Frostlord Vorgrun Loshar and his Ogor warriors have spent many years in the hunt for the ultimate conquest. With Hammerhal set firmly in their sights The Fists of Winter prepare themselves for a succulent feast.
Over the next four weeks take part in our Fists of Winter Digital Campaign and stop back here every Monday to learn more about the story that leads up to these ferocious battles.
Epilogue – The Light of Day
As quickly as the storm had risen, it receded. Delicate flakes of snow drifted on a breeze, before dissolving under the intense sunlight that now bore its way through the clouds above the city. Shielding their eyes from the light’s full intensity, Vorgrun Loshar and his remaining Ogors turned and fled.
“Who bears the conviction to drive back the evil?” Aventis Firestrike’s voice boomed across the broken remains of the once great city, raising the Staff of Hammerhal skyward.
“Only the faithful.” The chorus of Stormcast Eternals echoed back in immediate acknowledgement, their hammers glistening in the ever growing light of day.
“Should we give chase, Magister?” called a voice from within the ranks of the Stormcast warriors.
“No, they are broken and I would not see more of our brothers returned to the Anvils of Azyr. This day has carried with it enough loss already” Aventis’ normally unyielding tone, softened, if only for a moment.
As Sigmar’s light broke across the rest of Hammerhal Ghyra, the devastation wrought upon the city was clear for all to see. Entire districts lay in ruin, bodies of fallen Free People and the forces of the Frostlord littered the streets.
Stepping over the bodies of the lost, High King Volturnos moved silently, Aventis only aware of the ancient Aelves presence at the last moment.
“Our debt to you is repaid, Firestrike, do not call upon me again.”
The High King doesn’t break his stride as he cuts through the rank and file legions of Stormcast Eternals. His movements reminiscent of that of a man, but with an exacting quality no human could possess. With one swift manoeuvre, Volturnos finds himself atop Uasall, the beasts’ multi-faceted tail lashing out with tremendous force; before disappearing upon the tide of the Aethersea surrounded by his Idoneth warriors.
“Sire.” instantly Aventis attention was drawn away from mesmerising shimmer that rippled in the Aethersea’s wake and back to the moment at hand.
“Sire,” the coarse voice called again. “News from Aqshy, the Daemons have begun to fight amongst themselves!”
“Brothers we are needed.” Aventis’ voiced rolled like thunder across the heavens. “Who bears the conviction to drive back the evil?”
“Only the faithful.”
Week Four – A Debt Repaid
For all that had been brought to bear upon Hammerhal Ghyra over the previous weeks, the city remained; broken yet standing in defiance of the enemies that now swarmed through its streets, like fleas upon a rodent. The bitter wind that had marked the arrival of the Ogor invasion had, over time grown into a furious blizzard. Great rifts of snow and ice blocked entire streets, turning the city into a perilous maze of starvation and war. Those who dared to venture from their homes in the hunt for food and supplies risked death at the hands of the wandering undead or the ruthless mobs of the Frostlord.
Beyond the city walls, the roars of the Ogor encampment carried through the air. What had started as a few uprooted trees and a scattering of ill-maintained tents had swollen to the size of a small city. At one point the forest here had grown dense, teaming with life; a startling juxtaposition next to the intense stonework of Hammerhal. Now, however, the trees were gone. Each cut to little more than a stump to feed the Ogor war effort, thick black smoking coughing forth from somewhere within the Ogor camp. Word of the Frostlord’s growing campaign had rippled throughout the Mortal Realms, leading other Ogors to the battleground, in hopes of partaking in the upcoming banquet.
From high above the Ogor forces, perched upon the edge of Hammerhal’s fractured walls High King Volturnos gazed at the sprawling mass, Uasall his centuries-long stead growling and salivating in anticipation. For countless years the High King of the Idoneth Deepkin had owed a debt to the Magister of Hammerhal, but today he would see it repaid!
Week Three – A Partnership of Convenience
Skarbrand found himself snarling as he gazed upon the followers of the Deceitful One that were mixed amongst the ranks of his own warriors. He had been in service of Khorne since before ‘time’ had been cursed with its name; he had built the very throne his master now rested upon, harvesting every skull that had come to forge the awe-inspiring structure. Skarbrand had for centuries been his master’s most trusted warrior, but those days were long forgotten.
The Bloodthirster found his attention drawn to the followers of the devious Tzeentch as he felt his innate fury growing once more. Pride had been his only weakness, and it was a weakness that Tzeentch had fed upon with great relish. Turning the once loyal warrior against his master; a betrayal that had been short-lived.
Now, marching to war alongside those who had taken everything from him was yet one more insult that the great Daemon would have to endure in service to the Blood God.
“Are you ready, Scarred One?” the call of The Changeling suddenly dug into the darkest depths of Skarbrand’s mind, how he hated the sound of its soft, soothing tone. The web of deceit this creature spun was second only to its master, able to peer into the heart of any it chose and twisting them in whatever manner it saw fit.
“I am ready!” Skarbrand called, revealing his glistening twin axes…
Week Two – Something Lurks
Lady Olynder’s deep-set eye sockets darted across her army of the damned, for the last three days they had cut a bloody swathe across the city, their numbers slowly growing with the death of each mortal that stood in their way. Now the Mortarch of Grief found herself deep within the gut of Hammerhal Ghyra, surrounded by the city’s mighty Fire Bastions.
Magnificent stone spires climbed into the sky. These dark, brooding towers standing in stark contrast to the brilliant, plentiful greenery that made its home just beyond the city walls. Each of these towers held molten rock from the heart of Aqshy; the very lifeblood of the Realm of Fire.
For as long as there had been a Hammerhal Ghyra, there had been a Hammerhal Aqsha. Both parts of the great Twin-Tailed City had existed in a delicate balance, neither able to survive without the support of its sister. The fertile soil of Ghyran allowed for an almost endless bounty of food to be sown, more than making up for the harsh and unforgiving terrain found in Aqshy, whilst the lava that flows so freely through the Realm of Fire could be introduced as a deterrent against the often deadly plant life found in the Realm of Life.
Turning her attention back to what lay ahead, Lady Olynder sensed something had changed. This city was no longer home to just the followers of Sigmar and those other traitorous gods. Something else had arrived, something all the more brutal…
Week One – Under Siege
What started as little more than a disturbance on the outer boundaries of Duskfell Market quickly grew to a deafening roar. The sound of glass shattering and stone breaking in the distance was now accompanied by the guttural roar of something bestial that had found its way into the city.
The frenzy spread like wildfire as the intruders swarmed through the gaping wound in Hammerhal Ghyra’s outer perimeter. Orruks and Grots plunged through the opening, moving in droves towards the market square, drawn by the hustle and bustle of city life.
Stepping over rumble and bodies with ease came a beast who stood head and shoulders above all others, his gluttonous bulk matched equally by bulging muscles that swelled from beneath thick layers of fat.
Once more the Ogor let out a howl that tore through the streets, carving through the screams of the fleeing free people.
“That’s it, boys!” He growled, lifting a blade the length of a man towards the sky. “Take it all; this city belongs to the Sovanheng.”