Batalla de Heffengen

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.

+++ORIGINAL. TRADUCCIÓN EN BREVE. RECE MUCHO A SIGMAR XDD+++

La Batalla de Heffengen comenzó al amanecer, apenas un día después de la llegada del Emperador. Karl Franz había considerado brevemente la retirada a las murallas de la ciudad, pero la rechazó rápidamente como inviable. Las defensas de Heffengen habían sido descuidadas, y el emperador no tenía fe en que aguantasen. En su lugar, desplegó su ejército en las llanuras del norte, confiando en que las aguas profundas del Río Revesnecht reforzarían su flanco oriental.

El General Godfrei Talb pidió al Emperador comandar las defensas del este, y este se lo concedió. Talb dirigiría a más de doce regimientos procedentes de toda Ostermark, pero Karl Franz escogió reforzar aún más esa parte de las defensas. Cuantioso oro se pagó a loa Mercenarios Puñosangre de Grub Kineater Puñosangre, con la promesa de más tras la victoria. Más notable, Valten y Luthor Huss optaron por hacer su defensa en el Hank oriental, lo que significó que el Ejército de Sigmar también lo hizo. Este era un nombre rimbombante, dado en sorna a las hordas de flagelantes que habían sido atraídos por Valten durante las semanas anteriores. Karl Franz estaba seguro de qué esperar del Ejército de Sigmar, y trató de minimizar el caos de los perturbados colocándolos en el extremo de su flanco.

El extremo occidental de la línea imperial lo acaparaba casi exclusivamente los soldados de Talabheim. Garrat Mecke, Lord General de Talabheim, era el único hombre en su sano juicio en el ejército que en realidad parecía estar esperando la inminente batalla; a excepción del siempre sediento de sangre Gran Mariscal, por supuesto. Desde la desaparición de Helmut Feuerbach, Conde Elector de Talabecland, Mecke no hizo nada por ocultar su deseo de ascender a tan alto cargo y, aún al borde de la catástrofe, albergar la esperanza de mejorar su candidatura demostrando su valor en ese día. Aunque Karl Franz desconfiaba de las motivaciones de Mecke, el general había desplegado una impresionante variedad de tropas de Talabheim a sus órdenes, por lo que el Emperador pasó por alto el mal menor de su ambición ese día.

En el centro de la línea, el Emperador reunió a sus mejores fuerzas. La mayoría de ellos eran soldados de Altdorf, tres regimientos enteros de la Guardia de Palacio del Emperador y muchos más de la milicia de la ciudad, formados en una línea doble de varios kilómetros más allá de las puertas de Heffengen. También reunió a la Reiksguard, con el intemperante Kurt Helborg esperando con inquietud a la cabeza.

Todo hombre agrupado en las líneas de batalla sabía qué esperar. La horda había sido anunciada durante días por un goteo constante de asaltantes, atracadores y buscadores de gloria. Los pueblos y puestos de avanzada cayeron a su paso, algunos defendido por actos de heroísmo que nunca se sabrían, otros abrumados en enfrentamientos agotadores en los que las aves carroñeras eran los únicos ganadores. Muchos de los soldados reunidos habían luchado en tales batallas, o les habían oído rabiar más allá del horizonte. Todos habían oído decir que El Fin de los Tiempos significaba el fin del mundo. Algunos se volvieron locos al oírlo, congregándose para unirse a los flagelantes infestados de pulgas y yagas escabrosas. La mayoría susurró plegarias a Sigmar, Ulric o Taal, afiló sus armas y oró por una muerte rápida si la victoria les era negada.

La horda avanzó bajo el batir de alas de innumerables cuervos, hambrientos ante el gran festín de cadáveres por venir. El aire era sacudido por un canto profundo y en auge, el retumbar de los tambores combinado con voces ásperas alzadas por la canción. El heraldo sonoro de los apuntadores de Nurgle se fusionó con el zumbido opresivo de un millón de moscas demoníacas y el estruendo de innumerables bestias mutadas.

Era un sonido que prometía muerte y condenación, y los hombres del Imperio oraron aún más para no escucharlo.

Cuando la horda entró en rango, los cañones a todo lo largo de la línea imperial dispararon con una sola voz. Durante un momento, el clamor de los norteños se ahogó, pero subió hasta la cima una vez más antes de que el humo se despejara. Merodeadores locos por la sangre, clavando sus espuelas en los flancos de caballos salvajes, cabalgaron por delante del cuerpo principal. A medida que se acercaron, gritando y animando, los afilados gritos de rifles de Hochland sonaron, lanzando a los bárbaros sangrienta al suelo revuelto de la llanura. De vez en cuando, un guerrero sobrevivió para llegar hasta las disciplinadas líneas, golpeando con su hacha o látigo contra el muro de lanzas, hasta que un empuje determinado o tiro de pistola certera le enviaron al abrazo de sus dioses.

