The sudden advance of humanity's forces caught the Beastmen off guard. On the plains before Middenstang, the thunderous charge of the White Wolf Knights and heavily armored cavalry rolled forth like an unstoppable tide.
The Ungors—those lowliest and most numerous of Beastmen—trembled at the sight. These wretched creatures, lacking both the strength and cunning of their Gor kin, were barely more than cannon fodder. They wielded crude bone spears with shaking hands, their legs quivering as the sound of hundreds of charging knights grew louder.
Typically relegated to secondary roles like crafting weapons or filling gaps in Gor formations, the Ungors were now forced to confront the enemy directly—a death sentence.
To make matters worse, Gorthor, the Beastmen's supreme beastlord, had placed their stronger monstrous units and shielded spear-wielders on the flanks, anticipating an encirclement attempt. This left the Ungors isolated in the center, unable to receive reinforcements in time.
"Idiots… useless… failures!" A Beastlord atop a Razorgor chariot raced along the disordered lines, barking orders as it waved its crude sword hilt. "Arrows… forward! Spears… brace!"
The Ungors stumbled into a chaotic melee of pushing and shouting, struggling to organize a coherent defense.
"Forward! For Ulric! For Middenheim!"
The White Wolf Knights surged like a torrent of steel and fury. The Ungors barely had time to nock their arrows before Boris Toddbringer and his knights descended upon them. Warhammers crushed their flimsy spears, their fragile bodies splattered beneath the iron hooves of warhorses. The Ungor vanguard was obliterated in moments, reduced to dismembered limbs and panicked remnants fleeing for their lives.
Boris gripped his Rune Fang tightly, slicing through an Ungor's neck with a single stroke. The symbol of filth and corruption toppled, its blood spraying the snowy ground. The screams of dying Beastmen filled Boris with grim satisfaction.
In that moment, Boris felt as though he had been transported back in time—back to his youth, when he first trained as a soldier in the White Wolf castle grounds. He recalled the day his father, the previous Elector Count, handed him the Rune Fang and taught him to wield it.
With another swing, Boris cleaved an Ungor clean in half, its blood splattering nearby trees. Several Ungors lunged at him with spears, but Boris's hybrid elf-bred warhorse reared up, crushing one under its iron-shod hooves. Boris followed up with a precise slash, severing their pitiful weapons before dispatching two more Ungors with surgical strikes.
The battlefield echoed with the cries of fleeing Beastmen as the White Wolf Knights' charge broke their first line entirely.
"Come out and face me, you mangy mountain goats!" Boris bellowed, his voice a thunderclap of defiance. "You forest mongrels—Ulric's judgment is here!"
"Cazrak, you six-horned coward! Face me in single combat!"
Boris had never felt so alive. The rage within him burned like a forge fire, and he yearned to avenge his people. Too many of his subjects had perished at the hands of the Beastmen—so many that he had lost count.
Time and again, he had led his armies into the cursed Drakwald Forest, only to lose more lives in its treacherous labyrinths. His nemesis, Khazrak the One-Eye, had toyed with him in a never-ending game of cat and mouse.
But today was different. Today, Boris saw a real chance for victory.
Yet his challenge went unanswered. Khazrak had been dispatched on a flanking mission to strike the human rear, while Gorthor commanded the main army to encircle the White Wolf Knights. However, the Beastmen lacked the coordination and discipline of trained human armies or the hardened Bretonnians. Gorthor was still trying to organize the Gor herds into a cohesive shield wall.
"Break through! Let them taste Ulric's wrath—feel the bite of the White Wolf's fangs!" Boris roared, rallying his knights. He knew they couldn't afford to let the Gor herds close ranks and form a defensive line of spears and shields, which would trap the knights.
The battlefield descended into chaos as Beastmen scrambled to counter the knights' relentless assault.
"They're panicking! They're panicking!" Boris cried, his Rune Fang clashing against a Beastlord's crude cleaver. Sparks flew, and the cleaver shattered under the Rune Fang's superior craftsmanship. With a swift follow-up strike, Boris disemboweled the Beastlord, its entrails spilling onto the ground.
A second swing severed its shoulder, arm, and half its neck, sending the mangled corpse toppling from its chariot.
From his vantage point atop a high ridge, Ryan observed the battle with a cold, calculating eye. The White Wolf Knights had drawn much of the Beastmen army into a disorganized chase. The Knight King paced calmly, flanked by Morgiana, Bertrand, and Davout. Below, 2,000 Old Guard soldiers stood in disciplined silence, their tall bearskin hats bristling in the breeze. Weapons at the ready, they awaited Ryan's command to deliver Bretonnia's judgment upon the Beastmen.
"White Wolf Knights are brave, Your Majesty," Bertrand noted. "But their momentum will fade, and fatigue will set in. If this continues, they'll be surrounded."
"Not yet. Wait a little longer," Ryan replied, his gaze fixed on the unfolding battle.
The Beastmen's encirclement was closing, with Minotaurs and Cyclopes trampling over their own allies to reach the knights. Gorthor barked orders to his Gors to form a shield wall, while reinforcements crossed the frozen river and emerged from the forest.
The White Wolf Knights launched desperate flanking charges to escape the tightening noose, but their numbers were thinning.
Seeing his opportunity, Ryan turned to Morgiana. "Signal Berchmond."
Morgiana cast her spell, sending a glowing marker into the sky.
From the dissipating mist emerged Duke Berchmond, leading thousands of Bretonnian knights. The Red Dragon Duke could hardly contain his zeal as he ordered the charge.
"Knights, the hour of glory is upon us!" Berchmond's voice rang out as he galloped forward. "With our lances and blades, we will crush these cowardly foes! For Bretonnia! For the Lady of the Lake! Forward!"
A thunderous horn blast accompanied the rhythmic pounding of hooves. The noise drowned out the clamor of battle as thousands of knights stormed the battlefield. Their lances formed an unyielding forest of death, the banners of Bretonnia—red and blue—fluttering in the wind.
The Beastmen frontlines crumbled under the knights' charge. Thousands of Gors and Ungors were obliterated in the first impact, reduced to a bloody mess.
Caught between the Bretonnian cavalry and the White Wolf Knights, the Beastmen army faltered. The front ranks disintegrated, suffering over 20,000 casualties in mere moments.
The Prophetesses of the Lady entered the fray, chanting spells that shielded the knights from Chaos corruption and Beastman magic. Emerald explosions and spiked thorns erupted in the Beastmen ranks, while lightning bolts and amber spears wreaked havoc among the herds.
Gorthor's twisted face contorted with disdain as he watched the slaughter. "So… the spawn of that pretender goddess… finally comes."
"Summon… the Blood Bull Warband!"
The Blood Bull Warband entered the battlefield, hulking Minotaurs driven into a frenzy of bloodlust and rage.
From his vantage point, Ryan's expression darkened as he saw the monstrous Minotaurs wielding massive weapons.
"Order the Old Guard to advance. All of them," Ryan commanded.
"Now, Your Majesty?" Bertrand hesitated.
"Now. Advance!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
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