Asedio de la Pirámide Negra

El trasfondo de esta sección o artículo se basa en la campaña de El Fin de los Tiempos, que ha sustituido la línea argumental de La Tormenta del Caos.

La batalla comenzó en serio cuando los grupos de archivistas del Ejército de la Plaga se habían abierto camino hasta la mitad del istmo. Krell lanzó un siseo sin palabras, más la exhalación de un espíritu que se alejaba que una orden identificable, y la trampa saltó.

Con un bramido tan profundo como las raíces de las montañas, los morghast emergieron del Lago de la Muerte. La magia fluía de sus alas, con la luz violeta proyectando sombras invertidas en la oscuridad. Las almas que se lamentaban crepitaban y se retorcían alrededor de las armas de los morghasts, víctimas de antaño atadas al destino y a la voluntad de sus asesinos. Arkhan observó cómo el ejército se lanzaba a la lucha y sintió un raro momento de satisfacción. Los invasores habían experimentado mucho éxito en las semanas que llevaban a este punto. Era hora de que finalmente pagaran el precio de desafiar a Nagash.

La vanguardia de los demonios - un vasto grupo de archivistas Portadores de Plaga - fue la primera en sufrir la carga de los morghast. Sin retrasarse, los heraldos alados golpearon a los demonios desde ambos lados. Armas envueltas en almas rasgaban a través de la piel flácida y el músculo podrido, derramando extremidades y entrañas en un desorden enfermizo sobre la piedra. Los Portadores de Plaga reaccionaron con lentitud, volviéndose para enfrentar la amenaza en sus flancos, pero esos flancos se estaban desintegrando rápidamente bajo una embestida implacable. En el momento en que los cuernos de la Legión Maldita sonaron, con sus lanzas barrocas sumándose a la matanza, el grupo de archivistas no era nada más que una pila de cuerpos apestosos y desmembrados.

Sin un momento de vacilación, los morghast se abalanzaron de nuevo. Esta vez, las legiones se dividieron, con cada grupo de Heraldos y Archai buscando su propio objetivo entre la segunda línea de los demonios. Sus órdenes, impuestas por la voluntad silenciosa de Krell, eran sencillas: despejar el camino hacia lo que había sido Isabella von Carstein, para que la Legión Maldita pudiera acabar con ella.

Para Krell, una cosa era tener ese plan. Sin embargo, otra cosa completamente distinta era que los demonios permitieran su consumación. La entusiasta voz de Scrofulox sonó a través del istmo, gritando a sus secuaces para contrarrestar el ataque de los morghast. Los Zánganos de Plaga se agolpaban para bloquear a los Heraldos que se aproximaban. La primera oleada pereció, cortada en pedazos por los temibles golpes de los morghast, pero la segunda los ralentizó y la tercera paró completamente su avance. Fragmentos de hueso y fragmentos de carapazón demoníaco llovían de los cielos mientras los oponentes alados viraban y se lanzaban en picado. Los demonios eran más numerosos que sus enemigos, pero los morghast eran más fuertes y más ágiles al volar.

En el istmo de abajo, los Portadores de Plaga seguían adaptándose a las circunstancias alteradas. No ayudó que varios Nurgletes - que poseían una habilidad insospechada para imitar el tono estentóreo de Scrofulox y una completa falta de preocupación por el resultado de la batalla - habían comenzado a emitir órdenes confusas y a menudo contradictorias. No tardó mucho en que los heraldos del ejército tomaran el control y aplastaran a los infractores, pero incluso eso era demasiado tarde. Por lo tanto, los grupos de archivistas que deberían haber estado formados y listos todavía estaban desordenados cuando la Legión Maldita los golpeó. Barrocas espadas malditas atravesaron profundamente la carne demoníaca, y muchos más Portadores de Plaga se unieron a las filas de los desterrados.

A medida que los morghast comenzaban a prevalecer en la batalla por los cielos, las Bestias de Nurgle se unieron a la lucha. Golpearon a la guardia de los túmulos de la Legión Maldita como rebotantes arietes babeantes, sus viles escupitajos royendo la armadura y el hueso y sus tentáculos agitándose con deleite. Docenas de tumularios fueron arrojados al suelo, o sus cráneos se alejaron de sus hombros por la caricia juguetona de un tentáculo.

Tres de las bestias vieron el estandarte negro de la legión moviéndose en la oscuridad. Decidiendo que el trapo antiguo tenía todos los ingredientes de un juguete excelente, se dirigieron con alegría hacia él, con la desagradable boca salivando de anticipación. Era raro que los demonios hubieran visto a la mayoría de las docenas de tumularios que pisoteaban, tan fija estaba su atención en su dudoso premio.

De los guerreros no muertos agrupados alrededor del estandarte de la legión, sólo Krell se mantuvo firme. Cuando una bestia rebotó hacia él, el Mortarca de la Desesperación afianzó sus piernas y se preparó para el impacto. La hombrera de la armadura de Krell se estrelló en la tripa espaciosa de la criatura, haciendo que el demonio retrocediera, con una expresión de perplejidad en su cara babeante. La confusión no duró mucho. Las manos enguantadas de Krell se movieron sobre el mango del Hacha Negra, y el encantado filo se movió para cortar la cabeza carnosa de la bestia. Los otros dos demonios, sobresaltados de su juguetona carrera por el fallecimiento de su compañero, burbujearon enojados y cargaron hacia Krell. Pero el Hacha Negra seguía en movimiento. Giró alrededor en un arco brutal para cortar como una guadaña a través de ambas bestias, dejándolas dando espasmos en el suelo. Ignorando el denso icor que salpicaba su armadura, Krell dio un pequeño - casi imperceptible cabeceo, y condujo a la Legión Maldita hacia su objetivo.

