Contest January-February 2026 Tie-Breaker

We had a four-way tie in our most recent short story contest with six entrants. In the unlikely event someone finds this thread without first reading the original thread, here is the link. We have a week and some change to settle this tie.

Spoiler: "Within the Forge"

Within the Forge

The air of the forge was acrid. The sticky stench of poisoned ash clung cruelly to everything it could reach. The forge itself radiated infernal heat that snarled and twisted the already vile air into shimmering waves. If the Daemonsmith was bothered by the air or the heat, he gave little sign as he studied again the precious metal taken from the distant lands of the dead old gods.

There was a rattling rasp from his chained prisoner, of whom the poison of the air did visibly affect. It was a Skink, one who had led a foolhardy attack across continents to reclaim what the Dawi Zharr had wrested from their weak claws. Feathered ornamentation and trappings of gold and arcane might had been stripped away. A band of dark iron covered in sigils to sever one’s connection to the Winds of Magic had been cruelly bonded to the Skink’s wrist, the Daemonsmith having made sure it was still hot from the furnace for that.

“Well, my little friend?” the Daemonsmith laughed in response to the rasp of the prisoner, a collection of dark metal wind chimes caught his voice and the souls and daemons bound to them echoed back his words in every conceivable language, albeit with the edge of the wail of the damned. “Is my humble forge not to your liking? Dear Ikkred’s home not as pampered as a soft scaled whelp like you would be used to?”

The Skink hissed back and the chimes echoed back the response.

Ikkred’s tusked smile grew larger and nastier at the show of defiance, and he lifted what appeared to be a long golden spear coated in gems and glyphs of the Old Ones.

“This was what you thought you could reclaim, hm?” his glowering red eyes darting from the arcane relic to the chained Skink. “I quite agree, it is…exquisite for all its unnecessary ornamentation…whoever, no…whatever crafted this was a master of their craft. The power within this pretty thing could sunder cities…or much…much more…”

The Skink glared with a deep venomous hatred but did not reply.

The Daemonsmith shrugged.

“Regardless, the means to use such a weapon is beyond any of my kin…”

The Skink began to hiss a response but the Chaos Dwarf spat a wad of sickly saliva to the ground and stopped the prisoner short.

“You think me that much of a fool? That I would keep you alive to torture the knowledge from you? I know well of your weak-scaled kind that you would sooner die from any agonies I or my torturers could inflict than tell me what I wanted.” He wagged a heavily gloved finger, “besides, I very much doubt you or your kin even know how to truly unlock this weapon. You are children left in the dark, your parents having abandoned you. Where your kind scrabble to keep half-remembered plans and edifices of your parents…my kind moved forwards. That is why your realm will crumble and fall and why mine will endure and will rise.”

He turned away, his legs stiff from petrification that the curse of his sorcery wrought upon all of his kind, and signalled to his silent armoured guards.

“No, my little guest,” he chuckled, “I wanted you to witness me improve upon your Old Ones’ legacy, to unlock the power for the use by the Dawi Zhar…or more accurately…for me.”

Nine robed and blank iron masked acolytes dragged in nine chained prisoners of a myriad of races of the Old World. Ikkred moved to each one, grumbling in a foul tongue that even the infernal chimes would not translate. To each prisoner, the Daemonsmith drew a bead of blood with a small cruel blade of obsidian and with it daubed a sigil upon the face plates of each acolyte. Each sigil seemed to catch fire, a burning hue of many colours. As the last acolyte was anointed, Ikkred moved back to his dais, the Skink prisoner shivered and sweated as the furnace grew both uncomfortably cold and hot at the same time. The grumbling of the Daemonsmith’s words turned from a growl and into shout. As one the acolytes raised rune-cursed knives and as the Daemonsmith howled the last syllables, a final intonement to Hashut, they brought their knives down.

All light within the forge was extinguished at once, an unnatural blackness that tore at reality. A cackle came from the dark, then the sound of sobbing, then a cry of fury, a sigh of love, and more and more until the forge was a surging rush of conflicting sound. A wall of noise that tore at the mind and at the soul.

Then silence.

