As well as the first engagement went, that was as poorly as the second engagement was looking. The Grand Marshal and Dread Master had a few barely patched together skeletal guards to keep the entire warherd off Heinrich and the others. The last few templars haughtily held their ground, assured of their victory nevermind the tens of thousands of provoked beasts charging them. Meanwhile the Viscount and his Warden with Wealdmaer raced ahead to ambush Malagor before he emerged from the Feydark only to find him not alone, nor merely accompanied by a pair of gorbulls as they had been prepared to.
No, he had an entire platoon of gors, ungors, another bray-shaman, and a full squad of gorbulls.
So things looked bad, and everyone almost died the last time when things went perfect.
With herds of tens of thousands close at hand, it became critical to ensure not a single chaos beast escaped the caves to draw attention to their little band, so lacking any options, the Viscount tumbled directly in to the heart of the enemy formation clearing just enough room for the Warden to teleport the Wight King and himself into position. Heinrich had just enough time smash Malagor’s formiddable mental defenses before the rest of the beastmen fell upon them.
While Malagor the Dark Omen snored indelicately on the broken ground.
Things almost looked good there for a moment, as monstrously tough as the enemy commander was, being unconscious made it a relatively simple matter to dispatch him, even whilst being pounded by the raging warherd. So of course things went disastrously wrong.
As the Warp overtook the recently deceased spawn of Chaos its form bloated and twisted and swelled into a horrid beast of flailing flesh but it spoke with a voice Heinrich recognized. Its words were of little consequence, your world is doomed, it will be returned to Chaos, etc. The whole world was awash in fire and blood and daemons, the gods of war themselves had already understood that there was no other outcome. Restating it was as pointless as the creature claimed fighting against it would be.
It blabbered on as it flailed about. Its Warpspawned wails and flailing tentacles hit much harder than its arguments. Heinrich fought with all his might but he was going to fall. The Wight King and the Viscount were both being bullied about the caves being tossed about by the remaining gorebulls and Heinrich was suspended in the air by tentacles and claws while fists and pseudopods pummelled him relentlessly.
But somehow, it was not to be. The Warden disappeared from the monster’s grasp and crashed into it from above like a spinning fiery meteor, cleaving it apart and sending it screaming back to the Warp and as he rose from its smoking crater he saw that the others had dispatched the remaining Chaos spawn. Heinrich was barely conscious as the surprisingly strong grasp of the Wight King hurled him back out into the Feywild to make their escape as the Grand Marshal’s pitiful forces had managed to form some semblance of an ordered retreat under the Dread Master’s arcane protection.
But that voice…
What did it mean?