A pesar de todo, el cuerpo principal de la horda avanzó, recto como una flecha hacia Heffengen. No se preocupaban por sus pérdidas ni de las fuerzas desplegadas contra ellos. Demasiado tiempo fueron contenidos más allá del Bastión Aúrico, y esa espera había despertado un hambre de masacre que aún debía ser satisfecho. En el centro de la horda se contoneaba el corpulento Gurug'ath. Él, más que nadie, tenía motivos para odiar a los débiles reunidos delante de él, pues la indignidad de encerrarle dentro de la muralla encantada aún colgaba pesadamente sobre su alma podrida. Peor aún, cuando antes la Gran Inmundicia había dirigido una horda, ahora era sólo señor de la guerra entre muchos, degradado por su fracaso en Alderfen.

En verdad, no había una sola mente guiando a la horda. El propósito común que tenía le fue concedido por instinto, no liderazgo y, cuando las bandas de guerra norteñas llegaron al rango de las armas de mano, pagaron esa falta de dirección. No había ningún plan de batalla, ni equilibrio táctico diseñado para ganar la victoria. Si lo hubiera habido, tal vez la horda del Caos hubiera golpeado la línea imperial como una sola fuerza imparable. Así las cosas, la carga de los norteños fue desigual y cuando las primeras hachas golpearon el centro de la línea de Karl Franz, los norteños dejaron el Hanks intacto.

The Altdorfers bore the brunt of that first charge, and paid dearly for it. Spears and halberds were knocked aside, their wielders hewn by axes or trampled beneath spittle- fiecked steeds. Hulking northlander brutes forced their way into the tight-packed formations, hacking and bellowing. Determined to prove themselves before their Emperor, the Altdorfers fought on, but that braveiy cost them greatly. Five whole regiments vanished in the opening minutes of that brutal melee, but not one man took a backward step, not one man cast down his weapon and begged for mercy. The men of the Empires heartland fought to the last, and so made their Emperor proud.

Now, other forces joined the battle. First came the Reiksguard; Kurt Helborg had not waited for the Emperor s order, but had sounded the charge as soon as the Chaos horde had crashed home. «Just behind the Reiksguard, the second line of Altdorfers, loosed to the fray at Karl Franz's order, lowered their weapons and charged. They knew that death awaited them, but went to it all the same, screaming to drown their desperate fears. The counter-attack hit like a hammerblow, scattering the leading warbands, and reclaiming the ground so valiantly defended by the now-vanished regiments. Kurt I lelborgs runefang hacked down the skull-helmed warlord who had let! the charge, and the Reiksmarshals triumphant cheer was soon taken up by those around him -strict disciplinarian though the Reiksmarshal may have been, his men loved him well, and revelled in his achievements as freely as they did their own. Alas, the horde was a dark and fulsome sea, and these were but the first breakers upon the shore.

Gurugath led the next attack, a flood of daemons and Skaeling tribesmen at his back. The surviving Altdorfers were exhausted from their f rantic charge, but now they defiantly braced themselves for the battle to come. This time they would not fight alone. The Empire’s Hanks had still to suffer anything but the most inconsequential of assaults, and now lent their aid to the embattled centre. To the west, Garrat Mecke s artillery batteries and handgunners lent their fire, and the northlander ranks shuddered as the hail of shells and shot slammed home. To the east, the Army of Sigmar, unable to restrain their fervour any longer, came frothing and chanting to the fight. Valten rode at their head, the light of Sigmar playing upon his brow, and for the first time the northlanders knew doubt. With a final howl, the flagellants crashed into the Skaelings, the madmen of one land come to vie with those of another. 

Kurt Helborg’s normally grim countenance twisted into a savage smile.

His runefang hacked down, splitting the leering skull-helm of a northlander chief. Gods, he thought, there was no greater joy than this; a sea of foes, a righteous cause and good men at his back. What more could a warrior desire?

The Reiksmarshal urged his warhorse deeper into the horde, scarcely aware of the cheering around him. Helborg’s sword felt like a thing alive in his hand, hungry as he for the blood of the foe. Let the northlanders think themselves the better men, I ielborg thought. I le would prove them wrong this day.

A colossal plague daemon loomed out of the armoured ranks, barrelling aside its own followers in his haste to join the battle. All at once, the cheers of the Reiksguard faded away, the sound’s absence penetrating Helborg’s mind in a way that its recent presence never had.

The Reiksmarshal did not so much as hesitate. ‘Come on,you scum!' he roared at his men, standing tall in his saddle.

'I’ll not have it said that the Reiksguard ran from that sagging sack of flesh! For Karl Franz! For the Empire!’

Again the Reiksguard charged into the press of battle, spilling blood and daemonic ichor as they rode. Helborg wielded his men like a lance, thrusting true for the heart of the horde - he had marked the presence of Gurug’ath amidst the fray, and thought to earn,' his runefang against the foul creature. Deep the stalwart knights drove into the horde, the vile ranks closing around them. The Reiksguard knew no fear, not while 1 Ielborg led them, and they pressed on through writhing tentacles, bloated daemon-flies and rot-limbed horrors until they reached their quarry. Lances lowered and thrust deep into the Great Unclean One’s hide, but he felt not the blows. Repellent laughter rumbled from the creatures ruined throat, and a single swipe of his battered sword scattered the knights. Then came Helborg’s runefang. The daemon's laughter became a roar of outraged pain as the dwarf-wrought blade sliced deep into his flesh. Again the Reiksmarshal struck, laying Gurug’ath s massive arm open to the bone. The daemon bellowed and flailed madly, and Helborg was cast from his saddle to land stunned amongst the dead and dying knights.

