(Collaboration with Darkspleen)
The wastelands of the east was a place where little life could be found. A few shrubs, mangled and dried up, could occassional be found dotting the hills of the landscape. A vulture or two was usually visible in the skies above. But by and large life was a foreign concept to these lands. Yet suddenly it was teeming with life. The Einherjar army had arrived. A force of over a hundred thousand men, dwarves, humanoid reptilians, and a hundred other creatures marched towards the west. A hundred different banners was raised over this army. The soldiers all had different styles of armor and weapons, seeming to indicate that this was not one army but, in fact, many. And at the core of this host marched two hundred humanoids in black full plate armor. In the skies above a few wyverns, mounted by individuals in the same black armor, watched for possible threats.
Anon, in the distance there seemed to appear a vague, dark mass, flowing forward as though it were a tide of viscous black liquid. As a shadow, it covered hills and crags, sweeping over what little stunted vegetation the arid soil supported and leaving the land, if possible, even more desolate than before in its wake. As the black flood drew closer, it could be discerned that it was, in fact, not a roiling stain of shade, but a host of innumerable hideous creatures, snapping and chittering with their inhuman maws and appendages as they advanced. Among them, striding forth with thunderous steps, were beasts of vast size and unearthly form, their chain-bound limbs tugged at by robust chitin-clad monstrosities; and at the forefront of the horde there marched a file of armoured warriors, naught but their iron trappings discernible to even the most keen-eyed of observers. Over the clustered mass of creatures flew black, ragged standards emblazoned with a crimson gauntlet; and, for all the magnitude of the force and the feral appearance of the beings, not a single voice or cry could be heard rising from their midst.
Upon drawing near to the gathered armies of the Einherjar, the armoured figures stopped in their tracks, leaving an interval longer than an arrow’s flight thrice over between themselves and the invaders. Behind them, the entire horde ground to a halt with surprisingly few collisions for something so chaotic in appearance, the vanguard peering curiously at the uncommon sight with bulging black eyes and the warriors in the central bulk almost scampering over one another to catch a glimpse. Then, one of the iron-clad leaders stepped forward, flanked by a handful of the skittering, verminous creatures and three crustacean behemoths, one of whom bore a banner attached to its back by its pole. The detachment advanced, somewhat warily, but without displaying hostile intentions in their motions, weapons demonstratively lowered. Coming within earshot of the armies facing them, the group stood still as one; then the armoured figure, imposing in its spine-adorned array of dull grey metal, spoke in a lifeless, resonating voice:
“Halt, whoever you might be. You have trodden the Fell Lands unbidden, and trespassed upon the rule of our mighty Overlord. State your name and intent and bow before our signs, and you might be spared an ignominious death.”
Three knights, outfitted in black plate mail armor, rode out from the ranks of the Einherjar host. One of these knights carried a black flag, a flag of parley. As they neared they looked alarmingly similar to an ironbound, only somehow more sinister. They somehow seemed to be a cloaked in an aura that caused a sense of dread in those around them. At least those of weaker will.
“I am Lord Goscelin” The lead black knight said as they approached. “And I have come to bring Ragnarock to these lands. I will off this to you once and only once.” Those present could almost hear a sneer in his voice. “Bend your knee and offer your services to the Goddess, every decade offer us ten thousand of healthy body and mind. Do this and we will not only spare you, but will help you seize the northern half of Mycae. Refuse and your screams of pain and terror shall be our subsistence.”
“Bend our knee?” though the figure’s voice lacked any tone or inflection, its cohorts could have sworn that, had there not been such an absence, it would have carried more than a hint of amusement. “Bold words, and foolhardy. As for your goddesses, we have no use for such intrusions into the faith we safeguard… Sound the attack.” it finished, turning to its retinue. Thereupon, one of the squat, four-eyed imps raised to its mandibles a red horn of curious spiralling shape, and, inhaling as strongly as its carapace would permit, blew into it twice, sending two low, almost mournful reports forth into the empty sky.
