The battle raged viciously around him, the clash of steel and the screams of the dying filling the air. Brolgor could feel it—the raw energy of combat coursing through his veins. Finally, an enemy he could see, smash, and break. A foe who met battle head-on, not skulking in the shadows like the cowardly Skaven. This was a fight worth having.
They had arrived just in time. The Khornate humies and daemons had already reached the summit, their bloodlust fixed on Zoghag. So focused were they on their prey that they never saw the ambush coming—until volleys of jagged bolts tore through their ranks, shredding the Blood Warriors in an instant. And then, with a roar, Brolgor plunged into the fray.
His cleava swung left and right, hacking through daemonflesh with savage fury. With a bellow to Gorkamorka himself, he drove his foes into the dirt, their hellish ichor soaking the battlefield. Behind him, he could hear Břřok’s troggoth rampaging, the beast’s monstrous clubs crushing everything in its path. Overhead, another storm of bolts rained down, turning the enemy’s ranks into a crimson ruin.
Then he saw him—the Herald of Khorne. A worthy challenge at last.
Brolgor grinned, tusks bared, and charged. Their weapons clashed in a blinding shower of sparks, each blow ringing with the fury of gods. The duel was fierce, brutal, every strike seeking to end the other. And then, an opening—
But just as he prepared to land the killing blow, his eyes caught sight of Korslug. The Deathbringer loomed over his ally, axe raised high, ready to strike him down. Brolgor growled. There was no hesitation. With a mighty heave, he hurled his belcha banna, its weight knocking the Deathbringer off balance and saving Korslug from certain death.
Then came the pain. The daemon’s blade punched through his gut, crimson blooming across his armor. He fell to his knees, his vision swimming, the killing stroke about to land.
And then—a deafening roar, a symphony of the troggoth and its master.
The earth trembled as Břřok yanked his troggoth’s breaka-harness, directing the rampaging beast straight into the daemon. The Herald barely had time to react before it was sent sprawling. The troggoth did not stop. Again and again, its clubs crashed down, turning the daemon into nothing more than a broken mass of gore and ruin.
The last thing Brolgor heard before darkness claimed him was the call of the retreating warhorn.
_______
“Good thing ya came, Břřok. Else the swamps would be lost.” The voice that woke Brolgor was ancient and unsettling. He blinked, his vision clearing, his wounds—healed. He lay within a stone circle, its center occupied by an aged Swampcalla shaman. Beside him stood Břřok, his one eye gleaming with cunning and determination.
“We need to move, old one,” Břokk muttered. “I got a clan to rebuild. The Chaos fools won’t be back anytime soon.”
“They wont be back at all, young Břřok,” the Swampcalla rasped. “Me ritual be complete. The magics of Chaos be stopped—for now and its ruination shan't spread anymore. There be balance in da struggle between swamp and chaos, and this place be spent. They won’t come again.”
“Balance ain’t enough,” Břřok growled. “We need to purge the swamps of that Chaos sickness.”
“Ah, yes,” the shaman mused. “There be more to do. The nexus at Gnashmaw still stands, poisoned with ruin. But to cleanse Chaos for good… we need more powagh. We need Mork’s blessin’.”
Brolgor grinned, sharp and savage. “That is exactly what I am about to get. We goin’ south. There be remnants of da old clan there—I’ll make ‘em kneel. They’ll join us, and together, we’ll raise a Waaagh across the coast. For Mork’s grin.”
He turned, eyes gleaming with violent purpose. “Then we march to Gnashmaw. That fool Larkkliz will fall, and the swamps will be ours. Kargak’s weakness will be washed away in blood.” Břřok let out a deep chuckle. “And Mork shall smile upon us once more.”