Some distance away, Karl Franz saw the Reiksmarshal fall, and knew the time had come for him to enter the battle. Both Helborg and loyal Schwarzhelm had advised against the Emperor risking himself directly, but Karl Franz beheld a battle in the balance. Thus far, the Altdorfers fought on, but only at terrible cost, and the Emperor could see the Chaos horde shifting as its warlord smelled opportunity elsewhere. Now was the time to act, Karl Franz decided, and, ignoring Schwarzhelm’s cautions, the Emperor urged Deathclaw forward. With a deafening screech, the griffon took to the skies, and bore his master to Helborg's salvation. 

Even as Karl Franz entered the tray, the embattled Skaelings lost their will to fight.

The Army of Sigmar fought with no formation, no discipline, just a bloodthirsty and implacable zeal. The Skaelings had grown soft in the weeks of pillage, and they found that the flagellants were a foe beyond them. On swept the Army of Sigmar, scattering northlanders before them. Holy light shone upon Valten s brow, and its brilliance spread through all who followed him, rousing them to greater efforts.

Flails swung in maddening arcs, then slammed home to splinter shields and pulp skulls. Skaelings screamed their harsh war cries, only for their voices to be drowned by exultations to Sigmar. Men on both sides fell wounded, and were crushed as the ferv id horde trampled on. A tribal chiet emerged out of the crowd, roaring a crude challenge. Valten brought Ghal Maraz crashing down in reply, smashing through the chieftain's shield and splitting apart his skull.

I luss laid about him like a man possessed, scattering foes with each sweep of his hammer, linger and stronger the northlanders may have been, but their gods were distant and uncaring at that moment, while every man who followed Valten struck with a port ion of Sigmar s might. Beneath that onslaught, the Skaelings broke. Weapons abandoned, they fled, the favour of the gods forgotten.

Seeing their enemies scatter, the flagellants let out a raucous cheer. The sound carried back to the Empire lines, where the Ostermarkers and Grub Kineater’s ogres yet held position. Blood set afire by the sound, the Empire's east flank started forward. The men of Ostermark came for vengeance, for the chance to make the invaders pay for lost kith and kin. The ogres came to claim the dead as feast-tithe, to fill bellies rumbling from the thin rations of preceding weeks. Their thunderous voices too were raised in celebration, rowdy and jocular at the prospect of a feast. Then, a booming war song erupted from beyond the milling barbarians, and the cheer died.

The flagellants’ fervour had served them well against the fur-clad Skaeling marauders, but it availed them little against the grim warriors who now tell upon them. These plate-clad brutes were the favoured warriors of the Kurgan, and Vardek Crom was their lord. Crom had sworn allegiance to Archaon Kverchosen and now served as his herald. Loosed from the Inevitable City by Archaon's will, Crom had come south to seek the favour of the gods. 1 le did not know that Archaon had despatched him thus in the hope that death would find him and. even if he had, would have cared not one whit. Vardek Crom had ever believed himself a conqueror; now, with Archaon’s blessing, he sought to prove it.

Into the sackclothed rabble the Kurgan came, and death came with them. Lost to holy madness, the flagellants made little attempt to defend themselves; axes cut deep into scarred flesh, and the Sigmarite zealots fell as wheat before the scythe. Still the flagellants did not 

give up. They fought on through the most terrible of wounds, clawing at the foe with bleeding fingers and biting ¿it them with rotten teeth. But though they died unbowed, and without ¿1 btickward step, they died still.

Only where Valten and Huss fought did the holy army hold its ground, and this only because any northlander who carried a blade against the pair perished soon after. Yet even these heroes could only hold ground; their efYorts alone could not repulse the Kurgan horde. Soon the holy army had been all but swept away; Valten and Huss battled amidst a surging sea of hate, fighting from islands whose shores were the corpses of their fellows. The mightiest of the Kurgan hurled themselves against these shores, certain that the gods would reward those who overcame the pair whose hammers shone with holy light, but most swept on over the dead and dying, and crashed onto the waiting blades of the Ostermarkers.

Urgent shouts rang out across the Ostermark line as captains tried to form their men ¿»gainst the Kurgan charge. The Ostermarkers hadn't lost their discipline, and the rattle and whistle of crossbow fire cut through the air. Here and there a northlander fell, but most of the holts were wasted against blood-spattered plate. Even so, the volley served to stagger the Kurgan advance, and an assault that should have sn^shed home as a line of unbroken shields instead came piecemeal onto the levelled spears of the men of Ostermark. 

