"Nothing 'human' can get in... But a whole Wood Elf army has arrived!"
Before the gates, hundreds of Eternal Guard, clad in green cloaks and chainmail over thick, green tunics, stood in formation, their golden helms gleaming in the snow as they held long spears and large shields. Behind them stood even more ranks of Woodland Guard, equipped with starlit bows, forming neat rows that stretched beyond the city walls.
Besides the Woodland Guard, there were groups of sword dancers, their bodies painted in vibrant colors, their arms bare despite the cold. There were also the legendary Waywatchers, tasked with guarding the vital passages of Athel Loren, and Spellsingers capable of casting life magic. Scouts and Waystalkers, armed with Starfire longbows, stood alongside them in perfect, silent rows. Though quiet, their presence was filled with a fierce energy that blanketed the eastern wall of the Creek Outpost.
Ryan descended the stairs from the gatehouse, and as he approached, the stoic Eternal Guard parted to form a path for him. However, when Durant tried to follow, the elves closed ranks, raising their shields and pointing their spears at him, forcing the mercenary leader to retreat with an awkward chuckle. He stayed where he was, not daring to push his luck.
The sound of hooves echoed as Araloth the Bold, the Champion of Ariel, Queen of Athel Loren, rode a great stag with enormous antlers. Behind him followed a few Wood Elf Lords mounted on purebred elven steeds, entering the outpost.
"Araloth!" Ryan called out as he passed through the tightly-knit ranks of the Eternal Guard, a wide smile on his face. "It's been a long time."
"King of the Knights, I heard you were having some trouble?" Araloth, as handsome and dashing as ever, was clad in a suit of Wood Elf runic half-plate forged in the starforges of Athel Loren. Underneath, he wore a handcrafted green military tunic. A shimmering, enchanted sea-green cloak fluttered behind him, and the bright green antlers of his helmet, a gift from Lilith, glowed so intensely it almost unsettled Ryan.
Ryan suddenly recalled how Fugen had informed him through psychic transmission that Araloth's daughter, Carona, chosen by Lilith to be the "New God" of the "New World," was now serving under Fugen, possibly even as his attendant (or maid).
Very well, we are brothers indeed.
"Araloth, how did you find us?" Ryan kept his expression steady, but his tone was filled with excitement and gratitude.
"Obviously, your friends in Athel Loren know nothing of the power of the Worldroots," Araloth replied proudly, lifting his chin as his massive stag, with its long antlers, towered over Ryan. "Do you need our help, Ryan?"
The sudden appearance of the Wood Elf army had already drawn attention throughout the outpost. Knights and Old Guard soldiers rushed over, their expressions filled with gratitude and awe. The sight of such a formidable force was like a shot of adrenaline for the battle-weary Eight Peaks Expeditionary Army, who began murmuring excitedly and edging closer. Meanwhile, the Wood Elves stood in disciplined silence, awaiting Araloth's command.
One by one, supply wagons entered the camp, laden with stacks of food, fresh vegetables, meat, and various supplies. There were even large quantities of cannonballs, new armor and weapons, winter clothing, and crates of fine wine!
More than two hundred wagons, loaded with supplies, stretched far beyond the outpost.
Praises for the Lady of the Lake and Valaya echoed through the camp.
"Araloth! By the Lady, I don't even know how to thank you," Ryan said, his earlier worries about their dwindling supplies evaporating as he approached the Wood Elf hero. "You came to our aid in the most difficult of times."
"You don't need to thank me, Ryan. This was your own supply line," Araloth said nonchalantly as he dismounted. "We simply delivered it through the Worldroots. If you want to thank someone, thank the one who organized all this and persuaded us."
"Persuaded you?" Ryan was momentarily confused. Then, a group of human soldiers emerged from the Wood Elf ranks. Though few in number, they were clad in the distinctive armor of the Church of Justice, wielding swords and shields, or greatswords. A familiar voice called out from the distance: "My good friend! How could I miss a battle of this magnitude?"
"Alfred!" Ryan turned to see Alfred, the Grandmaster of the Knights Templar and the Bishop of the Western Church, striding toward him with a broad grin. The two embraced warmly. "Welcome! So good to see you."
"Hahaha! I knew you'd run into some trouble!" Alfred, covered in snow, laughed heartily as he gave Ryan a bear hug. "Am I right, or am I right?"
"No need for thanks between us," Ryan said, clapping Alfred on the shoulder, though his smile quickly faded as he noticed something odd. "Alfred, what's with this outfit?"
Alfred was dressed in a brown wool sweater with blue and white stripes peeking out from underneath. He wore a traditional Kislev military coat, military trousers, officer's belt, and boots, with knitted gloves and an army-green scarf. His fur hat, complete with ear flaps, bore the emblem of a white bear.
On his back, he carried a large travel bag, slung across his chest was a leather satchel, and, seeing Ryan's puzzled look, Alfred smiled proudly. "Ah, this? It's from that Kislevite you promised to help—Lev, wasn't it? Before he set sail for Lustria, he said we hit it off so well he gave me all his stuff. Look, good friend!"
Alfred opened his travel bag, revealing a stash of Kislevite essentials: large loaves of black bread, raw potatoes, a small silver flask filled with strong vodka, holy relics of the God of Justice, and several bottles of holy water. The leather satchel contained a red notebook, a quill, ink, a compass, colored pencils, a knife sharpener, Imperial fire-starters, and a large black smoking pipe. "What do you think? It's freezing out, so I've put it all to use."
"... Not bad, not bad," Ryan muttered, almost slipping into Kislevite slang. He surveyed Alfred's ensemble and chuckled. "Anyway, welcome, Alfred. It's good to have you."
"And Araloth, welcome too. I can't tell you how much we appreciate your arrival at this critical moment!" Ryan gave Araloth a brief but heartfelt hug. "You've come at just the right time."