Hacia el extremo sur del istmo, Arkhan estaba lejos de estar complacido por los acontecimientos. Había contado con que los morghast se apoderaban de los cielos, pero los demonios habían demostrado ser sorprendentemente resistentes. Silbando de irritación, el Rey Liche extendió los brazos ampliamente para alcanzar, no los vientos de magia, sino la esencia mágica pura del Lago de la Muerte. Llegó a su orden, hirviendo hacia el cielo a cada lado del istmo y cristalizándose en fragmentos de amatista. Hubo un trueno cuando Arkhan juntó sus manos, y una súbita llamarada de luz mientras los fragmentos azotaban a través del acercamiento a la pirámide.

Los Zánganos de Plaga se desintegraron en un instante, destrozados por la brujería de Arkhan. Los Portadores de Plaga que se encontraban directamente por debajo de ellos apenas les fue mejor, ya que sólo los protegidos por los cadáveres de sus camaradas sobrevivieron al bombardeo. Los Nurgletes gorgotearon y cayeron al suelo, con los vientres y los cráneos cortados por los fragmentos. Las bestias gimieron y se derrumbaron. Sólo Isabella salió ilesa, y eso sólo porque Scrofulox la había agarrado en el momento de la manifestación del hechizo, y la había presionado profundamente dentro de los pliegues coriáceos de su panza. La Gran Inmundicia había sufrido por su sacrificio, con su piel rasgada por los fragmentos. Sin embargo, Isabella no tenía palabras de agradecimiento, sólo una expresión congelada de repugnancia y una palidez de alguna manera más pálida de lo que era normal.

Pero Arkhan aún no había terminado. Con las almas cautivas de la magia de la muerte gimiendo a su alrededor, el Rey Liche pronunció un segundo gran encantamiento sobre los talones del primero. A través del istmo, los huesos agrietados y arruinados de los caídos muertos volvieron una vez más a la vida. La magia fluyó a través de morghast, esqueletos y tumularios, volviendo a unir sus cuerpos rotos e inocular a los no dañados con renovado vigor.

Mientras su hechizo llegaba a su fin, Arkhan envió su mente hacia el este y el oeste más allá del istmo, buscando noticias. Lo que el Rey Liche vio le complació gratamente. En sus flancos inmediatos, Mannfred y Neferata estaban rechazando a los invasores con toda la emitida frustración bajo su mando. Más lejos aún, incluso los Reyes Funerarios estaban resistiendo. Arkhan había tenido pocas expectativas con respecto a los reyes de Nehekhara. Nagash había matado desde hacía mucho tiempo a los más listos de entre ellos, dejando lo que el Rey Liche consideraba - no completamente injustificado - como tontos congénitos. Sólo Khalida, de la difunta Lybaras, era considerada como algo que se acercaba a un igual. El resto no había ganado nada más que el desprecio de Arkhan, aunque luchaban bastante bien. Volviendo su atención a su propia batalla, Arkhan alzó los brazos hacia el cielo una vez más, y condujo a los muertos reformados a aplastar a los demonios que quedaban.

La batalla podría haber terminado allí y ahora. No importaba cuanto arengaran a sus secuaces Scrofulox e Isabella, simplemente había demasiados muertos vivientes. Los morghast, liberados de su lucha en los cielos, volaron libremente por el campo de batalla, haciendo presa sobre los Portadores de Plaga todavía recuperándose del ataque mágico de Arkhan. Las espadas de plaga y los gongs corroídos chocaban contra la roca cuando sus portadores eran hechos pedazos, y el olor de la carne destrozada y en descomposición pendía en el aire.

Tal vez fue el hedor lo que atrajo la atención errante de Nurgle. O tal vez el Padre de la Plaga que había visto el progreso de Isabella desde el principio, determinó que el fracaso de los Glottkin no sería repetido por su nuevo emisario. Quizás Nurgle estaba simplemente aburrido, con su ojo vagando entre sus pasatiempos eternos de concocción y libación. En cualquier caso, la mirada del Padre de la Plaga estaba sobre la Pirámide Negra en ese momento, y decidió entregar sus regalos a los que luchaban debajo. Apoyándose fuertemente contra su caldero, Nurgle dejó caer la olla picada y oxidada de costado, derramando el contenido a través de las grietas en la realidad sobre el mundo mortal.

Para Isabella y Scrofulox, el regalo de Nurgle fue más que bienvenido, si no completamente agradable. Una lluvia gruesa y grasienta cayó de los cielos, sus aguas viscosas se agruparon donde los demonios habían sufrido sus mayores pérdidas. Los demonios que luchaban entre esas aguas seguían intactos, pero los no muertos eran arrastrados bajo la superficie por manos invisibles a través de la oscuridad. Cuando los no muertos fueron obligados a retroceder, el caldo enfermizo borboteó. Portadores de Plaga surgieron desde las profundidades, con los heridos y los muertos de la lucha devueltos a la vida por el benigno elixir de su dios. Para Arkhan y Krell, el regalo de Nurgle era un amargo recordatorio de que no había artificio mortal que los dioses no pudieran igualar.

