Scarra, the largest tithe city which fed the Khornate Lord Aichmos’ domain within The Interstice, was under siege.
The Stormcast General Kade Stormfury had gathered a grand host of diverse allies, gargants and even Khornate Heretics amongst them, to curb the Khornate Lord’s power and marched towards the city.
Guided by a prophecy of the Priesthood, a Crusade of the Templars of Our Burning Saviour under the command of High Templar Veshirnath the Vigilant entered the Interstice to assist Lord Aichmos in the defense of his domain and his power.
The following is a recounting of the events of the Great Siege of Scarra from the Templars’ perspective.
Even though the defendere were inferior in number, Lord Aichmos had a plan, and he trusted the Templars to help with the most clandestine mission – to take possession of a phylactery in order to summon a Grand Demon of Khorne who would assist in shattering the invading force.
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From out jagged cliffs, the Sariant warriors came, crashing into hastily arranged defenders. They were uniformed, and their shields were emblazoned with Sigmarite Emblems – this were no usual caravan guards. It was obvious to the High Templar, who was observing hidden by chaotic sorcery, that they thought this was a normal raid by a feral Tzaangor tribe. Even the Stormcast left their positions to assist their humans comrades in beating back the attack. They were not vigilant, just as he had hoped. This was when he gave the order to attack. The Sariants fought fiercely, but they stood no chance against the Stormcast when left alone – luckily, they weren’t. With thunderous hooves and cries of “Glory to the Flame!” the resplendent golden-armoured Templar Cavalry charged, crashing into the defenders’ backs with their lances, bringing them down and trampling them with their steeds. The defenders changed their focus, tried to hold fast, to beat the cavalry back – one of the Stormcast dismounted a Templar with a powerful blow of his hammer, before being struck in his shoulder and neck with hallowed lances. The High Templar’s Karkadrak gored a group of pikemen in an instant, as its rider smashed a Stormcasts helmet in with his blessed long mace. Templars on foot joined the fray from all directions, brutally overpowering the resistance with vicious blows from their swords. The minions of the false god were surprised, too surprised by the ambush. Under the circumstances, the Stormcast had sold their lives expensively, but still, it was a slaughter.
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The survivors were brought before the High Templar, and made to kneel in the mud by unceremonious kicks to their knees. None of the Stormcast. This was not surprising to the High Templar who surveyed the humans before him from atop his armoured Karkadrak. His gaze wandered over the corpses strewn about on the ground, their silver armour pierced by sacred lances and swords,empty deathmasks staring. They had fallen to a man, of course, in defence of this caravan, where the strands of fate had led them. The Tzaangor doubted a common caravan would be this heavily guarded; it was bound to hold something interesting. He did not expect the artifact Lord Aichmos sought, no – but information that brought them closer to it. If they didn’t find it in the wagons, maybe Cruciator Saralos could extract something of worth. The rest, well… they could join Lord Aichmos’ cattle. The High Templar’s gaze returned to the cowering humans before him. Nine survivors. Four men and five women. Outwardly, it was only a cursory glance over each of them before he addressed his prisoners, but in truth, he tried to assess their relationships to each other. This could prove useful soon. “Rejoice! For you have been chosen for a life of worship to the True Gods!”
Soon, they spilled all they knew.
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Disciplined units of Templars of Our Burning Saviour followed the forces of Torvig’s reapers and the Lord Executioner. They had found the location of the artifact, and while it was well-guarded, the High Templar doubted the Stormcast were likely to withstand the combined might of the blue-armoured warriors of Torvig and the spirit hosts of the Lord Executioner. He himself had suggested the Templars accompany the attack force – to shield them from any harassment or interruptive assault. Led by the High Templar upon his Karkadrak, there were multiple units of heavily armoured and armed mounted Templars spread around the attacking force, accompanied by battle groups of Sariants warriors. In this case, mobility was key, thus the High Templar had left the Templars on foot back in Scarra, where they were starting the preparations. Here in the field, they were to react quickly to any newly appearing threat, and also to intercept the Stormcast, should they try to flee with the artifact. Only if the enemy force was far stronger then expected would they join the fight directly, with a powerful cavalry charge led by the Karkadrak.
