Chapter 120 120: Battle for Marienburg II

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The walls were now bristling with elven archers and human spearmen, ready to hold to the end. The elves were a particular obstacle. I could not afford to annihilate them. Doing so would mean provoking the wrath of the Phoenix King and, without doubt, that of the Emperor himself. What I was doing in Marienburg was already grave enough, but adding an elven massacre could cut off trade with Altdorf entirely and plunge the Empire into a political maelstrom. After all, the spoils of Marienburg's merchants might placate the court's anger, but the fury of Ulthuan would not be so easily soothed. For that reason, I sent one of my most trusted men, a personal guard, to parley with the elves. His message was clear: they would keep all their rights, privileges, and political standing if they accepted the change of government and recognized Marienburg's annexation to the Empire. I could not appear in person; I was certain among them there was a mage capable of seeing too much in me—and in the amulet I carried. The minutes of negotiation dragged on like hours. Finally, the elves yielded. They descended from the walls in silence and returned to their tasks, abandoning the human defenders. Those men no longer mattered. My soldiers had orders to ignore them unless they tried something foolish, since a stray shot could send an elf to the grave—and that was a risk I could not take. With Elftown neutralized, enemy morale collapsed. The rest of the city began to fall like dominoes. There was hardly any resistance in the following districts: the human defenders had lost all hope, leaving only the central island, used as a prison. I made my way to the city's treasury. The very thought of what might lie inside made me smile. The most coveted city in the Old World, now under my control, had to contain unimaginable riches. I walked with the certainty that I had achieved one of the greatest victories in the Empire's history. But before I could enter, a soldier burst in, panting, his eyes wide with terror."My lord... in the Suiddock..." "What is it, soldier?" I asked, calm while he struggled to breathe. "The dead... they are rising. Something is calling them. Hundreds of zombies and skeletons have appeared, and... and a huge beast." "Damnation... a necromancer," I muttered through clenched teeth. "Not only that," the soldier went on, horrified. "Demons, my lord... red demons in the Suiddock. They're fighting the dead." For a heartbeat, the world stopped."Demons?" I growled in fury. "Here?" Then I raised my voice so all could hear."Everyone to your posts! The Ruinous Powers have come to test our mettle. Contact the local cults—bring the priests of Ulric and Sigmar. May Morr bless our steps. And summon the Witch Hunters—we'll need every last one." We marched south immediately. Chaos reigned in the Suiddock. A burning portal hung in the air, spewing forth terrifying numbers of Khorne's daemons. Yet somewhere in the city the necromancer too was at work, raising the dead by the thousands. The entire harbor had become a nightmare: zombies and skeletons hurling themselves against roaring daemons that tore them apart endlessly. It was impossible to say which was worse. The ground shook under the stampede of daemons, but at the same time, the corpses of fallen civilians rose ceaselessly, swelling the necromancer's ranks. I could feel his dark magic—a sea of Dhar spreading like poison through every street. But for the moment, he was a "temporary ally," his hordes holding back the daemons at least. We placed the repeating cannons and organ guns in strategic positions. The priests of Morr began blessing corpses to deny them to necromancy, while the priests of Ulric and Sigmar joined our lines. The Witch Hunters, having heard the word "daemons," came at once, rallying beneath my banner with fanatical zeal. Amid the wreckage, I saw a colossal beast of bone tearing daemons apart with its claws. Beside it fought a vampire, commanding the undead legions with chilling calm. The destruction was total: Suiddock was engulfed in fire and blood, its civilian population nearly erased. I sent messengers to the dawi, begging for reinforcements. The elves would not lift a finger unless the disaster threatened to consume us all. Time was against us. The daemons poured through the portal in endless waves, and though the vampire held the line, he was beginning to falter. This was the moment. Taking advantage of the brief respite the two enemy forces gave us, I gathered all my men. I ordered every organ gun, every repeater cannon, every piece of artillery ready. When the vampire began to fall back under Khorne's pressure, I gave the command: open fire on the daemon tide. The repeaters spewed shrapnel without pause, shredding scores of daemons before they came close. Lines of Bloodletters and Flesh Hounds surged from the portal, trampling even the necromancer's remaining dead. As they bled against each other, our artillery thinned the survivors who pressed forward. The first waves tried to climb into the upper city, but the organ guns thundered from our positions, obliterating entire ranks of hounds and lesser daemons. The bridges burned with embers and smoke, and as they reached musket range, three ranks of musketeers unleashed coordinated volleys that swept down even more. Then came the abominations: shapeless amalgams of flesh and bone, massive and relentless. They needed the concentrated fire of dozens of weapons to banish them from the world, slowing our defense to the breaking point. The priest of Sigmar, standing in the front line, raised his hammer, glowing with golden light."As Sigmar crushed the servants of Chaos at the dawn of the Empire, so too shall these corrupt ones fall today!" he roared, and his energy spread through my men, steeling their courage for the inevitable: close combat. The first Flesh Hounds