Many Kurgan perished in that clash, their impetus driving them onto the blades of their Toes. Seeing their toes falter, the captains of Ostermark ordered their detachments against the enemy Hanks, seeking to overwhelm the fierce northlanders before they could reorder their ranks. Alas, the Ostermarkcrs had advanced too quickly in the flagellants' wake, and had not seen the second wave of northlanders Hooding past the charnel fortress where Valten and Hussyet fought. As the men of the Empire went forward in counter-attack, this new attack crashed against the Ostermarkers' flanks.

One minute, the colours of Heffengen, Essen and Bechafen rippled proudly in the breeze, their yellows and purples bold against the coming dark. The next, the Ostermark line collapsed like rotten wood under a hammer blow. It was not cowardice that brought this about, for the men of Ostermark fought as bravely as did any that day. Alas, the men of the Empire had ever relied on discipline to win their battles, on many blades striking together in order to bring down a mightier foe. In the brutal one-on-one battles that now erupted, they had no chance. The ranks of yellow and purple were torn to red ruin, captains were hacked down by heavy axes and proud banners fell into the mud.

Grub Kineater watched the Ostermarkers’ collapse, saw Godfrei Talb’s skull split under an axe-blow, and knew at once what was to come. With a bellow that carried clearly over the screams of the dead and dying, he bellowed at his boys to hold firm. There was no point tiying to escape; the northlanders were already in pursuit of the fleeing soldiers and would reach the ogres in moments.

Better, Kineater decided, to face the onslaught head on. With a toothy grin, he hefted his maul and prepared to fight.

Mad von Carstein saw the Kurgan charge crash home against the ogres, and reckoned it was past time for him to strike. The hordes east flank was a strung out and ill-ordered mess, and the vampire knew that a counter-attack by a sufficiently disciplined force could tear it apart.

And you do. I suppose?' Gelt asked wearily. He had meant for his words to carry a sardonic tone, but somehow he could not muster the defiance. It was as if the more time he spent with Vlad, the less vibrant his own thoughts and wishes became.

'I am here, and stand ready to help defend a throne I once sought to claim,’ the vampire replied mildly. 'That should be answer enough.’

Gelt gave no reply, and simply watched as his ally - his master - peered out across the Revesnecht plain. Wbat haw you become? a voice screamed inside the wizard's head, then fell silent as the von Carstein turned to face him once more.

'I think, at last, it is time for us to make our presence felt, Vlad announced. 'Are you prepared?'

Gelt inclined his head. ‘Yes, master.’

‘Good. Then we shall begin.'

Fortunately. Vlad had such an army nearby. Needing neither sleep nor rest, it had been in position for three full days before either the forces of the Empire or the Chaos horde had arrived at I ieffengen. The vampire knew that Karl Franz would not willingly accept his help; the history of the von Carsteins and Celt's recent actions had seen to that. Thus, Vlad hadn't wasted time in futile attempts at forging a formal alliance. Instead, the vampire had trusted to the inevitability of battle on the Revesnecht plain, and concealed his army in the one place no sentry or outrider would ever have thought to look for it. Only Vlad, Balthasar Gelt and a small guard of Drakenhot Templars ran the risk of discovery', but that chance was a small one. They were concealed within an abandoned watchpost on the banks of the Revesnecht, and Vlad's spies had informed him that the locals lived in such fear of the ruin being haunted that no one went near.

Mad did not need to give a verbal command. 1 lis will crowded close on ¿ill of his minions and, in any event, they' would not have heard him. Nevertheless, the vampire believed that certain formalities had to be obeyed. Thus did he order his personal standard set upon the remains of the watchtower rampart, raised his sword to the sky', and gave voice to the command that roused his army from concealment and hurled them into battle. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the waters of the Revesnecht heaved, and suddenly' the west bank of the river was covered with black banners and skeletal warriors.

Vlad's army advanced without breaking step, the soft mud of the riverbank clinging tight about its warriors' leet, water and slime cascading from weapons and through ribcages. For three day's they h;ul waited beneath the waters of the Revesnecht. They could not have been said to have waited patiently, for that would have implied that they had possessed a desire to be elsewhere, and they' had no thoughts or feelings save for those that Vlad placed within them. Now those skeletons, wights and w'inged reavers advanced into the fray with the same implacability', caring nothing for their losses, if they even noticed them at all.

Though they' were caught between Grub Kineater’s slab-sided ogres and the undead onslaught, the Kurgan did not despair.

Instead, they came to the fray' with fresh fury'. Behemoths of the northern wastes were loosed from their chtiins and rampaged through the undead. Rot-crowned shamans called upon Nurgle for aid, and blackrot plague spread through the ogres like wildfire. None of this availed the Kurgan however, and the slaughter they htid inflicted to that point now became their greatest foe. As the battle raged, Gelt put his newly-gained necromantic prowess to good use. As the wizard bent the winds of magic to his will, the Ostermarkers and flagellants so recently slain rose to fight again. By the time Vlad and his bodyguard joined the fight, the tide of battle had turned, the Kurgan stalled at the height of what should have been a glorious triumph. 