One by one the lights within the forge, natural or not, reignited. Ikkred stood, the Lustrian relic held aloft and surrounded by the steaming corpses of the sacrifices. A nimbus of foul energy swirled about the golden spear, the Daemonsmith’s free gloved hand seemingly weaving and twisting the essence of the Daemon. Slowly, the energy flowed into the device of the Old Ones and each of the inlaid precious stones began to glow with an internal light.

Ikkred’s glowering eyes turned to the chained Skink, a gleam of savage triumph playing across them. The relic shook suddenly and the Daemonsmith’s air of victory turned into a deep frown. From the Old One device came a keening wail as the Daemonic essence was burned away and utterly extinguished. The precious stones turned dark once more and the artefact became inert in Ikkred’s grasp, its power remained locked within and beyond his reach.

The Skink let out a hissing sound that Ikkred recognised as laughter.

“You fool…” the Skink spoke, the chimes swirling its words into a hundred tongues, “you are slaves to darkness and your freedom…your grasping for power will always remain out of reach. Slave of a slave.”

The Daemonsmith’s jaw worked, granite-like teeth snarling across each other. Slowly he placed the golden rod back to the anvil. As the masked acolytes dragged the corpses of the sacrifices from the forge, Ikkred stood. Thoughts and plans swirling and connecting in his dark mind. Stiffly he turned and the anger in his eyes was eclipsed by the cruel smile on his lips.

He appraised his prisoner and gave a laugh like the crumbling of a castle.

“That remains to be seen, my little guest.”

Spoiler: "Elegy"

Elegy​

The avenue bisected the immense park, landscaped as an English lawn. Occasionally, one could find benches to rest or, more often, lose in memories, while statues of angels with compassionate faces gazed silently at the horizon.
The evergreen hedges, regularly clipped, enclosed small gardens where only the flowers that adorned the gravestones bloomed.
The tops of the cypress trees swayed faintly, tickled by the light breeze from distant fans. In the distance, beyond the glass-steel dome that covered the complex, the city's skyscrapers could be seen, partially shrouded in haze; today the smog had an unusual orange hue.
The old man walked slowly along the tree-lined avenue, his polished leather shoes crunching on the gravel. His face was thoughtful, almost tired, but anyone would have recognized it as First Senator Brunner.

It was well known that Brunner left the Senate Citadel every day; it was also well known that, for security reasons, often only holoclones left.
A bishop was also present... Brunner isn't particularly religious, but then again, he knows a lot of people.
Brunner has always loved the cemetery, he finds the sense of sadness it conveys appropriate.
The only cheerful note is the delicate chirping of larks, reproduced by the micro-speakers camouflaged among the trees.

The cemetery is almost empty today. Brunner smiles sadly: he expected nothing diverse, given how things were going. Even those few visitors have other concerns besides caring for their loved ones.
A man is watching the latest special edition of the video news on his wrist TV. He's turned the volume up so high that Brunner can hear the announcer's words.
"...it appears that negotiations have been definitively broken off. After the debate in the Senate and the grave declarations of the Opposition, numerous riots have erupted in the capital, promptly quelled by the intervention of the Guard. The Senate spokesman strongly condemns the demonstrators' excesses, which would have..."

The speaker's voice faded into the distance, repeating the censored version that Brunner already knew. State officials could admit that some "troublemakers" had attempted to storm some administrative buildings, but not that armored AV4s had fired at the crowd at point-blank range.
It didn't really matter: if anyone still believed the official reports, they would realize the truth when the mercenary militias promised by the Landlords would have arrived to support the Government's course of action. After all, the army might not be reliable when some soldiers share the rebels' views.

Lost in thought, the Senator suddenly realized he had reached the Chapels’ area. The familiar shape of the small black marble building welcomed him. He looked bitterly at the "Brunner Family" that decorated the architrave.
"I am the last of my family. No one will come to speak to me when I'm gone; besides, what could I possibly tell them? That I betrayed my people, to satisfy my selfishness?"

