GM NOTE: Have a bonus from A Dynasty of Salt and Blood, featuring protagonist Elector Count Stephan von Kessel.
[] Voted Plan
-[] Full Frontal Assault - There is no time, nor reason, to attempt any more tricks. If Sunweaver's word holds true, she is on the way with the fleet. Now you must pin the Druchii right against the shore and outright into the sea if possible.
--[] One More: Perhaps one more trick, if possible. Push the wedge personally, let the enemy concentrate on you, and let them run right into a prepared pike and spear block.
--[] Eonir Positioned West
--[] Ostermark Positioned East
A Dynasty of Salt and Blood - O' Thy Shores Running Red, Part 4
"Into them!" Stephan roared, swinging
Crow Feeder through the thorny wall of spears and shearing their deadly tips in a single rush. "Now!"
"ULRIC!"
"NORDLAND!"
"FOR THE EMPIRE!"
The entire army heaved and strained as his orders were carried out, but they most certainly were carried out. Just Stephan had suspected, the Druchii had been far too confident. They had plunged deep into his province, at first simply arrogantly but then angrily when they found that he had emptied the villages of their people and replaced them with cavalry. The reports from said cavalry, and more importantly the archers and handgunners rising sidesaddle with them, had been quite welcome indeed. The corsairs had raided the coastlines of the Old World and beyond for centuries, longer perhaps in the case of some of their veterans, but in all their time of raiding Nordland – for they most certainly had plenty of times for the fear to be ingrained in many – they had never done so while the Eonir were present. The Lady Dawnstone had sworn that the Druchii had infringed upon the sovereign territory of Laurelorn before, and been repulsed, and it certainly seemed so for all the relish that the Eonir had shown as they launched ambushes upon bands of corsairs and shades that had seen fit to try and stalk forward through the tree line.
From nearby, he could hear the bellowing of the Great Stag that Naraiel Dawnstone rode, the Glade Lord of Laurelorn herself entering the battlefield. She was not, of course, alone. Her people would not allow it. Instead, the mostly unarmored but undeniably swift steeds of the Eonir carried their riders to dance up to and against the Druchii lines, their riders lashing out with lances of their own. The shore was riddled with the bodies of dead harpies, slain not just with some salvos from his handgunners and archers, but by the terrifyingly swift and unerringly accurate bows of the elves as well. All along the entire western flank, the enemy were faltering under the almost alien fury of the Eonir. On the right flank, the contingent from Ostermark were fighting as well as they could, given the circumstances, but by the comparison to his own troops and the Eonir they were not faltering so much as simply being left behind by the sheer momentum of it all!
"You come to my province!" Stephan shouted again. "You bring your chains! You bring your cages!? Well we bring you death!"
"DEATH!" His Greatswords and other nearby troops took up the call.
"DEATH!" Odelia screamed aloud from atop her horse, raising her staff and thrusting out her free hand at the same time.
An undulating tornado of flame erupted out of the heavens themselves and crashed down amongst the Druchii. At first, his love's efforts had been stymied by the handfuls of enemy's numbers of sorceresses and hags. But as Stephan passed right past one of the half-naked Druchii on the ground, an expression of shock on her face and two Eonir arrows in each eye socket, he couldn't help but flash a fierce grin to himself. Odelia had been quite displeased with the enemy dispelling every attempt she'd made at contributing to the battle outside of her own sword, but now there was nothing but vicious glee on the Bright Magister's face as she defended her home. There was a muted thump and boom from somewhere to his right, Druchii flying into the air as one of the Warrior Priests of Sigmar brought not just their hammer down but a glowing twin-tailed golden comet as well. Given the sudden stumbling and tripping from both the Druchii and his own troops that he could see, it seemed a sizable crater had been left behind.
The air screamed with the sounds of cannon and handgun, the whistle and buzz of bow and crossbow, but so too did he hear the frenzied and outraged commands of the Druchii.
He might not have spoken Druhir, or proper Eltharin, but a minor grounding in Fan-Eltharin was providing him with more than enough. As near as any of their scouts, his and the Eonir's, could tell, the enemy had not brought a proper Dreadlord with them nor a Supreme Sorceress. Dire news indeed for Ostland, for all that it was a great boon for his own province. Stephan chewed at his lip in thought as he methodically hacked down ever more desperate Dreadspears trying to keep his troops back. He had no idea as to the condition of Ostland, but everyone had seen the damned Black Arks in the far distance as they'd shot past to the east at speeds that would beggar belief for any Imperial ship, with only their attendant fleets remaining behind and sailing towards Nordland. Which, in turn, meant that a tremendous amount of enemy strength was targeting his friend's home.