Al sentir que la batalla se alejaba de él, Krell redobló sus ya prodigiosos esfuerzos. El Rey Tumulario cargó a través de las espumosas piscinas de limo, ignorando las manos gangrenosas que se aferraban a sus grebas, y ignorando los ataques de espadas de plaga que golpeaban su armadura. El Hacha Negra era un borrón mientras se abría camino y giraba, el punto final de cada movimiento acababa simultáneamente con la muerte de un Portador de Plaga. Detrás de Krell llegó la infantería de la Legión Maldita, atados a su voluntad como lo habían estado durante largos siglos. A pesar de que sus pérdidas se elevaban a cada paso, los esqueletos y tumularios seguían avanzando hasta el enemigo, apuñalando y empujando a medida que avanzaban.

Desde su punto de vista, Arkhan vio a Scrofulox intimidar a los más cercanos Portadores de Plaga en una apariencia de línea de batalla. Los lentos demonios eran blancos fáciles para los golpes atroces de Krell, y el liche consideró que la mayoría todavía estaban desorientados por su resurrección reciente. Aun así, la intervención de Nurgle había cambiado masivamente el rumbo de la batalla, y las probabilidades que enfrentaba la Legión Maldita eran enormes. Descartando rápidamente como opción la indignidad de solicitar ayuda de Mannfred o Neferata, Arkhan tomó el otro único curso abierto para él. Convocando a los morghast a su lado, el Rey Liche instó a su montura, Razarak, a los cielos, y voló para unir su poder a Krell.

ORIGINAL:

The battle began in earnest when the Army of Blight’s leading tallybands had pushed halfway down the isthmus. Krell uttered a wordless hiss, more the exhalation of a departing spirit than an identifiable command, and the trap was sprung.

With a bellow as deep as the roots of the mountains, the morghasts emerged from the Lake of Death. Magic streamed from their wings, the violet light casting inverted shadows in the darkness. Wailing souls crackled and writhed around the morghasts’ weapons, victims of old bound to the fate and will of their slayers. Arkhan watched the host swoop into the fight and felt a rare moment of satisfaction. The invaders had experienced much success in the weeks leading to this point. It was time at last for them to pay the price of challenging Nagash.

The daemons’ vanguard - a vast plaguebearer tallyband - were the first to suffer the morghasts’ onset. Without slowing, the winged harbingers struck the daemons from either side. Soul-wreathed weapons hacked down, ripping through flaccid skin and rotting muscle, spilling limbs and innards as a sickly mess upon the stone. The plaguebearers responded sluggishly, turning to face the threat on their flanks, but those flanks were rapidly disintegrating under an implacable onslaught. By the time the Doomed Legion’s horns sounded, their barrow-spears carried into the slaughter, the tallyband was nothing more than a pile of festering and dismembered bodies.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the morghasts swooped away once again. This time, the legions divided, each group of harbingers and archai seeking their own target amongst the daemons’ second line. Their orders, imposed by Krell’s silent will, were simple: clear the way to the thing that had once been Isabella von Carstein, so that the Doomed Legion could make an end of her.

It was one thing for Krell to have such a plan. However, it was something else entirely for the daemons to permit its consummation. Scrofulox’s ebullient voice rang out across the isthmus, bawling at his minions to counter the morghasts’ attack. Plague drones swarmed to blockade the oncoming harbingers. The first wave perished, cut down by the morghasts’ fearsome blows, but the second slowed them and the third halted their advance entirely. Bone shards and fragments of daemonic carapace rained from the skies as the winged opponents banked and dove. The daemons were more numerous than their foes, but the morghasts were stronger, and nimbler upon the wing.

On the isthmus below, the plaguebearers were still adapting to the altered circumstances. It didn’t help that several nurglings - possessing both an unsuspected ability to mimic Scrofulox’s stentorian tone, and a complete lack of concern about the battle’s outcome - had begun to utter confusing, and often times contradictory, orders. It didn’t take long for the army’s heralds to root out and squash the offenders, but even that was too much. Thus, tallybands that should have been formed and ready were still disordered when the Doomed Legion struck them. Cursed barrow-blades thrust deep into daemonic flesh, and scores more plaguebearers joined the ranks of the banished.

Even as the morghasts started to prevail in the battle for the skies, the beasts of Nurgle joined the fight. They struck the Doomed Legion’s grave guard like bouncing, slobbering battering rams, their vile spittle gnawing away at armour and bone, their tentacles waving with delight. Dozens of wights were bowled from their feet, or had their skulls struck from their shoulders by a tentacle’s playful caress.

Three of the beasts caught sight of the legion’s black banner twitching in the dark. Deciding that the ancient rag had all the makings of an excellent toy, they lumbered joyfully towards it, ungainly mouths salivating in anticipation. It was doubtful that the daemons even saw most of the dozen wights they trampled, so fixed was their attention on their dubious prize.