As the second ringing sound died out, a rumbling arose from behind the heralds’ backs. Though faint at first, it rapidly began to grow louder, until it seemed to shake the very earth. The horde was moving once again, but now it was not merely marching - it was charging forwards, clouds of dust rising from beneath thousands of misshapen feet as the stampede neared the ranks of the Einherjar. At its head was an avalanche of steel and bone-plate, swarms of bloodthirsty Korekk, clad sparsely yet menacingly in jagged plates of armour, a growling guttural sound preceding their onslaught. Behind them, scores upon scores of screeching, savage Riglir loped and bounded with cruel anticipation, swinging their knife-claws at the air and gnashing their maws in a ghastly display of readiness to tear into the warm flesh of their foes.
The Einherjar army was quick to respond, moving forward in what could only be called a fast march. Bolts, fired from ballista that had been assembled during the parley, flew overhead into the oncoming horde of Korekk and Riglir. As the two armies neared, many soldiers in the Einherjar force stopped to unleash volleys of arrows while the lead soldiers continue onwards. The Einherjar cavalry, mostly lightly armored, moved to flank their foes from either side, with a contingent of a hundred heavily armored black knights staying in the back.
As the two armies began to clash Goscelin drew his sword as his two escorts charged forward. He drew a circle in the air with the tip of his sword and pointed it at the Ironbound before him, a bolt of lightning shoot forth from the weapon towards his foe.
The blast struck the armoured figure squarely in the chest, leaving a large scorched mark upon its breastplate. The Ironbound staggered and sank to its knees, its mace, released from its grip, dropping to the ground as its escort gazed in confusion. The Korekk were the first to recover, moving to assume a defensive stance between their master and the attackers; the Riglir, somewhat hesitantly, followed suit, albeit remaining behind their towering comrades’ backs.
Around them, the hordes of the Fell Lands were bearing down upon their enemies’ vanguard. The heavy projectiles hurled from the ballistae, flying forth unimpeded, had carved swathes through the charging swarm’s ranks, and the hail of arrows felled many Riglir in the loose formation’s centre; yet more and more took their place, rushing over the bodies with nary a moment of hesitation. Somewhat diminished, yet not slowed, the armoured spear-head collided with the Einherjar’s foremost soldiers, the frenzied Korekk swinging their sharp, heavy pincers in broad sweeps, aiming to fell as many as they could with every strike. Along the flanks, the heavy guard turned, cumbersomely yet eagerly, to meet the cavalry’s assault. The brutish Korekk lashed out at the incoming adversaries, some of them cut down before landing a blow, yet the others forming an impenetrable line between them and the massed infantry. Meanwhile, the metal-clad Riglir, taking advantage of their companions’ superior size and more menacing appearance, lunged at the assailants’ mounts while they were preoccupied with the crustacean terrors, seeking to cut them down from under their riders and bring the latter crashing to the ground.
From the top of a hill near where the horde’s rear was now located, a group of Ironbound, assembled around a standard larger than most planted in the dry soil, were observing the course of the battle. Among them, one was particularly notable for his unusually ornate armour. The finely crafted metal was shaped into a multitude of interlocking blades, which seemed to constitute the suit’s entire plating framework in themselves; its helm was artfully fashioned to resemble the horned skull of some primeval beast. The figure’s edge-inlaid gauntlets were resting on the grips of two great sabres, standing, their tips driven into the earth, diagonally in surprisingly precise symmetry. “Vrathar” the being spoke, its voice even as that of other Ironbound, but heavy and rasping like grinding iron with great age, “You said it would be an army of men. Yet I see there are… creatures among them the likes of which I have never encountered before.” “That was what the scouts reported, Fell Lord” replied one of the company, who was indeed that very Harbinger whose discovery the approach of the enemy host had been, “And I had no opportunity of verifying in person without risking capture, or destruction.” The Fell Lord Vorthal turned his gaze away from the subject of his inquest and back towards the field of battle. “It would have been undesirable for them to lay their hands upon one of our prematurely, yes” he conceded, “Besides, it matters little what they are. They bleed and fall all the same, and they shall meet their end here.”
