The battle for Nagashizzar ended in bitter failure.
The combined forces of the High Elves and Dwarves had successfully rescued the Little Queen, only to have her snatched back by Mannfred in a moment of carelessness and relaxation just as the two armies were about to unite. Using the zombie dragon's ability to fly and launch surprise attacks, as well as its immunity to injury, Mannfred seized the opportunity to reclaim the Little Queen and flew her back to Nagashizzar.
Tyrion could only watch in furious despair as his daughter was taken back by the undead. But with the High Elf heroes all injured and the army reduced to less than half its strength, the Defender knew that turning back to Nagashizzar to rescue Aliathra again was now impossible.
The enemy was simply too powerful. Aside from the three Divine Titans, there were countless skeletal undead armies, the magic of the Lich King Arkhan, and the formidable sorcery of Mannfred von Carstein, the last Vampire Count. Normally, the entire Old World might not have been able to produce a match for the combined magical prowess of Teclis and Belannaer.
But Arkhan was an exception. The four-thousand-year-old Lich King was a match for Teclis in magic, and with the added power of seven of the nine Books of Nagash in his possession, as well as the terrain advantage of Nagashizzar, the High Elves' magical superiority was nullified.
"Retreat! Retreat!" Tyrion issued the bitter order, personally covering the retreat once more. Surprisingly, the undead did not pursue. Perhaps Arkhan and Mannfred had exhausted their strength, or perhaps their goal was simply to capture the Little Queen. In any case, the undead gradually withdrew toward Nagashizzar.
Similarly, the Dwarves retreated in an orderly fashion. The undead had no desire to engage in a deadly struggle with the stubborn Dwarves. While Mannfred and Arkhan were busy intercepting the High Elves, the Vampire Baron Hal Harris von Carstein, one of Mannfred's trusted lieutenants, also ordered a retreat.
The High Elf heroes tasted bitterness and iron in their mouths. They refused to join the Dwarves and quickly withdrew from the World's Edge Mountains.
"Those Dwarves! Those Dwarves! If they had come just one minute earlier, Aliathra wouldn't have been taken by that disgusting undead!"
"Useless! We asked them to hold off the main undead force, and what did they do? Nothing!"
"The Dwarves bear the main responsibility for failing to rescue our Little Queen!"
"It's all because of those Dwarves! We gave them a chance, we gave them a chance!"
"Allowing them to participate in the rescue was a mercy from the Asur!"
"From today on, we're done with those Dwarves!"
Whose fault was the failed rescue? It had to be the Dwarves' fault!
The remnants of the High Elf army spat out words filled with hatred and curses. Teclis, lying on a Tiranoc Chariot, shook his head and opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"Enough!" Tyrion's Sunfang blazed with fire. The Defender, surprisingly, refuted the accusations. "The Dwarves came. What more do you want? Was it us who were supposed to rescue Aliathra, or the Dwarves? We failed to protect her even after we had her. Who's to blame? The Dwarves?"
The group fell silent.
"It's my fault, Defender," Lieutenant Belannaer, clutching his shoulder pierced by Mannfred's cursed blade, knelt before Tyrion with tears in his eyes. "I failed to protect the Little Queen. Please punish me!"
"This is not just your responsibility. We all share the blame," Tyrion's hand gripping Sunfang trembled uncontrollably, his teeth grinding audibly. "The main responsibility lies with me. The moment we successfully retreated, we all let our guard down, giving that scum Mannfred the opportunity."
"Everyone," Tyrion sighed deeply, shaking his head. "We must retreat. Saving Aliathra will require a different approach. This place is no longer safe, and we're all injured. Let's retreat to the Empire and regroup."
"But..." Eltharion finally spoke up. The others noticed that Eltharion had only suffered minor injuries and was still capable of fighting.
"The rescue mission has failed!" Tyrion roared, his voice gradually lowering as if trying to convince himself. "At least for today, we have failed. Too many Asur have lost their lives."
"Send an envoy to the Dwarves. We retreat!"
The High Elves withdrew, and on the other side, the Everpeak army was also on its way back.
High King Thorgrim Grudgebearer sat on his Throne of Power. The Dwarves had fought relatively easily, losing only a few dozen warriors. Thorgrim knew the undead hadn't taken the fight with the Dwarves seriously, and he also knew that the High Elves' rescue mission had ended in failure.
As the High King pondered the battle's command and the shifting tides of war—what had been done right, what had been barely satisfactory, and what needed improvement—the Dwarf standard-bearer suddenly called out, "They're here, my High King. The pointy-ears' envoy has arrived."
"Pointy-ears..." Thorgrim frowned and waved his hand. "Let him come. Let's hear what the pointy-ears have to say."
The Eternal Guards quickly made way, and the High Elf envoy, though injured, held his head high as he approached under the hostile gazes of the Dwarves. He handed over a scroll of silk and left without a word.
Thorgrim took the scroll, broke the wax seal, and was momentarily surprised to see the message written in the human common tongue. He began to read carefully, his expression darkening rapidly. The High King spat out a Dwarven curse: "By Grungni's beard, I **** your **** ****, those damned pointy-ears!"
"Your Majesty?" Grimm Burloksson, the Chief Engineer of Karaz-a-Karak, asked.