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The High Templar’s gaze drifted over the horizon. So far, there had been no interruptions to their march. He was not sure whether that was concerning or not, but it did not matter. He had planned for eventualities. His golden beaked full helm turned towards the troops in front of them, bone-coloured capes around bright blue armour moving slightly in the wind. With them, barely recognisable spectres. This was also an excellent opportunity to observe their allies’ capabilities in battle. He had not yet seen the Reapers fight, although he had heard they were formidable; the Lich Emperor’s spirit hosts – well, that remained to be seen. The High Templar found himself truly looking forward to the battle, and to the sight of Stormcasts being torn apart. Whenever they would try to run, the attempt would end on the tips of His Templars’ lances, and the relic would be theirs.
The stormcast desperately attempted to defend against the ambush.
Besting the Stormcast Lady Aquilor Iota Daring in personal combat, the Tzaangor High Templar took possession of the phylactery, the warm daemonic soul held within pulsating with an intense rage.
The artifact was theirs – now the summoning could begin.
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Tzaangor Priests strode purposefully around the consecrated grounds intended for the ritual, their long red robes trailing in the sands behind them. Intricately carved circles and sigils surrounded the ritual site, created to support the Khornates’ Ritual of Kazgrim Bloodspawn and to ensure the summoned demon was bound to Lord Aichmos’ will. Some of the more bloodthirsty Sariant Warriors had joined the slaughter of sacrifices in the center of the consecrated lands under Kazgrim Bloodspawn’s command, and would aid the ritual in their own way. It was a Khornate ritual, thus other than that, the Templars and their Priests wielding Tzeentchian magics could merely lend indirect support – but they could turn their gaze without. It was possible that the Sigmarites would try and attack the ritual site, and they would suffer for it. Mounted Templars and Sariant warriors stood ready to intercept any enemy attack, which would be spotted early by Tzaangor scouts on Tzeentchian disks, as the High Templar knew the worth of reconnaissance. They would know exactly when and where to strike. The defensive magics would come as a surprise to the attackers, and if some of the Stormcast or their pitiful allies would, against all odds, get to the ritual grounds – their blood would join the other, fueling demon’s return to existence. The High Templar was with his Tzaangor knights, overseeing the construction of magical defenses and coordination of their interceptors. It was imperative that the summoning was successful, so he had come to oversee it personally. Once the demon entered their reality and was under their command, he and the cavalry would join the direct attack on the besiegers’ forces. Rows and rows of mounted, golden-armoured Templars stood at the ready, in silent, disciplined formations, awaiting his commands. Soon, they would bring Glory to the Flame, and His will would be done.
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They were coming. Just like the other defenders of Scarra, the Faithful of Our Burning Saviour had prepared for this day. They had toiled endlessly, brought sacrifices and worshipped Our Saviour with all their heart and soul. Now, led in Prayer and Sacred Hymns by their Priests, golden-armoured Templars had joined the other defenders upon Scarra’s walls. There were a great many of them. Khornates, Torvig’s Reapers, but also the Lich Emperor’s undead subjects and the red hosts – Lord Aichmos had gathered a diverse group of Champions to his side. Due to their Dedication and Faith, the Determination of those gathered, the walls of Scarra had almost become a Living, Breathing thing, one that thrived in prayers and sacrifice. A long line of people were brought onto the wall, in chains; they were mostly slaves and captives. They had obviously been beaten, and they looked on dead-eyed and obedient. They were brought onto the crenellations around the city walls and laid down, their heads positioned over the edge of the walls, and then – they waited. For grueling hours, they waited, held down with a blade-wielding Khornate Reaver or Sariants warrior standing over each of them. Then, once the Stormcast and their lackeys advanced, they were executed. All of them, at once. Their heads were cut off with a fierce swing, their blood flowing freely down the wall in a sacred baptism, to the cheers and screamed challenges of the defenders. As the attacking army approached, another ritual took place. Along the walls, pyres had been erected. Nine groups of Nine, with only worthy sacrifices chained to