The cold, dry air of the tomb made him shiver for a moment, while the sensors recognized him and turned on the soft lights, illuminating the stairs leading down to the crypt. Twelve steps lead to a small room; the bishop stops halfway up the stairs.
His parents rest near the entrance, and Brunner touches their photos with his hand, sending them a silent greeting. Their memory no longer hurts, and it's not for them that he's here.
He heads to the back of the room, where there are two cubicles. One is empty. Brunner presses a button on the control panel, and a section of the wall slides away, revealing the metal frame of a helmet with cables connecting it to the primary system, a feature only present in the earliest models. He puts it on, letting the sensors adapt, waiting for the system to receive the necessary inputs… finally he gives the command.
"Activate memory banks".

An image blossoms before him, flickering for a moment, fading at times. She's a woman in her late 60s, with curly blonde hair, now verging on white. She's wearing a white lace shirt, and over it a sweater she'd hand-sewn one distant autumn.
She looks at him and smiles, two dimples barely visible on her cheeks, while small wrinkles form near her eyes, and greets him:
"Hi, Joseph"
and he replies, "Hi, Anne," and then, "You're beautiful."


“So, is it him? You've been monitoring him with the bioscanner since he entered the cemetery. How long will it take?”
The man is on the roof of a building, half-hidden by some pylons, wearing an old pair of thermographic goggles of the army. He has a semi-automatic assault rifle slung over his shoulder, and observes the cemetery dome, half a kilometer away.
The other guy, crouched behind a low wall, is wearing a faded black T-shirt with a picture of a fantasy dwarf in armor, wearing a ridiculously tall hat, advancing with a blood-stained axe bearing the words "I BRING CHAOS" written underneath. In the background, stands a small burning ziggurat.

He's busy fiddling with the console of some sort of radar screen. Green and red LEDs flash, and screens of numbers change continuously on one side of the dial. Then the numbers stop.
Chaos Dwarf grins like a wolf.
“Gotcha! The vital signs match, it's the real Brunner. The information was accurate.”
Goggles nods and turns on his transmitter. “All teams, green light, repeat: green light. We're moving.”


He'd like to touch her, but he knows it would be a painfully disappointing experience. When he tried, shortly after her death, he'd felt only a slight contrast, like a gust of wind; the program isn't capable of simulating tactile sensations realistically enough.
"Sorry I haven't been around much lately. I've been very busy."
"Ah, I see. I hope you've missed me at least a little."
("A little" is inadequate, Anne. "terribly" would be more appropriate.)
“Honey, can I ask you something a little silly? Would you wear the flowered dress?”
The figure blurs for a moment as the program processes the new configuration. Anne reappears in a light, delicately colored dress.
“You look lovely. I’ve always loved that dress.”
She shakes her head, sitting down next to him.
“You’re a liar: you never really cared about my clothes. Thanks though, you’re a gallant liar.”

For a few moments they sit without saying a word. He has so much to say to her, but he doesn't know where to begin. It's Anne who breaks the silence. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"It's your job, right? You always frown when you have problems."
He's always amazed at how his wife reads him like an open book. Of course, he knows that the visual simulation has nothing of Anne's perceptiveness and that, more simply, the sensors detect his state of distress, and the program elaborates the most appropriate response.
He knows this, but he prefers to believe that, buried in the memory banks, she hears him and can understand him.

“Things are getting ugly: the people can no longer tolerate the tyranny of the Landlords' Guilds, and with reasons. They control our economy, they've got their hands on our entire political and legislative system, and soon they'll be aiming for the military leadership. God help us, they want to restore the ancient noble rights of the Houses.”
“History has taught them nothing… you can push the limits almost to the breaking point, but you can't go any further. The popular deputies proposed an amendment to ease the pressure. The Senate rejected it.”
“But how come, Joseph? You're the First Senator; your opinion should have carried weight.”
“The Senate rejected it unanimously, Anne. I voted against it, too.”

Her eyes widen in surprise. “But Joseph, how… how could you? You've always been on people's side. You were their strongest hope in the Senate; you could never tolerate the arrogance of the Landlords. I don't… why?”
“I'm old, Anne. I'm tired of fighting.”

