Prince Tyrion looked out to sea and did the same thing he had done day after day, and week after week. He watched, and he waited.
The sun hung low on the western horizon, spilling blood-red light across the waves. The twilight sky above was deepening to purple, and the first silver stars of night were winking into view.
They were out there. They were coming. Even at this distance, he could feel their hatred. It was oppressive, almost overwhelming.
A chill wind from the west whipped long strands of golden hair about his face. his white cloak fluttered, and behind him, the pennants and banners of his army, the Shining Guard, snapped to and fro. The prince closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander back.
Now he was in the past, at the great harbor of Lothern. A great flotilla of High Elf longships waited at anchor. The sun shone brightly, and the silver and gold adornments on the ships shone and glimmered so that it was hard to look at them. Each vessel was laden with warriors and supplies for the long campaign in the Old World. None of the High Elves knew how long the army would have to fight to drive the hordes of Chaos out of the Empire, but there was no talk of defeat. It was only a matter of how long it would take to achieve victory. Spirits were high, as they always were when the High Elves went to sea.
The Phoenix King stood resplendent in his war gear. He had traded his crown for a tall, golden helm and his scepter for a magnificent sword of purest ithilmar. The King took Prince Tyrion’s hands in his own, and smiled.
“I entrust the defense of home to you, my old friend. To you, and the Shining Guard that you will lead, should our enemies find our shores once again.”
And they will, was the unspoken message. King Finubar and Prince Tyrion could see the Witch King’s plot unfolding all too clearly, but to ignore the Empire’s plea for aid would be to trade victory now for certain defeat later. The Dark Elves were coming, of that there was no question. All that was left to know was where they would land, and how soon.
The Prince and the King turned as one, and looked out across the proud legions of the Shining Guard, gathered to pay tribute to their bretheren who were leaving for the Old World. Of all the warriors and mages who were not making the journey across the sea, the Guard were the best and brightest. Though a small army even by High Elf standards, they were proud and determined. Tyrion had inspired those qualities in them, the King knew.
“It is a mighty army, Prince Tyrion. They will serve you well.”
“They will serve Ulthuan, my liege.” answered the Prince. “With their lives, if need be.”
The King smiled., and then turned to board his ship. That was the last time Tyrion had seen him.
“Black Ark! Black Ark to the north!” It was the cry of a sentry, echoing from the sea-side tower near where the Prince was standing.
Tyrion’s eyes snapped open. It was darker now. How long had he mused? The sun was gone, and the gloom of night was swallowing up the last tattered beams or gold and orange light in the west. There, against the fading glow he could see a black shape, like a distant mountain rising above the wave. No islands lay in that direction, the Prince knew.
And the mountain was coming closer.
“Prepare for attack!” called out the Prince, and the warriors of the Shining Guard raced into action, taking up defensive positions along the shore. The nearby village of Nimosar had been fortified in preparation for the attack. Batteries of Eagle Claw Bolt Throwers lining the high cliffs that looked out over the sea, and mages stood ready to hurl deadly spells at the enemy.
The last glorious rays of the sunset burned themselves out, and darkness swept over the land. The long wait was over - the enemy was here. It was time for the true quality of the Shining Guard to be put to the test.
A great black bird watched as a band of crazed men finished off the last of the patrolling Norscan warriors they had ambushed. “For Sigmar!” shouted the leader, and the others cried out in response. From its perch high in a nearby tree, the bird cawed its disapproval, then flapped away.
Minutes later, the raven returned to the outstretched arm of its master, Volshehk. It cawed several times, then flew away again. Volshehk pondered the message he had received. Once again, these fanatics had slain his men without a single casualty. Such was their devotion to their false god, they fought without fear or regard for their own lives. In a way, he admired these so-called Flagellants and their leader, Adelbart Mueller. Most of the Empire’s soldiers had fled the northern coast of Nordland when the Warhost invaded. Mueller had stubbornly remained, and had managed to convince those peasants unable or unwilling to escape that they were on a holy crusade against evil.
This Mueller would make a fine addition to the Warhost, Volshehk decided. He would have enjoyed the challenge of turning him if there had been time, but other matters needed his attention now.
The Warhost had finally encountered a sizable army of the Empire. Battle had been joined at the coastal village of New Emskrank, and thus far, the soldiers of Nordland were proving difficult to dislodge. They used their knowledge of the land to great advantage, and had set up several well-defended positions within the village. Time, however, was against them. With each passing hour, the main force of the warhost drew nearer. Within a matter of only days, the men of the Empire would be vastly outnumbered.
From his vantage point on the cliff above, the Chaos leader watched the latest skirmish unfold. A group of Nordlander Longswords had surrounded a band of Chaos Warriors, and would soon cut them down. Volshehk drew his great flail and rode down to join the fray.
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: Warriors of the Raven God, your hour has come! Go now, and show these soft men of the south the true meaning of fear!
Chieftain Skurlorg watched as his warriors charged down the hill. Behind them, the Hellcannons boomed, spewing gouts of Daemonic fire that arced down into the village below. The coward soldiers of the Empire fled in terror. The unlucky souls caught in the blast screamed as they burst into flame.
Behind the Chieftain, the Chaos Portal flickered and swirled, making an eerie, unearthly noise. A band of warriors emerged, then approached Skurlorg.
“We come to slay the enemies of the Raven God, Chieftain! Where is the battle?” said one of the Northmen.
Skurlorg sized up the group. They were strong, but untested. He wanted to see them fight before he sent them against the Empire.
“The Hellcannons hunger, and you will feed them the flesh of the boars that roam these hills, and the magic that has awakened the dead. Slaughter these creatures without mercy! If you prove yourselves worthy, I will let you join the attack on the town below.”
As the warriors charged out to begin their slaughter, Skurlorg looked again toward Thorshafn. A tall tower rose above the other buildings, atop which was a lone Bright Wizard. As the Chieftain watched, the Wizard raised his arm into the air, his hand bursting into flame. With a great heave, the Wizard flung a writhing ball of flame toward the Hellcannons. It exploded against one of the Daemonic weapons and sent its crew reeling in all directions.
Skurlorg growled as the reek of sulfur and burning flesh reached his hairy nostrils.
The agonized squealing of a nearby boar mingled with the cries of the dying men of the Empire in the village below. Skurlorg smiled grimly - these were the sounds of victory. In a matter of days, the banners of the Raven God would fly over Thorshafn, the corpses of the Imperial garrison hanging below them.
As for the Wizard, he would die a slow and agonizing death. Skurlorg would see to that personally.
