Kruath’s attention was fully on the attack on the walls, but he was acutely aware that somewhere on the ground, some distance away from their own pitched battle, the gates would doubtless be under heavy attack. There, the fighting would be many warriors deep, and the heaviest losses would be felt. But he had no time to linger on the thought.
There was a heavy thunk as one of the city’s bolt throwers fired on the nearest giant, its projectile humming through the leaden air. The six-foot shaft slammed into the monster, sinking several inches through the putrid flesh of its chest. The giant stumbled, roaring in rage and pain, but did not fall until three more of the huge bows struck home. The towering monstrosity staggered back a step, let out another roar of defiance and then finally toppled like a felled tree, its massive body crushing numerous warriors beneath its bulk. Barbarians and other creatures began swarming up the ladders while hounds and beasts tried to cross the moat’s sorcerous fire. The stench of scorched bodies began to fill the air as many slipped from the ladders, tumbling into the flames. Kruath couldn’t help but cringe as maniacal laughter came from them even as they burned.
It was Darkhand who claimed the first kill amongst the unit defending that section of the city wall. Kruath saw an axe-wielding marauder scramble over the top of the ladder and raise his weapon, but he got no further. The captain of the Black Guard gauged a deep wound into the barbarian in a welter of gore. He plunged from the ladder to die with the others still burning in the moat below. Then a red-furred beastman vaulted onto the wall and Kruath became far more interested in his own survival than the actions of Kouran Darkhand.
Repulsing the seemingly limitless tide of warriors surging up the ladders was repetitive and mechanical work. At times a champion or particularly crazed warrior would sweep a few feet clear of defenders, but then the lithe, murderous forms of Khaine’s brides would appear in the fray and cut the offender to pieces before slipping away once again.
The flicker of lightning was matched by the flicker of magic as the few sorceresses in Naggarond waged arcane war on the flocks of harpies that filled the sky. Bolts of black fire and lashing whips of shadow rained broken bodies down on the army below, but there was only so much that magic could do. Kruath hacked his blade through the tattooed flesh of another barbarian and kicked its body into the street below. His gauntlets were slick with blood and his shield dented and notched from axe and club blows. He staggered back, gasping for breath and another warrior stepped in to fill the gap. Above him, the sun was dipping rapidly towards the horizon. He had been fighting solidly for many hours and his energy reserves were gradually dwindling.
Beside him, another barbarian – a woman dressed in furs – pitched forward, a fountain of blood spurting from her mouth. It splattered against Kruath’s visor, temporarily rending his world scarlet. When his vision cleared, he wished, wholeheartedly, that it had not. The sight that greeted him was enough to deflate the ferocity that burned in his soul.
A lithe, crimson-armoured form with cloven hooves and curling horns descended from the boiling clouds. She was borne aloft by scarred, chiropteran wings and carried a jagged spear and vile, leering shield. Her burning gaze swept the walls, challenging any and all who dared to look upon her.
Valkia the Bloody had arrived.
‘These creatures are beneath you, my love,’ came the sneering voice from her shield. The animated face of Locephax, once a proud daemon prince of Slaanesh, now forced into servitude to this consort of Khorne, sneered up at her. But Valkia paid the creature no heed. Over the centuries, they had formed a strange sort of relationship and Locephax felt very strongly that it was his eternal right to criticise everything she did. He had courted for her attentions once and could not have lost any more badly. ‘Why do you waste your time with these children when there are real battles to be won?’
It had become oddly companionable. Valkia lived for her consort, to please him and bring forth the tithe of blood and skulls that he desired. But other than Kormak, her favoured champion, no other had been with her for so long. Locephax knew her better than anybody.
‘Everything you encounter is beneath you, Locephax,’ she replied. She was distracted and only half-listening to his mutterings. ‘Or so it seems to me.’ She flew at a steady pace, keeping herself at more or less the same speed as the seething mass of warriors beneath, who clawed at each other in their effort to reach the walls of Naggarond. The slower, more lumbering elements of the horde were at last starting to arrive. Valkia watched with swelling pride and anticipation as armoured handlers prodded and cajoled a line of twisted cannons into their optimal firing positions. They were monstrous creations: mouths of brass-framed barrels of knotted, bound souls mounted on carriages of skulls and ivory bone.
Valkia turned her full attention on the daemon mounted upon her shield. One slim shoulder lifted briefly in a shrug of indifference. ‘Remember, Locephax, my lord and master cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it does flow. I promise you that this city will burn in his name. It will be reduced to ashes. It will become a pyre, a monument to bloodshed. And we will do the same to the next. Then the next.’
‘But a siege? It’s so... tiresome!’ Even disembodied as he was, Locephax had the ability to give the impression that he tossed his head in superiority. She put a clawed hand over his open maw, squeezing with a threatening force that caused the daemon to fall into mutinous silence. The only sound now was the steady, rhythmic beat of Valkia’s wings as they carried her towards the city of Naggarond.
She soared across the ranks of the creatures of Chaos and as her winged shadow fell upon them, every last one raised its head, screaming undying devotion to her and her bloody cause. Her sharp eyes fell upon the armoured form of Kormak astride his Juggernaut. Her champion led a host of armoured ogres that swarmed around a brass, canine-headed ram rumbling towards the main city gate.
Since his resurrection following his death so many years ago, Kormak had been unable to speak. Valkia’s powers had been unable to remake the dead man’s vocal chords. It seemed ludicrous that a mute warrior could command an army, but command them he did. He led, as he always led, by example. Valkia’s army knew that if Kormak charged, that was what they were to do. A simple flick of the hand, a thunderous clap of his mighty gauntlets, and the army bent to the champion’s will. Valkia’s pride in Kormak, her harbinger, was boundless, and she watched him now as he led the assault on Naggarond.
She saw, she heard, she smelled the battle below and it was exhilarating. Her wings pounded the air harder and she gathered speed.
The walls were a crazed, pulsating scrum of combat. Everywhere she looked, elves, men and beasts struggled and slaughtered one another with reckless abandon. A loud bang indicated that one of the siege towers had finally juddered into position, wobbling alarmingly and threatening to topple forward before it stabilised. With a crunch of rudimentary gears, it dropped its bridge. Within moments, warriors began to pour from its interior onto the spears of the druchii. Scores of bodies tumbled down as incoming projectiles from crossbows ended their fledgling attack, but there were plenty more, and numerous warriors pressed forward. They crossed the bridge and moved the fight onto the wall.