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Nachhexen-31-Jahrdrung-1-2494
The orc's skull burst like rotten fruit, painting the walls the instant my mace connected.Bone and brain matter scattering in every direction.
The crude weapons of the greenskins were useless against me. Their blows clanged harmlessly off the runic plates of my gromril armor. Around me, the few that remained were being slaughtered methodically by my men and the Ironbreakers, who never slowed, crushing each creature that still dared to breathe.
A goblin leapt from a ledge, shrieking, a knife raised high with both hands as it hurled itself at my throat. I was faster. I caught it mid-air by the neck. A single squeeze. Crack. Its eyes—red and full of hatred—went dim at once. I let it drop like an empty sack.
To my right, a Dawi hurled himself forward like a projectile, smashing his helmet into an orc's jaw and sending a spray of broken tusks through the air. The brute staggered, dazed—and I gave it no time to recover. I stepped in and crushed its skull with one swing, leaving the corpse at the dwarf's feet. He met my gaze and gave a grim nod.
I drew one of my pistols. A goblin crouched on a ledge above the hall, hoping to slip away unnoticed. Too late.
The pistol thundered, the shot echoing through the chamber. The creature screamed briefly before tumbling from above, bouncing off the rocks until it lay twisted and still.
I scanned the battlefield. No real enemies left—only greenskins crawling through the blood and rubble. Some armless, others dragging mangled legs. The Dawi moved among them without mercy, ending their ancestral foes one by one.
"It seems we've taken control of the citadel," I said to the Ironbeard, commander of the Ironbreakers. Only his eyes were visible behind the runic gromril plates encasing him.
"Strange, umgi," the dwarf replied, turning slowly as he watched his warriors finish the last of the work. "Greenskins rarely hold our ancestral fortresses with so little defense. If they were always this weak, we'd have reclaimed them centuries ago."
I gestured downward several times. "The urk are on the lower levels. That's why this place is nearly empty—they're fighting the thagoraki."
The Ironbeard tilted his head, frowning. "How… how do you know that?"
"My magic tells me. The urk are battling the raki in the deep halls. The next three levels are nearly deserted, so we'll only need to sweep them. But below that… thousands of orcs and goblins are slaughtering each other against a Skaven invasion."
The Ironbeard narrowed his eyes. "You… and that cursed magic of yours…" he grumbled, distrust clear in his tone. "But if it's true, it's worth knowing. We must check the dungeons of this Karak. The kin of King Kazador of Karak Azul may yet live."
I nodded. "Yes… in fact, I can sense several Dawi down there." I turned toward the passage leading to the prisons.
"Then let's go. The High King and Kazador will want to hear this," said the Ironbeard, already rallying part of his troops.
I was about to follow when one of my captains intercepted me. His breathing was ragged, his armor drenched in blood and dented from heavy fighting, his runic greatsword still dripping.
"My lord…" he gasped, "one of my men searched what looked like a cell block. We found a large group of Dawi… imprisoned."
The Ironbeard broke into a near run without another word, storming down the stone corridors as if guided by memory. We followed him to the deepest chambers of the first level. There, in a damp, dimly lit hall, we found about fifty Dawi—and what we saw froze the blood in our veins.
They were in appalling condition.
"Everyone out," I ordered sharply.
My men cleared the area in seconds, leaving only the captives and a handful of my most trusted soldiers.
"Bring blankets and cloaks. And keep this quiet… we won't salt the wound of their pride. They're not to be seen by the others. My men must not carry away a twisted image of the honorable Dawi," I told the guards, who nodded and hurried off.
The Ironbeard said nothing. He gripped his hammer so tightly the handle groaned under the strain. He shook his head slowly, eyes fixed on the floor.
"Those beasts… they'll pay for this," he muttered through his teeth.
"They will," I answered quietly.
Many of the prisoners still wore rusted shackles. The sight was crushing. Some wept silently, clenching their jaws, refusing to make a sound. Others kept their heads bowed, unable to lift their gaze.
The worst of it was what had been done to their beards.
Several had been completely shaven. Others had large patches burned or crudely hacked off. For a Dawi, it was worse than losing a limb—an outrage to their very identity, to their honor. They tried to cover their faces, shielding their bare chins with their hands the moment the shackles were removed.
The three women we found were in even worse condition—totally bald, stripped of every hair, their skin stretched thin over bone. Hollow-eyed, drained of strength or will—empty shells of those who had endured the unthinkable.
The orcs hadn't just tortured them… they had humiliated them. Stripped away what was sacred. Their pride. That wound cut deeper than any scar or burn.
My men returned carrying blankets, cloaks, medicine, and bandages. Alongside the Dawi warriors who had followed us, we began covering the prisoners carefully, doing what little we could to spare them further shame.
For long minutes, silence filled the air—broken only by the clink of chains being removed and the scrape of metal against stone. Some of the shaven dwarfs let out faint groans as they fought to keep their composure—to hold on, somehow, to the dignity they still possessed.
The scene was as painful as it was silent.
Until the Dawi commander exploded. "We have to kill the urk right now!" roared the Ironbeard, trembling with fury.
I stepped toward him, trying to calm him. "Easy—" I began, but he cut me off, his rage slicing through the air.
"Easy? Look at them! Look what they did to them! And you ask me for calm? We have to kill every last urk in this cursed fortress—now!"
