of La Marseillaise filled the air:
"Arise, children of the fatherland!"
"The day of glory has arrived!"
"Against us, tyranny's bloody flag is raised!"
"Its bloody flag is raised!"
The stirring anthem ignited the Bretonnians' spirits, their voices overwhelming the Middenlanders. Even the normally stoic Morgiana joined in, her lilting accent adding a unique flourish.
Ryan smirked as he sang along. La Marseillaise was no mere tune for a cycling tour—this was a song of revolution, and with Ryan Macador here, it carried the weight of a united kingdom.
By the time the song ended, cries of "Long live the King! Praise the Lady!" echoed for miles.
Boris and Emil exchanged glances, the former sighing wistfully. "I wish I had that kind of adoration."
"You had your chance with Belegar, Boris," Emil replied gruffly. "Look at that army over there."
"The Old Guard?" Boris muttered, eyeing the disciplined Bretonnian veterans. "I know they're impressive. But if you're suggesting they're better than our Teutonic Guard, I won't concede that."
"I'm saying that army exists because of Ryan Macador. His endless victories and deep coffers have forged them into what they are today." Emil gritted his teeth. "Ulric willing, we'll survive this ordeal."
"Ulric willing," Boris echoed.
---
The Crisis at Middenstag
A week later, the human army reached Middenstag, a major town in southern Middenland. The plan was to rest for a day before marching east to relieve Ostland.
But that night, a flurry of urgent reports arrived at the town's castle.
"Scouts report a massive beastman horde southeast of the town. The banners belong to the Cruel One—Gorthor. After nearly a millennium, he has returned, leading a horde of 80,000 beastmen!"
"Another army has been spotted southwest: greenskins. It's the Spider King, Snagla Grobspit, leading 70,000 goblins from the Black Pit!"
"They're working together," an officer stammered. "The beastmen and greenskins have allied!"
Both Ryan and Boris were stunned. Within hours, maps were unfurled in the castle's hall, and the full gravity of the situation became clear. The human army, numbering 76,000, was now outnumbered two-to-one by the combined Chaos-aligned forces.
As the commanders struggled to process the sudden reversal, more alarming news arrived:
"Scouts report a Slaanesh warband, led by Prince Sigvald, advancing south through the Central Mountains. They number 45,000 and are heading straight for us!"
"There's no time to hesitate!" Ryan declared. "If we wait for Sigvald's forces to arrive, we'll be trapped between three armies. We must fight the beastmen and greenskins here, at Middenstag, and defeat them decisively!"
"Agreed!" Boris said, unsheathing his runic blade. "My sword will teach these green filth and Chaos spawn who rules Middenland!"
Plans were hastily drawn.
---
The Enemy Camp
Fifteen kilometers from Middenstag, tensions flared in the greenskin and beastmen alliance.
"We've got enough boys to Waaagh right now!" Snagla screeched. "We smash da humies, stomp 'em flat, and feed 'em to da spiders! What're ya waitin' for?"
"Reinforcements... from the Serpent God... en route," Gorthor growled. "Patience... ensures... victory."
"Patience? Bugger that!" Snagla snapped. "I'm takin' Boris Todbringer's skull for me soup bowl, and Ryan Macador's for me teacup!"
Their argument was interrupted by dire news:
"Human reinforcements are approaching from the south! Six regiments, over 60,000 strong, led by Reikmarshal Helborg and Grand Marshal Erstein!"
Panic spread through the camp. If the Imperial reinforcements struck from behind, their alliance could face annihilation. The debate ended with a decision to launch a preemptive strike on Middenstag.
---
The stage was set for an epic clash.
Midden
stag, a southern stronghold of Middenland, would bear witness to one of the greatest battles in history.
It would forever be known as the Battle of the Three Kings.
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