Terradon
Fhanados
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Wow I really let this slide. Page 3, a new low!
The latest installment (for anyone still watching) is here! This took a while to get started but once I started typing it just vomited itself onto the page. Not particularly well proof-read so as always please point out anything you feel is off whether it's spelling, phrasing, grammar or even if something just doesn't feel right.
In the Face of Danger
Zpakatax had started his crusade against the greenskins early. He had little choice. The dreaded Orc migration had started early and hordes of the foul creatures had began their long march North towards the Border Princes and the lands of mankind beyond. Although the great horde was destined for Bretonnia and the Empire the sheer size of it had spread throughout the Border Princes and the territory claimed for Munditlazan. Reports of skirmishes between Skink scouts and Cold One rider patrols were constantly coming in, each more violent and requiring more attention than the last. Zpakatax had had enough.
Biqitehetec and a number of his other Skink attendants had been sent to the various Dwarf holds and human settlements nearby. Most had already accepted the offer of alliance with Munditlazan – the Dwarves through greed and hatred, the humans through desperation and fear – but they would not yet be ready to fight. Zpakatax did not care. He had given the order to assemble the forces of Munditlazan and in less than an hour the great courtyard had a mighty host at the ready. The great avenue leading to the main gate was lined with Saurus and Skink warriors and warbeasts herded beyond the walls of the city. Within two hours of the call for war the entire Lizardmen army had mobilised and the city was empty – a small barrios of Skink administrators and workers left behind under the protection of the Temple Guard. Every other Saurus had joined the host and most of the city’s Skink population had taken up arms.
Now the Lizardmen waded through a sea of greenskins. The host’s march south towards Barak Varr had been rudely interrupted by the barbaric horde as the steam of green monstrosities flooded the Border Princes. Zpakatax hated Orcs. Almost as much as he hated the Great Enemy. Greenskins had no place in the Old One’s plan and had to be exterminated. They just didn’t have the decency to accept their place in the universe and die.
Another ragged wave of savages surged forwards, smothering the Host in repugnant bodies. To a human or Dwarf the Orcs and Goblins reeked of unwashed flesh with a hint of something akin to decaying plant matter. To the finely tuned predatory senses of a Saurus warrior the scent was more distinct. Zpakatax could differentiate between Grot and Goblin, Orc and Black Orc. By smell alone he had learnt which would be easy kills and which were dangerous rivals. He could which were important to holding the Horde together, and which would die unnoticed by their peers and he used this to great effect.
Spurring his Carnosaur forward Darkscale descended on an Orc who was carrying a banner, quickly dispatching him with a swing of his halberd. A few seconds of surveying the field around him while his Carnosaur mauled and clawed the panicky greenskins within reach and their next target had been spotted. Slightly bigger than the other Orcs, but not quite the size of a warboss. The great predator lunged again through the sea of green.
To its credit the green brute stood its ground and bellowed a challenge to the approaching general, but the challenge was met not by Zpakatax himself. His enormous mount, aggravated by the bellowing and violent brandishing of weapons in its direction closed the gap between them in a few bounding lopes then smashed the insignificant creature into the ground with its hind legs. All the greenskin’s bravado had the opposite effect to what was intended – seeing their big, boisterous leader so easily disposed of caused a flood of panic and fear through the Orc and Goblin ranks. Many turned to flee, only to be cut down or trampled by their fellows who were still eager to join the fray. Others who lost their neve became easy prey for the cold disciplined ranks of the Saurus warriors.
Suppressing his urge to leap to the ground and join the battle on foot, Zpakatax shook his head clear of his growing bloodlust and surveyed the battlefield again. It was… an undesirable situation. Terradons whirled overhead dropping stones and battlefield debris on the approaching horde before flying away to restock their deadly load. There were simply far too many greenskins to risk the valuable creatures in a direct engagement. Likewise Ripperdactyls had been sent away from the frontline, their frenzied aggression had resulted in unacceptable losses from unfavourable charges. Much of the Skink contingent on foot had also been relegated to flanking manoeuvres at the edge of the conflict – the sheer number of Orcs and press of bodies had made their skirmishing fighting style nearly impossible to take advantage of and the casualties were unsustainable in combat against the horde.
There was a brief lull in the Orc reinforcements. Although the amassed army reached almost to the horizon the Lizardmen had inflicted enough casualties to buy some small reprieve. They could not afford to give up this opportunity.
