One look into the valley had Malcador sweating. If he had not been trained to keep his visage serene, he would look much worse than the frightened conscripts that surrounded him, and that was a high bar. 

He hadn't even been given a horse! What imperial wizard wasn't given a horse on the battlefield? If Elspeth Von Draken can get a bloody dragon, Malcador Zauberhaft could get a damned horse. He knew that was not quite the same, but it was still insulting. On a steed a wizard had a greater vantage point, could cast his spells with more agency across the battlefield, and go to those in aid far more swiftly. The ability to run away quickly as well was also not a small thought in his mind. 

His contemplations were interrupted when the largest Orc he had ever seen walked out of the roughly formed rabble. Granted, all of these orcs were the first orcs he had ever seen, but as all of them were head and shoulders larger than a man, and this one was head and shoulders above them, it was enough to cause someone to soil their trousers. He did not, but judging from an unpleasant wafting smell, a few of his comrades had. The grizzled sergeant with a basket hilted broadsword called his men to ready their weapons in a bristling line. Halberds and spears lowered to form a rough wall. 

"At least this way they orcs might get satisfyingly uncomfortable when they tear through us," Malcador whispered, having found a broken piece of half-buried masonry to stand upon, granting him a view one could describe as marginally better than the average foot soldier. He was being somewhat facetious. While the men of the empire were outnumbered, he did notice a few stone-faced men he might consider veterans, and the imperials had the higher ground and greater ranged capability, which counted for something. He could see a few crude catapults down below, but they would not reach their lines within wheeling them a hundred paces forward. Malcador simply hoped he could add to his own forces ranged advantage in some small way.  

His wit was entirely cast out, however, when the Orc Warboss lifted his immense cleaver into the air as a rallying point for the other greenskins, bellowing a warbling battlecry that echoed through the valley. The giant implement was terrifying for its massive size and the ease in which the warboss carried it, but Malcador's witchsight told him a different tale. It seemed to shimmer in fell greenish energy, and he felt a certain alien malevolence to it that made him shudder in revulsion and fear. The sharpened piece of metal felt...[i]hungry[/i] was the best word to describe it. It made him feel sick, and Malcador looked to see if anyone else had felt such a palpable sensation, but it seemed they were merely afraid, unaware of the powerful enchantments in the forsaken blade. Good for morale, at least. 

With a multitude of bellows, the greenskins down below recited the untranslatable battlecry, followed by the telltale 'WAAAGH' in unison with such fury they shook the earth. One man dropped his halberd from the force of it, and the green tide surged forth in untold tons of muscle and iron, appearing as an unnatural green wave that streamed uphill. Malcador had to keep himself from clutching his own robe when the imperial cannons belched flame and smoke, the cannon balls sailing into the horde like scythes through wheat. There was red mist and dozens of greenskins fell, but it was a paltry number. Out of the tide, a number of burly orc archers raised their bows and loosed just as the imperial handgunners and crossbowmen unleashed their weapons. He was almost too mesmerized by the spectacle of the volley, but he had a mind like a whip and recalled his own thoughts, whirling his hands in a short, whirring maneuver as he incanted '[i]Sevarii Sethai[/i]!' 

The dozens of arrows that were arcing towards their lines were caught in an unexpected wind, harmlessly losing their momentum and falling to the broken ground softly. On the other end of the battleline, a few men caught arrows in their knees or chests, but on the left flank, Malcador had at least done some good. A small cheer rose up from the men around him, but he did not feel like he had earned it. 

"See men!? We have a wizard on our side! Now stand like Sigmar is watching!" The sergeant roared, hefting his shield and pointing at Malcador with his blade. It caused a few men to grin, though the veterans kept their eyes on the oncoming horde. Malcador tried not to look at it, but the orcish advance drew his eyes as readily as the hands of fate. It was a sad day if that paltry wind would raise the men's spirits. Malcador couldn't change the tide of the battle, he doubted he could even save his own skin! 

"Who do they think I am? Thyrus Gormman?" He asked himself, wiping his hands on his handsome blue and white robes. The closest man managed to catch his mumbling. 

"Who's that, herr magister?" He asked, his accent painfully provincial.  

"Nothing," he told the swordman. Great, they were even more uneducated than he feared. He had tried to divine the battle's outcome the day before, to see if he would be better off fleeing and facing the gallows than an orcish axe, but the future had been muddied and vague. He then tried to cast the spell of fortune, but he hadn't the correct spell components. Fate had an unfunny way of not working out the way one planned. Acolytes to the celestial order, even incredibly handsome and intelligent ones like Malcador, were supposed to be strictly obedient to their masters, and Malcador had been just that! Cleaned the gutters, prioritized his errands, alphabetized his books. But that damned 'no fraternizing' rule, and that sumptuous blonde gold wizard asking him to help her with her dissertation. So they flirted a bit! Had a few drinks! The college did not even have the decency to catch him [i]after[/i] the fraternizing really got going! And now he saw that warboss and his accursed cleaver coming closer, and he doubted he had any spell in his repertoire to change what you did not need to consult a diviner to know what was about to happen.   

He looked into the sky, hoping to see if he could use anything else to hit the enemy with before they struck their lines, but as his indigo eyes met the sky, he saw two dozen dots careening through the air, growing larger by the second. He did not know what in Sigmar's name they could be, but they were changing their trajectory! He watched helplessly as the living projectiles roughly in the shape of birds hit their lines. Malcador ducked under a sweeping missile, and realized they were goblins with makeshift wings and spikes on their oversized heads! Even as he dodged one, he saw one of Wegindorf’s courtier's impaled and knocked off his horse, the goblin's neck breaking in the process. 

What manner of insane race [i]were[/i] the greenskins!? 

"Fuck this for a game of soldiers!" He cursed.