Fire in the Tunnels

The cavern was dark but for the green glow of warpstone throbbing in the discarded contraptions of the Skaven, and quiet but for the fast fading chittering of fleeing ratmen. All around the fyreslayers, the cavern was packed with run down and decrepit skaven hovels. The cursed vermin, they would be back, the Clawlords had been throwing their wretched followers again and again into fyreslayers in a futile attempt to delay them and save their cowardly hides. Varskan, senior Runesmiter of Avizarr scoffed, they would crush these foolish vermin. Light flooded across the duardin as the Vulkites set a fire in the shoddy buildings.

“Advance!” Varskan roared, his voice clearly reaching to the ends of the army.

The host moved forwards as one, forming a column as they marched. As they went, fyrds of warriors split off and disappeared down dark tunnels and through dim halls, rooting out the Skaven wherever the vermin hid. Simultaneously fyrds appeared from behind the column and joined the march, their own such missions fulfilled. Varskan smiled grimly as they pressed on, he was not known for his cheerfulness, but marching ahead of the stoic and disciplined ranks of his Auric Hearthguard gave him an undeniable sense of satisfaction. The duardin sang as they marched, raising up battle peans and chants to Grimnir. To either side, joining in enthusiastically with the singing, were the wild masses of Vulkite Berzerkers, moving more like a mob than an ordered formation. They weren’t the most disciplined warriors Varskan mused, unquestionably loyal and deadly in battle, yes, but he had long learned it was better not to try and force his standards upon them. Then there were the Hearthguard Berzerkers, bringing up the rear and forming the vanguard, an interesting group; wild and ferocious in battle - true berzerkers - yet so devoted were they to their oaths, sworn anew before each battle, that discipline reigned supreme should it be demanded of them.

All around the column fires raged, throwing smoke and embers into the air, the fires burned hotter, but the fyreslayers marched through, unfazed by the heat, runes shining in the firelight. Varskan’s war-mask practically glowed, its stern visage shining as he marched. The fyreslayers advanced through the cavern and into a dark tunnel, the light of the fires didn’t reach here, and only the perpetual fire of Varskan’s Runic Iron and the Hearthguard’s Flamestrike Polaxes lit the way as they pressed deeper into the heart of the skaven warren. The column was still marching through the tunnel when a horn call echoed through the tunnel from up ahead.

“Form ranks!” Varskan yelled, his gruff voice echoing back through the cave as the column spread to fill the narrow tunnel. A wall of Hearthguard Berzerkers forming before him. Lifting his Runic Iron and grasping his Latch-Axe tighter, he shouldered his way through the press and took his place in the center of the battlelines as the clangour of steel grew closer - the Vulkites he had sent ahead fighting a measured retreat. The sound grew louder and out of the gloom appeared a fyrd of Vulkites, their Karl keeping them in a rough line even as they were dragged down by shadowy red-eyed shapes and rusted blades.

“For Grimnir!” Varskan cried, and the Hearthguard surged forward, shouting out their war cries as they collided with the rat men, their poleaxes tearing through the tightly packed Skaven. In the tight space, their braziers found plenty of targets, crushing bones and setting fires in flesh and fur. In amongst his warriors Varskan fought with deadly efficiency, and brutal strength. His fiery rage fueled him and granting brutal strength to his strikes. As he fought his voice rose above the din and clangour of battle, chanting out prayers and wrathful invocations. And the fyreslayers around him fought ever harder. A rusted blade darted out at him, the ratman screeching and chittering as it struck. His runes flaring, he smashed aside the blade with vicious speed and bludgeoned the Skaven with his Runic iron, bone crunched and the creature screamed as it fell. But more soon filled its place, their chittering cries echoed through the tunnel, raised against the roars of the Hearthguard, and his own chanting.

The cave was alight now, searing volleys of magmapike fire soared above the heads of the fyreslayers and arched down into the close press of ratmen. Fires soon raged in their fur and their death screams added to the horrible cacophony. The Hearthguard held still, and the Skaven piled before them, scrambling over the burning bodies of their kin and throwing themselves into the fyreslayers, dragging them down under the weight of flea ridden bodies and stabbing them over and over with wicked blades. The Berzerkers stubbornly refused to die, fighting still, even as they bleed from dozens of stab wounds, pressing on into the Skaven, slaughtering the ratmen again as they threw themselves at them. Still they showed no hesitation however, and the tide threatened to break through the line. The Hearthguard stepped up their fire, the molten rockbolts whistled and roared over the crests of the Berzerkers and the skaven fell in ever greater numbers. Yet they pressed on, rats pilling into the line as the duardin began to fall. Seeing his warriors falling around him, Varskan bucked his runic iron to his waist belt, and thrust his hand into the satchel by his side. Pulling out a handful of shining runes threw them across the floor, parrying a rusted blade and stepping back into the crowd of his warriors, as he began to chant. Varskan called out an invocation to Grimnir, awakening the runes he had scattered, and a fire roared to life before the fyreslayers, a wall of raging lava between them and their enemies. He sighed in relief, the Runic Fyrewall would buy them the respite his warriors needed.

Behind the fyrewall the skaven gathered impatiently, the crushing mass of the horde pushing several into the fire, where they were soon incinerated to high pitched screams and cries of fear. But still they pushed forwards, the clanrats driven forward with a reckless madness by the cowardly Clawlords, far out of sight in the depths of the warren. They didn’t have too long, Varskan knew, the fyrewall was temperamental, and wouldn’t last. But they had time, and he would take advantage of it. Varskan walked back through the column, barking orders and the fyreslayers took their positions. The injured fyrd of Hearthguard were moved to the rearguard, and replaced by the Vulkites; wild and eager for battle.

The new battlelines formed up before the lava of the Runic Fyrewall, a mass of jeering Vulkite Berzerkers - runes glinting in response to the power of the Magmic Invocation. Behind them the disciplined ranks of Auric Hearthguard stood stoic as ever, magmapikes leveled and ready. Finally, Varkskan took his place once more in the ranks of Vulkites and gripped his weapons tight as he uttered a prayer to Grimnir. On the other side of the fyrewall, dim shapes could be made out as the wall moved and shifted, and the skaven - in a dark mirror of the fyreslayers had formed up too, no longer rushing forwards with rabid ferocity, but a disciplined rank of shielded rats, with tall glinting halberds. Stormvermin. Then the fires guttered out, and the battlelines surged forwards…