“Joseph, this is the biggest nonsense I've ever heard you say. Don't come spouting this nonsense and expect me to buy it. You've dedicated your entire life to the country, following the ideals of the Old Republic; I've never seen you compromise against your conscience, and now you come telling me you're tired? You've sacrificed your time and health for your job. Oh God, Joseph: you sacrificed us too…”
“Do you know it, right? In 30 years we've never taken more than a week's vacation, even that interrupted by calls. 30 years of waking up alone because you'd gone to work. Even on Sundays: you were already up, sitting at your desk. I loved you for who you were, even though it was difficult, and now I have the right to know why you voted against that amendment, spitting on everything you believed in.”

Brunner sighs, thinking back to all the opportunities he had postponed, until Anne's death had brought home to him the incontrovertible fact that his wife was no longer there, that the eternal postponement had been just a mockery, and that the lost time could only be recovered thanks to a memory program.

“Do you know why you always found me up at my desk on Sunday mornings? Because through the open door I watched you sleep. I didn't want to wake you just because I was used to getting up before six. So I watched you, your face relaxed, your hair loose on the pillow, while the morning light streamed through the window. And finally you woke up, disturbed by the sun's rays, blinking and shielding your eyes with your hand; then you saw me and smiled.”
“I've always loved my job, but I've always loved you too. If I'd voted for the amendment, nothing would have changed. Some would have followed me, but the Senate's stance was against it: the proposals would have been rejected, there would have been riots anyway, the military would have fired on the crowd, and the police would have arrested the dissidents. Opposing it would have meant fleeing and leaving the capital. Leaving you. I don't want to lose you again to politics, and the only way I could stay close to you was to side with the Landlords.”

Anne looks at him sweetly, and he realizes she's no longer angry.

Then, from outside, comes the sound of a loud explosion.

Brunner turns toward the entrance; on the stairs, the bishop has stiffened, and has put a hand to his right ear.
"What's happening, Thomas?"
The priest drops his holo-camouflage cape. In its place stands a massive, hard-eyed man wearing special forces insignia, a helmet, a flak jacket, and a heavy machine gun.
“We're under attack, Senator. I'm going outside to see what the situation is. Get ready, we may have to leave quickly.”
The soldier turns and runs up the stairs, not noticing Brunner's fleeting smile.

“You knew.”

Brunner turns back to the image of his wife.
“You’re right, honey. I leaked the information that I was coming here today. You see, Thomas is a good guy, but he’s very scrupulous, and he wouldn’t have let me do what I came for.”
As Anne looks at him curiously, he slips his hand into his inside jacket pocket.


The cemetery's dome had shattered. The roar of automatic weapons drowned out the screams of the wounded and the visitors fleeing haphazardly; the lawns were pockmarked with craters created by heavy plasma mortar fire. Smoke bombs covered the line of attackers, who, arranged in a semicircle, converged on the crypts.
Thomas, crouched behind a gravestone, cursed ferociously; if the helmet visor was to be believed, only two other men of his escort remained alive.
Angrily, he aimed a burst of machine gun fire at a speeder bike trying to outflank his position. The craft plummeted, crashing with a satisfying explosion.
He looked around for other targets, but before he could do anything, an armored round tore through his cover like tissue paper, hitting him squarely.

The shooting had stopped. At the crypt's entrance, two figures stood out against the light, descending the stairs and searching for their target. The senator stood perfectly still, still wearing his helmet, his gaze steady and a faint smile on his lips.
"First Senator Brunner, I place you under arrest in the name of the Democratic Forces. Consider yourself our political prisoner, and follow us."
The seated figure showed no sign of interest.

Goggles snorted dryly and moved forward: "Senator, I asked nicely, but if you don't make up your mind, then..."
Chaos Dwarf placed a hand on the other's shoulder: "Wait… look there.”
A sort of flat box was attached to the memory system's control panel, with flashing red lights and a pair of connectors connected serially to the helmet's cables.
“What the...”
“An Orpheus processor. This bastard shorted the system.”

For a moment, silence reigns in the crypt as Goggles weighs the implications.
"Can we unplug him?"
"No, there's a reason they're illegal. His brain is now directly connected to the database: if we turn off the system or try to disconnect him, he'll end up in a coma. Brunner is lost; the Orpheus' stimulators will keep him alive for a month, then he'll die of starvation."
Goggles shakes his head, bitterly; then he pushes Chaos Dwarf toward the stairs.
"Let's get out of here: the rescue teams will arrive in a bunch of minutes, and if they find us still here they'll slice us to pieces."