“Move South, swiftly,” Zpakatax roared in Low Saurian battle tongue.
His tone and inflection conveyed more to the order than the words alone ever could and the Host reformed ranks, changed facing and marched at double pace towards their destination. Barak Varr was still a good weeks long march away and they could expect no aid from the Third or Fourth races for days at the least, if they had any aid at all. Scouts reported that Barak Varr was already under siege, but the Dwarven artillery had easily repelled the initial assault. Once the horde amassed though, the situation could quickly change.
The Host from Munditlazan made good progress and used the harsh terrain to their advantage. It wasn’t long before they found the jagged coastal cliffs to their side, and the ever approaching barbaric swarm to their other flank. They couldn’t retreat now, only press on. Saurus cavalry carved a path through the relatively unprepared Orc and Goblin camps, but the march took its toll. It had been over a week since they left their city and the prolonged battle early on had inflicted terrible casualties. Now, a full quarter of their fighting strength had been depleted and without the bulk of their Skink fighters and aireal support from Ripperdactly and Terradon riders the Host was vulnerable.
From atop his Carnosaur the General spied an approaching warband of Orks and Goblins. At first he thought it would just be another disorganised group of wayward brutes who had either been pushed to the side by stronger groups, or simply wandered away from the main horde out of boredom. But something was wrong about them. They were disorganised, even by Greenskin standards. There were no banner bearers or musicians as one would normally expect, and they were running directly towards the Lizardmen host even though none aside from the most keen-eyed Goblin would even be able to see them from this distance. And Zpakatax smelt something… something different about them.
He looked back at his assembled warriors and instinctively ran through numerous calculations and scenarios in his mind. Potential ambushes were contrived then discarded in equal measure. The terrain was mentally scoured and optimal vantage points identified. In seconds he had created several battle plans and weighed the potential losses of them all. The Saurus psyche was not meant for such things as philosophy and science, but they were no mere beasts. War was his reason for being and in a few scant minutes he had devised strategy that would have taken a day of planning for less astute warmbloods. Defence was impossible, he had decided. We march into the teeth of our foe.
Facing his Host again he bellowed a series of commands in Saurian battle tongue once more. At the few, concise words the entire host reassembled its configuration. Saurus cavalry and Stegadons took point, with Skink skirmishers and cohorts arrayed behind. Saurus formed rank behind their smaller kin, with Temple Guard protecting the few Skink Priests and Shamans that remained with the Host. Scattered throughout at regular intervals support elements of Kroxigor and various warbeasts were at the ready.
Minutes passed. The rolling rumble of the approaching enemy grew louder and louder. Grunts, curses and roars became discernible over the din of thousands of heavy footsteps on the dusty earth. They were almost here. Not long now…
A bellowing roar of “CHARGE!” carried over the arid wasteland, heard even above the rising thunder of the green tide.
As one the Lizardman Host advanced. The Cold One mounts and Stegadons outpaced the rest of the force in a crashing charge. Saurus riders struck out with lances, spearing Orks as their mounts clawed at Goblins, both rider and mount alike lunging at foes with savage jaws lined with razor edged teeth. The mass charge of Stegadons trampled dozens into the dust, impaling hapless victims on massive horns and flinging aside others with the toss of their armoured heads. From atop the howdah Skinks released a hail of javelins and launched clusters of darts into the stinking crowd of green from their giant blowpipes.
The first ranks began to lose momentum and frenzied Orcs advanced to fill the gaps left by the dead. This was expected. Swarms of Skinks ducked and weaved through the larger beasts that had been first to find the enemy and unleashed their own brand of death. Javelins and blowdarts tipped with virulent toxins found their marks and many of their victims succumbed quickly to the venom. Larger Orcs were not outright killed, but grew lethargic and were cut down by the reforming groups of Saurus Cold One riders.
Stegadons and Cold Ones made a careful retreat from the immediate combat, giving way for masses of Skinks to form ranks and continue their ranged assault. A large group of Skinks had adopted the use of short bows, outranging their javelin throwing and bolt spitting brethren. It was causing havoc amongst the Greenskin force but it did not halt their advance and soon the Skinks found themselves engaged in hand to hand combat with a physically superior foe. Crudely forged Orc weapons made short work of the diminutive Skinks whenever they made contact, and the skittish nature of the small creatures soon got the best of them.