Of the undead warriors clustered around the legion’s banner, only Krell stood firm. As a beast bounced towards him, the Mortarch of Despair braced his legs and leaned into the impact. The pauldron of Krell’s armour slammed into the creature’s capacious gut, causing the daemon to draw back, an expression of puzzlement on its drooling face. The confusion did not last long. Krell’s gauntleted hands shifted on the Black Axe’s grips, and the enchanted blade came around to sever the beast’s fleshy head. The other two daemons, startled out of their playful fug by their fellow’s demise, burbled angrily and romped towards Krell. But the Black Axe was still in motion. It whirled around in a brutal arc to scythe through both beasts, leaving them twitching upon the ground. Ignoring the thick ichor splattered across his armour, Krell gave a small - almost imperceptible - nod, and drove the Doomed Legion on towards their target.

Towards the southern end of the isthmus, Arkhan was far from pleased by events. He had counted on the morghasts seizing mastery of the skies, but the daemons had proven surprisingly resilient. Hissing in irritation, the Liche King spread his arms wide and reached out, not into the winds of magic, but into the pure sorcerous essence of the Lake of Death. It came at his command, boiling skyward on each side of the isthmus and crystallising into razorsharp amethyst shards. There was a thunderclap as Arkhan brought his hands together, and a sudden flare of light as the shards whipped across the approach to the pyramid.

The plague drones disintegrated in a heartbeat, torn to soggy scraps by Arkhan’s sorcery. The plaguebearers directly below fared scarcely better, for only those shielded by the corpses of their comrades survived the barrage. Nurglings gurgled and pitched to the ground, their bellies and skulls slit open by the shards. Beasts whined and collapsed. Only Isabella went utterly unharmed, and that only because Scrofulox had seized her in the moment of the spell’s manifestation, and pressed her deep within the leathery folds of his paunch. The Great Unclean One had suffered for his selflessness, his skin torn ragged by the shards. Nevertheless, Isabella had no words of thanks, just a frozen expression of revulsion and a pallor somehow paler than was normal.

But Arkhan was not yet done. With the death magic’s captive souls wailing around him, the Liche King uttered a second great enchantment hard upon the heels of the first. All across the isthmus, the cracked and ruined bones of fallen undead twitched into life once more. The magic flooded through morghasts, skeletons and wights, rebinding their broken bodies and instilling the undamaged with renewed vigour.

As his spell reached completion, Arkhan sent his mind out east and west beyond the isthmus, seeking tidings. What the Liche King saw pleased him greatly. To his immediate flanks, Mannfred and Neferata were driving back the invaders with all the vented frustration at their command. Further afield, even the tomb kings were holding their own. Arkhan had possessed few expectations concerning the kings of Nehekhara. Nagash had long since slain the cleverest of their number, leaving what the Liche King - not entirely unfairly - regarded as inbred halfwits. Only Khalida, late of Lybaras, was considered to be something approaching an equal. The rest had earned nothing but Arkhan’s scorn, although they fought well enough. Drawing his attention back to his own battle, Arkhan raised his arms skyward once more, and ushered the re-bound dead to crush those daemons who remained.

The battle could well have ended there and then. No matter how Scrofulox and Isabella harangued their minions, there were simply too many of the undead. The morghasts, freed from their contest in the skies, flew freely about the battlefield, preying on plaguebearers still reeling from Arkhan’s sorcerous onslaught. Plagueswords and corroded gongs clattered onto rock as their bearers were hacked down, and the odour of mangled and decaying flesh was rank upon the air.

Perhaps it was the stench that drew Nurgle’s wandering attention. Or perhaps the Plaguefather had watched Isabella’s progress from the start, determined that the Glottkin’s failure would not be echoed by his newest emissary. Perhaps Nurgle was simply bored, his eye wandering between his eternal hobbies of concoction and libation. In any event, the Plaguefather's gaze was upon the Black Pyramid in that moment, and he decided to bequeath his gifts to those who fought below. Leaning hard against his cauldron, Nurgle heaved the pitted and rusted pot onto its side, spilling the contents through the cracks in reality and thus upon the mortal world below.

For Isabella and Scrofulox, Nurgle’s gift was most welcome, if not entirely pleasant. A thick and greasy rain fell from the skies, its slimy waters pooling wherever the daemons had suffered their greatest losses. The daemons who fought amongst those waters were untouched, but the undead were dragged beneath the surface by grasping hands that were invisible through the murk. As the undead were forced back, the sickly broth bubbled. Plaguebearers lurched from the depths, the wounded and slain of the fighting restored to life by their god’s beneficent elixir. For Arkhan and Krell, Nurgle’s gift was a bitter reminder that there was no artifice of mortals that the gods could not match.

Sensing the battle slipping away from him, Krell redoubled his already prodigious efforts. The wight king splashed on through the frothing slime-pools, ignoring the gangrenous hands that clutched at his greaves, and scarcely noticing the plaguesword-strikes that clanged off his armour. The Black Axe was a blur as it wove and spun, the end point of each motion simultaneous with a plaguebearers death. Behind Krell came the Doomed Legion’s infantry, bound to his will as they had been for long centuries. Although their losses mounted with every step, still the skeletons and wights trudged on into the foe, stabbing and thrusting as they advanced.