Soon the ground was soaked in blood. Korekk and Riglir cut down Einherjar soldiers, only to find themselves bleeding on the ground moments later as more soldiers pushed forward. The Einherjar light cavalry charged into the heavily armored flanks of their foes, only to be beaten back a moment later. All the while Lord Goscelin and his two guards cut through the battle, leaving a path of broken bodies in their wake. After an hour of battle he pulled back from the front, whether this was due to growing bored or going to the edge of his endurance none could say.
“I grow weary of this” Goscelin stated two hours after the battle had begun. Neither force seemed to have gained the upper hand. “Signal the legions.” Off to his side one of his guards procured a horn and let out a single long note. Immediately the two hundred black heavy infantry, members all of the core Einherjar legion, began to move towards the front of the battle. The black knights too also moved to the side to prepare a charge. Immediately it became apparent that these black armored individuals where of a caliber well above that of those who had been fighting earlier. With distressing ease the two hundred began cutting a line of death through the center of the Fell Lands formation.
While, up to that point, the battle’s outcome had seemed largely uncertain, each side struggling to forge ahead till the field was strewn with corpses, yet neither of them relenting, with this new development the advantage distinctly shifted to the side of the Einherjar. The beats of the Fell Lands, many of them weary after the prolonged struggle, watched with alarm as the black-armoured warriors almost effortlessly made their way through their ranks, despite being beset from all sides by sweeping claws and darting blades. As more and more of the creatures were cut down, havoc began to descend upon the horde. Those in its midst, hampered by each other, attempted to turn against the assailants, their already tightly massed bodies scraping against one another as their unwieldy movements brought them closer together still, leaving them, if anything, even easier prey for the legion’s blades. The heavy infantry guarding the flanks, thrust outward by the pressure against their backs, staggered about, attempting to resume their positions but being pushed away once again. At the front, the armoured Korekk troops, dismayed by the wide gap in their centre, began to waver and gradually yield ground, driven back by the advancing Einherjar vanguard. Slowly but steadily, the host was receding, its onslaught having ground to a halt and its vast numbers seemingly providing little defence against the superior prowess of the black legion.
On his overlook, Vorthal tightened his grip on his weapons in irritation. “Why do they not press the assault?” he thundered, his sorcerous sight, steady yet short-reaching, sweeping over the host, which was now almost entirely in disarray, “What is it that is forcing them back? Surely it cannot be these fleshlings. Tell me what you see.” he commanded, turning towards a Riglir crouching near the standard, most likely kept in the rear for precisely that purpose. The creature raised itself upon its segmented legs, its eyes almost appearing to move on their short stalks as it directed its gaze in the direction of the battle’s clamour. Then, having stood thus for a few moments, it replied, its clicking intonations bearing the mark of fear: “Warriors from enemy army, Fell Lord. Not many. One, two hundred. But all strong. Move through other Riglir, kill many. Cannot stop.”
Vorthal glanced once again at the thick of the struggle, as though making one last attempt at glimpsing the cause of the enemy advance himself; after which, perhaps dissatisfied either with what he saw or with the fact he could not see anything, he twisted his clawed gauntlets around the sabres’ hilts, clutching them. He then lifted their blades in one swift motion, as though readying himself for combat, and motioned at the Ironbound assembled near him. “Come” his harsh voice resounded, “Victory shall not be theirs with such ease. I shall finish this myself.” With these words, he strode heavily down the hill in the direction of the rearguard. Behind him, his cohorts marched in a perfect cuneus, their heavy steps smiting the soil in unison. As they approached, the lines of the Riglir parted, the creatures appearing to shrink in fright from their masters more readily than from the Einherjar themselves, leaving a wide open gap between them and the black-clad juggernauts. As he moved, the Fell Lord gained in speed, until his pace was faster than would normally have seemed possible for something so heavy. Breaking away from the formation, he almost rushed at his foes, his blades cutting through the air with a whistling sound as he brought them to bear with tremendous force upon the first line of legionaries. Behind him, the other Ironbound menacingly readied their own weapons, their progress slower but no less steadfast.
