In the heat of battle, morale is a mysterious force, one that can shape the entire course of war. It can be built, honed through training, experience, and the inspiring leadership of seasoned generals. But morale can also be fragile, crumbling under the smallest misstep in the chaos of combat.
Ryan had always emphasized the principle in his campaigns: "A mountain does not move."
Tsarina Katarin could not have foreseen the devastating impact her actions would have on her army.
Nor could she have understood the full extent of Marshal Fedosev's efforts. The town of Dagneper, where his forces had been stationed, was far from a fortress. Its stone walls were crude and would collapse if the Chaos artillery struck the foundation. Fedosev's one hope had been the river on its right side, providing a natural defense. But without sufficient fortifications, the town was vulnerable, with only wooden ramparts and platforms for archers.
Once stationed there, Fedosev's army poured all their resources into strengthening their defenses. He knew his position was sacrificial. With only ten thousand soldiers, he faced a staggering fifty thousand of Nurgle's forces. His mission was clear: delay the enemy as long as possible.
From the dawn of Konev's assault, the Nurgle legions advanced. Although Nurgle's forces were slow and lumbering, Fedosev's army initially managed to hold. The Nurgle champions' lumbering pace and disorganized tactics gave the Kislevites a false sense of security.
But they had gravely misjudged their foe. Unlike typical Nurgle commanders, the plague-ridden Festus was cunning and tactical. Already that night, Festus had covertly sent a force of ten thousand across the Lynsk River, flanked by Nurgle's demon units. This maneuver went unnoticed by the Kislevites, whose focus was solely on Slaanesh's army.
The true trap was sprung as Festus's forces struck Dagneper from behind, catching Fedosev's troops in a pincer assault. The Kislevite forces, overwhelmed and exhausted, broke within moments.
Attempting to rally his men, Marshal Fedosev moved to the front line, but he was struck by Nurgle champion Demikalis, who wielded a plague-ridden scythe. The marshal fell on the battlefield, transferring command to General Apanasenko in his final moments, with orders for the army to retreat. Yet in the heat of close-quarters combat, retreat meant disarray, and Apanasenko's soldiers were massacred as they fled. By the time the survivors reached Zedvika, only a few hundred remained from the ten thousand that had begun the fight.
Katarin's forces were similarly besieged. As news of her retreat spread, the exhausted units of Konev, Zayev, and Rokossovsky lost heart. Despite Konev's best efforts to rally his men, his pleas fell on deaf ears as the army descended into panic and chaos.
"What are you doing? You are soldiers of Kislev!" Konev shouted, standing amidst the rout. The flag of Sigvald Prince of Slaanesh lay trampled at his feet—a victory discarded. "One final push is all we need! Slaanesh's army is on the brink! Soldiers of Kislev, where is your courage?"
But it was no use. As soldiers broke into full retreat, Konev watched his army collapse before his eyes. Choking back a cry, the marshal lifted his firearm to his head.
"It is over… everything is over," he whispered. A gunshot cracked through the cold air.
On the other side, Rokossovsky fought to rally his men. He pulled a Kremlin Guard by his sleeve. "Stand firm, soldier!" But the man slipped from his grasp, eyes wide with terror, running for his life.
Rokossovsky's voice was hoarse from shouting. He had commanded soldiers for years, but now he found himself surrounded by those fleeing the battlefield. Even his trusted elite Kremlin Guards and Kossars abandoned him.
"Rokossovsky!" Romanov, the leader of the Winged Gryphon Legion, approached, thrusting the Gryphon Legion's standard into Rokossovsky's hands. "Take this—gather what troops you can and escape! Head for Erengrad!"
Rokossovsky stared at the standard for a long moment before reluctantly mounting his horse, clutching the flag with trembling hands.
"Soldiers, follow me! Break through!" he bellowed.
The sight of the legendary Gryphon standard lifted spirits briefly, and some soldiers gathered around him. Rokossovsky managed to rally a small group—barely a squad of bear cavalry, eight hundred winged hussars, and a handful of Ulgol archers. Together, they charged through the chaos, leaving the field of slaughter behind.
Romanov and his guard stood alone against the incoming Chaos tide, buying precious minutes with their lives. The enemy overwhelmed them within minutes.