"We will reclaim the sacred relic of our people," Araloth said proudly, awkwardly breaking the hug. "With our combined strength, no enemy—whether greenskin or Skaven—can stand against us!"
A few minutes later, the dwarves arrived. Belagar, accompanied by his chief engineer, Harhav the Gold Seeker, and his chief rune master, Slud the Honest, gazed at the immaculate formation of the Wood Elf army standing in the snow. The King of Eight Peaks scratched his beard awkwardly. "Tch, these pointy-eared folk always show up when it's least expected. I don't know if I should thank them or hit them with my hammer!"
"They've brought us much-needed supplies, even if not in vast quantities. I'll say this, my opinion of these elves has changed a little," Slud the Honest grumbled as he stroked his white beard. "The best thanks we can give is to refrain from killing them."
"Haha, yes, let's show our gratitude by not bashing their heads in!" Harhav the Gold Seeker quipped.
The Eternal Guard parted once again to let the dwarves through. Araloth stood tall and proud amidst the snowstorm. When he saw Belagar, his smile faded, and his demeanor became more aloof. "Make no mistake, dwarf. We are here for one reason only: to retrieve the sacred relics of our people. Such artifacts should never have fallen into the hands of greenskins or Skaven! We must reclaim them."
"A peculiar race, these elves," Belagar muttered under his breath. "Always hiding in their forests, spending their days with strange trees. They don't know the joys of drinking ale, forging metal, or tunneling through the earth. No wonder we beat them so badly in the War of Vengeance, even decapitating their Phoenix King! And now they're here, willingly coming to die at Eight Peaks..."
"What did you say? Are you looking for a fight, shorty?!" Araloth's temper flared at Belagar's grumbling, his blood rushing to his head. Ryan quickly stepped between them. "Calm down, Araloth. Let Belagar finish."
"Still," Belagar continued, "anyone who stands with us, weapon in hand, is a true friend. And no matter what, I thank you for your aid and the supplies you've brought. The treasure vaults do hold a few elven relics, but they're of little value to us. After the war, if you want them, you can have a couple..."
"We're here for the Silmarils!" Araloth snapped impatiently. "Enough of this! I don't care to argue with you now. Including Alfred here, we've brought 4,000 troops. We'll be ready to attack by dawn tomorrow. Who's in charge here? Ryan or this dwarf king
?"
"Patience, Araloth," Ryan said with a smile. "Now that you're here, we'll need to adjust our strategy. With all the supplies you've brought—enough to last us over two months—you've solved our biggest problem. There's no need to rush anymore."
"No need to rush? We've delivered these supplies through the Worldroots, but every day we delay increases the risks. You'd better have a detailed plan for us to discuss," Araloth replied, frowning at Ryan's calm demeanor.
"We do," Ryan said, brimming with confidence as he cast his gaze westward.
In the fading afternoon light, as the sky over Eight Peaks darkened, it remained a deep blue, with thick clouds quietly looming over the ancient dwarven fortress and the surrounding mountains.
"We will crush Skarsnik and his treacherous plans. All we need to do now is keep him pinned down at Eight Peaks and wait for news from the west."
…Meanwhile, back in the Old World, near the edge of the Badlands, just a few dozen kilometers from Karak Kadrin…
Another knightly army entered the city in grand procession. Their gleaming armor, ostentatious tabards, and an array of colorful banners created a steel tide that flowed into the fortress.
Dressed in a set of gleaming enchanted runic silver plate armor, reforged by Master Runesmith Dron Fensen, Duke François rode atop his beloved Pegasus, Bragg. He wore the fabled Unicorn Sword at his waist and a pure white helm with the cross of the Pegasus atop it. Draped in a silk blue and white cloak, he held the severed head of a goblin shaman as his army marched into the city.
As they approached the gates, François turned to his cousin, Sir Gerard. "That's enough for now. Remember, too much of a good thing can be suspicious."
"Understood," Gerard replied, still awed by François' ingenuity. He had no idea how his cousin had come up with the idea of repeatedly marching the army in and out of the city to make it seem like thousands of knights were arriving at the front. It was brilliant.
Behind them rode the famous Grail Knight, Sir Bayard, protector of the sacred Lake Ladies' sanctuaries on the Isle of Lilies, along with Sir Pierre the Pure, guardian of the La Maisonette monastery. Also present was François' chief priestess, the Lady Prophetess Chaxis Morningstar. Unlike his son-in-law, Ryan, François trusted the Lady's prophetesses completely, and Morningstar was also among his inner circle.
"You know what comes next, Gerard?" François asked with a sly smile, stroking his goatee. At ninety years old, the Grail Duke was at the pinnacle of his strength and had no intention of choosing an heir anytime soon. As a Saint of the Grail, he could easily live for another three centuries.
But during the recent campaign in the Bloodpine Woods, Gerard had distinguished himself by leading a force of knights to victory over the greenskins and Beastmen that plagued the Empire. His bravery and keen observation had earned him widespread praise, and the Empire had bestowed upon him the honorary title of "Gerard of the Righteous Host."
"We need a decisive victory!" Gerard replied, furrowing his brow. "The stronger we appear, the bigger the win, and the more enemies we eliminate, the less pressure on King Ryan's forces."
"Exactly! Well said," François nodded approvingly as he casually tossed the goblin shaman's head to the ground. His sea-blue eyes gleamed with wisdom. "This battle must be fought flawlessly. We need to inflict heavy losses on the enemy without revealing that we have only a few thousand men. That way, the cunning greenskin warlord will be overwhelmed with anxiety."
"So, let's wipe out that goblin wolf rider horde that's been harassing our supply lines and attacking the outskirts of Karak Kadrin!"
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