In the midst of the battle, Dimitri Zayev, Kislev's Grand Marshal, watched as the Slaanesh forces were slowly pushed back. From his vantage point atop his horse, Zayev slapped his thigh with satisfaction. "Well done! Just a little more, and we'll have them!"
Riding nearby, Gryphon Corps Commander Romanov shared his excitement. "Marshal, shall we proceed according to plan and reinforce Konev?"
"How fares Fedosev?" Zayev asked, glancing towards the northeast, where the Nurgle army threatened Dagniper.
Scouts quickly reported that Fedosev's forces were holding firm, relying on the town's walls to resist Festus' relentless but slow-moving Nurgle army. Despite four hours of heavy fighting, Dagniper's defenses remained intact.
"Very well," Zayev ordered. "Romanov, take the Gryphon Winged Lancers and a contingent of Ugol horse archers. Move west to reinforce Konev's and Rokossovsky's units. Ensure the Slaanesh army is fully routed!"
Romanov immediately rallied his troops, gathering over four thousand cavalry and advancing towards Konev's position. However, as they rode westward, the cavalry suddenly spotted an ominous gathering to the north—across the frozen Torsol River, a massive Chaos force of at least thirty thousand warriors was slowly mobilizing.
A chill ran through Romanov's ranks, and he quickly dispatched messengers back to Zayev. Within moments, the alarming report reached the Grand Marshal: a Chaos army was massing on the northern bank of the Torsol.
"So, it wasn't going to be that easy after all," Zayev muttered, deep in thought. Intelligence had indicated the arrival of northern reinforcements, but they had not expected them to come so soon.
The Grand Marshal realized he was at a critical juncture. If the Chaos reinforcements crossed the Torsol, the Kislevite army's victory would be in jeopardy. Zayev saw only two options: he could either continue supporting Konev's fight against Slaanesh's army, or redirect his forces eastward to join Fedosev in dealing a decisive blow against the Nurgle army.
After a moment's consideration, Zayev made his decision. Since Fedosev's troops were effectively containing the Nurgle forces, the immediate priority was to secure victory against Sigvald's army. Leaving his back exposed to the newly arrived Chaos force would be catastrophic. Thus, Zayev commanded his central troops to join Konev's offensive against Slaanesh's forces, leaving only three regiments behind to support Dagniper.
Meanwhile, under immense pressure, Sigvald was struggling to hold the Slaanesh army's lines together. With Konev, Rokossovsky, and now Zayev bearing down on him from three directions, his forces were hemmed in on all sides. In a rage, Sigvald entered the fray himself, his Slaanesh-blessed silver sword cutting down Kislevite soldiers as his Chosen Warriors and Chaos Knights formed a defensive ring around the hill.
The hill's incline, though slight, became a deadly barrier. The Bear Riders and Winged Lancers repeatedly clashed against Sigvald's warriors, but Kislev's troops were pushed back each time. The Chaos soldiers fought fiercely, gradually tiring their Kislevite opponents.
Across the Torsol River, the infamous Everchosen Archaon, known as Mortkin, sat atop his iron bull, watching the battle unfold. Around him stood a formidable vanguard of thirty thousand Chaos warriors, with an additional fifty thousand expected soon. His cold gaze scanned the battlefield, noting every detail.
"Everchosen, we should cross the river immediately," urged Kairos the Seer, perched upon his floating disc of Tzeentch. "With a forced march, we could cross the Torsol within ten hours."
Mortkin regarded Kairos with disdain. "And you will be the one to lead this crossing, then?"
"If necessary, I am ready," replied the Seer, though his tone was noticeably meek.
"No," Mortkin replied, his voice steely. "No one crosses. Our objective remains the same: the burial site of the von Zhukovs and the head of Oleg von Zhukov."
Kairos's brow furrowed in confusion. "But, Everchosen, Kislev is the outer bastion of the Old World. If we do not destroy them now, they will only—"
"Kislev's defenses are not our concern," Mortkin snapped. "My mandate from the Chaos Gods is singular. I am the Everchosen; my will is supreme."
Kairos conceded, bowing his head in submission. "As you command, my lord. But I must caution you—should we lose Prince Sigvald's forces, we will be weakened."
Mortkin waved away the concern, his gaze locked on the distant hill where Sigvald's forces were crumbling. "Let Sigvald be. The Kurgan and Norscan hordes are endless. His loss means nothing."
Meanwhile, on the blood-stained fields of Zedvika, Kislev's forces pressed forward against Sigvald's depleted army. It was now past noon, and though the Slaanesh forces were fiercely resisting, their numbers were thinning rapidly under Kislev's relentless assault.
On the hill, Sigvald rallied his dwindling troops, trying to delay Kislev's forces. Though exhausted, his Slaanesh warriors fought with renewed zeal, inflicting casualties even as they were pushed back. Kislevite soldiers were also weakening; most had eaten only a meager breakfast, and hunger gnawed at them as the fighting dragged into the afternoon. The Winged Lancers' horses and the giant bears of the Bear Riders began to falter, slowing the advance.
Despite their exhaustion, victory was within reach for the Kislevites. In the thick of the fighting, Grand Marshal Konev swung his war axe with fury, dismembering a Slaanesh Chosen warrior as his giant bear tore into another. But then a ragged scout appeared by Konev's side, shouting in alarm.
"Marshal! A force is advancing from the west!"
Konev's blood ran cold. "What?" He turned and looked westward through his spyglass, his heart sinking.
Just as Sigvald gazed out from his hill, he too saw them: the forces of the Norscan High King, Wulfrik the Wanderer, cresting the western ridge. Sigvald's twisted smile returned. "At last! My salvation arrives."
Kislev's troops recoiled as they realized what was happening. Exhaustion gave way to dread as they saw Wulfrik's Norscan army charging over the hill, eager to reinforce Sigvald. Romanov, Rokossovsky, and Konev all grasped the full horror of their predicament.
"Two more hours—just two hours, and Sigvald would have been ours!" Romanov slammed his fist against his thigh, furious.
"I'll intercept them!" declared Rokossovsky, rallying his exhausted troops.
"You won't hold them off for long!" Konev warned, knowing Rokossovsky's forces were too depleted to withstand the Norscan assault.
"Then I'll hold them as long as I can!" Rokossovsky replied, his resolve unwavering.
Rokossovsky led his remaining Bear Riders, Winged Lancers, and Ugol horse archers west to intercept the Norscans. But as the Kislevites braced for the worst, a call echoed from the town of Zedvika.
"Tsarina Katarin is on the move!"
Katarin's shimmering sleigh, pulled by four massive reindeer, emerged from the town gates, her Ice Guard and Kreml Guards marching beside her.
Standing tall on her sleigh, Katarin drew her blade, Ivan the Terrible's Sword, high above her head. "For Ursun! For Kislev! Forward!"
Her forces erupted in a cheer and surged forward, inspired by their Tsarina's bravery. Katarin's decisive move rallied the weary Kislevite soldiers, who redoubled their efforts. In a blinding surge of ice magic, the Tsarina unleashed a storm, slowing Wulfrik's advancing Norscan warriors as they struggled to reach the battlefield.
Yet far off, atop the cliffs overlooking the Torsol River, Mortkin watched with cold satisfaction.
"The battle is over," he muttered, turning his back on the bloodshed below.
_________________________
[Check out my Patreon for +200 additional chapters in all my fanfics! $5 for all!!]
[w w w . p a t r e o n .com / INNIT]
[+50 PowerStones = +1 Chapter] [+5 Reviews = +1 Chapter]