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Sigmarzeit-11-2492

The thunder of the firearms brought me comfort. Each cannon blast felled hundreds of greenskins; the mountains of corpses piled so high they began to block their own advance.

To my surprise, for once the orcs showed something close to tactical wit. After several minutes of one-sided slaughter, they realized they could not push forward head-on. They began seeking other paths: some groups climbing hills on the right flank, others forcing their way through rocky ground on the left, desperate to escape the killing field where the fallen bodies made it impossible to advance—and at the same time made it difficult for us to fire without striking the mountain of corpses.

While I deflected the flying goblins with my power—launched by crude catapults, dangerous as living projectiles capable of smashing a formation on impact—I raised my spyglass to seek out the orc leader. If I could find him and strike him down, the entire horde might collapse. But there was no sign of him, only thousands of orcs and goblins surging from every direction. The tide kept growing, and though our firepower butchered them, their numbers still vastly outmatched ours.

Then I felt it: Dhar. A stench of decay, like a foul breath on the wind. It wasn't close, but it was somewhere else in the orc camp. And in an instant, the greenskin reinforcements stopped emerging from their huts and tents, as if the tide itself had been cut off.

The scouts had already made it clear the orcs outnumbered us; it was far too soon for the battle to end. This could mean only one thing: the necromancer was here. It couldn't be beastmen, not in this region. That foul reek of corruption could only be necromancy.

The problem was how to explain it without looking suspicious. The logical assumption now would be to expect another orc wave. But with my magic I could feel part of the horde turning, changing sides. Orcs that roared one moment only to rise again the next, their eyes lifeless.

We need to burn those bodies before it's too late.

I closed my eyes and tracked the source of the Dhar. When I found it, I tried to strike with Chamon, but failed. The necromancer was shielded: the metal of his gear was corrupted, fouled beyond measure, and my power could not pierce it.

So I changed tactics. I drew on the iron of the weapons carried by some of his undead. I sharpened that metal, shaped it into blades, and spun them in spirals, hurling them into their ranks. The effort was immense—I felt my medallions vibrating under the strain of my own magic clashing against his.

"Prince!" I shouted, drawing Karl Franz's attention as he watched the battle from our vantage point.

"What is it?… your amulets are shaking," he said, frowning as he noticed my sacred artifacts resonating from the clash of energies.

"There's a wizard here. And if there is… you know what that means, don't you?" I fixed him with a grave stare. "The necromancer is among us."

As I spoke, I kept the iron blades whirling, hiding my gestures, blaming the enemy for what was in truth my own work. The necromancer tried to unravel my spells with his uncontrolled Dhar, burning through energy while I focused on one goal: snapping his neck before he could raise the entire sea of corpses against us.

I poured every bit of my skill into sustaining the spell. The necromancer hurled counterspells one after another, weakening my iron blades, forcing me to spend more power just to keep them spinning.

"What do we do then, general? We've no battle mages, so we'll have to defeat him with sheer force," said the prince, scanning the battlefield for the invisible foe I had pointed out.

"We need to start burning the greenskin bodies. If the necromancer is here to exploit the battlefield and raise an army of undead, we've handed it to him on a platter. We must deny him that advantage immediately, before the orcs rise again under his command," I ordered quickly, straining to keep the blades from collapsing under his will.

Karl nodded. The dawi, understanding the danger, advanced at once. A handful of greenskins still tried to reach our lines, but they were repelled while the dwarfen flamethrower units went to work. Orange flames roared across the slopes, enveloping the heaps of goblin and orc corpses surrounding the field. The stench of burning flesh filled the air as thousands of bodies went up in fire.

But it was already too late for some. Among the flames, half-charred bodies began to stir, rising on unsteady legs, skeletons with blackened scraps of flesh hurling themselves at the dawi gunners. The distraction had cost me—the necromancer had resumed his work, trying to raise every corpse he could reach.

With a growl I forced the blades back under my control. I shaped the iron again, spinning the edges tighter, and hurled them once more at his neck. The necromancer was forced to defend himself, pouring Dhar into makeshift wards, keeping himself occupied and, at least for a moment, preventing him from raising more dead.

The battle still leaned toward the greenskins through sheer numbers, but that was something we could not allow.

The mountains of corpses burned on, lighting the slopes like giant pyres. Through fire and smoke, I stepped forward, eyes fixed on my target. No matter how much I wore him down with blades, the only thing that would end this was a direct shot.

"We need to reach him… and blast his skull off with a cannon before he turns the whole mountain of corpses against us," I muttered, adjusting the spyglass to fix his position.

"Karl, we're going into the camp. If every greenskin in there becomes the necromancer's puppet, we're finished," I said gravely as I ran to rally men for the assault. There was no time to lose.

I quickly gathered forces from allied nobles along with part of my own troops. We began marching, skirting the burning mountains of goblin and orc corpses. Some tried to rise among the flames, dragging charred limbs; others, whose bodies had not yet been touched by fire, stood again as skeletons or stumbling zombies—easy to predict and put down.

It was enough to divert a few companies to finish them off and clear a path, while the bulk of the formation pressed forward toward the heart of the greenskin camp. There, chaos reigned: whole hordes of orcs still fought ferociously, but many of their enemies were their own brothers, raised by the necromancer to swell his ranks.