The legionnaires were skilled, far more so than the average soldier, but in the end they were mere soldiers. The Fell Lord’s blade cut into the armor, sending droplets of black ichor-like blood into the air. Still they pressed on, advancing ever forward, with those immediately before the Fell Lord holding their shields up and fighting defensively as others moved around to strike him from the sides.
Off in the distance Lord Goscelin, at the head of the formation of black knights, charged into the Fell Lands heavily armored, but in disarray, flank. Much like the black legionnaires, these knights possessed much more power than their earlier counterparts. They sliced into the Fell Lands formation, Goscelin leaving a trail of broken and mangled bodies in his wake as he headed towards the Fell Lord. His sword lit up in flames as he slashed towards the Fell Lord. “Entertain me further!”
As the Einherjar’s heavy cavalry clove through the host’s flank, Vorthal swung around to face it, bringing one of his sabres arcing to keep the armoured warriors at bay, and indicated for a part of the Ironbound following him to engage them. Immediately, the cuneus split into two halves: one of them moved to intercept the legion’s circling motion, the disadvantage of its slow pace somewhat offset by the latter’s cautious maneuvering, whereas the second arrayed itself beside the Fell Lord, the armoured figures thrusting their weapons forward in an attempt to break the black knights’ charge.
Preoccupied with directing his troops’ motions, Vorthal barely had the time to react to the Einherjar commander’s blow. Raising his right blade in an abrupt, almost mechanical gesture, he deflected the bulk of its force; however, he could not prevent the flaming sword from scraping against his pauldron, leaving a deep blackened scratch in it. Without so much as staggering, the Fell Lord lifted his left-hand sabre in a horizontal position, as though preparing to parry Goscelin’s successive strikes. “The only entertainment fit for you is the release of oblivion” he spoke, then his echoing voice erupted in a harsh command: “Take him!” At once, the nearby Riglir, who had been cast into confusion by their foes’ cavalry, stood still in uncertainty; then, driven by the Fell Lord’s imperious summons, they surged at Goscelin, clawing and lunging at him from multiple sides. At the same time, Vorthal himself swung his upheld blade at his opponent’s chest, while thrusting forth the other one, aiming at his left side.
Goscelin simply laughed as he smashed his shield into the face of a nearby Riglir, literally sending it flying away to crash into several of its allies. He then brought his shield around to protect himself from one of Vorthal’s blades as his shield deflected a second attack. For a moment it looked like the Riglir might successfully encircle him, but then the nearby black legionnaires and knights surged forward and it was suddenly Vorthal who was in danger of being encircled. With his flanks now much more secure, Goscelin focused on the attack, launching a series of brutal and powerful attacks focusing on hitting Vorthal in the comparatively weak joints of his armor.
With their Riglir servants repelled and cut off from them by their foes’ advance, the Ironbound under Vorthal’s lead found themselves distinctly outnumbered by the black-armoured soldiers. Worse yet, almost all potential ways of retreat were barred, the enemies closing in from front and flank alike. The possibility of being trapped in the midst of the Einherjar force did not escape Harbinger Vrathar’s notice; beckoning to his few subordinates among the Fell Lands’ forge-wrought masters, he began to slowly edge in the direction of the horde’s rear, which, being furthest from the Einherjar, was as yet open. If his warriors held fast, not only would they prevent the black legion from entirely surrounding the Ironbound’s position, but, in the event of a complete rout - an outcome which, loath as he was to admit it, seemed to be growing more and more likely despite the Fell Lord’s presence on the field - they would have a chance to withdraw to safety, if enough of the wavering Riglir and Korekk could be roused to cover their retreat.