The battlefield had become a slaughterhouse. As Kislev's soldiers broke, the Norscan marauders showed no mercy. Wulfrik himself led the Chaos steel bull cavalry, tearing through whatever remained of the Kislevite forces. On a nearby hill, Sigvald the Prince of Slaanesh delighted in the carnage, dancing and chanting in twisted joy.
"Slaanesh! Slaanesh! Rejoice in bliss eternal!" Sigvald sang, spinning like a child amidst the destruction. Beside him, the demon prince Azazel howled with laughter.
"Sigvald!" Azazel jeered, watching the shattered Kislevite forces. "Have you ever seen such a glorious race?"
"Advance!" Sigvald ordered, as his army pressed forward, intent on capturing the Tsarina herself.
In Katarin's encampment, the situation was desperate. She dispatched her remaining Winged Hussars to delay the enemy but knew they would not hold long. A voice cut through the turmoil, delivering devastating news.
"General Vlasov has betrayed us! He and his Hussars have surrendered to the Norscans!"
"Impossible…" Katarin's voice faltered.
Even more terrible news followed: "Konev's forces have fallen! Zayev's forces are in full retreat! Rokossovsky has fled!"
The world spun as Katarin felt herself go faint, barely catching the rail of her sled. The Chaos armies bore down on her from every side. Sigvald's Slaanesh riders closed in from the west, Wulfrik's Chaos bull cavalry stormed from the south, and Festus's plague-ridden army advanced from the east. Katarin's heart pounded as she looked into the eyes of her Ice Witch lieutenant, Vanessa.
"Empress, you must leave! We can't hold them," Vanessa urged, wounds fresh on her face.
"If I die, I will die here, on the battlefield," Katarin protested.
"Please, my Tsarina, Kislev needs you. The kingdom cannot fall into Chaos hands," Vanessa insisted, her eyes pleading.
Katarin's resolve wavered as she witnessed a Slaanesh demon grab an Ice Witch. Its grotesque tongue probed into her skull, consuming her mind as her lifeless body dropped to the ground, devoured by the mob.
Shaken, Katarin gave in. Vanessa spurred her sled, prodding the reindeer to flee. She summoned an ice wall to delay the pursuers, while the remaining Kreml Guards and Kossars formed a final line to buy time.
To the west, Wulfrik led a charge of three thousand marauder riders, pursuing the fleeing Tsarina. But from the south, a lone figure appeared. Dmitri Zayev, the Grand Marshal of Kislev, held aloft his curved saber and challenged the Norscan king.
"Face me if you dare, Wulfrik of Norsca! Let us settle this in the name of Kislev!" he roared.
Wulfrik, piqued, raised his blade and called off the pursuit to engage Zayev.
For twenty minutes, Zayev and his thirty surviving Winged Hussars stood firm on the banks of the Torsol River. Though outnumbered and surrounded, they fought with unwavering bravery, charging directly into the heart of the Norscan host.
"Onward, sons of Kislev!" Zayev shouted, rallying his men one last time.
"Drink your vodka, men! Leave nothing for these Chaos fiends!" Zayev ordered as they charged. The Norscan warriors watched in awe, touched by the bravery of their foes.
The two forces clashed in a cataclysm of steel, blood, and bone. Thirty hussars against a thousand Chaos knights. By the end, only five of Zayev's men remained.
Once more, they wheeled their horses around, charging toward death. The Norscans watched with grudging respect, acknowledging the honor of these final defenders.
The battle ended at the Torsol River, where Zayev's last shout echoed: "Hurrah!"
"Lay these men to rest with honor," Wulfrik ordered, motioning to his soldiers. "They were true warriors."
The Norscans saluted the fallen Kislevites, preparing to build a pyre in their honor.
But the massacre was far from over.
The Battle of Zedvika ended with Chaos triumphant. The Kislevites lost nearly their entire force, with only a few survivors escaping: Rokossovsky's riders, a handful of noble guards, a few Ice Witches, and a small contingent of the Ice Guard. Nearly fifty thousand Kislev soldiers were slain, their skulls piled in a massive pyramid to mark Chaos's devastating
victory.
Yet for Katarin, the nightmare had not ended. The Prince of Slaanesh and the Norscan marauders chased her sled through the crimson twilight, shouting promises of reward for her capture.
"Bring me the Ice Queen, alive! An artifact from Slaanesh to the one who succeeds!"
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