The End Times: The Return of Nagash

They’d heard the cacophony of the horde from leagues away, and Ungrim, knowing what the noise foretold, had ordered cannons unlimbered and the oath stones placed, as the Slayers sang their death songs and his clansmen gave voice to prayers to Grimnir. Three times they’d driven the beasts back, and three times the creatures regrouped and charged again, as if the scent of their own savage blood on the air only served to drive them to greater ferocity.

Again and again and again the beasts had thrown themselves at the shieldwall of Karak Kadrin. Though it was almost impossible to tell, thanks to the sunless skies overhead, Ungrim thought that the battle was entering its second day. The dead were piled in heaps and drifts, and the dwarf lines had contracted more than once, shrinking with their losses.

Ungrim bounded over a fallen centigor and launched himself at a towering bull-headed monstrosity that was hacking at the shieldwall. It was larger than any of the others, and it stank of blood and musk. He gave a triumphant yell as his axe sank into the thick muscles of the minotaur’s back. The monster bellowed in agony and twisted away from its former opponents. Ungrim was yanked off his feet and swung about as the minotaur thrashed, but he clung to his axe grimly. He reached out with his free hand, grabbed a hank of matted hair and hauled himself up towards the creature’s head. ‘You’ll do, you oversized lump of beef,’ he roared. ‘Come on, let’s see if you can kill a king before he boots you in the brains.’

Ungrim tore his axe free in a spray of blood and chopped it down, hooking the screaming minotaur’s shoulder. He snagged one of its horns and drove his boot into the back of its skull. The minotaur reared and clawed for him, trying to drag him off. Ungrim hung on, anchored by his axe, and continued to kick the beast in the head. It wasn’t particularly glorious, as tactics went, but they were good, tough boots, and the creature’s skull was bound to give before his foot did. It caught hold of his cloak and began to yank at him, and Ungrim lost his grip on his axe. Flailing wildly, he caught hold of the brute’s horn with both hands and, with a crack, he snapped it off.

The minotaur wailed and tore him from his perch. It smashed him down and so powerful was the blow that he sank into the soil as all of the air was expelled from his lungs. Drool dripped into his face as the minotaur crouched over him, its hands squeezing his barrel torso. Unable to breathe, Ungrim rammed the broken horn into one of the beast’s eyes. It reared back with a scream. Ungrim tried to rise, but it smashed him from his feet with a wild blow. Dazed, he glared up at the monster as it loomed over him. Then, there was a roar and the minotaur’s head vanished in an explosion of red. It toppled over.

‘Och, are you dead then, yer kingship?’ a voice shouted.

‘Damn you, Makaisson,’ Ungrim spluttered as a burly Slayer dragged him to his feet. ‘What’s the meaning of cheating me out of a perfectly good death?’

‘Was that yers, then? I hae noo idea, yer kingship,’ Malakai Makaisson said. A pair of thick goggles, liberally spattered with blood, covered his eyes, and he wore a peculiar cap, with ear flaps and a hole cut in the top for his crest of crimson-dyed hair. A bandolier of ammunition for the handgun he carried in one gloved hand crossed his barrel chest, and a satchel full of bombs dangled across it. As Ungrim watched in consternation, the engineer-Slayer grabbed one of the bombs, popped the striker-fuse and slung it overhand into a mass of confused beastmen.

‘Stop blowing all of them up!’ Ungrim roared. He kicked and shoved at the minotaur’s body as he tried to retrieve his axe. If he didn’t get his hands on it quickly, there was every likelihood that Makaisson would blow up the lot of them.

‘What? I cannae hear you, what wi’ the bombs,’ Makaisson shouted as he lit and hurled another explosive. ‘They’re loud, ya ken.’

‘I know,’ Ungrim snarled. He tore his axe free in a welter of brackish blood and shook it in Makaisson’s face. ‘Why aren’t you with the artillery?’

‘Beasties are falling back, ain’t they?’ Makaisson said. ‘They’ve had enough, ya ken?’

‘What?’ Ungrim turned and saw that the engineer-Slayer was correct. The beastmen had broken and were fleeing into the trees, as if the death of the giant minotaur had been a signal. Behind them, they left a battlefield choked with the mangled and half-devoured bodies of the dead. The throng of Karak Kadrin had control of the field.

But, as he looked at the battered remnants of his once-mighty army, Ungrim was forced to come to the conclusion that though they had won the battle, they had lost this particular war. As he moved through the weary ranks of his warriors, his mental abacus tallied the losses – with a sinking heart, he saw that almost eight in ten of them had fallen in the battle. Though they’d won a great victory – perhaps the greatest victory in the annals of Karak Kadrin against the foul children of Chaos – they had failed their allies.