The Skink frontline collapsed entirely into a swift fallback away from the fighting, but this was anticipated. By the time the Skinks had fled the disciplined ranks of Saurus had caught up and formed a bulwark against the advancing horde. The warriors marched stoically into the face of danger, lashing out with every weapon at their disposal. Blade, shield, tail, claw, fang. All were tools of death in the possession of a Saurus.
Zpakatax was itching to join the fray. His bloodlust boiled and threatened to cast his carefully laid plans to the wind. The Orcs were physically imposing, with strength and resilience matching the warriors of the First. Strategy was the Host’s advantage, and to discard it would doom the expedition entirely. Still, to feel the crunch of the Aberration’s bones in his jaws, to taste the foul tang of their alien blood… No. He could not give in!
The Stegadon and Cold Ones had reformed and prepared for a second charge and the Skinks had begun to rally around the great beasts. All was going as planned and their losses were still within an acceptable margin but he knew they could not keep this up indefinitely. A common trait of the wretched Greenskins was that they seemed to be without number. An army with infinite lives to sacrifice was a difficult one to break, but they MUST be broken or else the Host will be slaughtered to a man. The usual way to break an Orc horde was to kill the leaders…. But where were they?
Shaking off his rising bloodlust again Zpakatax carefully examined the approaching horde. Where were they? Where were the Shamans, Witch Doctors, and hulking Warbosses? There were no pennants or standards to be seen, and in a race so self-aggrandising as Orcs it made no sense to see none of the personal banners of glory seeking warlords. The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt – they weren’t facing an advancing warband, they were just in the path of a retreating one. The Greenskins weren’t frenzied, they were panicked. They had no leaders for their war-loving chiefs were already dead. The scent he smelled earlier, it was fear. He recognised it now, but he had never smelt the like of it before. Never this much.
Quickly he began to re-evaluate the situation. The plan revisited, revised and renewed again and again. Potential methods of disengagement were contrived then discarded in equal measure. The terrain was mentally scoured and optimal paths of retreat identified. In seconds he had created several plans and weighed the potential losses of them all. In a few scant minutes he had devised strategy that would have taken a day of planning for less astute warmbloods. But it would ultimately fail. There was to be no victory here.
For the first time in centuries he was uncertain of what to do. To continue with his planned assault would see hundreds, perhaps thousands or tens of thousands more Greenskins crushed but in the end the Host would perish. If they tried to retreat to the North or South the Orcs and Goblins would overrun them. They could fall back towards the ocean but only the aquatic Skinks would be saved from their ultimate doom, and for how long? At what cost?
The second charge of the Stegadons and Cold Ones had already begun, and the Saurus and Skinks had reformed to repeat the earlier manoeuvre and push further into the Orc lines. It was too late to turn back now. Zpakatax looked to the sky and offered a prayer of protection to Quetzl, a prayer of sacrifice and bloodshed to Sotek, and a final prayer of forgiveness to Chotec.
“By the flames of the Sun, Chotec lend us your burning wrath this one last time. Let the scar of our failure burn fresh throughout history. Let us scorch the fury of The First into the minds of the Aberration from now until the End Times,” he turned his head to stare directly into the sun for the final words of his prayer: “Mighty Chotec, burn them all!”
At first he thought it a trick of the light – his vision seared by the sun. Blotches, black shapes floating through the burning white sky. His eyes adjusted and the sky was cloudless blue once more, but the black stains remained. If anything there were more of them, bigger than before. Had the Old Ones answered his prayers?
It didn’t matter at this point. The strategy was set, their fate was sealed. There was no more reason for him to sit on the sidelines any longer. His bloodlust quickly rose until all he saw was red. He couldn’t recollect his descent down the hill towards the Host. He didn’t recall his steed outpacing the entire army. He didn’t even remember when he joined the battle proper, for his first memory was the frenzied slaughter of combat. Goblins died in droves, stomped, clawed, ripped, bitten, smashed into oblivion. The Orcs themselves barely offered more resistance, being cut down by his Obsidinite blade, torn apart by his mount or otherwise dispatched by the feral onslaught of General Darkscale.