From his vantage point, Arkhan saw Scrofulox bully the nearest plaguebearers into some semblance of a battle line. The sluggish daemons were easy targets for Krell's vicious strikes, and the liche deemed that most were still disoriented by their recent resurrection. Even so, Nurgle’s intervention had massively shifted the battle’s course, and the odds facing the Doomed Legion were enormous. Quickly discarding as an option the indignity of requesting aid from either Mannfred or Neferata, Arkhan took the only other course open to him. Summoning the morghasts to his side, the Liche King urged his mount, Razarak, into the skies, and flew to join his might to Krell’s.

Archivo:Krelll.png

As he travelled, Arkhan looked upon the isthmus with distaste. Beneath him, the battle had become a brawl, a disorganised mess that was deeply offensive to the Liche King’s mind. Clusters of plaguebearers had forced their way amongst the Doomed Legion’s line, spoiling the careful order of battle that Arkhan had decreed. To the west, the Doomed Legion’s knights were bogged down amidst a seething swarm of nurglings. For every one of the mites that was slain, another half-dozen came chortling and giggling to the fight. It took six or seven nurglings to pull a wight from his steed, and cost the lives of as many diminutive daemons in the attempt, but the nurglings never grew bored with the game. To the east, plague drones harried the right flank of Krell’s advance. The bloated daemon-flies buzzed in close, darting clear of the spear- and sword-thrusts aimed their way. Then, snatching up victims, they climbed cloudward, before hurling the corpses into the Lake of Death’s ethereal waters.

Thus had Krell’s advance left a trailing mangle of broken skeletal remains. Arkhan drew from the Lake of Death to restore these scattered bones, forming them into disjointed and ragtag regiments that could follow in Krell’s wake. The liche was disgusted to find himself adding to the battle’s disorder, but hated the possibility of failure even more. Even as that unwelcome thought threatened to smother Arkhan's mind, a cloud of furies and plague drones gathered in the skies before him. The Liche King did not so much as hesitate. The thought of Nagash’s displeasure was a painful spur, and it drove Arkhan onwards into the screeching, buzzing swarm, bolts of amethyst fire blazing from his staff.

Far below, Krell at last drew nigh to his target. The plaguebearers that had stood in his path were now churned offal, their ichor wet upon his axe. Scrofulox was now all that lay between the wight and Isabella, but the sight of the daemon’s looming bulk gave him not so much as a moment’s pause.

The skulls that tipped the Great Unclean One’s flail cackled as they hurtled through the air. The blow was aimed to take Krell’s own weathered skull. However, the wight had expected the strike, and raised his own weapon to meet it. A dull chime sounded as the Black Axe’s blade bit deep into the flail’s corroded chain, severing the links and sending the skulls spinning away into the Doomed Legion’s ranks. But Scrofulox had not placed his faith in the flail alone. Scarcely had the chains split when the daemon’s massive plaguesword slammed into Krell's exposed left side, buckling armour plates and smashing three ribs to powder.

Krell staggered into a tallyband of plaguebearers, his splintered bones grinding against the inner face of his armour. Their plagueswords thrust and cut at the wight’s armour as the daemons sought a weakness perhaps exposed by Scrofulox's strike. Before they could find one, the Doomed Legion pressed in behind their lord, driving back the daemons long enough for Krell to regain his balance. Scrofulox was close behind, surprisingly quick and already swinging his sword to finish the impertinent wight king.

This time, Krell made no attempt to block the Great Unclean One’s strike. He simply ducked beneath the ponderous blade’s arc, then rose up, axe swinging underarm up towards the daemon’s belly. Scrofulox was heavier on his feet than the wight, and had no chance to get clear. The ebony blade cut deep into the blistered and shard-flecked folds of the daemon’s gut, spilling forth diseased organs and a terrible stench. Scrofulox roared, more in humiliation than pain, and lashed out a second time. Again, Krell gave ground before the clumsy swing, and buried a second strike in the daemon’s gut.

This time, however, the Black Axe caught fast in Scrofulox’s sucking flesh. No matter how the wight king hauled upon the weapon’s grips, he could not tug it free. Then, the greater daemon lashed out with a meaty fist, and Krell was sent sprawling away, his axe still embedded in the other’s body. Isabella, watching the duel from behind Scrofulox’s corpulent bulk, clapped once and laughed at Krell's predicament, her amusement only growing as the wight’s witchfires blazed with anger.

Once again, the Doomed Legion pressed forward to Krell’s side, this time keeping Scrofulox at bay with their press of blades. Isabella, however, was no longer prepared to stand idly by. Stepping briskly forward she ripped her chalice’s lid clear and held the golden vessel aloft. At once, the vile fluid within began to bubble and churn, birthing a thick, dense spore-cloud whose greenish folds gusted away south across the Doomed Legion. Where the spores settled, armour and bone crumbled away, consumed by the hungry bacteria within the cloud. In a matter of moments, the front rank of the Doomed Legion was naught but liquefying spoil, and still the spores swept southwards, bringing the same fate to the skeletons marching behind.