Further north, Huss and Valten, the Prophet and the Herald, yet fought on. Of the Army of Sigmar, perhaps a few score remained, penned in on all sides by the black-armoured warriors of the northlands. Here, the dead did not rise, for Celt’s concentration was bent on the fighting further south. Still the Kurgan could not overwhelm the grim priest and the flaxen- haired youth, but from amongst the north men’s lines came Vardek Crom, unbeaten champion of the Everchosen. Smelling the prospect of glory, Crom pushed through the melee, seeking to restore his followers’ flagging morale with the blood of the enemy's champions.

Seeing Crom approach, Huss spurred forward. The great hammer swung down to split the warlord’s skull, but Crom was too fast, and swept the strike aside with his shield. Crorn’s return blow was not loosed against Huss, but rather against the priest’s horse. The beast screamed in pain as the axe all but severed its foreleg and, rearing up, flung Huss from the saddle. Crom was on the priest before he could regain his footing, and the point of his sword plunged deep into Huss’ shoulder. As his hammer fell from nerveless hands, Huss called holy fire down upon his tormentor. Though Crom staggered, he did not fall, and his next blow sliced deep into the priest’s scalp to crack his skull. Laughing at his victory, Crom battered aside Huss’ desperate punch, and readied his sword for the final blow.

That blow never fell. As Crom’s sword thrust home, Valten urged his steed through the press of battle and assailed Crom from behind. Ghal Maraz came hammering down, and the Conqueror’s hastily raised shield crumpled under the blow. I luss forgotten, Crom spun to face Valten, his axe flashing out to cripple the youth’s horse as it had the priest's. This time, however, the gambit failed. Valten's steed had been a personal gift from Karl Franz, and was well-trained. Swift as Crom's axe strike was, the warhorse stepped smartly aside, leaving the Conqueror’s blade hacking at empty air. Ghal Maraz came down again, and this time it was Crom’s sword that shattered. Now the warlord had only his axe at hand, but still he did not yield the fight.

Crom had his opponent's measure now, and kept his weapon ever in motion, whirling the axe in dizzying arcs so that Valten could not be sure where the next blow would come f rom. Again and again the axe bit at Valten s armour, and all the while Crom evaded the youth’s return blows — the Conqueror had tasted the might of Ghal Maraz twice now, and resolved to let it strike him no more. Once, twice, three times Valten struck out at his foe, and each time Ghal Maraz passed within hair’s breath of Crom’s helm. On the third strike, the warlord leaned inside the blow’s arc and, with his free hand, hauled Valten from the saddle.

Valten hit the ground, all breath driven from his body, and Crom closed for the kill. Roaring his victory, Crom brought his axe down, but 

now it was Muss’ turn to save V'alten. Though slowed by his wounds, the warrior priest threw himself forward, and locked both of his gauntleted hands around Crom’s weapon arm. Such was the warlord's strength that I luss could check the blow for only a moment, but a moment was all that V'alten needed. The youth’s fingers tightened around Ghal Maraz’s grips and the hammer came around, smashing into Crom's armoured chest, crumpling the steel and pulping the flesh behind. A second strike stove in the warlord's horned helm, and Crom the Conqueror, herald of Archaon, passed from the mortal world.

Crom’s death sealed the fate of the Kurgan that day. Had he lived, the Conqueror could perhaps have led a counter-attack against the undead; as it was, the northlanders had been disordered by Vlad’s attack, and dismayed by the loss of their warlord. Vlad tasted the despair, and smiled as he led the Drakenhof Templars to the aid of Grub Kineater’s Bloodfists. As he advanced, the vampire saw the ogres weighty mace slam into a knot of great-axe wielding northlanders, scattering- broken bodies with evety strike. Without missing a step, Vlad altered the direction of his approach ever so slightly - he had no idea if the ogre realised that the undead fought on his side, and had no intention being ignominiously splattered because of a misunderstanding.

¿As the east flank of the Chaos horde collapsed, the west prepared itself for glory. Here were massed the horsemen and knights of many tribes, but it was a Kul who commanded them, by right of challenge on the battle's eve. ¿Vkkorak the Crow they called him, Reaver of the Nine Wastes. Long had he ridden in the service of the Dark Gods, honing his sword against the northern tribes and the soft-skinned men of the Empire alike. When Akkorak looked upon the standards arrayed against him, he did not feel fear, merely a glorious destiny waiting to lie claimed. In the booming of the cannons he heard the roar of the gods; in the ranks of the foe he saw only skulls waiting to be claimed. Now was the hour in which the Crow would take his due. Drawing his sword, Akkorak bellowed with joy and urged his steed to the gallop. Behind him, a thousand harsh voices took up the cry of exultation, and the ground shook to the thunder of iron-shod hooves as the massed marauders and knights followed in their champion's wake.

The stalwart men of Talabheim saw Akkorak s charge begin, though they did not know who led it, for the chieftain was but one man amongst hundreds. Sergeants and officers began barking orders, letting their confidence fill the men under their command. Along the line, restless hands tightened on the grips of sword, shield and spear. Gun crews sweated and swore as they served their insatiable mistresses, sending roundshot and mortar shells screaming across the battlefield to crash into the onrushing horde. Here and there, gaps tore open in Vkkorak s charge, but they were soon filled as other horsemen spurred forward into the spaces. 