"Hurry up and die!" He spat, "We have places to be!"
But what pleased Stephan more than anything else was the sight of so many black sails ahead of him. Normally such a thing would be nothing more and nothing less than utter terror. A single one of those dagger ships could have spelled doom up and down the coastline, and over the years of his rule as Elector Count and that of the traitor Gruber and Stephan's father before that stretching back to the time before Sigmar, it had been the same. The Druchii had never been truly defeated in the entire history of the Empire, only ever been driven off. Sometimes swiftly, and other times only after horrendous losses and multiple depopulated villages and hamlets. But that was the past, and this was today, and that fact brought an angry yet powerful energy to the whole of Nordland's army present. Righteous anger, stoked by so many years of raiding and losses, of enslavement of their people, was today being returned two-fold.
For today, it was the
Druchii who were on the run.
Outnumbered.
Outmaneuvered.
Out. Of. Chances.
Up ahead, the rush and crash of the Sea of Claws was almost as loud as the pounding of blood in Stephan's ears and the boom of the artillery and handguns. Manann had blessed this battle, as had Ulric, for it was a razor cold wind that blew southwards practically pinning the Druchii ships to the shore that they had all landed at. That same wind, even now, blew at the backs of the Druchii as they were pushed back, back, back again. Even from here, Stephan could see as the furthest ranks of the Druchii as they literally bumped up back against their ships. Handbows and repeating crossbows let out salvo after salvo, but they were struggling to aim and arc their shots at this point, not to mention they were running dangerously low on ammo thanks to the cavalry skirmishers making them waste their shots early on. Some of the Druchii were outright stumbling and falling over as the waves splashed over their backs, knocking them about, their footing slipping in the churning rocky sands. Blood,
Druchii blood, was mixing and reddening those sands, and the water beyond. A fine change of pace indeed.
"Count Kessel! Look!" One of the Greatswords cried aloud, pointing.
In an act of absolutely ridiculous horsemanship and skill, Stephan could only gape as he watched an entire contingent of Druchii cavalry rode from within some of the Druchii ships and out into the battle. The unnaturally raised and expertly trained equines literally leapt from ship to ship, hooves clattering against the dark wood, their obsidian black coats shining with sweat beneath the armor which sheathed them. Behind them, slower, but no less deadly, came true knights of Naggaroth. Nobles astride hissing, leaping cold ones, the lizards just behind the horses that were heartlessly being used to open up the way for them. Stephan immediately turned to Odelia, tugging her on the shoulder and pointing.
"We need them blunted! Now!"
"On it!" She nodded and clasped her hands together around her staff and raised it high.
A needle thin line of fire shot dozens of feet into the air before exploding at its terminus point. There, a giant arrow formed with what was unmistakably a galloping horse which slowly began to fade away, to be then replaced by a solid if incredibly thin square of fire. All in all, the signal barely lasted longer than five seconds. But it was more than enough. They had drilled this a thousand times, performed it in battle a hundred more. Horns went out, calls answered, and the entire 1st Army of Nordland roiled and shifted in accordance with their training. The moment the Druchii cavalry experts hit the sands, ready to try and collapse the human lines to allow their fellows to more properly retreat onto the ships, the line completely faded out and away – revealing quick marched ranged troops including more than a few bands of Eonir.
Centuries or thousands of years, Druchii or no, they remained yet light cavalry.
And when hundreds of bows, handguns, and crossbows sang in unison accompanied by a battery of rapid moving Ostland-forged Dash Cannons utilizing grape shot, that light cavalry died in their totality. Behind them, the more heavily armored but slower moving knights were peppered as well, their momentum broken before it could truly ramp up. Many of them still lived, however, and prepared to try and begin their butchers work regardless. Stephan could see no more, however, as he was busy ducking and raising up a shield to defend himself against a pair of corsairs desperately slashing and hacking at him, forcing him to step backwards. Or, at least, that was likely what the corsairs imagined. As his penetrating wedge was forced back, the Druchii were energized once more, some of them daring to laugh with sadistic glee as they joined up with the effort to bring the highly visible Elector Count down, concentrating more and more of their veterans forward. After all, if they brought him down, if they could slay the accursed Bright Magister who allowed such ease of communication with the army, there might yet be a chance for them to salvage the situation.
"READY!"