“Joseph, you're a stupid. Why did you do that?”
He looks into her eyes and smiles, taking her hand. Now he can feel her smooth skin, she's made of flesh and bone again.
“Because I love you,” and then he kisses her, softly.

Outside, the birds can be heard chirping.

Spoiler: "Prophecies"

Prophecies


Sorcerer Vamnick lived his life around a prophecy he received from a vision straight from Hashut.

“One day, stone will take your life.”

This was not exactly a shocking revelation. The power of Chaos comes with a price, and in the case of Hashut’s greatest followers, this price is usually predictable unlike the random mutations and madness of Nurgle, Slaanesh, Khorne, and Tzeentch.

Over time, miscasts will gradually turn a Chaos Dwarf’s body into stone bit by bit until they are essentially statue. Sorcerers can usually retain function and mobility till the end with magical prosthetics, but this only forestalls their petrification, not prevents it.


But for most Chaos Dwarf sorcerers, petrification was not inevitable. Vamnick knew that many Sorcerer Priests died in battle against Hashut’s many enemies. Others were slain by other Chaos Dwarves in internal disputes. Rather than fight against Fate and try to avert the prophecy, Vamnick was bolstered by the prophecy, planning his decisions around it.

Vamnick knew that he would eventually stone his way back to Hashut but until then, the Prophecy meant that he would not fall to an enemy’s blade or a rival’s dagger. He didn’t avoid magic entirely, but he was very cautious with it. Conversely, he took many risks in all other aspects of his life.

Rather than hide behind a legion of Ironsworn, Vamnick usually lea armies from the front, magical axe in hand. He took many chances in internal politics too knowing that even if he failed, his life wouldn’t be put in danger. At a relatively young age, he was commanding a mighty army with a very high success rate in battle, not only did he never lose a battle, but he rarely took heavy losses.

Just as he was careful with his magic, he was careful with his soldiers and artillery. He was not totally averse to risk, but he was careful and methodical managing to do more with less. He was careful not to waste the lives of his men and beasts. He was careful not to waste ammo. He didn’t even waste the lives of hobgoblins, at least relative to other sorcerer priests.

Yes, he’d send a hundred hobgoblins to save one dwarf, but that didn’t execute hobgoblins for minor failures like some other Chaos Dwarves did. That would be inefficient. Vamnick was uncommonly good with logistics as well.

And for all his achievements, Vamnick’s body was still fully flesh except for his petrified toes. He would have many more accomplishments in Hashut’s name before petrification would claim his life, at which point he would be welcomed with honor into Hashut’s realm and celebrated by the Chaos Dwarves that came after him as the greatest sorcerer prophet the world had ever seen.



He had crushed many human and greenskin armies in the Badlands with minimal losses. He even fought a few odder foes. Elves, Beastmen, and Skaven, always victorious.

Now Vamnick faced his oddest foe yet. A great host of Lizardmen was in the Borderlands, led by one of the magic wielding toads. His superiors said they were called “Slann” and their magic surpassed that of the mightiest elf wizards.


Vamnick superiors didn’t know why the Lizardmen were in the Chaos Dwarves’ backyard but they wanted them gone…or at least subjugated. Vamnick was told that the lizards had to die, but if some of Vamnick was able to capture some Lizardmen warriors, their magical items, and/or the relatively intact corpse of a Slann, his superiors could learn much and this would reflect well on Vamnick’s future advancement.

It’s been a long time since the Chaos Dwarfs had a large engagement with the Lizardmen, but the followers of Hashut are nothing but meticulous. They always took copious notes from every battle. Vamnick would not be going in blind.

Given how ancient the lizards were, they didn’t change their weapons and tactics very fast. Vamnick poured through volumes of old lore on previous battles to figure out what the Lizardmen and their dinosaurs could or couldn’t do and planned accordingly.


