In the jungles near Old Brass, the fighting was dying down. The last few remaining Saurus and Skinks, lying disabled on the muddy floor, met their end at the merciless blades of Sytarith’s followers.
Cries of triumph rang through the trees, the mercenaries’ lines quickly disintegrating as they got carried away in the slaughter, with the Templars futilely trying to restore order.
“Regroup in six Flames!” Templar Oron ordered the troops. “The battle is ours! Follow your orders! We Regroup and retreat to the south. We leave before…”
The Battle, the death and the smell of blood had already not gone unnoticed in Old Brass, though. Not gone unnoticed by those who roamed these parts of the Furyoth Dell, who hungered for Blood and for Skulls.
A horde of bloodletters, their vicious horns and deep red skin glistening in the diffuse light of the jungle, wielding jagged swords and unholy banners of their patron god. The powerful, muscled bodies of fleshhounds, maws salviating in anticipation. Bloodcrushers, leaving paths of total destruction behind them as they stormed forth on their massive mounts of brass and muscle.
With unearthly screams, the daemonic host broke through the jungle, and were just about to fall upon the still disorganized amalgamation of Templars and their mercenaries, when suddenly –
As one, they stopped, and stared upwards, hissing, at the sky, to the Monolith floating above, pulsating with ancient power. The subtle pain in the ears of the mercenaries increased. Even though they could not truly hear it, the Monolith called out to them. Called out to them all.
The Archprophetess was aware of all of this. With more and more mental chains, she had bound the Monolith to her – and her to the Monolith. She could feel the presence of the daemonic host before her, and the Monolith’s signal was not only its own, but her’s as well.
Communicating with them was… not literal. Not truly. It was more a trade of feelings, no, that was not it – of maxims. Of the desire to please the Blood God, with spilt blood and taken skulls. Of the increased worth of big, brutal battles instead of the hunt for lost wanderers nearby. Of the Glories of the past, that could be relived. Of the Holiness of the Monolith, beacon of Change and Slaughter.
It was Truth for the Daemons of the Blood God.
The Monolith – it was not only Holy to Our Burning Saviour, but to all the Dark Gods. It was Holy to Khorne.
Once before, Daemons of Khorne had fought under this Monolith, back in the Age of Chaos.
They would find glorious battle below the Monolith again.
The Monolith moved, southwards, and the host of Daemons and Templars marched with it. Flabbergasted at first, and intimidated by the monstrosities that had so suddenly chosen to follow the Monolith, the mercenaries finally followed. Where Khornate Daemons went, a chance for glory was soon to follow.
Sytarith remained still in her shrine and observed.
There was an unfamiliar feeling – or long forgotten? – pride. Pride at her achievements, and at her power. How control over the Monolith, this ancient weapon of war, came so natural to her. How she had assembled this host, of daemons and mortals, marching on their enemy’s lands. Feelings assaulted her mind. Oh no, it was wrong, it was all fake. She fought the feelings down. Surely, she was barely holding on, with much luck. More chains formed, binding them closer together.
Why her? Why would Our Savior sent her to lead this host, to fulfill His will in Rondhol?
Maybe – it was all part of the plan. Those feelings of power, of pride, they were not hers. They were of an outside force. Quite possibly, they were capable of consuming another, who truly was powerful, to an extent, who did not know better. This was why Our Saviour had chosen her.
The one who was a fraud, an imposter.
With that, she had it almost right.
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And so they moved through the jungles of Rondhol. It was akin to a religious procession.
A massive floating Monolith of great arcane power, a shrine to the Dark Gods below, surrounded by a small guard of golden-armoured Templars, chanting praises and ancient prayers to Our Burning Saviour.
Before them, the host of Daemons, divided by Bloodletters, Bloodcrushers, and Flesh Hounds, all in battle-ready formation.
Behind them, the mercenaries marched, guarding the rear.
The Burning Crusade had formed, and it was a large, unchained beast.
With the purported abilities of the Fae (which were blasphemous to any follower of the Architect of Fate), she was certainly thankful to have the Khornate Daemons under her control, for they were certainly less affected by such abilities.
Wherever the Crusade went, it left a path of destruction. A molten stream of lava in the Monolith’s wake, victims changed to chaotic masses of flesh and bone, massacred Seraphon and knights of the Chalice.
The Bloodletters fell upon the beasts under the Fae’s control with great eagerness, and the Bloodcrushers charged down the knights of the chalice.
Whenever they found containers with Amber blood, they smashed it and let it seep back into the earth of Rondhol.
A few scouts reported that they had seen Orruks who had had the same idea.
It was not easy to steer the Daemons away from other forces marching against the Fae, but those were not the priority. They had to conserve their power, for the Archprophetess knew, that their true trial was waiting for them in the heart of the Furyoth Dell. The Fae, and the Xarlanth’s great engine.
Barring Templar Captain Areshtur’s return, they were as ready as they could be.