Which was when Stephan finished stepping back, slammed his shield outwards to give himself some breathing room, and the spearmen and pikemen who had been marshaling behind him stepped forwards. Suddenly, he was absolutely outlined from waist to head all around, the longer reaching weapons penetrating and killing droves of Druchii with a single joined stab. Next to him, Odelia clenched a fist, and brightly burning flames erupted upon those spear and pike points, adding even more ruinous damage to the Druchii who had let themselves be packed together to try and kill him in one final effort. More final than they would have expected, Stephan knew. Corsairs died. Dreadspears died. Bleakswords died. Executioners died. They died, and their bodies began to coat the ground. It was human feet, now, that were stomping and crunching over Druchii bodies as they continued to advance.
The Great Stag's unearthly bellow echoed out across the field again. Stephan chanced it, ducking back behind the spear line, and glanced to the west. There, outright standing atop it on her own two feet, was the Lady Dawnstone. He could not read her features from here, especially with her helmet, but he didn't need to. He saw enough as she hurled javelins with remarkable strength, each one puncturing right through the rushing Druchii, shields and all. She shouted something and pointed at a rolling altar of brass and black steel upon which sat a bubbling cauldron of blood and a trio of Death Hags. Uncaring of its wounds, or perhaps simply unbothered by them, the stag began to charge, ducking its head and skewering a half dozen more Druchii upon its horns as it went. It was not the first time he'd seen one of those damned altars, their effects horrifically potent indeed, but the Eonir had targeted them swiftly each time one had been revealed.
This time, it appeared it would be no different, for Naraiel drew a finger across her throat just before the Great Stag slammed into the mobile altar and knocked it onto its side. Unholy boiling blood splashed out of the cauldron out onto the ground, covering many of the Druchii and causing them to let loose pained screams as they died. Some screamed and were covered in glowing crimson energy, swelling in strength and power, but also a madness that Naraiel had explained as being lost to Khaine's bloodlust. A fact evidenced by those surviving and empowered Druchii immediately attacking everyone around them, including their own side. The Lady Dawnstone, for her part, threw another javelin at one of the Death Hags. The Bride of Khaine dodged, sneering as she did so, only for Naraiel to clench her fist and have the javelin explode outwards into razor sharp enchanted shrapnel which tore the Death Hag apart from behind. The other two leapt for the Glade Lord, only for her to kick one in the stomach and away, unsheathing her sword and decapitating the other. Before the third and final Death Hag could escape, or even attack, a quick snap of her fingers and a point had the Great Stag bring down both hooves atop the priestess to brutally mash her into paste.
And then horns rang out, a set of piping mournful yet vengeful notes.
As one, the forces of Nordland, the Eonir, and Ostermark roared.
As one, the Druchii sagged.
They could not have known, not necessarily, but they were veterans of war and raiding. They knew what such a response from their enemies meant. Of course, it also helped that those notes rang out into the cold winter morning from the Sea of Claws itself.
Behind the landed and beached fleet of two Black Arks.
From the Sea of Claws, a rolling fog bank which had been creeping up over the past half hour ceased to be maintained. Its purpose done, it ceased to billow outwards, and instead was left behind by those that it had been concealing all this time. From the fog, bursting outwards and surging forward at near breakneck speeds, came the First Imperial Fleet and every other ship that had been conscripted from across the coast of Nordland. At the foremost wolf ship, literally standing atop the snarling wolf's head ram, her hands clasped around her own staff and her chin raised high in a smugly superior sneer, was none other than the Yhanna Sunweaver herself. The High Spellweaver of all Laurelorn slammed her staff down thrice, and as the ships continued to advance, a number of other Spellweavers could be seen similarly placed amongst a number of the ships. Those able to perceive the Winds of Magic could see the sheer swell they had placed within the sails of the human ships, the more physical wind practically launching the ships forward as if each had been shot out of a ballista. The bare few Druchii ships that had managed to push off from the shore had not even the chance to begin wheeling about to try and make a proper fight of it. Desperate crews tried to man the bolt throwers on their ships, but those same bolt throwers had been smartly targeted on by cannons early on in this final phase of the fight. Those few that were left functional were collapsing the moment they exposed themselves to man the bolt throwers by the Waystalkers of Laurelorn, shafts of enchanted wood punching right through their armor.
Stephan raised
Crow Feeder again, and gave the last order needed for the battle to be rendered over and done with.
"FORWARD! CRUSH! THEM! ALL!"
No Voting Point Required At This Time, So Just: To Be Continued...