the stake; the Templars had taken care of that. As one, the pyres were now lighted. They burned, and as they burned, they sang Our Saviour praises. Their voices grew loud, and high, took on an unnatural tone, a sacred hymn. The complicated arcane sigils, symbols and signs painted on the walls slowly started to glow in fiery light. The Priests’ chant grew more intense, ancient hymns of worship booming from a multitude of mouths and beaks over the walls towards the attackers. This time, however, the burnings and prayers were more than inspiration. This time, with the tainted arcane power of Tzeentch pulsating in the air, a transformation took place in these pyres. This time, as the human and aelven Sacrifices lost their mortal lives on the pyres, the Fire grew brighter, bigger, more vast than than the pyres could possibly support, and eventually – there was change in the wall itself as well, pulsating energy growing more and more intense. To the booming chanting of the Faithful, a Wall of Fire shot up into the sky, expanding so that even in flight, none could pass, surrounding the whole city of Scarra with an impenetrable Flaming Wall of Our Burning Saviour’s Divine Will. Those invaders who wished to pass into the city would have to brave Holy Flames first, and they would be burned. The Templars readied their blessed swords and lowered their massive halberds. The fire’s movement reflected in their heavy golden armour. They were filled with resolve and zeal. They were ready. With a deafening warcry, the minions of Sigmar charged. A young god’s insolence against the Ancient Gods’ Glory.
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The enemy was at the gates, and pressed against the defenders on every wall. It was chaos, and in chaos, the defenders thrived. A Templar next to him hacked the axe part of his halberd down into the helm of a stormcast ascending a makeshift siege ladder, causing instant death and a destructive tumble back down. Khornate warriors threw themselves in the fray with reckless abandon, beating back the burnt remains of those who managed to pass the wall of holy fire; ladders were cast back down, another attempt thwarted, with many to follow. Blood splatters covered the Templars’ golden armour, and little pools of blood formed around their clawed armoured feet. The Blood God feasted that day, and hopefully lent his followers that stood beside the Templars strength. The blasphemous growth that Nurgle had sent burned in Holy Flames at the bottom of the wall. It was no wonder the archenemy had taken the side of the Stormcast, but with the Templars’ wall of divine fire, his help had been exquisitely falsely placed. Archon Zytrion the Transcendent delighted in the image, and, using his intricately engraved staff as focus, conjured an additional blast of fire into the repulsive tree’s toothy maw. Luckily, it was far easier for those inside the wall of fire to see what happened before the walls of Scarra than for those outside to see within. He could imagine the frustration of the sharpshooters before the walls. The Priest of Ours Burning Saviour stood still, taking in the tide of battle, observing the invaders’ movements outside. Now he had spotted them. Them, whose arrival he had awaited with anticipation. His beak clicked in malicious delight as he saw the gargants finally arrive. They were beyond impressive. Powerful beings, truly – but also weak-willed and simple. Perfect for his intention, for his Holy Sorcery granted by His Divine Will. Archon Zytrion concentrated, the shrieking sounds of blades on armour, wailing and shouting faded slowly away from his consciousness. He held his staff before him, and he looked through the blue crystal on its tip, into the winds of magic in his grasp. As he weaved, other priests on the walls did the same. Outside, many of the gargants suddenly stopped in their tracks. Looks of confusion and vexation appeared on their ugly faces, and abruptly, they began to viciously flail and kick at the other units of the attacking host. Panic broke out as their allies stomped through the ranks of Freeguild soldiers, as they brought their primitive weapons down upon King Tiberius’ heretic Khornates, shattering men and women instantly. Parts of the advancing force had to refocus their attention, to stop their rampaging Gargant allies. The spell had been excellently woven, the Archon mused, and he cherished every moment of the brutal infighting, the pure anarchy and panic he and the others had created. Eventually, the Gargants would regain their senses, but the damage would be done – upon their allies, and some of them would have been felled as well. Slowly, the noises of fighting near him returned. A Templar shoved a Stormcast warrior back into the Flames. The Archon refocused his attention. Nothing was won yet. The siege would continue.
