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Nachgeheim -16-2493
Finishing the job of crushing the Khornate knight's skull, while Princess tore the Juggernaut's head clean off with her talons, my eyes locked on the towering figure moving toward us. A champion of Khorne, no doubt: clad head to toe in full plate etched with bloody runes and studded with skulls. Corruption seemed to seep from his axes and his very armor. His eyes, like burning coals, sought me out—he had marked me as his foe. He broke into a charge with terrifying speed, trampling the barbarians that followed in his wake.
I knew his weapons and armor were cursed, likely daemonic. Princess wore no armor at all; as much as it tempted me to hurl her at him, I couldn't sacrifice my mount in a reckless strike. I pulled us aloft and raised my rifle. Princess held steady as I fired—the first shot struck his helm and staggered him, the second slammed into his chest and made him falter for a heartbeat.
"Damn it… not enough. Do I need tungsten rounds to pierce that plate?" I growled, pulling Princess back toward my men.
We flew over the battlefield. My soldiers were locked in vicious combat against Khornate knights and swarms of marauders. Muskets and shotguns roared at point-blank range, felling tribesmen and, at times, armored riders when the shooters dared get close enough. We landed hard, crushing a dozen foes under Princess's weight, and I fought my way to the line.
"They'll throw themselves at us in suicidal waves! Get the musketeers and the cannons here—we're going to need them now!" I shouted over the thunder of the melee.
Some obeyed, sprinting to the rear, but most were too busy trying to stay alive. I waded in, striking down marauders, while the champion hacked his way closer, killing everything that stood in his path.
There was no facing him without magic. The field swarmed with wards and cursed armor that bled the winds thin, but I wasn't about to let dozens of veterans die to keep a secret.
"Damn it… I'm not letting my men die for this," I muttered, drawing on the wind of Chamon.
The runic ring bolstered me. With effort I gathered power—not to crack his plate, which would scatter the flow, but to take another path. I melted the weapons and armor of the fallen, hurling molten iron onto the champion. The burning metal clung to his armor, thickening it. Pain meant nothing to him, but each lump of iron weighed him down, slowing his advance.
"You! Sorcerous filth! Face me as Khorne demands!" the champion roared, his voice booming above the battle.
I ignored him. His words were bait. I kept pouring molten iron over him, shaping it like burning mud, then hardening it. Slowly, the cage closed around him, until even his monstrous strength could hardly move.
He still forced his way forward, but sluggishly, like a beast mired in tar. It bought me precious minutes. My men regrouped, the lines reformed. He thrashed and bellowed, trapped in a shell of glowing metal, but the rampage was stalled.
I turned to cut down what Khornate knights remained. They had taken a heavy toll—scores of Kislevites dead in the charge, and, to my anger, several of my veterans too. Even with runic armor, some had been split by raw brute force and the god-blessed axes. The slaughter raged, but now it was the barbarians being driven back, most of them half-naked and stripped of their arms—their weapons already melted into the champion's cage.
The great host of musketeers and artillery finally arrived, locking into position on our flanks. Smoke of black powder filled the air as disciplined volleys cracked across the field. Muskets, rifles, and cannon thundered together, tearing apart the tribesmen who still screamed and charged blindly into the storm of lead. They fell in heaps, shredded like cattle beneath a butcher's blade.
On my right, the Kislevites still fought hand to hand, the snow red with blood, bodies piled high, beasts roaring with men's screams.
Then the champion roared. "BLOOD FOR KHORNE! BLOOD FOR KHORNE! BLOOD FOR KHORNE!"
His voice was thunder. A profane force gathered around him—not of the winds, but the blessing of his god. The molten prison cracked, shattered, and burst apart in showers of sparks. With a howl that rattled bone, the champion tore himself free, rising like a loosed demon.
I dismounted Princess. Snow crunched under my boots as I tightened my grip on the runic mace. I couldn't run. I couldn't yield.
"All right… I don't need to kill him. Just hold him long enough for the guns to do their work," I muttered to myself, though my gut churned with tension.
The giant bellowed again, surging forward like a maddened bull, his axes high, Khorne's fury blazing through him.
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" he roared, bringing his twin axes down in a strike meant to split me in two.
