‘Black Guard! To me!’
His voice was loud enough to be heard over the sounds of battle, the clashing of steel the screaming of the dying, and those who could hear him answered his rallying call as swiftly as they could. They formed a solid knot of fighters, packing themselves tightly together and delivering retribution on the Chaos army. Yet still the Hellcannons were eating away at the walls of their city. The Chaos army was unrelenting. It pounded and drove forwards, all around the great city, marauders and monsters attempting to breach the walls.
His blood fired.
‘The jewel of Naggaroth is not for these vermin,’ he roared. ‘If they want blood, then let us give it to them! Drown them in their own! For Naggarond! For Malekith!’
The rousing words ignited a fresh rush of determination in the elves and in perfect unison they inched forwards to fight back the flood of barbarians preparing to surge into the city.
A shadow overhead raised a ripple of shouting and pointing amongst the warriors battling closest. A huge manticore bearing a sorceress soared above the wall and headed for the rear of the Chaos lines. Valkia raced in her wake but other sorceresses struggling with the harpies broke from their combat temporarily to hurl arcs of power at the daemon princess. The diversion was successful, if costly, as flocks of harpies descended on the walls to hurl screaming figures over the parapets. Valkia ducked and weaved between the magical assaults and shielded her body from another. Black lightning crashed against Locephax and the former daemon prince of Slaanesh absorbed it into his twisted being. His eyes and mouth opened wide and fingers of purple fire returned to the caster, immolating her with a flash of vile energies.
It was time enough for the beast-riding sorceress to cast her own spells, and blades of shadow fell among the Hellcannons, ripping crew apart and shattering chains of binding. Several of the weapons simply vanished with thunderclaps of power, while others went mad, running amok through the barbarian hordes and crushing all in their path. A ragged cheer went up from the walls of the beleaguered city as the bombardment faltered. The sorceress turned her steed back towards the walls, its leathery wings keeping her from the reach of the howling mob below. The Hellcannons had caused minimal damage during their relentless assault, knocking a hole at the top of a single section of wall. Any breach the Chaos army had hoped to achieve with the siege weapons had failed – and now they had lost the means to further that line of attack.
Darkhand scoured the skies desperately, searching for the warrior queen, but the winged horror was nowhere to be seen. He quelled his rising sense of disappointment and focused on the defence of the walls. More barbarians were arriving all the time, but their fury, and the weight of numbers between them and the walls made it impossible for them to reach the city. Thousands of marauders streamed around the city, breaking off towards the east and west and into the Iron Mountains. In doing so, they continued their march further south in search of easier, or more immediate prey upon which to slake their thirst for blood.
Naggarond had withstood the initial onslaught and as it had done for countless years, it would continue to stand firm and proud. However, it was not going to be an easy task.
Darkhand glanced up at the huge, sinister figure of the Witch King and paused in his retelling of the siege. Malekith was a silent and taciturn audience, but he listened to everything. He sat astride the sinuous bulk of Seraphon, his ancient black dragon, and led a long column of warriors and Black Guard across the northern reaches of Naggaroth. How easily Darkhand could guess at their ultimate destination, but years of association suggested to him that it was unwise to assume the thoughts of the Witch King and more, it was utterly foolish to question him.
‘That, then, was how we broke their attempt to lay waste to Naggarond on the first day, my lord.’ Darkhand continued once the lengthy silence suggested that Malekith had nothing to say. ‘We robbed them of their momentum and deprived them of the kill, and the greater number passed us by and continued south. Had they chosen to press the attack…’
There was a creak of ancient joints and armour as the Witch King turned to regard the captain. Wisps of power smouldered from the carved sockets of his monstrous mask and curled around the knotted crown that he wore at his brow. The attention of the Witch King was like an open blast furnace turning its heat upon you and Darkhand stiffened under the sudden scrutiny. He fought with his instincts to shuffle like a recruit. Malekith crooked one finger: a barely perceptible movement that indicated Darkhand should continue. The captain swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
‘Had they chosen to press the attack, then we would have broken them still. Your warriors, my lord, are as tenacious as they are loyal. As it was, we bled them for ninety days and nights before…’
Supplies of bolts for both the crossbows and the siege weapons were all but exhausted and the ground before the city was littered with thousands of punctured corpses and the speared bodies of giants and mammoths. Still they fought on. Darkhand was weary, exhausted, bruised and battered, but still he led his men in the defence.
The twisted siege towers that had been dragged to the walls lay in smouldering, stinking ruins on the charred grounds before the city gates, the still-burning flesh of their occupants filling the air with a sickly scent. New towers were brought forth from time to time; most were patched together from the ruins of others. Daily they attacked and daily they were destroyed. Each tower was capable of housing large waves of warriors, beastmen and mutants, disgorging them onto the front lines.
But the flood had not lasted. Mostly the attacking force came in sporadic bursts – but the fact of the matter was that they still came. So much death and yet so many continued to attack.
Darkhand watched it all and adjusted battle strategies. He engaged Chaos troops until it seemed there could be no more to give. The twists of fate had granted him a second shot at the great prize and he grasped it with both hands.
He engaged Valkia for a second time atop a pile of stone spreading out between two of the remaining towers. Their interrupted duel resumed as though the intervening time had not happened. The two warriors came together in a second clash of strength and will. Darkhand gave his all to the fight despite his weariness and the tiredness that dogged at him.
He ducked an early flurry of blows, spinning away from the daemon woman. As he fought, his halberd unceremoniously removed the head of one of her marauders who had strayed too close in a moment of bloodthirsty madness. Valkia followed Darkhand with unnatural, bounding grace, casually cutting a pair of crossbow bolts from the air with her spear as she came. Three months of near-constant battle had chewed the walls of Naggarond into a ragged stretch of ugly, black rubble pierced with towering, obsidian fangs. Skirmishes continued, fresh – but ever-decreasing – waves of barbarians attacking daily, but never with the sheer impact of that first day.
Valkia thrust her spear at the retreating dark elf, the tip of it scoring the surface of one of his pauldrons. She had quickly grown used to the wicked enchantment worked into her foe’s armour and the pain that came with striking him. She was consort to the god of battles; her immortal frame would far outlast the yielding flesh of her enemy. To her, this was simply prey that kicked back. And she liked that in her victims.
She lunged again, but Darkhand turned the strike aside and spun, delivering an artful kick that was designed to trip her.
Valkia hurdled the kick, bringing her weapon down in an overhead strike that would have pinned him to the floor had he not intercepted it. Spear and halberd locked together in a spray of arcane sparks and sizzling blood. The earth shook, dislodging a shower of broken rock and bodies from the rubble, but neither warrior spared a glance at what was happening as they wrestled to gain the advantage. Valkia’s eyes burned into Darkhand’s soul and he could feel his self-control begin to soften. He felt an urge to yield to this creature. His iron will was not as indomitable as he had thought.