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With an ear-shattering cry, the Grand Demon of Khorne entered the Interstice. The advancing army was shook by the emergence of this new threat, and struggled to retain their bearings, when one of the mega gargants was struck down by the demon. Just in that moment, the mainforce of Templars and the Bloodtide began to rush back from the ritual summoning site. The siegers face a difficult position being just within the walls of the city, potentially being caught in a pincer between the city defenders and the returning force. Seeing the severe disadvantage of their current position, several of the leading warlords begin to call for a retreat from the city to seek open ground to fight.
However, despite orders for an ordered withdrawal, the greater daemon’s mere presence strikes fear into everyone within eyesight and soon the tactical retreat turns into a rout as the siegers are chased out of the city with daemons biting at their tail.
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“In the name of Our Saviour, cut them down!” The High Templar’s voice thundered over the battlefield. The panicked rout of the attacking forces was a glorious sight to behold, and the Templar cavalry lost no time in following the fleeing soldiers, relishing in their terror, the giant demon looming above. High Templar Veshirnath rode at the head of his knights, slicing at the unprotected leg of a fleeing Freeguild soldier to the right, while shattering the hastily raised shield of another to the left. Both were trampled by those who followed, as the mounted Templars fanned out. Behind them, a disciplined line of Templars on foot were slowly advancing. They were not going to join in the chase of the fleeing attackers, no – they were carrying heavy chains with them, and they came for the enemy survivors lying strewn all over the battlefield, their cries of pain and pleads for mercy filling the air. The city of Scarra had sacrificed many of its thralls for the siege, and it was time to replenish the stocks. With them were groups of Sariant warriors, who ganged up on those too heavily injured to flee, but still too dangerous to immediately take as captives, and “disabled” them. The Tzaangor surrounded those unfortunates left wounded in the mud, hacking and slicing at their arms and weapons in seemingly random succession to minimize retribution, until they could fight no more; and they were dragged in chains into the blood-soaked nightmare that was Scarra, never again to see the sky in freedom. Needless to say, those who died of their injuries on the way back were bound to be the more fortunate ones. ____________________
With his last reserves of strength, a Stormcast decimator, a warcry on his lips, turned around to face him, using the momentum to strike his mighty thunderaxe at him. The High Templar’s warded armour held, but the blow still sent painful tremors through his body. A flick of the reins, and his Karkadrak pinned the Decimator to the ground, biting down on his left arm, penetrating his silver armour and drawing blood. The Stormcast tried to continue the attack, but he could only helplessly strike the Karkadrak’s armoured flank as the High Templar used his vicious long mace to bash the man’s head in. It took a surprisingly long time until there was a disconcerting crack, and the Stormcast went limp. Gathering his bearings, the High Templar took in his surroundings. To his left, one of the heretic Khornates was impaled by the Holy Lance of a Templar, and to his right, a small group of Nurglites was ridden down and hacked to pieces by the righteous fury of his men, their sickening gurgling noises dying down a sound certainly pleasing to Our Burning Saviour. Their tainted yellowish blood flowed into the soil, joining the red that had been spilled in abundance. Broken bodies and broken equipment littered the Scarlands around Scarra. The Stormcast and their allies would lose many that day, he was certain. The defence had been a glorious success. Now it was imperative not to overcommit; the Templars were disciplined enough for that not to be an immediate danger; as for the Khornates (especially those mounted on Slaaneshi steeds) and those Duradin mercenaries – He lifted his gaze to the gigantic demon and his smaller compatriots, fully engaged in slaughter – He wasn’t too sure. Quick, decisive orders brought back cohesion to the cavalry, and the Templars continued to chase down stragglers. Soon, they would turn back, when it was tactically appropriate. He has no doubt that most of the other forces would continue the chase. The High Templar knew it would be prudent to support them, if he wanted to prevent the victory turning into a disaster. Luckily, he had specialists for that, who were already in position.