The Horde kept coming and the Host dwindled. Wounded Lizardmen limped away or were hauled to the back lines for some brief reprieve. Several Stegadons lay motionless, islands of flesh in a sea of green bodies. The ground was scorched in places where Salamanders had been killed, their flammable venom combusting within them upon their deaths. Cold One riders had been swamped by Orcs and dragged from their steeds to be killed by the knives and bludgeons of swarming goblins while the Orcs hacked at the predatory beasts with great metal cleavers and two handed axes. Zpakatax had seen one of his Spawnkin - a fellow Saurus hero and great veteran of many wars, fall into the raging horde. The Carnosaur mount, deprived of the commanding influence of its rider had rampaged uncontrolled until it was finally brought down by dozens of Goblin spearmen stabbing at its flanks.
Seeing his brethren fall had a sobering effect and the world suddenly shifted back into focus. The red haze lifted, and he realised he stood alone in a clearing in the horde that he had wrought with blade and claw. The Greenskins had been giving him a wide berth, but had surrounded him nonetheless. There were too many of them, and he was too far from aid. This was the end.
He leapt to the ground and readied his blade. If he was to die, he would die fighting alongside his faithful Carnosaur as it’s equal, not atop it as its master. He leveled his gaze and stared into the piggy eyes of the Orc directly in front of him. This beast would be the first to die. Zpakatax crouched, ready to pounce. Every ounce of his cold, calculated rage focused on this Orc, prepared to crush the life out of it with his bare claws if necessary.
Then it burst into flames.
Keen readers (well, anyone who's read the rest of my rambling narrative!) will notice this has a lot of similarities to Szeratops' combat heavy big battle. This is pretty deliberate. I wanted to show the differences between how the two major players in this Crusade operate. Whereas Szeratops (spoilers if you haven't read the rest!) was very defensive and aimed to fend off his aggressors and outlast them, Zpakatax was the opposite and aimed to crush the attacker before they got the upper hand. Well, you read this (hopefully) and know how that turned out!
The End Times draws closer and closer with each installment. What will happen to our scaly friends? Who knows! Actually, I really don't know and I'm open to ideas in a BRAND NEW THREAD!
I hope someone out there is still enjoying this!
[edit 1 - linked ideas thread]
[edit 2 - Replaced "Anathema" with "Aberration" to maintain consistency with earlier pieces. Fixed some typos.]
The latest installment (for anyone still watching) is here! This took a while to get started but once I started typing it just vomited itself onto the page. Not particularly well proof-read so as always please point out anything you feel is off whether it's spelling, phrasing, grammar or even if something just doesn't feel right.
In the Face of Danger
Zpakatax had started his crusade against the greenskins early. He had little choice. The dreaded Orc migration had started early and hordes of the foul creatures had began their long march North towards the Border Princes and the lands of mankind beyond. Although the great horde was destined for Bretonnia and the Empire the sheer size of it had spread throughout the Border Princes and the territory claimed for Munditlazan. Reports of skirmishes between Skink scouts and Cold One rider patrols were constantly coming in, each more violent and requiring more attention than the last. Zpakatax had had enough.
Biqitehetec and a number of his other Skink attendants had been sent to the various Dwarf holds and human settlements nearby. Most had already accepted the offer of alliance with Munditlazan – the Dwarves through greed and hatred, the humans through desperation and fear – but they would not yet be ready to fight. Zpakatax did not care. He had given the order to assemble the forces of Munditlazan and in less than an hour the great courtyard had a mighty host at the ready. The great avenue leading to the main gate was lined with Saurus and Skink warriors and warbeasts herded beyond the walls of the city. Within two hours of the call for war the entire Lizardmen army had mobilised and the city was empty – a small barrios of Skink administrators and workers left behind under the protection of the Temple Guard. Every other Saurus had joined the host and most of the city’s Skink population had taken up arms.
Now the Lizardmen waded through a sea of greenskins. The host’s march south towards Barak Varr had been rudely interrupted by the barbaric horde as the steam of green monstrosities flooded the Border Princes. Zpakatax hated Orcs. Almost as much as he hated the Great Enemy. Greenskins had no place in the Old One’s plan and had to be exterminated. They just didn’t have the decency to accept their place in the universe and die.