Handgun fire rippled up and down the line. The men of Talabheim had fired too soon; a captain had panicked, the range was too great and the shots were wasted. Brilliant oranges and reds flared as wizards of the Bright College loosed fireballs and flaming meteors; linstocks flashed and the first helblasters roared, but still Akkoraks charge came on. The ground trembled to pounding hooves, and the men of Talabheim, who had no wish to die in the defence of a rival state, began to shrink away from the foe. It started slowly, with men taking a half step back before reloading, or a captain reforming his troops along more favourable ground that just happened to be more distant from the enemy. Only the gun crews were immune. Deaf from the roar of their war engines and blind from the smoke, they scarcely noticed as lines of spears and halberds drew towards them, and focussed on feeding that one last shot that would perhaps break the charge.

Amongst the Talabheimers was the Amethyst wizard Albrecht Morrstan. Like many wizards of his college, Morrstan had been irrevocably transformed when Nagash had grounded death magic in Svlvania. Not long ago, he had been a creature of flesh and blood; now he trod uneasily on the border between life and death. Ever a recluse, Morrstan had spent the last few weeks completely apart from the other citizens of Heffengen, deliberately concealing his affliction. Yet, though he was little more than a ghostly echo of his former self, Morrstan was still a faithful son of the Empire. He had joined the battle line at dawn, trusting his robes to conceal the ghastly truth from his countrymen, constantly fearful of discovery.

Now, in the moment before Alckorak s charge crashed home against the wavering men of Talabheim, Morrstan proved his loyalty. The wizard threw back his cloak and began to chant. Nearby soldiers recoiled at the sight of his translucent form, but Morrstan paid it no heed. The ground before him cracked and warped as a swirling purple globe thrust its way through the topsoil. With a flick of his hands, the wizard sent the globe into the oncoming horde. All at once, the discipline of the charge felt apart. The leading ranks hauled on reins and bellowed at their steeds in their attempts to evade the incoming spell, and many succeeded. The rearward ranks, however, were nowhere near so fortunate. With no warning save the desperate panic of their fellows, few that came behind saw the purple sun before it was too late; they were swallowed by the globe and instantly transmuted to lifeless statues of crimson- veined crystal.

Morrstan saw none of this. When the wizard had revealed his ghostly form, Garrat Mecke had recovered his wits quicker than any of his men. Alas, he saw not what Morrstan had done, only what he was. Pausing only to kiss the silver-chased barrel of his pistol, the general sent a blessed bullet hammering into the wizard's ghostly skull. iMorrstan wailed once as the shot ripped through him; a heartbeat later, his empty robes collapsed to the ground. Without the wizard's guiding hand, the swirling purple globe dissipated immediately, but his hist act had not been in vain. Where once had loomed an unstoppable host of knights, now stood a field of crystal simulacra.

Robbed of scores of warriors, and all of its momentum, Akkorak’s attack should have had no hope of breaking the Talabheim lines. Yet still the Kurgan champion pressed home his charge, for was he not Akkorak, Butcher of Teska, Reaver of the Nine Wastes? He knew the gaze of the gods was upon the battlefield, and he would be damned if he failed. As the northlander closed on the line of spears, he raised his sword high so that the eye-watering runes upon its length might catch the gods’ attention. Then Akkorak’s steed skimmed bodily into the spear wall, and the killing began.

In the centre, Gurug’ath bellowed in agony as Deathclaws talons raked across his back, and again as Karl Franz's runelang sliced a splinter of bone from his skull. In the shadow of the daemon, his life bought by the Emperor’s intervention, Kurt Helborg hauled himself to weary feet. Beset from above, the Great Unclean One had momentarily forgotten the Reiksmarshal, but others amongst his host had not. A pair of plaguebearers lumbered toward Helborg, swollen innards bulging against distended bellies, and collapsed into a shower of foul-smelling pus as the Reiksmarshal’s runefang cut them down. A moment later, Helborg had seized his warhorse s reins and was in the saddle once more. Calling the surviving Reiksguard to his side, 1 Ielborg rode to aid his Emperor, but more plaguebearers moved to block his path.

Deathclaw wheeled and dove back towards Gurug’ath, claws outstretched to gouge a bloody furrow through the milling daemons. As the griffon closed with the Great Unclean One, Karl Franz hefted his sword. It had been many years since he had wielded the Reikland runefang in battle, and he had forgotten how light and lithe the blade felt in his hand. Where Ghal Maraz was a bludgeon fit to crush any barrier before it, Dragon Tooth was a weapon of finesse, as well-honed as only a dwarfish blade could be.