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In the Scarlands, all hell had broken loose. The vast host of Kade Stormfury had broken into headless flight, scattering into the vulcanic wasteland. Lone riders broke off from the bulk of them at a breakneck pace, pushing their steeds to the furthest; each trying to reach allied forces to alert them of their dire situation, to rescue them from the vengeful forces of Lord Aichmos and his allies. The Enlightened came upon them. Upon shrieking discs of Tzeentch they stood, stoic Tzaangor wielding sacred halberds, more heavily armoured than usual Enlightened; these were Templars, after all, clad in golden, resplendent plate, and they would be the riders’ death.
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One of them, a Freeguild Pistoleer, was a woman of barely 20. Blood ran freely down her right arm, where a cannonball shard had struck her; the makeshift bandage she had improvised with a shred of her cape obviously wasn’t working anymore. Even over the sound of her horse galloping and her own heavy breathing, she heard the Enlightened before she saw him. Cursing under her breath, she swiftly ducked from under the blades and thorns of the demon dics as it flew over her, gritting her teeth as she watched it fly a curve back towards her, the Tzaangor staring at her with blood-red eyes. With stiff, cold fingers, she fumbled for her pistol, struggled for her left arm to keep steady at that speed, and, fueled by pure stubborn defiance, took shots at the advancing Enlightened. She hit him, twice, in his chestplate and his shoulderguard, but it was not enough to topple him. Again, the disk of change passed her by, and this time, the unprotected flank of her horse was slit open, and it crashed. She did not really feel the impact, as she herself crashed down into the dirt. It was the sharp pain of multiple broken ribs that followed, which she truly felt. Blinking away the tears that formed in her eyes against her will, she glanced back towards her horse, a trusted companion of many years, now dead and disemboweled by a chaos worshipper. No. If could not end here, not like this, not now. She had to get help. The Heroes of Stormfury counted on her. They trusted her. She had never betrayed trust put in her before. With gritted teeth, she crawled. It was only a few feet to where her pistol had landed. Just a good, well-placed shot… She heard the screeching of the disk again, mercilessly coming closer and closer. She grabbed her pistol, turned around, aimed with her arm shaking from pain and exertion – and missed. White-hot pain shot through her body, as the jagged tip of a halberd was thrust between her shoulder and lower neck, causing her to let go of the weapon. It was over. She had failed. It all came back to her now, all the mistakes, all her regrets. The Enlightened lowered his head toward her, his gruesome beak opening to speak to her: “You are correct;” he hissed, “you could have prevented it, back then. But you chose not to.” Her eyes shot wide open, the agonizing memory overpowering any physical pain, and the Tzaangor turned the blade.
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They hunted them. The Messengers. All of them. The gathered Stormfury armies had sent for help, by whatever mount they made use of, by messenger bird, the most desperate even by foot. Templar forces on discs of Tzeentch had stood ready to intercept them, making sure none of them would pass. No prisoners were made, nobody was dragged back to Scarra, they could not let anything slow them down. Their Operation was cold, efficient, effective.
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The Vanguard-Palladors were the hardest ones to contain, considering the Gryph-chargers’ vile properties. The Priests of Our Burning Saviour had called upon His Divine Might in prayer, and conducted rituals of dark sorcery that once again forcefully twisted the aetheric winds to interrupt the capabilities of the chargers, leaving them and their riders, once again, stranded and a tasty target for the eager Enlightened.