Another ragged wave of savages surged forwards, smothering the Host in repugnant bodies. To a human or Dwarf the Orcs and Goblins reeked of unwashed flesh with a hint of something akin to decaying plant matter. To the finely tuned predatory senses of a Saurus warrior the scent was more distinct. Zpakatax could differentiate between Grot and Goblin, Orc and Black Orc. By smell alone he had learnt which would be easy kills and which were dangerous rivals. He could which were important to holding the Horde together, and which would die unnoticed by their peers and he used this to great effect.
Spurring his Carnosaur forward Darkscale descended on an Orc who was carrying a banner, quickly dispatching him with a swing of his halberd. A few seconds of surveying the field around him while his Carnosaur mauled and clawed the panicky greenskins within reach and their next target had been spotted. Slightly bigger than the other Orcs, but not quite the size of a warboss. The great predator lunged again through the sea of green.
To its credit the green brute stood its ground and bellowed a challenge to the approaching general, but the challenge was met not by Zpakatax himself. His enormous mount, aggravated by the bellowing and violent brandishing of weapons in its direction closed the gap between them in a few bounding lopes then smashed the insignificant creature into the ground with its hind legs. All the greenskin’s bravado had the opposite effect to what was intended – seeing their big, boisterous leader so easily disposed of caused a flood of panic and fear through the Orc and Goblin ranks. Many turned to flee, only to be cut down or trampled by their fellows who were still eager to join the fray. Others who lost their neve became easy prey for the cold disciplined ranks of the Saurus warriors.
Suppressing his urge to leap to the ground and join the battle on foot, Zpakatax shook his head clear of his growing bloodlust and surveyed the battlefield again. It was… an undesirable situation. Terradons whirled overhead dropping stones and battlefield debris on the approaching horde before flying away to restock their deadly load. There were simply far too many greenskins to risk the valuable creatures in a direct engagement. Likewise Ripperdactyls had been sent away from the frontline, their frenzied aggression had resulted in unacceptable losses from unfavourable charges. Much of the Skink contingent on foot had also been relegated to flanking manoeuvres at the edge of the conflict – the sheer number of Orcs and press of bodies had made their skirmishing fighting style nearly impossible to take advantage of and the casualties were unsustainable in combat against the horde.
There was a brief lull in the Orc reinforcements. Although the amassed army reached almost to the horizon the Lizardmen had inflicted enough casualties to buy some small reprieve. They could not afford to give up this opportunity.
“Move South, swiftly,” Zpakatax roared in Low Saurian battle tongue.
His tone and inflection conveyed more to the order than the words alone ever could and the Host reformed ranks, changed facing and marched at double pace towards their destination. Barak Varr was still a good weeks long march away and they could expect no aid from the Third or Fourth races for days at the least, if they had any aid at all. Scouts reported that Barak Varr was already under siege, but the Dwarven artillery had easily repelled the initial assault. Once the horde amassed though, the situation could quickly change.
The Host from Munditlazan made good progress and used the harsh terrain to their advantage. It wasn’t long before they found the jagged coastal cliffs to their side, and the ever approaching barbaric swarm to their other flank. They couldn’t retreat now, only press on. Saurus cavalry carved a path through the relatively unprepared Orc and Goblin camps, but the march took its toll. It had been over a week since they left their city and the prolonged battle early on had inflicted terrible casualties. Now, a full quarter of their fighting strength had been depleted and without the bulk of their Skink fighters and aireal support from Ripperdactly and Terradon riders the Host was vulnerable.
From atop his Carnosaur the General spied an approaching warband of Orks and Goblins. At first he thought it would just be another disorganised group of wayward brutes who had either been pushed to the side by stronger groups, or simply wandered away from the main horde out of boredom. But something was wrong about them. They were disorganised, even by Greenskin standards. There were no banner bearers or musicians as one would normally expect, and they were running directly towards the Lizardmen host even though none aside from the most keen-eyed Goblin would even be able to see them from this distance. And Zpakatax smelt something… something different about them.
He looked back at his assembled warriors and instinctively ran through numerous calculations and scenarios in his mind. Potential ambushes were contrived then discarded in equal measure. The terrain was mentally scoured and optimal vantage points identified. In seconds he had created several battle plans and weighed the potential losses of them all. The Saurus psyche was not meant for such things as philosophy and science, but they were no mere beasts. War was his reason for being and in a few scant minutes he had devised strategy that would have taken a day of planning for less astute warmbloods. Defence was impossible, he had decided. We march into the teeth of our foe.
