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Nachhexen-31-2494
Pov of Georg
"Why are we stopping?" I asked, tightening the strap of my rifle while sliding my hand toward my waist pack to grab a few cartridges. I assumed, as always, that it was more orcs coming down from the mountains.
"Looks like we've reached our first objective," said Bertram, doing the same as me. By now, we were used to greenskins harassing our marching columns nonstop.
I leaned forward between the ranks to see what was happening—and then I saw it: a massive bridge.
It was strange. In this region there was no infrastructure at all, and the reason we'd become so good at marching through rough terrain was precisely because there were no roads or crossings. The entire journey had been a constant struggle against the wild.
"Well… looks like there's going to be a fight," I said, loading a round into my rifle.
"Yeah… seems like we're in for trouble with the greenskins. Best be ready," Bertram replied, drawing his rune blade—one of those gifted by the Dawi to our lord. Many of my comrades followed suit, unsheathing their weapons or checking their gear. It was automatic by now.
Then something caught my eye in the sky."What's that?" I asked, lifting my rifle to aim at the shapes flying above us.
"I don't know… eagles?" Bertram muttered, squinting.
"GOBLINS!" shouted one of the sergeants. "Spread out! Quickly—don't bunch up! Those things are going to dive right on us!"
Chaos erupted. We scattered immediately—some diving to the sides of the path, others taking cover behind rocks.
Dozens of figures were descending through the air. As I reloaded my rifle, I saw one of the Ice Witches step forward, her stride firm. Several of them formed a circle, their voices blending into a chilling chant, and suddenly the air itself seemed to halt.
Then a massive gale swept down on us. The wind struck the valley with brutal force, and we watched as the flying creatures—the goblins—lost all control midair. Some smashed against the cliffs, others plummeted straight into the ground, and many vanished into the abyss below.
"Good! We're safe! Back to formation! Move before the… witches tire!" the sergeant barked, glancing nervously at the Ice Witches, who were still channeling the winds with fierce intensity. Snowflakes began to fall, and the air turned bitterly cold.
We regrouped quickly, reforming the marching column. We started crossing the long bridge while we still could, watching as more goblins leapt from the mountains. But none got far. Kislevite magic sent them crashing helplessly into the rocks.
Every now and then, we looked up and saw the griffon—our lord astride it, soaring above, ready to strike at the first sign of danger.
The vanguard units moved swiftly. It seemed there would be no complications. In fact, it looked as though we'd cross unopposed—until we saw where the real battle would begin.
The bridge ahead forked, and one of the paths led straight into a fortress carved into the mountain. At its gate, a massive sculpture shaped like an orc's head made it clear who occupied it. We knew exactly why we were here.
The winds still howled, carrying snow and dust. We prepared for what looked like a siege. But before orders could even be given, a group of three Golden Wizards—servants of our lord—stepped forward toward the gates. They began to chant, speaking in that strange tongue only mages used.
All the metal holding the gates shut began to melt. Incandescent drops hissed against the stone, and the wood, no longer held in place. The fortress doors opened without a single ram.
"Where are the greenskins?" Bertram asked, glancing around warily. Throughout the entire march we'd only seen goblins throwing themselves to their deaths like idiots, but a fortress… an empty fortress made no sense. It was a waste of walls.
We soon got the order: we were to enter.
And the further we advanced, the stronger our suspicions grew.There was no one. Absolutely no one. Only piles of rusted scrap, weapon remnants, animal bones, and skulls—of all kinds. Some far too large. Others, disturbingly small.
At least there was light. Stones embedded in the ceiling glowed faintly, illuminating the main corridors. It made movement easier, though each step felt heavier, more uneasy.
"Damn… the smell's unbearable," I said, trying to breathe through my mouth as we passed what was clearly a mountain of excrement.
Everyone covered their noses.
We advanced through the main hall in formation. Those in front carried rifles ready, some with shotguns. We cleared every corridor, every corner—but found nothing. Only empty chambers, debris, trash, bones…
"Georg… look at this," said Bertram, bending down as he prodded a corpse with his rune blade.
I approached cautiously. The body was twisted, torn apart… and clearly not an orc or a goblin.
"By Sigmar… what is that?" one of our men muttered, staring at the corpse.
It looked like some kind of beastman—but its head wasn't like any animal we'd seen among the Chaos breeds. This one had the face of a rat: a long snout, pointed ears, and yellowed teeth.
"I've heard of beastmen with the heads of stags, bulls… all sorts of things. But… a rat?" Bertram said, nudging the body again to get a better look. The corpse was half-eaten. Clearly, the greenskins had found it before we did.
"How in hell did this thing end up here?" I asked, pushing the body with the tip of my boot, my stomach churning.
"Only Sigmar knows…" another soldier replied, pulling out a medallion bearing the twin-tailed comet and kissing it. "But I'd bet it's the work of the Ruinous Powers. Only they twist men like this."
I looked at the body again. It bore more deformities—elongated claws, a hunched spine, and what looked like a black, swollen pustule growing from one shoulder.
"Yes… it must be their doing," I muttered, still staring at the corpse. "Keep clearing the area. We're not done here yet… and something tells me this isn't the worst thing we'll find."