Protected as he was by stronger magics, Krell endured the spores, but even he did not emerge from the cloud unharmed. His armour was left little more than a rusted mass, and his entire right side was pitted and slicked with seeping green fluid. Still the wight did not yield, and lurched towards where his axe was still buried in Scrofulox’s gut. Alas for Krell, each step was but a stagger, and the Great Unclean One had little difficulty in seizing the wight’s decaying bones. Hauling Krell up high by his shins, the daemon regarded him for a moment, watching as Nurgle’s tiny children feasted. Then, with booming laughter swiftly muffled, Scrofulox lowered Krell’s disintegrating corpse into his rotten-toothed mouth, and swallowed the Mortarch of Despair whole. Plaguebearers shuffled over the ruin of the Doomed Legion, Isabella’s shrill laughter echoing about them.

It was then that Arkhan struck. The Mortarch of Sacrament plunged from the skies, tatter-winged morghasts in his wake. The surviving plague drones streamed after them, the air abuzz with their resentment, but the daemons were too slow. Morghasts swept over the plaguebearers, spirit blades raking the tallybands from above. Morghast archai converged on Scrofulox who, still heavy with a meal that was sitting ill upon him, strove in vain to swat them from the skies. As for Arkhan, he came straight for Isabella, plunging out of the skies like an amethyst comet.

Caught by surprise, Isabella threw up her arms, instinctively shielding herself from Arkhan’s attack, but the flames came on all the same. Her flesh and hair caught light, burning and blackening as the fires took hold. Laughter turned to screams, charred flesh flaked away on the wind, and at last Isabella uttered the counterspell. At once, the fires died, snuffed out like a candle at curfew, leaving the countess a twisted char of flesh that, in places, still glowed an angry red. Yet still Isabella stood, golden chalice glinting in an ash-black hand, sunken eyes peering hatefully out as the Liche King alighted before her. Arkhan saw little challenge in the grotesque ash-thing that stood before him. The same fires that had ravaged Isabella had also repaired his own small wounds, draining her essence to strengthen his own.

Still, he was cautious. Rashness was no more in Arkhan's nature than was compassion, and the Liche King took care to protect himself before approaching further. The stones of the Black Pyramid were bound together with fragments of tortured souls as much as mortar, and the Liche King now wrenched many of them free, forging himself a shield of spirits as he bore down upon his foe.

Even now, Isabella was faster than she appeared. As the armies battled all around her, the countess let go her chalice and sprang at Arkhan. Fragments of her blackened flesh fell away as she moved, but these were paid no heed. All that concerned Isabella was that her cursed touch should fall upon Arkhan. She was bitterly close to failure, and dared not pay the price that would follow. On she forged, ignoring the pain of her wounds, leaping high above Razarak’s head. She landed heavily, both feet balanced precariously upon the dread abyssal’s spine. Arkhan’s sword swept out, was struck from his hand by the countess’ slender blade, and then Isabella was grasping at the Liche King’s throat with her free hand.

Arkhan felt his shield-spirits screaming pitifully as Isabella’s curse consumed them. He cared not for their demise, of course, save for the unfortunate fact that it likely also heralded his own. Again he sent his soulfire washing across the countess’ body, and again she blazed like a torch. But Arkhan felt his soul shield giving way before Isabella’s curse, and was forced to throw his efforts into reinforcing it. Isabella sensed the liche’s flow of magics shift. Casting aside her sword, she locked that hand alongside the other, tight about Arkhan’s throat. The curse tore at the liche more ferociously than ever before. In his desperation, he reached out to the magics sustaining his army, sapping the morghasts’ energies in order to stave off oblivion. The liche felt the curse’s grasp fade, driven back by the magics he had stolen.

It was then that Isabella shifted tactics. Though she had made no attempt to wield them, she had not forgotten the magics of her former life. Now, with Arkhan’s concentration solely fixed on the curse, she called forth the same soul-fire with which the liche had assailed her, and focussed it upon her foe.

The flames in Isabella's flesh flowed down her arms and into the liche, extinguishing the witch fires in his skull and setting his heavy robes alight. At the same time, the countess’ own blackened skin healed, restored to its alabaster sheen as the soul-fire scorched Arkhan from inside to out. Isabella held on a moment longer, laughter again rising from her throat. Then she leaned down through the flames, kissed the brow of the liche’s naked skull, and vaulted away.

Arkhan remained in Razarak’s saddle for a moment longer, searching desperately for a way to consolidate his waning power, but he was too weak. The Liche King’s blackened and lifeless bones hit the ground only a heartbeat after Isabella.

ENOUGH!

The voice was dark and majestic, every nightmare and horror infused into one word. Nagash had at last come forth from the Black Pyramid, and the battlefield fell still. Even the daemons were momentarily cowed as the looming shadow of black and bone emerged from the pyramid’s colossal gateway and swept down the isthmus. The Great Necromancer's progress was slow - almost serene - but utterly implacable, and as inevitable as night following day.

Where Nagash travelled, amethyst sparks flared across the rock, ushering his fallen minions to new life and new purpose. A tallyband of plague drones, however, were the first to recover, and buzzed furiously to confront Nagash. They didn’t even make it to within a blade’s length. The Great Necromancer’s eyes blazed brilliant green, and withering bolts burst forth, reducing the daemons to dust. Other plaguebearers followed their fellows’ example, and they suffered the same fate. All who fell beneath the wrathful shadow had the fury of Nagash's magic loosed against them. Swirling vortices swept across the isthmus, leaving crystal statues in their wake. Amethyst fire and writhing tendrils of violet energy swept the causeway, burning daemons to ash, or crushing them to pulp.