We kept pushing through the lines. Every yard cost blood. The undead hordes, made from the very warriors we had already slain, harassed us without pause. Worst of all was watching our own fallen rise again, hurling themselves at us with hollow eyes. Many men hesitated at the sight of comrades turned into abominations, but there was no room for pity. I shouted at them to keep moving, not to mourn the dead. If we lived, there would be time later to save their souls with the proper rites.

At last we reached the heart of the camp. The place was a heap of hovels, stakes, broken weapons, and greenskins shrieking their cacophonies of war. Yet all those cries were directed toward one figure: the necromancer.

And there he was. Wrapped in black robes, his staff glowing with the corruption of Dhar—impossible to mistake. He stood as the storm's epicenter, surrounded by skeletal warriors clad in red armor, shielded by skeletal horsemen astride flayed steeds, wraiths of what once had been knights.

I focused again. I could not allow him to keep adding corpses to his ranks. The logic was simple: it was better to face thousands of living greenskins than thousands of raised corpses, each one an enemy without fear or fatigue.

So, while our men secured positions within the camp, I unleashed my magic once more. I bent the iron of weapons into giant spinning blades, reaping scythes that tore into the undead ranks, all while making sure my own soldiers would not notice the true source of this power.

This time, the necromancer saw me clearly. His empty eyes fixed on mine, realizing I was the one behind the spells that had slowed him so far. All his focus turned against me, and I had to pour every attack directly into him. The Dhar he wielded was far stronger than the Chamon I commanded; if I gave him room to weave calmly, he could annihilate hundreds of my men with a single spell. I could not allow it.

By now thousands of Imperial soldiers had poured into the chaotic camp, trapped in a nightmare of three sides: greenskins, undead, and the Empire. For the orcs, it must have seemed like paradise—endless fighting, blood and screaming everywhere.

The musketeers opened fire on the necromancer's forces, though bullets were less effective against bone and rotten flesh. Still, the sheer volume of fire grew. Volley after volley, until cannons joined in, hurling grapeshot that shredded the tight undead formations.

Then I saw it: a colossal skeletal knight, encased in blackened red armor and wielding a monstrous axe. He advanced like an unstoppable beast, hacking apart any greenskin in his path. Each swing split bodies in two, and the mere sight of that creature chilled even my veterans.

The necromancer, harried by bullets and shot, began to retreat. The cannons had driven him from the front, unable to withstand such punishment. We didn't see him flee entirely, but he fell back enough to limit himself to casting from afar, hidden within his ranks.

I was ready to face the skeletal knight myself, raising my runic sword and preparing to channel all my power into the duel… when it happened.

With a thunderous roar, the orc warboss finally appeared—a hulking mass of muscle, iron, and fury, eager for battle. His tusks gleamed under a battered helm.

The greenskin locked eyes with me, then turned toward the towering skeletal knight… and without hesitation hurled himself against it. He roared, lifted his axe, and slammed into the undead giant with all his rage.

I seized the opportunity. With a signal I gathered my best men and flanked around, aiming for the necromancer. Behind us, thousands of Imperials fought on, forcing their way through the relentless tide of corpses.

We reached one of the hills overlooking the camp, where the necromancer was retreating under waves of skeleton guards. From that height I saw him trying to escape in the confusion.

I clenched my teeth, drew as much of Chamon's winds as I could, and with savage effort forged a spear of iron from the weapons of the surrounding skeletons. I hurled it with all my pent-up fury.

The necromancer sensed it at the last instant. He raised his hands, trying to block with a Dhar shield… but the spear pierced clean through his abdomen. The blow lifted him from the ground, pinning him into the earth. His staff rolled from his withered fingers as he writhed, clawing for it in vain—I unraveled the spear and caged the staff in iron.

I wasted no time. With my men, we charged the skeletal guard. They moved slower, clumsier, as if the necromancer's wound was draining their strength. We cut through them like a hot knife through butter, smashing bone and scattering corpses.

At last I reached him. Before me was no mighty lord of death, but a cadaverous old man, sunken eyes full of hate. He opened his mouth, perhaps to curse, perhaps to cast… but I gave him no chance. My runic blade flashed and with one stroke I severed his head.

The skull rolled across the blackened ground. At that instant, the skeletal hordes collapsed like puppets with cut strings. The zombies fell in unison, lifeless, and the battlefield fell silent—broken only by Imperial war cries.

The strain took its toll. My legs buckled, and I collapsed, gasping, nearly unconscious from the drain of magic. I barely registered what happened around me; my men dragged me back into our lines.

When I regained sight, I saw the aftermath. The orc warboss was dead, his head dangling from young Prince Franz's hand, while in the other he held a bloodied runic fang. Beside him, the skeletal knight's massive body lay still.

When I finally recovered, skirmishes still lingered. Some orcs fought on, raging until Imperial troops and dawi cut them down. The air reeked of smoke, powder, and burnt flesh.

The first thing I did was erase all evidence of my magic. I destroyed the blades I had shaped, the iron shards still on the ground, and the metal shell around the necromancer's staff. I could not risk anyone discovering what I had done. With how far we'd been, no one should have seen it directly.

Meanwhile, the dawi had already set to work with their usual efficiency. They lit enormous pyres and made sure everything—every corpse, every scrap—was reduced to ash. Then they brought in their steam machines to scour the land of orkish spores. We had won a two-for-one in this battle, but lost many men thanks to the necromancer.

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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.

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