We spent quite some time wandering through the labyrinthine fortress. We found several stairways descending to lower levels, but for now we had no orders to go down, so we focused on securing the first floor. The veterans—especially those who'd fought in Dawi strongholds before—were grateful. They knew how vital it was to secure every entrance and corridor.
We quickly sealed all passages leading downward, posting guards and erecting makeshift barricades. But just as we finished sweeping the last sections of the upper level, we found something unexpected—a fortress within the fortress. An inner wall.
And this time, there were greenskins inside.
Not many orcs, but swarms of goblins… and another, smaller breed I had never seen before. Still, they filled the ramparts with shrieking chaos and frenzied movement.
The Gold Wizards of Chamon rejoined us as we opened fire on the walls. Every shot dropped a goblin or an orc who dared peek over the parapet, while the wizards began chanting one of their strange spells again. This time, the incantation awakened the fortress's old Dawi gate mechanism. We heard the grinding of rusted gears—and then the doors began to open on their own.
The wizards, satisfied with their work, immediately withdrew behind the main formation."Forward! Take that fortress at once!" our captain shouted.
We obeyed without hesitation.
Several orcs came charging down from the inner walls, roaring, swinging massive axes, clad in rusted plate armor.
I took a few steps forward, then stopped with the rest of the front line. We aimed. We waited.I saw the eyes of one of them—burning with rage.and I pulled the trigger.
The recoil slammed into my shoulder, the shot cracking through the tunnel—and an instant later, the echo of hundreds of rifles thundered through the fortress like a storm.
The orcs dropped like sacks, their bodies shredded, their armor splintered to pieces. But the rest didn't stop. They trampled their own dead, charging over mangled corpses.
I loaded another round, shut the chamber, aimed, fired again. Another deafening echo. More bodies falling.
They weren't many—but they were stubborn. They advanced a few meters before collapsing, yet they kept trying. Beasts without a shred of self-preservation.
"Khazukan Kazakit-ha!" the Dawi roared as they advanced between our ranks. "Strike the urk down!" bellowed one of their leaders as they took position at our front.
They closed ranks—shields forward, rune-hammers raised—and didn't interrupt our gunline. On the contrary, as we kept firing, the Dawi hurled small metal orbs toward the enemy formation. They landed among the orcs like stones—then came the roar.
Hundreds of explosions.
The orcs' bodies were torn apart, flying in all directions.
We were annihilating the greenskins. Without slowing, we advanced step by step, driving their lines back. The Dawi took the front, holding firm against the few orcs and goblins that reached our vanguard.
The clang of rune-forged weapons crushing bones and rending flesh filled the hall—metal on meat, shields smashing jaws, war cries drowned by the chaos of battle.
We fired from the second line, covering them. Then our lord appeared among us—his gromril armor gleaming amid the carnage. A hundred of his finest marched at his side.
They joined the Dawi at the front, crushing the greenskins still fighting. The sound of cracking skulls multiplied as our lord swung his war mace—an enormous runic weapon whose engravings blazed with power. Each blow shattered bones, broke jaws, sent orcs flying.
It didn't take long for the remaining greenskins to break and flee, retreating into the fortress depths.
The Dawi, under their commander's orders, advanced after them. Their shields locked tight, their pace slow and unyielding. Every rock, arrow, or scrap the goblins hurled from the battlements simply bounced off their rune armor, harmless.
Our infantry followed close behind, led by our lord, marching just behind the Dawi, shouting orders to his captains and sergeants. They, in turn, barked them at us:
"Get to the walls! Fire on those on the ramparts!"
We obeyed immediately. We shifted aim, targeting the goblins trying to hold the heights with their crooked bows. Many fell, screaming, crashing into the ground or impaling themselves on their own jagged defenses.
The thunder of battle grew even louder—the percussion of our rifles and shotguns mixing with the clash of steel, the Dawi war cries, and the roar of explosions.
The Dawi and our lord's veteran soldiers pressed deep into the fortress. We were left with the easier task—clearing the outer sections, where only scattered greenskins remained, cowards hiding rather than fighting.
"What's the matter, you filthy vermin?" Bertram shouted as he impaled a goblin on his rune sword. The creature clawed at its own hands, trying to free itself from the blade buried in its gut.
One lunged at me with a stone knife. I smashed the butt of my rifle into its face, threw it to the ground, and crushed its neck under my boot until it cracked.
"Clear," Bertram said, flicking his sword clean of gore.
"Let's keep moving," I muttered, and we descended a stone staircase, following the echo of battle below.
Down one of the corridors, we found a door.
"Damn it, it's locked," Bertram said, pushing against it to no avail.
"Let me try." I stepped forward, turned, and kicked hard at the rusted latch. The rotten wood gave way instantly with a splintering crack.
"Open," Bertram said, stepping in quickly with his sword raised.
Seconds later, I heard him shout: "Georg—get the captain!"
"What happened?" I said, entering with my rifle ready.
But what I saw made me freeze in place. "By Sigmar… why are the Dawi here—as prisoners?"
Before us, in a dark, damp chamber, a group of Dawi lay chained, thrown against the walls . They were wrecked—starved, filthy, covered in scars, many with wounds that hadn't healed in weeks.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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