So it was that before the Great Necromancer had passed halfway along the isthmus, most of the surviving daemons had chosen to continue the battle against his minions, cleaving true to the underling’s time-honoured belief that some burdens were the responsibility of generals and gods, not mere foot soldiers. Thus, with the obstacles blasted or withdrawn from his path, the Great Necromancer soon towered over the upstart countess who had forced him to abandon his slumbers.

Isabella stood in silence as Nagash approached, her blade and chalice once more ready in her hands. Razarak snarled and prowled about her, forbidden from attacking by Nagash’s will. If the countess felt any fear, she did not show it, but stood proud and erect as the Great Necromancer drew near. Scrofulox, already regretting the impulse that had led him to swallow Krell, lumbered swiftly enough out of Nagash’s path. His orders had been to see Isabella safe until the self-styled God of the Dead arose. His duty was done, and he had no desire to perish in the countess’ stead now that Nagash had arisen.

------------------

By chance more than design, Ikit Claw’s drilling teams had breached the foundations of the Black Pyramid in the moment that Arkhan’s charred bones struck the ground. The chief warlock had driven his skaven bloody for the last hours of the approach, increasingly aware that he was some way past the agreed time of arrival. Claw had already been preparing his excuses for failure when the first warpstone-tipped drill burrowed into the Black Pyramid’s underbelly.

The clanrats had not waited for Claw’s orders, but had surged past the sweating drilling team and into the gloom beyond. All were glad to escape the treacherous confines of an increasingly unstable tunnel network, though they would have undoubtedly been less eager had they known what awaited them within. Claw had shared the particulars of the mission with no one, and with good reason. Few skaven were cast in a heroic mould, and delving into the Great Necromancer’s sanctum required heroes - or, at the least, ample promise of reward.

Ikit Claw was neither ignorant, nor a hero, so it was with great relief that he discovered Nagash had departed. It had always been the plan for the tunnelling party to arrive only after the Great Necromancer had been drawn into the battle, and it had worked. Claw contemplated how his delays might even have ended up being crucial to the timing, but then he remembered that Nagash would likely dispose of the Army of Blight before long. Success was success, but that outcome was still in doubt. Claw had six warpbombs at his disposal - twice as many as he thought necessary to bring down the Black Pyramid - but no amount of redundancy would matter if he was slain before they could be placed, and the time-delay fuses set to allow the army’s escape. Rasping orders, Claw returned some semblance of order to his tunnelling party, and headed deeper into the tombs.

Nagash might have been absent, venting his unbridled fury upon the daemonic host, but the Black Pyramid was still far from unguarded. Spirit-bound statues were scattered throughout the tomb, not sentient enough to act upon their own cognisance, but sufficiently aware of the mortal realm that others could use their eyes to witness who came and went. In the long months of Nagash’s repose, this duty had fallen to Varisoth the Keeper, a Sylvanian necromancer whose loyalty and utter lack of ambition perfectly suited Nagash's needs.

Varisoth had not slept in all the months of his watch, for Nagash had seen to it that such mortal needs were beyond him. Now, gazing through an ushabti's eyes, he caught sight of the skaven. Varisoth was unburdened by pride, and had no hesitation in casting his mind upon the winds of magic so that he might alert his master. However, so deep and abiding was Nagash's rage that Varisoth could sense that his voice had gone unheard. Rising to his feet, the necromancer muttered the seven harsh words of awakening. Longdead spirits burst from the chamber’s walls, writhing and swirling about Varisoth’s throne, lifting it from the gilt-edged flagstones and bearing it away towards the intruders. The necromancer’s mind was already far afield, rousing the pyramid’s guardians from their slumbers.

The attack came just as the first warpbomb was placed, in a wide, galleried chamber directly below Nagash’s sanctum of repose. In Claw’s triple-checked calculations, this was the structural heart of the Black Pyramid - here, a detonation of sufficient force would bring down the entire structure. At Varisoth’s urging, newly awakened ushabti lurched down from their plinths with no other sound save a creak of ancient stone, easily lost beneath hundreds of scurrying footfalls.

Claw was overseeing the placement of the first warpbomb when a chorus of terrified squeals cut through the air. Turning, he saw a tidal wave of panicked clanrats stampeding towards him. Behind them came expressionless ushabti, their great golden blades rising and falling murderously with every step. Already the living statues were spattered with skaven blood.

Bracing himself against the tide of fleeing underlings, Claw levelled Storm Daemon and sent a bolt of warp lightning into the advancing war-constructs. It struck one of the statues dead-centre with a deafening report, blasting a hole clear through its chest and sending gilded rubble flying in all directions. Again, Claw smote the ushabti, and this time other fire joined his own. The sharp crack and whine of jezzails echoed around the chamber. Claw saw one ushabti collapse as a heavy bullet smashed its right leg.