Facing his Host again he bellowed a series of commands in Saurian battle tongue once more. At the few, concise words the entire host reassembled its configuration. Saurus cavalry and Stegadons took point, with Skink skirmishers and cohorts arrayed behind. Saurus formed rank behind their smaller kin, with Temple Guard protecting the few Skink Priests and Shamans that remained with the Host. Scattered throughout at regular intervals support elements of Kroxigor and various warbeasts were at the ready.
Minutes passed. The rolling rumble of the approaching enemy grew louder and louder. Grunts, curses and roars became discernible over the din of thousands of heavy footsteps on the dusty earth. They were almost here. Not long now…
A bellowing roar of “CHARGE!” carried over the arid wasteland, heard even above the rising thunder of the green tide.
As one the Lizardman Host advanced. The Cold One mounts and Stegadons outpaced the rest of the force in a crashing charge. Saurus riders struck out with lances, spearing Orks as their mounts clawed at Goblins, both rider and mount alike lunging at foes with savage jaws lined with razor edged teeth. The mass charge of Stegadons trampled dozens into the dust, impaling hapless victims on massive horns and flinging aside others with the toss of their armoured heads. From atop the howdah Skinks released a hail of javelins and launched clusters of darts into the stinking crowd of green from their giant blowpipes.
The first ranks began to lose momentum and frenzied Orcs advanced to fill the gaps left by the dead. This was expected. Swarms of Skinks ducked and weaved through the larger beasts that had been first to find the enemy and unleashed their own brand of death. Javelins and blowdarts tipped with virulent toxins found their marks and many of their victims succumbed quickly to the venom. Larger Orcs were not outright killed, but grew lethargic and were cut down by the reforming groups of Saurus Cold One riders.
Stegadons and Cold Ones made a careful retreat from the immediate combat, giving way for masses of Skinks to form ranks and continue their ranged assault. A large group of Skinks had adopted the use of short bows, outranging their javelin throwing and bolt spitting brethren. It was causing havoc amongst the Greenskin force but it did not halt their advance and soon the Skinks found themselves engaged in hand to hand combat with a physically superior foe. Crudely forged Orc weapons made short work of the diminutive Skinks whenever they made contact, and the skittish nature of the small creatures soon got the best of them.
The Skink frontline collapsed entirely into a swift fallback away from the fighting, but this was anticipated. By the time the Skinks had fled the disciplined ranks of Saurus had caught up and formed a bulwark against the advancing horde. The warriors marched stoically into the face of danger, lashing out with every weapon at their disposal. Blade, shield, tail, claw, fang. All were tools of death in the possession of a Saurus.
Zpakatax was itching to join the fray. His bloodlust boiled and threatened to cast his carefully laid plans to the wind. The Orcs were physically imposing, with strength and resilience matching the warriors of the First. Strategy was the Host’s advantage, and to discard it would doom the expedition entirely. Still, to feel the crunch of the Aberration’s bones in his jaws, to taste the foul tang of their alien blood… No. He could not give in!
The Stegadon and Cold Ones had reformed and prepared for a second charge and the Skinks had begun to rally around the great beasts. All was going as planned and their losses were still within an acceptable margin but he knew they could not keep this up indefinitely. A common trait of the wretched Greenskins was that they seemed to be without number. An army with infinite lives to sacrifice was a difficult one to break, but they MUST be broken or else the Host will be slaughtered to a man. The usual way to break an Orc horde was to kill the leaders…. But where were they?
Shaking off his rising bloodlust again Zpakatax carefully examined the approaching horde. Where were they? Where were the Shamans, Witch Doctors, and hulking Warbosses? There were no pennants or standards to be seen, and in a race so self-aggrandising as Orcs it made no sense to see none of the personal banners of glory seeking warlords. The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt – they weren’t facing an advancing warband, they were just in the path of a retreating one. The Greenskins weren’t frenzied, they were panicked. They had no leaders for their war-loving chiefs were already dead. The scent he smelled earlier, it was fear. He recognised it now, but he had never smelt the like of it before. Never this much.
Quickly he began to re-evaluate the situation. The plan revisited, revised and renewed again and again. Potential methods of disengagement were contrived then discarded in equal measure. The terrain was mentally scoured and optimal paths of retreat identified. In seconds he had created several plans and weighed the potential losses of them all. In a few scant minutes he had devised strategy that would have taken a day of planning for less astute warmbloods. But it would ultimately fail. There was to be no victory here.