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Six Tzaangor Enlightened circled around an injured Stormcast on his disabled mount. He had somehow managed to flee into the ranks of a small unit of Freeguild handgunners – although he had probably loudly professed to protect them from the Templars’ attack, rather than the other way around, as hypocrite souls were wont to do. The Freeguilders had formed a square around the Stormcast, taking potshots at the Tzaangor, so far without much effect – the Enlightened seemed to foresee when they would be attacked, and deliberately stayed just out of range, only erratically and momentarily approaching to unnerve the Sigmarites. “She knows, Pjotyr, trust me, she knows.” an Enlightened hissed, then abruptly retreated again. “It was so cruel, Nastasya, so unnecessarily cruel, and you were too proud to apologise. Now it is too late.” Another spoke, dodged the shot aimed at him, and floated back. “They smell it on you, Svent. They smell what you did. They are just too afraid to tell you.” the third one suggested, before continuing with the circle. They took turns hinting at the Freeguilders’ darkest secrets and deepest regrets, and as was to be expected, their discipline began to show cracks, no matter how much their sergeant raged. The High Priest arrived. He, too, rode upon a disc of Tzeentch, his dark red clerical robes flowing in the wind behind him; his ornate clothing complimented by shining golden plate bearing the emblem of Our Savior – the Tzaangor cut an impressive figure, and the cowering men and women protecting the Stormcast were right to fear him. He raised his jagged staff with a bright blue jewel formed like an eye, and began reciting eldritch phrases in an unknown tongue. The jewel began to pulsate, and small strands of deep black chaotic sorcery began to dance around it, growing more and more intense. “Our Burning Saviour be praised!” The High Priest’s deep, harsh voice rang out. “It is his will that your Fate shall be unveiled, become manifest!” With a flick of the High Priest’s wrist, multiple inky strands of abyssal black shot out from the glowing jewel, and pierced three of the Freeguild riflemen standing in formation to a sickening sizzling sound, as if struck by a searing rod of iron. Two of them immediately sacked to the ground, their eyes wide from shock, while the third, after a split second of surprise, began to desperately claw at his own neck, his gun clattering into the dust. With blood-shot eyes he turned towards his comrades, who had to witness in inaction as his broad, kind face went pale, and he screamed in abject agony as the flesh beneath his uniform began to visibly move and remould. His spine elongated, ripping out of the back of his clothes and sprouting skeletal thorns, bubbling blisters appeared all over his skin as the unmistakable sign of ongoing mutation, limbs grew more muscles and more joints, others withered. His head fused back into his body, and sickening undefined appendixes and tentacles grew, dripping like wax and whipping out at his former comrades, dragging the body of the two dead gunners into the rapidly expanding, misshapen body of the Chaos Spawn. In abject horror, the formation dissolved, many firing into the body of the aberration to seemingly no effect, while the Spawn attacked the nearest living soldier with a salviating maw grown from a dead man’s ribcage. The Enlightened attacked. The sergeant and the Stormcast did their best to restore order, but the salvo against the Tzaangor came but ragged and ineffective. The blades and stingers of the discs tasted blood, as they flew by the disorderly line of handgunners, slicing open legs, arms and bodies, while the Templars stabbed at the men and women with their halberds. The sergeant was summarily beheaded by the Aviarch in a fly-by attack, and the Stormcast turned back from his attack on the Chaos Spawn to repel a halberd aimed at the back of his neck. The shouting and screams of horror gradually died down in the chaos of battle, the gunners had managed to stab the Spawn until it was no longer moving, but were no match for the Enlightened Tzaangor hitting them fast and hard from all directions. In the end, it was only the Pallador left, standing in the middle of a pile of corpses of his allies, breathing heavily, bleeding from multiple wounds, yet his grip still strong around his handaxe. He had heavily injured two of them, but the kill had been denied to him by the Enlightened retreating quickly. Now, they hovered out of reach, jeering at him. The Aviarch was the one who came closer now. “Ah, Haelomos – I see you were once touched by chaos, were you not? A Nurglite, wasn’t it?” An obvious distaste creeped into his voice in the end. “You may think you have found ‘redemption’ in the eyes of your god, but in the Interstice… who knows? Maybe they’ll find you… lacking.” The Stormcast did not see the High Priest’s bolt of Holy Fire until it burned him from the inside out, and he could just watch helplessly as the Aviarch came closer for the killing blow.
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After the headless flight and all attempts at gathering reinforcements thwarted, Stormfury ordered the retreat of his allied forces to Harmonia.
Through the streets of Scarra, hundreds of captured enemies and the forces of Aichmos’ Champions marched in a grand celebration of their victory.
The city walls lay in ruins and had to be rebuilt- a task the mercenary Chaos dwarves in attendance were very eager to commit to – and Lord Aichmos had been slain in battle, but still, the Stormcast’s host had been summarily shattered and driven out of the Pyrelands. Khornate rule in the Pyrelands would not be threatened anytime soon.
The victorious Templars, led by High Templar Veshirnath the Vigilant set up their own permanent stronghold within the Interstice- the The Citadel of Resplendence.