I readied my mace and, when I judged the moment right, struck his hand as he charged. He didn't care: the brute slammed into me with his shoulder as if it were nothing.
The blow sent me sliding across the snow while he was already preparing to swing his axes. I rolled, veering to his right to dodge, and he missed by inches.
With a killer's instinct, he lashed out with a kick just as I was getting up, throwing me flat on my back. Without losing rhythm, I twisted, landed on my feet, tightened my grip, and smashed his knee as he came at me again with the axes.
The runes on my weapon flared. I heard a crack, something gave, and the giant staggered. Snow burst up around the spot where I had struck his leg.
Seizing the opening, I rose, swung my mace back, and brought all my weight down on his head. The champion didn't even try to dodge: he took the blow head-on, chest thrust forward in defiance.
As he straightened, steam hissed from his nose and he growled:"Even for a filthy sorcerer, you're strong. Your skull will make a fine trophy for the Skull Throne."
I saw my men raising their weapons toward him, so I stepped between them and the beast as he steadied himself again. A thunderous roar filled the air: hundreds of bullets struck his back, cannon fire shook the ground, and a shot from a great gun smashed into his shoulder, tearing the axe from his grasp.
As he tried to rise, I smashed him in the head again, knocking him down. He forced himself back up, and I swung upward with a crushing blow straight at his face.
This time he tore his axe from the ground, spun in the snow, and stood once more, eyes blazing with rage.
Then came the storm: a relentless flurry of blows from his single axe. I gave myself to dodging and parrying, searching for a weakness. I found none. Every strike was measured, every movement left no gap. He blocked and countered instantly, keeping me pressed back, forcing me to shield my army from his rampage.
The fight dragged on. My men-at-arms pushed closer and opened fire with their rifles. The bullets couldn't pierce his cursed armor, but they staggered him, buying me fleeting moments to strike. I hammered his arms and legs over and over, though he still deflected every blow aimed at his chest or head.
"Damn it! Why won't you die?!" I roared, smashing at his knee once more.
The runes flared. A sickening crack followed, and the champion collapsed to one knee again. I spun and brought my mace down with all the strength I had left. The runes shone as the blow shattered part of his helm.
I saw his face: unlike others I had slain, it bore few mutations. Only scars—horrible, poorly healed scars. Corrupted blood poured from his nose and mouth.
Just when I thought the final strike would finish it, the champion lunged with a last burst of fury, tackling me to the ground and hammering me with his fists.
I took blow after blow before wrenching free, grabbing him by the waist and throwing him off. I reached for my dagger, but he smashed his forehead into mine, splattering my visor with his foul blood. Dazed, I clenched my fist and drove it into his face with everything I had.
We traded punches, kicks, and knee strikes in a brutal brawl until at last my hand closed around the dagger at my belt.
As he swung again, I drove the blade straight into his eye. "Die… die… die!" I snarled, stabbing deeper and deeper until I forced him down.
I threw my full weight onto the hilt, shoving the blade until it sank all the way into his skull. He thrashed, tried to tear me off with his last strength, but when the dagger buried itself completely and he stopped moving, I felt his weight slump heavy on me.
With effort, I pushed myself up and looked down at him: dead, the dagger sunk through his eye into the brain.
"He's dead… ha… ha… ha… he's dead… ha… ha… I'll have to train more hours at close combat…" I muttered, pulling off my helm and gasping for air.
My men rushed to me."My lord… by Sigmar, your eye… it's swollen!" one of them said in alarm.
"Damn it, go fight! Don't let the Kislevites die in vain!" I snapped, and they hurried off, while I lingered a moment longer, staring at the corpse of the champion.
Soon they moved to aid the Kislevites, who were already turning the tide—especially after we seized the enemy's left flank.
Then I heard it: a whisper."Blood for the…"
"What…?" I muttered, glancing around. Only my men, pressing forward in battle.
"Skulls for the…" the voice came again, this time inside my head.
I turned, searching for the source.
"Do you want power? Do you want strength?…"
"Give me that skull in my name… and I will grant you blessings untold," the voice promised.
I clutched my head, teeth clenched."Get out of my mind… I won't be a slave," I whispered, shaking my head and tightening my helm.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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