The soldiers defending Vosglade Fortress had become all too familiar with barbarian armies. Years of constant skirmishes with the tribes had ingrained battle instincts into their very being. When the first barrage of Chaos Hellcannon fire struck the fortress, turning dozens of soldiers into ash and blasting a gaping hole in the wall, the alarm blared. The Kislev garrison sprang into action.
The garrison's leader, Major General Korobkov, a seasoned Ugol boyar, awoke to the sound of explosions. Racing to the ramparts, he saw dozens of fiery cannon blasts lighting up the sky like falling stars. He immediately realized the dire situation. "This is bad!" he muttered. "Somebody has severely underestimated this threat!"
"Alert! Alert! Get everyone up!"
"Prepare for battle! Prepare for battle!"
The blaring horns and alarms jolted Private Artyom awake. Shivering, he bolted upright. "What's happening? Ursun above!"
"By Taal's teeth! Get up, Artyom! The Chaos scum are here!" Soldiers scrambled around him, pulling on their clothes, grabbing weapons.
Rising, Artyom felt the frigid morning air cutting through his thin clothing. His head swam with dizziness, and his stomach churned with nausea—a familiar reminder of his weakened state from prolonged malnutrition. As he struggled to stand, a fellow soldier caught him. "You alright, Artyom?"
"I'm fine," Artyom lied. He knew the cause of his weakness all too well. Grabbing his vodka for a bit of warmth, he donned his chestplate, helmet, and spear.
"Hurry! Move it!" an officer shouted at the doorway, urging the soldiers to the wall.
Climbing the steps to the rampart, Artyom squinted as the first rays of dawn crept over the wall. The sight below made him freeze in terror. A shiver ran through him as he gazed upon a sea of dark green outside the fortress walls.
Thousands of Norscans had surrounded the fortress. Elderly Norscan warriors, clad in ragged furs and with white hair streaking their faces, marched at the front, pushing massive plague-infested siege towers. These aging warriors, deemed worthless by their own people, were now little more than expendable shields, trudging toward inevitable death.
Behind the old warriors were vast ranks of Norscan raiders, faces twisted with a rabid hunger for slaughter. Countless Nurgle demons, twisted beasts, and plagued humans with faces swollen by infection advanced, their banner poles crowned with symbols of the Plaguefather. Monstrous Chaos Trolls swung massive clubs, while towering Chaos Giants dripped with foul, oozing pus from boils bestowed by Nurgle himself. A host of mutated Chaos Spawn lumbered forward, accompanied by packs of diseased warhounds.
"Great Ursun above!" Artyom threw himself behind a merlon just as a Chaos Hellcannon's demonic projectile struck, blasting a massive hole in the fortress wall.
"Where are our cannons? What are they doing?" Artyom yelled to his fellow spear-wielders nearby. Only by shouting could he fend off the wave of fear threatening to overwhelm him.
"Out of range!" Major General Korobkov barked from his vantage point, surveying the damage below. "Hold your positions! Prepare for combat. We must hold out until Praag's reinforcements arrive!"
How many were out there—thirty thousand, fifty thousand, even a hundred thousand? Artyom clutched his spear tighter, feeling a faint comfort in its solid wood. He pulled out his crude, poorly-made crossbow, painstakingly loading it.
The sound of countless footsteps grew closer. Torches flickered across the plain, casting an eerie glow as a twisted song of praise to Nurgle filled the air. Soon, the assault would begin.
The booming thunder of Chaos cannons resumed, each blast echoing across the frozen plain. Thousands of Norscan warriors roared and beat their shields, drums pounding in chaotic rhythm. The devotees of Khorne were the first to charge, screaming wildly, hoping to catch the Blood God's attention.
Initially, General Korobkov held his troops steady, suspecting a probing attack. But as the Khornate warriors surged forward, the entire Chaos army advanced. Beasts and monsters trampled over the old Norscan warriors, and Korobkov realized the truth—this was an all-out assault.
"Fire! Fire at will!"
Commanding officers' shouts echoed down the line. Hundreds of Kislev soldiers opened fire, and cannons belched flame. Dozens of imperial rifles fired in unison, mowing down the lightly-armored Khornate berserkers, killing over a hundred in an instant. Artyom drew his crossbow, aimed at a crazed Norscan in torn furs wielding crude axes, and fired.