I grabbed his shoulder and met his eyes. "The urk outnumber us. And the thagoraki too. Right now, they're tearing each other apart in the lower levels. If we wait, patience will leave us with two weakened enemies. Then, in that moment, we strike—and we kill every single greenskin."
The Ironbeard's breathing was ragged, his hammer still shaking in his hand. But he didn't look away. He just held my gaze, eyes burning with rage. "You're right, umgi. My anger clouded my judgment… I nearly led my Dawi into a battle where we had no advantage of ground. A terrible example for the position entrusted to me by the High King," the dwarf muttered, breaking eye contact.
"Rest. I'll give the signal when the urk and thagoraki stop fighting—when they try to recover from their slaughter. That's when we strike, and take our vengeance," I said, clenching my fist.
I returned slowly to my men as the cleanup began. We had taken the fortress citadel with surprising ease, taking full advantage of the internal war between the orcs and the Skaven. This was a golden opportunity—to turn this place into a secure logistics hub from which to move materials, set up camps, establish depots, and ensure a fallback point if things went wrong. The eastern gate was within reach, but advancing without securing our position would've been suicide.
When I arrived, I went straight to one of the most protected chambers on the first level. It had already been cleared by the Dawi flamethrowers, who purified the place with fire. Then the space had been converted into an improvised field hospital—rows of cots, potted healing plants, and a full team of physicians trained by the Cult of Shallya, alongside Jade Magisters from the College of Ghyran we had acquired with great effort. It was one of my most expensive projects… and it was about to prove its worth.
One of my soldiers, face drenched in sweat, was growling through a leather strap clenched between his teeth. His arm was shattered—smashed by an orc in the thick of battle—bleeding like a broken river. Two doctors held him steady while others stitched what they could. Beside them, a Magister of Ghyran raised his hands, surrounded by watchful apprentices. Magic flowed from his fingers, and slowly, the flesh and veins of the arm began to reconnect.
The physicians worked tirelessly, binding and stabilizing until, finally, the arm was whole. One of them took out a small crystal vial filled with a reddish potion.
"This will ease the pain. Drink," he said, holding it close to the soldier's face.
The soldier reached out with his good arm, but they nudged the vial toward the newly healed one—several times. Finally, with effort, he used the restored arm to take it, raised it, and drank in one motion.
The doctors exchanged glances, pleased but focused, immediately moving on to less severe cases.
Before, in situations like this, all one could do was pray to save the arm—and if gangrene set in, cut it off and send the man home. With luck, he lived. But now, with this fusion of magic and medicine, he had a second chance—to return to the frontlines… or, if trauma won, at least continue working elsewhere, whole, instead of becoming another pension to pay—or worse, another man lost to despair.
We began organizing the entire first level quickly. We cleared halls full of bones, tusks, and filth, turning them into storerooms. We stacked crates of ammunition, barrels of powder, and designated dry, reinforced areas to protect the army's supplies. As more of our troops entered the safety of the fortress, the citadel became a proper base of operations.
"So your brilliant idea is… more armor on top of armor?" said Katarin with a faint smile, as she conjured a massive column of ice that slowly melted into a steady stream of fresh water for our troops. She had already ordered all the Ice Witches to do the same—Skaven tactics often involved poisoning water during sieges, so at least we'd have a large reserve free of warpstone.
I frowned as I molded steel ingots with my magic, welding extra plates over my gromril armor—reinforcements on arms, legs, and chest—creating a kind of harness covering the gromril shell.
"Wait and see. I can't manipulate rune-forged gromril with my magic, so I have to do this," I said, finishing the last adjustments.
When I was done, I jumped—and before touching the ground, I hovered midair. One hand on my hip, the other on my chin, floating with confidence.
"Look… I can fly without my griffon," I said, raising an eyebrow with a ridiculously pleased grin, crossing my arms as I floated several meters above the floor.
Katarin stared, speechless for a second before regaining composure. "That… that's actually a good idea," she admitted, still astonished. Then she narrowed her eyes, folding her arms. "But doesn't that require absurd concentration to maintain?"
I nodded, rising higher until I almost brushed the ceiling. "Yes. It's not like spinning a blade or firing a shard of metal. I have to control every piece of armor at once, make sure they don't move in opposite directions… and that they don't tear me apart if I lose focus."
I descended slowly.
"It's like keeping ten razor-sharp blades spinning around your body and hoping none of them touch you. So yes… it takes a lot of focus." I gave her a tired smile. "I'll have to train until it becomes instinctive, or it'll be useless in battle. But if I can master it—it'll be invaluable."
My boots finally touched the ground. "A cape wouldn't hurt," I said thoughtfully. "I doubt it'd get caught in a gyrocopter's rotors."
"You come up with the strangest things here… especially with those 'magic classes' you're giving the Chamon and Ghyran apprentices about 'atoms and cells,'" Katarin said, emphasizing the last words with her fingers.
"The less one understands magic, the more raw power it requires to use. The more one understands what they want to achieve, the easier it is to make it real," I said, staring at the floor.
"What's wrong?" Katarin asked.
"You have something else to tell me," I said, turning to her.
"No… why?" she replied.
"The Skaven and the orcs have stopped fighting. The orcs are returning… which means the real battle is about to begin," I said, walking out of the chamber.
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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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