Vamnick decided to try to lure the Lizards to a series of rocky outcroppings and cliffsides. Relatively narrow pathways would hamper the lizard’s mobility and especially hamper the mobility of their larger beasts. The narrow confines would force them to engage in places where they would fall relatively easy to target with artillery.

Weeks later, Vamnick was able to set up the battlefield more or less as he wished, having hobgoblins skirmish with the smaller Lizards and fall back with losses gradually pulling the larger Lizardmen army into the rocky canyon he was hoping for. Towards the end he had to include a few dwarves and centaurs in the expeditionary force to make the feigned retreats more convincing, but he managed to not lose too many men in the sorties.

But soon the trap would snap shut.


Less than half of Vamnick’s forces were clearly visible. All of the artillery and some of soldiers were under camouflage nets. Only when the Saurus regiments had caught up with the Skinks did Vamnick signal his troops to remove the nets and engage in full.

Even with the prophecy that he would die by stone, not a magical duel, Vamnick wasn’t eager to get too close to a Slann. The Slann could do horrible things to him even if the Slann couldn’t slay him outright, among other things, it could accelerate his petrification and take decades off his lifespan. Vamnick stayed at a high point near a Dreadquake Mortar where he could see the whole battle and direct events.

A mishap with the Dreadquake Mortar could not kill Vamnick, but Vamnick could still be scarred and maimed by lava, so he wore a Firebane Gem for protection, just in case.

As the skirmishers of both sides met each other, one of the Skinks launched a fireball and incinerated a unit of Hobgoblin outriders. Not surprising. Vamnick knew that Slann could channel spells through their Skink lackeys. Fireball was an odd opening spell against an army with fire resistant armor, but Hobgoblins had no special protection against fire, so dabbling in Fire magic was not a horrible choice on the Slann’s part.

Vamnick’s artillery belched its own fiery blasts, killing far more soldiers than the Slann’s fire spell could dream of accomplishing. A few Skinks panicked and fled, but the bulk of the Lizardmen line advanced unimpeded. This was to be expected. The Lizardmen do not retreat easily.

Vamnick readied his mana to dispel the Slann’s next spell aimed at the frontline dwarf warriors, but was caught off guard when the Winds of Magic blew hot and fiery yet again. The spell known as Piercing Bolts of Burning slipped past Vamnick’s attempt to dispel it and ripped across several Ironsworn warriors. There were a few casualties, but not many. This was not an optimal spell for battle hardened dwarves wearing fire resistant armor.

For most Ironsworn, enduring second degree burns was just another Tuesday. They didn’t stop their advance towards the Temple Guard. But just before the Temple Guard and the Ironsworn connected, a cloak of flames enveloped the Temple Guard protectively.

Would this impede the Chaos Dwarfs? Yes…but not by much.

Vamnick knew that the Slann can use almost any magic known to the Forces of Order, but not all at once. Slann always prepare a specific subset of magic before a battle. The Slann wasn’t just dabbling in Fire Magic, it was focusing on it exclusively. This was probably the least effective magic the toad-like wizard could have chosen. Had Vamnick known this, he would have brought more K’daai, but he had earlier decided they would be less ideal in this relatively confined space. No matter.

The Slann must have been expecting to fight trolls and not Chaos Dwarves or the Slann was not as wise as they reputed to be. Though to the Slann’s credit, he was able to dispel the magic that Vamnick attempted to casted. Though the dwarf sorcerer was using his mana rather conservatively to avoid a miscast and his mightiest spells had a relatively short range. Perhaps it was a mistake to hang back with the artillery?

With the Firebane Gem and the Prophecy as his shield, Vamnick was functionally invincible in this battle. A large dinosaur might be able to injure them, but most of them had been locked out of the canyon by Vamnick’s superior army maneuvering or had been slain or crippled by the fires of Hashut manifested through the Chaos’ Dwarf’s mighty artillery.

Vamnick left the artillery line and entered the masses of infantry ordering his men to make men as he methodically pushed his way towards the fire “enhanced” Temple Guard.

The supposedly elite Saurus warriors guarding the Slann were barely holding their own against Vamnick’s midlevel soldiers, they would be no match for Vamnick and his magic axe. Vamnick had several of his own units to march through first though.

