The End Times:
The Siege of Naggarond
(S P Cawkwell)
The world is dying, but it has been so since the coming of the Chaos Gods.
For years beyond reckoning, the Ruinous Powers have coveted the mortal realm. They have made many attempts to seize it, their anointed champions leading vast hordes into the lands of men, elves and dwarfs. Each time, they have been defeated.
Until now.
In the frozen north, Archaon, a former templar of the warrior-god Sigmar, has been crowned the Everchosen of Chaos. He stands poised to march south and bring ruin to the lands he once fought to protect. Behind him amass all the forces of the Dark Gods, mortal and daemonic. When they come, they will bring with them a storm such as has never been seen. Already, the lands of men are falling into ruin. Archaon’s vanguard run riot across Kislev, the once-proud country of Bretonnia has fallen into anarchy and the southern lands have been consumed by a tide of verminous ratmen.
The men of the Empire, the elves of Ulthuan and the dwarfs of the Worlds Edge Mountains fortify their cities and prepare for the inevitable onslaught. They will fight bravely and to the last. But in their hearts, all know that their efforts will be futile. The victory of Chaos is inevitable.
These are the End Times.
The horde snaked its way towards Naggarond, a black and crimson serpent of doom that brought horror, destruction and chaos wherever it went. From his vantage point riding along the cliff, Kruath could see it far below him. In the wake of the army’s advance lay desecration of the highest order, even in so bleak a place as the Land of Chill, shattered buildings, broken bodies and enough blood to sate the thirstiest barbarian for a lifetime.
Still they marched, their destination and ultimate intention clear. But they were not the only ones making for the seat of druchii power. Alone, Kruath raced ahead of the marauder army to bring warning of what was to come... for what little good it might do. He spurred the horse harder, determined and desperate.
The horse was a fine animal, a perfect example of the dark steeds of lost Nagarythe, and he could feel the play of powerful muscles beneath its flesh as it galloped towards the south. Kruath had been riding hard for days. Weariness was growing and he had no idea how much longer he and the horse could maintain the pace. Still the need to get home, to bring news of the oncoming storm, kept him going, and the horse served him admirably.
A fine animal it may have been, the warrior thought morosely, but even a fine animal had limits and the horse’s pace was noticeably slowing. Foam flecked its mouth and it was panting steam into the morning air. They had ridden hard with only necessary pauses to feed and water the animal. Every rest break increased the warrior’s anxiety. There were things that ran and flew ahead of the Chaos army that would not just kill him were they to catch up to him; they would feast on his flesh while he still drew breath. He had to keep riding.
Patting the creature’s neck as it snorted, the warrior looked south, towards Naggarond. Bleak tundra stretched as far as the eye could see, occasionally broken by shattered spars of black rock and equally black streams and becks. Standing sentinel over the frigid waste, the Iron Mountains stabbed at the clouds like infernal talons. Not so very long ago, Kruath would have been glad to return to the city of his birth. For all its labyrinthine threats and tangled knots of political intrigue, the city was infinitely preferable to the lengthy turn of duty all warriors had to serve on the watchtowers. Like the countless others who thronged through its black veins, the dark elf was fiercely proud of the jewel of Naggaroth. Now, though, the pleasure of returning was soured by the knowledge of what followed in his wake.
Two more hours brought him within sight of Naggarond, the city’s dark, implacable walls and towers soaring in his vision. Palaces and spires broke the skyline like a needle-toothed smile, and looming over it all, its cyclopean menace oppressive and inescapable, stood the Black Tower of the Witch King. With the exhaustion he felt, the northern gate seemed agonisingly distant, although it could only be a few more miles. Kruath’s determination forced him onwards, even when the horse stumbled.
He covered the last few miles in a haze, focusing on nothing but his destination. He was within shouting distance of the gate when the horse’s legs finally buckled and it crumpled downwards, pitching Kruath heavily to the ground. The warrior hit the cold earth of his homeland and remained there for a moment, stunned. He regained his senses with the urgency of the moment and left the dying horse thrashing on the ground. He began to run. At the gates, warriors were shouting and several crossbows were trained on him. A phalanx of spearmen barred the passage and, minutes later, Kruath stumbled up to the menacing shield line and fell to his knees.
He lifted his head, inhaling deeply, struggling to catch his breath. Permanently burning sacrificial fires filled the air with their acrid scent. It was both invigorating and disturbing, but the familiarity of it and the passion that burned beneath it fired the determination in Kruath’s blood once again and he raised his head. Pride surged and his spine straightened. He got to his feet.
‘The Tower of Volroth,’ he said, his voice clear and robust, giving no sign of the dramatic ride that had brought him here. ‘It has fallen.’
‘The forces of Chaos – barbarians, trolls, beastmen and other twisted things I could not even put names to – struck the tower hard and fast.’ Kruath ran his fingers through his long, dark hair as he relayed what had become of the Tower of Volroth. A steadfast, long-standing rallying point, the tower was a sprawling edifice, a huge structure that housed hundreds of troops when at its capacity. It had stood proudly for decades and had always been a staunch bulwark against the forces of the north. But now...
‘We were overwhelmed, my lord. The garrison was devastated in a few short hours. The horde poured in... kept pouring in... in numbers too many to count.’ Kruath stood stock-still, his gaze locked firmly in front of himself whilst Kouran Darkhand, Captain of the Black Guard, walked a slow, considering circle around him.
‘Continue,’ said his superior, this single word the first reaction he had made since Kruath had begun to give his report.
‘We fought hard and we matched the vile denizens with skill and spite enough to equal their frenzy. But they had the advantage of greater numbers. They came at us from all angles and kept coming.’ Kruath shook his head, more in frustration than shame. ‘They were too many, and we too few. When the gates fell, the defence turned into a rout. There were a few of us who fell back within the curtain wall in an ordered withdrawal, but by then, it was too late.’
The captain’s pacing ceased and he came to a stop opposite Kruath, returning the other warrior’s gaze.
‘You abandoned your post.’ It was a statement rather than a question and Kruath stiffened at the accusation.
‘No, my lord, I did not. Four of us were sent to bring news back to Naggarond.’
‘Four of you?’
‘The others must have fallen along the way.’
The captain said nothing for a long moment, as if weighing up the worth of Kruath’s words, perhaps mentally determining whether the other messengers had been felled by enemies or by Kruath, and then he resumed his circling.
‘Proceed. Tell me of this horde.’
Kruath took a deep breath and relayed everything he had seen.