The brief surge of confidence from their cannons soon faded. The wave of Chaos warriors kept coming, trampling over the dead and climbing atop their fallen kin like an unstoppable tide.
Come on! Come on! The children of Kislev would never surrender to darkness. Artyom reloaded his crossbow as orders echoed down the line: "Aim at the closest targets! Prepare for close combat!"
It was too late—the number of attackers was simply too great. Hundreds of brass grappling hooks flew from below, latching onto the walls. Norscan raiders scaled the ropes with terrifying speed, while others hurled spears and axes, chanting praises to the dark gods. Although their aim was poor, each time a defender was hit, cheers erupted from below.
Desperate to hold the walls, the defenders used every possible means—stabbing at the hooks with spears, pouring boiling water, and throwing stones. They fought to keep the barbarians from reaching the battlements.
A Hellcannon shell exploded nearby, showering Artyom in blood and rubble. Angered, he thrust his now-bent spear into a climber's face, piercing the warrior's cheek and shattering his grimacing snarl into disbelief. Blood sprayed over the wall, splattering Artyom's face. "Die, Chaos scum!"
The adrenaline surged through him, and he pulled at his spear—only for the shaft to snap in two. Cursing the poor quality of his weapon, Artyom quickly noticed three more grappling hooks anchoring nearby, each with raiders already climbing toward him.
With no spear left, he turned to call for help, only to see the shattered remains of his comrades. The blast had reduced one soldier to half a torso, guts spilling over the stones as he struggled to point. "My spear…over there," he wheezed before slumping over, dead.
Parched and exhausted, Artyom could not mourn. He lunged to dislodge bricks around the grappling hooks, sending dozens of climbing raiders plummeting below.
Briefly safe, he collapsed, gasping for air. Reinforcements—only a handful, clutching spears and shields—arrived to bolster the defense for the next wave.
Surveying the battlefield, Artyom saw the towering siege towers and battering rams approaching slowly but relentlessly. These Nurgle zealots moved at a crawling pace, yet the scene was utterly despairing.
A cannonball struck one of the rotting siege towers, blowing a large hole in its side. The tower wobbled but held firm as a Nurgle plague doctor muttered a spell, sealing the breach with thick, oozing pus.
"For Ursun! For Kislev! For Katarin!"
Kislev's defenders would not retreat. They formed desperate assault squads, young men carrying crude grenades and explosive charges, rappelling down the walls to sabotage the siege towers below. Miraculously, all four towers fell just short of the walls.
"Uwaaah!" The Chaos army's roar of fury shook the air. Festus, Nurgle's chosen champion, and his loyal sorcerers ordered the Chaos giants forward.
The giants wielded massive battering rams, pounding against Vosglade's east gate.
Thud! The iron bars bent and groaned.
Thud! The doors began to buckle.
Finally, a Kislev bolt managed to pierce a giant's heart, sending it crashing down and smashing the ram. But in retaliation, Festus personally killed the second giant for retreating in fear.
All along the walls, Kislev's defenders fought with every ounce of strength. Hundreds of Chaos warriors scaled the walls but were driven back each time. Even as three squads of heavily-armored Chaos warriors reached the top, the Kislevites beat them back.
At last, Festus brought out his secret weapon: a dozen large Nurgle clay jars. The Nurgle champions hurled them into the ruined fortress. Thick, green clouds spread through the air, as the plague fog settled, soldiers began to fall. Boils erupted on skin, tongues blistered, and eyes gummed shut with infection.
Choking on blood and mucus, Artyom clung to the walls as they melted, dripping with putrid sludge.
Thud! Another giant smashed through the gate, and the defenses finally crumbled.
"Retreat! Fall back to the inner keep!"
The fewer than five hundred remaining defenders obeyed, pulling back to the inner fortress, determined to resist.
Believing he had conquered the fortress, Festus soon learned otherwise. The five hundred remaining Kislevites, now ravaged by plague and short on supplies, engaged him in brutal street combat within the fortress. Narrow passages neutralized the Chaos horde's numerical advantage, as Kislev's soldiers repelled wave after wave, enduring endless attacks
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