As Vamnick marched forward, he finally managed to dissipate one of the Slann’s spells, the spell the humans call “The Flaming Sword of Rhuin”. Not a problem to Vamnick personally, but it would enable the Temple Guard to kill his men much easier. That could not be allowed. That would be an inefficient use of resources.

Vamnick was still one block of infantry behind the front lines. The Slann was using a Skink as his focal point for casting, and was attempting to cast a large fireball. Not at one of the main units, but at the recently rallied remnants of a battered unit of Hobgoblin outriders, there were only four left.

Why waste such a mighty spell at such an insignificant target? So much for the supposed mental prowess of the Slann. Vamnick didn’t even bother trying to dispel the Fireball as he marshalled his own magic to cast an Ash Storm upon the Temple Guard.

The four Hobgoblins and their mounts were vaporized, but that was not important. The Temple Guard were about to significantly weakened when Vamnick was distracted by a rumbling sound. The Hobgoblins had been standing near a loose rocky outcropping. The concussive blast of the Fireball dislodged enough stones to trigger an avalanche which thundered down the hillside burying Vamnick and the soldiers around him.

Stone claimed his life. His body was mashed to a pulp, except for his toes.


There was now a massive pile of stones and a cloud of dust separating the Lizardmen from two thirds of the Chaos Dwarf army.

Tokorel the Slann ordered his soldiers to wipe out whatever was left on their side of the rocks and then withdraw. The rocks and dust would screen them from enemy artillery fire but also make it prohibitively difficult to attack their artillery line. The mission had been accomplished.

Vamnick’s dreams of glory was no idle fantasy. The Slann Council foresaw that left unchecked, Vamnick would have eventually rose to command all the Chaos Dwarf forces in the Badlands region and would indeed have become the greatest general the Chaos Dwarves had ever seen, bringing the whole region to their knees, eventually threatening the Empire of Man.

Without Vamnick’s leadership collectively forcing the Chaos Dwarves to act more efficiently, the Chaos Dwarves top echelons would vacillate between overly cautious and overly reckless, little more than a nuisance to the Great Plan. At least for the next two hundred years. Beyond this, projections into the future of the Chaos Dwarves were fuzzy.

Tokorel would shift to Life magic to help his army recuperate. The Slann’s next target was the Roaring Hand Orc Tribe led by War Boss Torgan. Tokorel foresaw the Lore of Death would be useful in this battle.

Killing Warboss Torgan would weaken the orcs, but the true threat was Big Boss Wakgut. Wakgut was currently theright hand lieutenant of Torgan and the leader of the tribe’s “Boar Boyz”. Wakgut was destined to eventually become a War Boss of great power and skill building up a mighty Waaagh! That could threaten both the Order aligned Dwarves and the Empire of Man.

Tokorel ordered his commanders to kill every orc boar rider they found just to be safe. Killing the other orcs was good but not required. That should keep the Orcs from amassing a largescale Waaagh! For at least for several decades.

Spoiler: "The Hatching"

The hatching

Thewok, Itza's most experienced cold one wrangler, felt a familiar glow as he gazed at the clutch of eggs. There were more than a dozen of them, all healthy-looking, carefully arranged and swaddled over hot stones, and they were almost ready. In a day or two, the first of a new generation of vicious cold-blooded stallions would hatch, complete with razor-sharp teeth and claws, ready to honour the Old Ones and carry the lizardmen into glorious battle against their many enemies.

Thewok was an old skink who had been training dinosaurs for too many cycles to count, and he hadn't been so pleased with a clutch for a long time. His other chores finished for the day, he simply stood and watched the eggs, indulging in the glow of pride and anticipation, until the sun began to sink. As night fell, Itza sank into slumber, and Thewok grudgingly left the stables to rest in his quarters, looking forward to returning at first light.

Several hours later, in the stillness of the night, a dark shape moved swiftly and silently towards the empty stables, using shadows to avoid detection by the few guardians stationed in the outer parts of the city. The figure hurried into the building, eliciting a few yaps and screeches from the drowsy cold ones within. There was a strange flash of purple light, and the animals' complaints stopped abruptly.