Warp lightning sizzled as Claw’s apprentices joined the battle, then fell silent as the chief warlock's metallic snarls bade them continue fusing the bombs. By the time Claw returned his attention to the battle, the ushabti had been smashed apart, but the echo of heavy feet upon stone told the warlock that the fighting wasn’t yet over. Confirmation swiftly followed. A burst of warpflame, brilliant green in the darkness, showed enemies converging from all sides. Tomb guard were emerging from alcoves and cross-corridors around the chamber’s perimeter. Whirling clouds of spirits spiralled in from openings let into the chamber’s roof. Other ushabti, summoned from elsewhere in the pyramid, converged remorselessly.

Claw was torn. He didn’t trust his engineers to fuse the warpbombs correctly, but then nor could he rely on his clanrats to fight the undead without his leadership. Reluctantly, he left his engineers to their work and squealed orders at the wavering clanrats. Those that had fled the first attack were long gone, scurried away into the shadows, striking for the entrance tunnel. However, victory over the ushabti had helped others find their courage, and their resolve grew firmer when a burst of warpflame fell plumb-centre in an approaching tomb guard cohort. So loud were the discordant cheers that no one paid any heed to the fate of the warpfire thrower team. Their weapon's feed-lines had split, and the leaking fuel quickly caught light, dooming the pair to a fiery death.

Capitalising on his warriors’ rising morale，Claw hurled them forward. Time was needed, time for the warpbombs to be fused, and clanrats were easily replaced. Chief warlocks, however, were another matter, and Claw was careful to remain at the rear with the weapon teams, the better to supervise and make a swift retreat if circumstances required it.

The battle’s pace quickened as more of the pyramid’s guardians joined the fight. Spirits ebbed and swirled across the chamber, chill fingers reaching through flesh and bone to squeeze the life from fearful hearts. One clawband, realising that their weapons were useless against their ethereal foes, lost all heart. Screeching in maddened panic, they streamed away from the fight, the spirits hungrily close behind. Ikit Claw saw the rout begin, and ordered his remaining warpfire throwers to fire along the path of retreat. Desperate squeals turned more raw, more frantic as the green flames overtook the fleeing skaven, but Claw didn’t care. All that mattered to him was that the pursuing spirit hosts had been caught in the same torrent, consumed by the same magical fire as those they had set to rout.

The jezzails continued their punishing volleys, pounding shot after shot into the ushabti. The duel was not all in the skaven’s favour, however. A handful of the constructs had bows, which they shot without breaking step. Arrows the size of saplings hissed across the chamber, smashing aside jezzail pavises and skewering both shieldrat and gunner with the same shaft. But it was in the grind of shield upon shield, where clanrat strove with skeletal guard that the skaven made their superior numbers count. Blind to all but the foe immediately before them, given courage by the sickly bursts of light that told of weapon teams still firing, the clanrats thrust and bit and gnawed at their foe, almost berserk in their determination.

Varisoth had waited in the shadows whilst the battle raged, allowing the unholy relic upon his throne to feast upon the death and destruction. Now, as the mortis engine glided forward, the necromancer cracked the reliquary seals, and reverently lifted the blackened skull high. At once, pale spectral energy blazed from the skull’s eye sockets, crazed streamers of death magic that sought living essence. Where they struck, clanrats fell dead, their lives instantly extinguished. Worse for the ratmen, the magic empowered the skeletal guardians, reknitting broken bones and driving them into the fight with renewed vigour.

Ikit Claw saw all this, saw the black skull held high by the scarecrow necromancer. Warp lightning arced out from Storm Daemon, punching through the roiling spirit cloud at the mortis engine’s base, and making the throne heave with sudden instability. Atop the throne, Varisoth staggered, slipped and finally fell into the reliquary’s iron railings, nearly losing his grip on the black skull as he did so. Still the pale magic blazed and writhed, sucking the life from nearby skaven and strengthening the dead warriors they fought. Not even the ratmen's battle-madness could blind them to this threat. In ones and twos, but soon by the dozen, the clanrats broke from the fight.

Realising that the situation could only be rescued if the necromancer were slain, Ikit Claw readied another bolt from Storm Daemon. Before he could release it, however, a guilty screech of alarm made him turn. An engineer was holding one of the warpbombs, arms clasped tight around it in an attempt to conceal from the chief warlock the green glow pulsing through the bomb casing.

Smothering his frustration, Claw made a tally of the fused bombs. Two had been readied - two, plus the one cradled in his foolish apprentice’s arms. Perhaps sympathetic explosions would do the rest. In any case, there was nothing to be done. Claw knew that the pulsing sphere’s detonation could not be arrested, that he could either abandon his army with the Black Pyramid and hope for success, or perish in that chamber. The chief warlock didn’t hesitate. Spooling up his warp compensators, Ikit Claw rasped a series of arcane syllables. There was a puff of greasy greentinged smoke and a sudden stench of rot. When they cleared, the chief warlock had gone, abandoning the rest of his army to their fate.

A moment later, the pulsing warpbomb detonated, and searing light swept the chamber.

	Este artículo está siendo corregido por un miembro de Traducción.
	Te recomendamos no realizar modificaciones hasta que esta plantilla sea retirada. Si crees necesaria una modificación, puedes contactar al usuario en su página de discusión o en la página de discusión de la plantilla para poder coordinar la redacción.
	Miembro a cargo: snorri	Fecha de inicio: 10-03-17	Estado: En proceso

Fuente

• The End Times V - Archaón