Deathclaw landed square on the daemons back, claws ripping at its skin. With a sudden jerk, the griffon buried his beak into Gurug’ath s back, and tore away a great gobbet of rancid and maggot laden flesh. Dropping his sword, the Great Unclean One reached up to rip the griffon from his back, but Deathclaw dug his talons all the deeper. Again the beast snapped at the daemon’s flesh, and this time, leaning low across the griffon's neck, Karl Franz took a two-handed grip on his runefang, and thrust the weapon down into Gurug'ath s skull. Helborg saw the greater daemon perish, and his manner was torn between admiration at the Emperor’s feat, and disappointment that the killing blow had belonged to another. 

As Gurug'ath gave a last mournful burble, Deathclaw took to the skies once again, giving Karl Franz a commanding view of the battlefield. All about him, the lesser daemons were growing weaker, their grasp on the mortal world slackening in the face of mortal valour. As the daemons faded, so too did the northlanders' will to fight, and the men of the Empire at last sensed victory within their grasp. To the west, the Emperor saw Akkorak's knights wreak red ruin in Garrat Mecke s ranks, only to be torn apart by the Talabheimers’ vengeful blades. Beneath Karl Franz, Kurt Helborg and Ludwig Schwarzhelm rallied the Reiksguard and the Altdorfers, the bloodied soldiers of the Imperial heartlands drawing fresh strength from the Emperor s colours, and to the east...

To the east, the Emperor beheld the ruin of the Ostermarkers, and the unlooked-for legions of undead that strove against the surviving Kurgan. I Ie saw the ancient banner of Vlad von Carstein flying above the black- armoured knights, and marked the vampire who fought with a strange and savage grace. In that moment, Karl Franz understood a great deal about the fate that had befallen Gelt, and resolved to take vengeance for the wizard's sundered honour, whether the vampire truly fought in common cause or no. For now, it was enough that the battle was almost won, the latest incursion from the dread north all but blunted. Then a new trumpet sounded.

Vlad von Carstein heard that clarion and cast his gaze to the north, his attention momentarily distracted from the plate-clad warrior dangling from his taloned grip. I Ie knew that trumpet, and the warriors whose arrival it heralded, anti allowed himself a slender smile. The battle might be won, but a greater margin of victory was always to be welcomed. Vlad could see them now, the scarlet-armoured knights of Blood Keep, freed to come south once again now the Auric Bastion had fallen. The great silhouette of Harkon s skeletal dragon was a dark smear across the sky, and Vlad was forced to concede that even a brute like Harkon had his uses.

Closer the Blood Dragons thundered, past the trailing elements of the northlander horde, spurring through clusters of fleeing Kurgan and Skaelings, and Vlad knew that something was wrong. Too late, he saw that the rearmost of the newcomers were clad not in archaic plate, but the crude steel of the north, and that many of the knights rode steeds not of reanimated flesh, but of bronze and cinder. With a curse, Vlad realised that Harkon had turned, had abandoned the service of Nagash for the promises of the Chaos Gods. But it was too late; even as the Chaos horde stood on the brink of defeat, the traitorous Blood Dragons lowered their lances, and unmade the Empire's hard-won victory. 

The Blood Dragons divided as they approached the battle, half crashing into Celt's army of skeletons, the rest riding hard for where the Reiksguard strove to claim the centre ground. I farkon went with this second group, his dragon dipping out of the skies to pluck knights from their steeds. Leaving Gelt to fend for himself, Vlad led the Drakenhof Templars west - the treacherous Walach Harkon would be stopped.

Vlad was not the only one who sought to vanquish Harkon that day. As the Blood Dragons closed on the Reiksguard, Karl Franz turned to face the grand master. They met in the skies, the Emperor and the vampire, the Reikland runefang clashing with the ancient templar blade. Harkon was the greatest of his order, ranked amongst the foremost warriors of that or any age, and by rights Karl Franz should have swiftly perished. As it was, Sigmar was with the Emperor that day, and for a time Karl Franz held his own against the Blood Dragon. The sky rang to the sound of steel on steel as the two swooped and dove away northward, ever seeking weakness in the other's guard.

Beneath them, the northlanders regained their courage and joined the Blood Dragon counter-attack. Yard by yard, the men of the Reik were driven back. They had achieved so much that day, held a line that only madmen would have dared defend, and at last their courage broke. In ones and twos, then like a flood suddenly breaching a dam, the Altdorfers fled. With a cruel challenge, the Blood Dragons rode into the rout, lances and sword aimed at fleeing backs. Seeing the flight become a massacre, Helborg formed the Reiksguard as a wall of blood and steel between the fleeing men and their pursuers. Even then, the Reiksmarshal would not admit that the battle was lost.

Then, Karl Franz, Emperor of the House of Luitpold, fell from the skies, chest torn open by Harkon s sword.

No soldier of the Empire saw the blood gush free, nor heard the cry of pain that tore free from his lips, but many saw their Emperor plunge groundward, a tiny figure against the noon-day sky, soon swallowed up by the advancing ranks of the foe. Some bore witness as Deathclaw sought vengeance for his master, and all heard the griffon's deafening screech as Harkon s next blow shattered the loyal beast’s wing to send him spiralling out of the sky.

From the very start. Karl Franz had known that he was overmatched. Harkon was too swilt. The vampire had parried every' blow with ridiculous ease, but no longer was there any chance to choose another path. The duel hail begun; now there was only victory or death.