The night seemed to hold its breath. Even the nighttime chirping of insects had stilled. At last, another flash could be seen through the windows - lights that were brightest in the egg nursery. Vivid blues, pinks and much weirder colours swirled and flashed within a growing miasma of foul fumes, and a low voice could be heard chanting in a discordant, crackling language. Finally, the lights and sounds faded, and night resumed its natural darkness. The jungle insects began to chirp again.

The next morning, Thewok trotted excitedly back to inspect the eggs he had left the previous evening. Arriving in the nursery, however, he gave a cry of dismay. The beautiful eggs were all broken. and not only that - they had been twisted and cracked by something unimaginably wicked. Bits of scorched shell littered the room, with awful writhing sigils burned into the walls. Some of the remains were tainted by glowing ichor and ugly-smelling goo. Despite his revulsion, Thewok looked closer. The eggs were destroyed - but their contents were missing. Had the cold ones hatched after all? Or something... else?

Thewok froze at a hissing sound behind him. He didn't dare turn to look. The sound was not just animal but monstrous - several creatures uttering a malicious, cruel growling that sounded almost nothing like ordinary dinosaurs. On instinct, he fled back into the stables, the sound of the bloodthirsty monsters chasing close behind him.

They were so fast, they would catch him any moment - but up ahead were the doors back into the city where help could be found. Thewok put on a burst of speed - only to stop dead at a high-pitched shrieking, just as monstrous, uttered by something up in the shadows ahead.

"Clever...things," Thewok muttered, as he realised he was cornered. He stumbled and fell back as the creatures approached from both directions. In the dim lights he saw them - they were monsters, indeed: something like cold ones, but deformed and mutated by unnatural magics, bright colours shifting over their scales, noxious pink gases escaping from their mouths.

"Oh gods," Thewok cried. "They're so...cute!"
***

At the High Temple of Itza, the sublime and terrible form of a Mage-Priest inspected a prisoner. With its robes removed and magic stripped away, the captive was a pathetic sight. It might have been human once, patches of pale warmblood skin showing among the wobbly kaleidoscopic growths and stranger animal features.

"You are a servant of Chaos," the Mage-Priest intoned, only a tiny fraction of its dizzying consciousness present in the room. "You thought you could corrupt the First City of the Old Ones. Now you shall be cleansed and destroyed."

"I am but one of the myriad schemes of the great god of Change!" the prisoner chittered. "Chaos shall triumph in the end!"

"You cast foul spells upon unhatched cold ones," the slann spoke atop its placidly floating seat, as if it had not heard the Chaos acolyte. "Are we to understand you intended to transform them into creatures of Chaos?"

"New servants for my master, here in the enemy's heart! Hail Tzeentch!"

"I comprehend you, in your vileness. But did you intend for ...this?"

The Mage-Priest gestured a flabby amphibian hand towards the figure of Thewok. In his arms, the skink clutched a dozen gibbering former cold ones, fume-breathing, colour-shifting, utterly depraved and devoted to the destruction of order - and none of them more than six inches long. They were trying their best to attack, slaughter and disembowel the stablemaster, but their tiny teeth couldn't even puncture his reptilian hide.

The thrall of the god of Change watched them uneasily.

"The mutations and gifts granted by the great god are unpredictable," the prisoner croaked, hesitantly. "But eventually the plot will come to fruition! Just as planned!"

"Your Chaos corruption appears to have activated a form of extreme dwarfism," the slann mused. "Not even the Changer of Ways could have a plan for that."

"Praise the change! Hail Tzeentch!" the Chaos minion continued, but it didn't sound entirely sure.

"Thus does Chaos contain the seeds of its own undoing. Burn this wretch and scatter the ashes," the Mage-Priest commanded the temple guardians. "Now we must decide what to do with these dwarf changelings."

"If it please you, your Eminence," Thewok spoke up. "They aren't exactly what I was hoping for, but I've come to care for the little blighters. Perhaps you might allow me to keep them. They could help to keep the rats out of the stables."

"I suspect the rats may be too much for them," the Mage-Priest replied. "But since they appear harmless, I leave them to you. Now be gone, for I must return to more serious matters."

 

Well, at least i will have more freedom in assigning my vote