For the first time in centuries he was uncertain of what to do. To continue with his planned assault would see hundreds, perhaps thousands or tens of thousands more Greenskins crushed but in the end the Host would perish. If they tried to retreat to the North or South the Orcs and Goblins would overrun them. They could fall back towards the ocean but only the aquatic Skinks would be saved from their ultimate doom, and for how long? At what cost?
The second charge of the Stegadons and Cold Ones had already begun, and the Saurus and Skinks had reformed to repeat the earlier manoeuvre and push further into the Orc lines. It was too late to turn back now. Zpakatax looked to the sky and offered a prayer of protection to Quetzl, a prayer of sacrifice and bloodshed to Sotek, and a final prayer of forgiveness to Chotec.
“By the flames of the Sun, Chotec lend us your burning wrath this one last time. Let the scar of our failure burn fresh throughout history. Let us scorch the fury of The First into the minds of the Aberration from now until the End Times,” he turned his head to stare directly into the sun for the final words of his prayer: “Mighty Chotec, burn them all!”
At first he thought it a trick of the light – his vision seared by the sun. Blotches, black shapes floating through the burning white sky. His eyes adjusted and the sky was cloudless blue once more, but the black stains remained. If anything there were more of them, bigger than before. Had the Old Ones answered his prayers?
It didn’t matter at this point. The strategy was set, their fate was sealed. There was no more reason for him to sit on the sidelines any longer. His bloodlust quickly rose until all he saw was red. He couldn’t recollect his descent down the hill towards the Host. He didn’t recall his steed outpacing the entire army. He didn’t even remember when he joined the battle proper, for his first memory was the frenzied slaughter of combat. Goblins died in droves, stomped, clawed, ripped, bitten, smashed into oblivion. The Orcs themselves barely offered more resistance, being cut down by his Obsidinite blade, torn apart by his mount or otherwise dispatched by the feral onslaught of General Darkscale.
The Horde kept coming and the Host dwindled. Wounded Lizardmen limped away or were hauled to the back lines for some brief reprieve. Several Stegadons lay motionless, islands of flesh in a sea of green bodies. The ground was scorched in places where Salamanders had been killed, their flammable venom combusting within them upon their deaths. Cold One riders had been swamped by Orcs and dragged from their steeds to be killed by the knives and bludgeons of swarming goblins while the Orcs hacked at the predatory beasts with great metal cleavers and two handed axes. Zpakatax had seen one of his Spawnkin - a fellow Saurus hero and great veteran of many wars, fall into the raging horde. The Carnosaur mount, deprived of the commanding influence of its rider had rampaged uncontrolled until it was finally brought down by dozens of Goblin spearmen stabbing at its flanks.
Seeing his brethren fall had a sobering effect and the world suddenly shifted back into focus. The red haze lifted, and he realised he stood alone in a clearing in the horde that he had wrought with blade and claw. The Greenskins had been giving him a wide berth, but had surrounded him nonetheless. There were too many of them, and he was too far from aid. This was the end.
He leapt to the ground and readied his blade. If he was to die, he would die fighting alongside his faithful Carnosaur as it’s equal, not atop it as its master. He leveled his gaze and stared into the piggy eyes of the Orc directly in front of him. This beast would be the first to die. Zpakatax crouched, ready to pounce. Every ounce of his cold, calculated rage focused on this Orc, prepared to crush the life out of it with his bare claws if necessary.
Then it burst into flames.
Keen readers (well, anyone who's read the rest of my rambling narrative!) will notice this has a lot of similarities to Szeratops' combat heavy big battle. This is pretty deliberate. I wanted to show the differences between how the two major players in this Crusade operate. Whereas Szeratops (spoilers if you haven't read the rest!) was very defensive and aimed to fend off his aggressors and outlast them, Zpakatax was the opposite and aimed to crush the attacker before they got the upper hand. Well, you read this (hopefully) and know how that turned out!
The End Times draws closer and closer with each installment. What will happen to our scaly friends? Who knows! Actually, I really don't know and I'm open to ideas in a BRAND NEW THREAD!
I hope someone out there is still enjoying this!
[edit 1 - linked ideas thread]
[edit 2 - Replaced "Anathema" with "Aberration" to maintain consistency with earlier pieces. Fixed some typos.]
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