Again Deathclaw dived towards the dragon, and again the Fmperor struck at his crimson-armoured foe. This time the parry was followed by a lightning-swift riposte. Karl Franz had just enough time to realise that the vampire had been toying with him before the sword pierced his breastplate and ripped deep into his chest. In the same moment, the dragon twisted in midair, seizing Deathclaw in its talons, and preventing the griffon from flying its injured master to safety.

‘You're a fool!’ 1 larkon spat at his bloodied foe. ‘This is no time for mortal men. This is the hour of the gods, and of those who would become gods!’

‘Even gods can fall,’ Karl Franz breathed, the words ragged as his strength fled his body.

Lost in visions of glory, the raving vampire didn't hear the Emperor speak; nor did he see the runefang until its point lanced upward, carving a wicked furrow across his gaunt cheek and taking out his left eye. With a howl of pain, the vampire clapped a hand over his ruined face, and wrenched his sword from the Emperor's flesh.

Karl Franz saw the bloody' blade come free, but knew no pain, only a desperate tiredness. Falling free of his mount, the Emperor closed his eyes, and felt the world spin around him.

With Karl Franz's fall, his army collapsed. The Talabheimers, though they' had borne the lightest burden of the battle, threw down their weapons and fled. Garrat Mecke bawled orders and threats as he tried to stop the rout, but gained naught but a mutineer’s sword blade in his guts for his trouble. The Altdorfers were already running, and now the Reiksguard joined them. Only Helborg’s inner circle held their order, the Reiksmarshal himself bodily hauling Ludwig Schwarzhelm from the battle. The Emperor's Champion sought to ride into the thick of the foe to recover Karl Franz’s body, and only' by knocking the other cold had Helborg won the argument. To the east, Grub Kineater, still of good cheer despite the loss of half the Bloodfists and his own left ear, reluctantly' decided that there was no profit to be made in a glorious death, and led his ogres away towards the comparative safety' of Heffengen. With him went Valten and IIuss, the latter walking only with y'ounger man’s support. Of the Army of Sigmar, no other remained. Even Gelt permitted himself a moment of sorrow at the Emperor’s fall, then he spurred Quicksilver away, abandoning his army of thralls to the victorious horde.

Though none yet knew it, the panic of the Emperor's loss would quickly spread, and Heffengen s garrison would join the rout. By nightfall, the city' would be a daemon-haunted ruin, its population dead, or worse. But that was not quite the end of the battle...

Walach Harkon's thirst tor combat had not been slaked by the defeat of Karl Franz and, as the Empire army melted away beneath him, the Blood Dragon sought another foe worthy of his attention. It was then that he saw the banner of Vlad von Carstein, and urged his bone dragon to descend. Harkon's onset was the doom of the Drakenhof Templars. The Blood Dragon's skeletal steed crashed into the column of knights with punishing force, and those not crushed under the creature’s bulk soon fell beneath the vampire's flashing blade. Vlad sought to dive clear, but Harkon had judged his descent perfectly, and the Sylvanian found himself pinned beneath the dragon's massive talons, unable to move, unable even to speak.

Harkon, however, was not thus afflicted.

He had always hated the arrogance of the von Carsteins and now, as the pursuit unfolded, he ensured that the other understood the full depth of that loathing.

Harkon boasted too of how Khorne had sought his service, and how readily he had accepted, for what use to the Blood Dragons was the world that Nagash would create — a sterile land where obedience was all, and glory was forsaken? Enjoying his moment of triumph, Harkon ranted and railed of honour, but Vlad heard little of those words, for his mind was elsewhere. Harkon might have been the more accomplished warrior, but a vampire's arts were broader and subtler by far than mere bladesmanship. As the Blood Dragon's diatribe went on, Vlad let his will drift upon the winds of magic, searching for a particular mote of dark magic. A moment later, he found it, and bent it to his will.

Harkon's soliloquy was suddenly cut off as his dragon bucked suddenly, throwing the Blood Dragon over its neck and onto the ground below. Before Harkon could react, it was he who was pinned beneath the dragon's foot, whilst Vlad stood alongside, regarding the traitor with contempt. After a heartbeat's contemplation, Vlad gave a parody of the Blood Dragon's own salute and patted the bone dragon's outstretched wing. Obedient to its new master, the undead beast lunged forward, settled its jaws around Harkon's torso, and tore the vampire in half.

Only then did Vlad heave himself up onto the bone dragon's back and depart the field. The battle had been ¿1 disaster, and Vlad took little consolation from the fact that the fault was not his. The Emperor had been lost, the army routed and Ostermark would soon fall to the Chaos hordes. As he winged his way southwards to Sylvania, Vlad did something he had not done in many hundreds of years: he prayed. Not to a god, for in truth he could no longer remember what deities had once commanded his belief. Rather, Vlad von Carstein, Count of Sylvania, a creature who admitted no master save for himself, prayed that Nagash was indeed the salvation he claimed to be.

Fuente

• The End Times I - Nagash.