Meanwhile, the Fell Lord himself was being forced back by Goscelin’s flurry of blows. His own strikes having been blocked, it was only with a potent effort that he could draw his blades back before himself and parry the first few. Yet his adversary was too fast, and eventually a vicious slash reached his left elbow’s ligaments, severing them with terrible strength. Vorthal’s forearm clattered to the ground, still clutching the sabre’s hilt. In its place, a gaping hole now exposed the void within the armour. The Fell Lord withdrew by another step, seemingly more astonished at his enemy being capable of such a feat than else. “How…” he began to rasp, but then checked himself, and once more took a stride forward. “Enough! When my new hand is drawn forth from the forge, it shall be cooled in your blood!” he rumbled, swinging his only remaining blade in a vertical arc over his head and bearing it down upon Goscelin’s helm.
“I’ve never heard a retort quite like that one!” Goscelin said with a laugh. He parried Vorthal’s attack and responded with a jab towards the Ironbound’s helm. Meanwhile the black legionnaires and knights, seemingly sensing the fear in their foes, surged forward as once. It was almost as if their endurance was without limit and, if anything, these warriors seemed even stronger than at the start of the battle. Even so this was not true for the rest of the Einherjar army. Many of these soldiers seemed exhausted and less enthused about the battle. They too pressed forward, but with a fraction of the vigor of the black armored soldiers. The sole exception to this was the Einherjar light cavalry who, with the exception of that first early charge, had stayed out of the battle. They harassed the flanks of the Fell Lands army, seeming less interested with cutting off their escape so much as simply causing as much damage to the army as possible.
His deflected blade swerving sideways, the strength of the blow still sufficient for it to embed itself in the soil, the Fell Lord finally stood vulnerable, and his opponent was swift to exploit this. His blazing sword, thrust towards Vorthal’s hollow helm, plunged through its frontal opening and the empty space behind and pierced the metal of its hind side. With a creaking sound, a single, almost perfectly straight crack spread across the armour’s headpiece from aft to fore; as it reached the fissure through which Goscelin’s blade had passed, the Fell Lord’s entire head abruptly snapped into two nearly even halves, which rattled down at his feet. The rest of the iron body remained standing for yet a moment; then it collapsed, fragmenting as its parts struck the ground and remained strewn sparsely, having lost any shape ever so vaguely recognisable as having been human-like.
The forces of the Fell Lands, relentlessly driven back by the armoured legion and harried by the Einherjar’s cavalry, were already on the verge of shattering; seeing their supposedly invincible master fall was the last straw. The flanks disintegrated as Riglir rushed madly to all sides, attempting to escape the slaughter by any possible means, clawing at each other to clear the way to safety. The Korekk still formed pockets of resistance here and there, but, without the bulk of the army to support them, they were likewise being swiftly routed over the entire front. Many of the Ironbound found themselves pinned in place by their own fleeing servants, at the mercy of the black-garbed warriors, and were cut down, even to the last never ceasing to swing their weapons in desperate fury.
Amidst the chaos, Vrathar turned to the Riglir horn-bearer who had remained near him through the battle, and was now casting about terrified glances, as though asking itself in whither it were better to scamper away. “Sound the retreat!” he commanded, then, as the creature obediently let loose three brief howls from its instrument, he spoke to the Ironbound under his command, who, it seemed, were by then the only ones remaining on the battlefield, or soon to be such, uttering a single word: “Scatter.” Immediately, the armoured figures spun about as rapidly as its weight would allow them and set off in a hastening march towards the hills they had come from. Around them, the horde began to similarly splinter, groups of irregular size gathering about each of their commanders or simply bolting off in the general direction of their desolate homeland. The Einherjar might have been fast enough to pursue them, but they were unfamiliar with the terrain, and most, if not all, of their troops, with the possible exception of the black-armoured soldiers, were not as tireless as the Ironbound; furthermore, had they even split their forces, they could not possibly overtake more than a few of the escaping clusters. Such were the Harbinger’s thoughts as he disappeared behind a ridge, his shield raised so that the glimmering of his armour might not attract the notice of the wyvern-riders in the sky; the battle was lost and the Lord of the Balespire himself had perished, but he, Vrathar, lived still.