"The pointy-ears say the rescue failed," Thorgrim slammed the silk scroll onto the ground, his beard trembling with rage, the gold rings and ornaments on it shaking uncontrollably. "The pointy-ears... the pointy-ears say this isn't over. The Dwarves haven't fulfilled their obligations. When the next rescue attempt happens, the Everpeak army must join them again!"
"What?!" It was as if a spark had landed on dry tinder. The Dwarves exploded in outrage.
"We fought tooth and nail, lost many brothers for the pointy-ears' mess, and now they're blaming us?"
"By Grimnir's axe, I'll split their pointy heads open!"
"By Valaya's ale, this is intolerable!"
"Bastards! The Dwarves will never forget this insult from the pointy-ears!"
The Dwarven army was in an uproar, roaring with fury.
"Your Majesty, I suggest we record this in the Great Book of Grudges," Thorgrim's Grudge-Keeper suggested bitterly.
"Enough!" The High King bellowed, silencing everyone. Thorgrim clenched his fist and slammed it on his Throne of Power, visibly restraining his anger. "This matter began because of the Dwarves. We do have a responsibility to fulfill. Recording this in the Great Book of Grudges is not wise. Obsessing over petty grudges will only lead the Dwarves to ruin. We no longer have the strength to wage a war of vengeance against the High Elves. We must distinguish who our true enemies are: the greenskins, Chaos, not the High Elves!"
The Dwarves were still seething but had to admit the High King's words held truth. Chief Engineer Burloksson, however, was furious. "But... are we just going to let this slide? When did the Dwarves become the pointy-ears' lackeys? My High King?"
"The Dwarves have never been the pointy-ears' lackeys, Burloksson!" Thorgrim suppressed his anger and shook his head. "Stupid pointy-ears. Thousands of years, and they still haven't learned gratitude or the power of a contract. Even the humans are better in this regard."
"Let them go. Let them rescue their so-called Little Queen on their own," the High King said gravely. "The Dwarves have fulfilled our duty. Now it's their turn to figure things out. No Dwarf warriors will draw the undead's attention for them, no Dwarf cannons will suppress the enemy or deal with those giant constructs, and no Dwarf rangers will guide them through the mountains. The Dwarves have done our part. Let them face the undead alone. The Dwarves... will not return."
"Now, march home," High King Thorgrim ordered. "Send messengers to Clan Angrund. We head for Eight Peaks. I want to see Belegar and Kemma, inspect the underway network hub and the state of Eight Peaks, and see how his Dwarf Gyrocopter repairs are coming along and when they can be deployed."
"Yes!"
...I am the dividing line of the Dwarves not returning...
"We almost failed," the Little Queen Aliathra was bound in a cold Tomb King sarcophagus and transported back to Nagashizzar. The Lich King Arkhan said to Mannfred, "It was so close. This time, you finally proved your worth. When the master is resurrected, I will report this to him truthfully."
"Cough, cough~" Mannfred no longer pretended. The last Vampire Count coughed up blood, his body riddled with wounds, his face twisted in pain. "Is that so? Thank you for your kindness, Lich King. I appreciate it... cough, cough."
In truth, Mannfred had been at a disadvantage in his fight with Eltharion. He had only managed to push Eltharion back thanks to the deathly winds enveloping Nagashizzar, the superior physique and regenerative abilities of a vampire, and the zombie dragon's immunity to injury.
"What do we do now?" Arkhan looked at Aliathra, asleep in the sarcophagus, his voice filled with hesitation.
Despite repelling the High Elf and Dwarf alliance, the undead had suffered far greater losses.
Even now, over a hundred places in Nagashizzar were still burning, the result of the solar flames from Tyrion's Sunfang. Each burning spot required necromancers to expend ten or even a hundred times the effort to extinguish.
At the same time, Tyrion and his elite squad had cut through a dozen courtyards and multiple layers of Nagashizzar's structures, leaving behind nothing but evaporated bone dust. Over half of the twenty undead legions stationed in Nagashizzar had been lost, and more than a dozen necromancers had been slain by Tyrion himself. Krell had also fallen to Tyrion's blade, and repairing him would take Arkhan considerable time.
The worst part was that the ritual altar and site for resurrecting Nagash had been irreparably destroyed by Tyrion's Sunfang. The Defender had clearly recognized the altar's purpose and used his divine weapon to obliterate it.
Arkhan ran his hand over the shattered statues and ancient runes of the ritual altar, his voice tinged with rare sorrow. "This altar is completely ruined. We'll need to find another location for the ritual."
"Cough, cough... Can't it be repaired?" Mannfred's eyes darted around as he formulated a plan.
"It's beyond repair. We can't rebuild a new one in such a short time," Arkhan sighed. "And this place is no longer safe. The High Elves will return sooner or later."
"Then why not go to Sylvania? I've already amassed a large undead army there, and over the centuries, the von Carstein family has prepared a ritual altar in Drakenhof Castle to resurrect the Undying King. We can perform the ritual there," Mannfred suggested.
Arkhan hesitated.
Should he return to his Black Tower, drawing the attention of Settra and the other Tomb Kings, and prepare for the largest desert battle in history?
Or should he follow Mannfred's suggestion and move to the Empire's province of Sylvania, to deal with Emperor Karl Franz and his Imperial allies?
After weighing the pros and cons, Arkhan made his decision.
The Empire and its mortal armies would be easier to handle.
And there would be plenty of fresh recruits to bolster their forces.
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