reached us. Some were impaled mid-leap on bayonets, others tore through armor before being felled by powder and blade. I myself cut the head from one that lunged at my guards and drove my rune-etched sword through the skull of another—just as a Bloodletter barred my path. Our blades clashed in a shower of sparks. Its every strike was a precise, murderous blow. We pushed against each other until I drove my boot into its knee, forcing it to stagger. I twisted my sword and severed its head in a swift motion, wasting no time. Another daemon struck at me instantly, while a hound's burning jaws clamped around my leg. The gromril held, though the crushing bite made me falter. I twisted aside the Bloodletter's axe, and when it leapt at me, I thrust upward, skewering it from belly to spine. Its weapon clipped my helm, a sharp crack I barely felt thanks to the runes' protection. I spun, cleaved another hound in two, and rushed to aid one of my guards, locked in desperate struggle with a daemon. Driving my blade into its gut, together we brought it down until it unraveled into red smoke. Around us, cannons still thundered, tearing apart whole waves before they reached the walls. But our losses grew: men with legs shredded by bites, others barely clinging to life after taking daemonsteel cuts. The wounded were dragged to the cathedral of Shallya, while the rest of us braced the infernal onslaught. The battle dragged on for what felt like an eternity. The portal kept spewing daemons, though fewer each time. The necromantic forces were nearly annihilated: the colossal bone beast lay shattered, and the remnants of zombies and skeletons crumbled as the necromancer who raised them was slain or fled. The daemon horde, with no other foes to spend their fury on, turned fully against us. A tide of fangs and burning blades smashed into our lines. Among them I saw one bearing a sword wreathed in fire—a champion, marked by his infernal master's favor. The order was immediate. All artillery roared again, hurling shot into the advancing tide. The ranks of musketeers fired without pause, cutting down scores. Still, Bloodletters and Flesh Hounds broke through, crashing into our first line in a whirlwind of blood and steel. The priests of Ulric and Sigmar never ceased their cries, raising our spirits as the battle became a hell of shattered bodies and choking smoke. Witch Hunters charged with stakes and consecrated blades, fighting shoulder to shoulder with my soldiers. I carved my way through the host, driving back daemon after daemon with my rune-blade, unable to stand idle while my men died. Then the fire-sworded champion leveled his blade at me, issuing a challenge. I accepted without hesitation. Amid the cacophony of cannon fire, musket volleys, and death screams, we met head-on. The creature struck with ferocious strength, each swing blazing like a furnace, executed with the skill of a veteran of endless wars. Every blow was a torrent of fire; I barely kept pace, deflecting his strikes and forcing distance with the flat of my blade, the heat scorching even through gromril. At times he circled, measuring me like a patient predator. Then he lunged with renewed fury, his burning sword slicing arcs through the air. I countered with steady blocks, turning my body to keep balance, as sparks showered my armor. The duel stretched into a deadly dance. The clash of steel rang with the roar of battle all around. We both knew one mistake would end it. At last, I turned aside a high strike, but the daemon slammed his fist into my face. The force whipped my head aside; regaining focus, I saw him lunging, blade aimed for my ribs. The fiery steel struck my breastplate—yet the runes flared, deflecting the thrust. In that instant, I swung for his neck. His eyes widened at the rune's glow. He smiled, feral—then his head rolled, dissolving into fiery smoke as his body unraveled to nothing. I collapsed, dragging myself back. "Damn... that was... close..." I muttered, forcing myself to rise and rejoin the fray. The fight grew easier until the portal ceased vomiting daemons. We descended into the ruins of Suiddock—now nothing but wreckage and broken corpses—while the priests began their rites to seal the breach. When the daemon champion fell to my blade, the Sigmarite priest bellowed as though the god himself filled his lungs. His hammer shone with a blinding golden light; raising it skyward, divine power lanced into the portal, snapping it shut with a thunderclap. In an instant, Khorne's host vanished like smoke on the wind. There was no time to celebrate. The priests of Sigmar and Ulric immediately set to purifying the corrupted ground, consecrating it anew with each prayer. The reek of Chaos began to ebb. Under my command, the Witch Hunters were given full authority. I ordered constant patrols and decreed that any man or woman suspected of serving the Ruinous Powers be seized or burned—if there was proof or at least strong cause. We could no longer afford cracks in our defenses. The next hour became a relentless hunt. Soldiers and Witch Hunters scoured every street, workshop, and abandoned house. At last we found them: a large coven of cultists gathered in the southern worker's district, raising crude altars and chanting mid-ritual to Tzeentch. Had we arrived a moment later, another portal would have torn open—and this time not even our artillery could have saved us. The cultists were slaughtered before their ceremony could be completed. The priests' purifying fire reduced their symbols and scrolls to ash, and the threat was smothered. Watching the smoke rise from their bodies, I could not shake the thought of how close we had come to ruin. If the vampire had not drawn the daemons' attention... if the portal had not been sealed in time... Marienburg might already lie in ashes beneath the claws of Chaos. ----------------------------- If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------