|Alas, Von Nashorn, we knew ye well.|
Near the monastery wall, the last remaining crewman of the flame cannon stoked his pot-bellied charge furiously...she would be ready to fire next round! Near the bank of the creek, the dwarf crossbows loosed once more at the Orc chariot...and slew the last boar! The chariot was now essentially a hunk of terrain occupied by a single Orc! The commanders of the Orc light artillery saw the chariot feathered with bolts and knocked out. The commander of the bolt thrower swore a bright blue streak. Nary a dwarf was in his field of vision. There was nothing he could do. On the other side of the river, the commander of the stone thrower was in a similar, but still substantially different, situation. He couldn't clearly see any allies either, but there was something he could do! He made a wild guess at the position of the dwarf crossbows and loosed his load of rocks in their general direction. Hey...couldn't hurt, right?
It could, actually. The shot deviated wildly and landed smack in the midst of Scarffgagg Sorehead's Psycho Squad, killing five boys outright. "Err...whoops!" the stone thrower commander smirked sheepishly. Oy, you lot! Try an do better next time, eh?"
Near the bridge, Anbjorn Anvilpate, the Dwarven contingent commander, roared and rushed into the flank of Scarffgagg Sorehead's Psycho Squad, cutting down one frothing Orc with a sweep of his mighty greatsword. Scarffgagg Sorehead and his lads fought with their usual berserk fanaticism, but somehow, something was wrong. Two more orcs went down, one under the blade of the Razorbacks' leader. Scarffgagg brought a dwarf down with a crushing stroke from his meat cleaver, but...but darn it, it was all supposed to be way easier than this! Nobody had said anything about Stunties being here...and they were fighting like devils! It didn't help that the Orc's artillery was killing them almost as fast as the dwarves. This game wasn't so fun anymore. Slowly, Scarffgagg's boys were pushed back. Blood madness gripped the dwarves and they stepped forward over the dead and dying orcs, taking down three more orc boys with sturdy sword-thrusts from behind their shield-wall. Despite their fearsome reputation as berserk, blood crazed nutbags, the Psycho squad was borne steadily backward...
Elsewhere, the allies did not have it so easy. On the other side of the monastery, Johann von Treuehardt thought he saw his chance. "Come on, boys! He shouted. Let's give 'em the Prince's steel!" His helblitzen surged forward, bearing down on Rufuss Drakk and the remnants of the stikkas. One halberdier speared a stikka, and another wounded Rufus' skeleton champion! Johann von Treuhardt went straight for Rufuss Drakk. But he had underestimated the strength and guile of the old Orc. Rufuss dodged von Treuhardt's blows and struck back, wounding the gallant old hero with his fearsome enchanted wound sword!! Blood streaming from the rents in his armor, Von Treuhardt called upon the power of his magical mace of mighty striking, smashing back at the orc shaman and wounding him! But the power of the orc shaman's magic sword was too much for him. At last, wounded with many wounds, von Treuhardt sank, dying, upon the trampled earth.
Nearby, the Red Dragons were just as keen to get to grips with the enemy. "Let's go, lads, bellowed Borri Basherson, brandishing his mace at Narchakk Toungecutter's Orcs. With a terrible shout, the Dwarf spearmen rose up and charged, coming together with Narchukk's arrer boys with a terrific crash. Narchukk's boys dropped their bows, drew their swords and raised their shields just in time to receive the Dwarves' charge. Borri Basherson went straight for Narchukk Tounge Cutter, wielding his mace with terrific strokes. Though the Orc was nearly twice the dwarf's height, he seemed not his adversary's equal in battle. Borri landed a punishing blow on Narchukk's thigh, wounding him badly. The wound awoke the Orc chief's fury and he struck back, wounding the dwarf chieftain in return. There was no knowing how this fight might end.
At the monastery wall, the brothers fought on against Bad Bloody Frumpkin's Goblins. Two goblins and two monks fell in the desperate melee.. Though now hopelessly outnumbered, and with goblins leaping the wall to lap round them, the last surviving monks stood back to back and refused to give ground.
On the hillock near the river, The Hermit of the Mount cast cure light injury on himself, healing some of the burns inflicted on him by Rufuss Drakk's fireballs...
Right at the moment of victory, Bad Bloody Frumkin's gobbos were caught up in a maelstrom of napthic horror that engulfed and devoured eleven of their number and sent the few survivors sprinting back toward their rafts on the Black River. Brother Pyre and brother Brand, last survivors of their order, stood astonished amoung the piles of dead, staring in wonder at the sooty, capering figure behind the flame cannon.
"Oy-Yoi-Oy!" shouted the dwarf gunner. "Cook 'em up, cook 'em up, cook 'em up-up-up-up-up!"
"Saved by a psychopath, murmured Brother Brand. Praise the Great Lord!"
Near the riverbank, Anbjorn Anvilpate and the razorbacks continued to drive back Scarffgagg Sorehead's Psycho Squad, killing two Orcs while losing none of their own. Wading into his enemies, stepping over the slain, laughing crazily as he do so, Anbjorn Anvilpate cut down two more orcs by himself. Though he hadn't realized it yet, Scarffgagg's mob had by now been very nearly annihilated.
Near the center of the battlefield, the Dwarven Red Dragons and Narchukk Toungecutter's boys continued their battle. Amoung the lower ranks, the fighting was inconclusive, but Borri and Narchukk, driven almost to frenzy by mutual hatred and the pain of their wounds, grappled, beat, kicked and clawed at each other until both fell to the ground and stopped moving. Their warriors pushed in, trying to save their captains, but it was too late. Both chieftains died fighting.
Almost crazed with grief at the death of their beloved lord, the fallen von Treuehardt's men at arms drove home their attack against Rufuss Drakk and the battered remnants of Orcs and goblins nearby him. One man cut down a stikka with his halberd; amazingly, the three survivors of the once twenty strong stikka unit refused to flee! Another man tried to bring down the skeletal champion, but failed. Near the center of the melee, a young trooper, wild with hatred and despair, stepped forward and drove his halberd up under Rufuss Drakk's cloak. Rufuss fell into the crushed grass not far from the body of von Treuehardt. Men closed in, kicking, stamping, stabbing with their polearms, and soon the old orc was finished, or so it seemed. As they pushed forward, the men at arms drove the stikkas before them, and the undead champion Rufuss had summoned faded into the morning air as instability took its toll. As the fight continued, another stikka fell to a vicious downward cut from a halberd. That was it. The two surviving stikkas turned tale and headed for the Black River as fast as their knobby green legs could carry them.
The goblin fanatic went spinning off a good distance to the north and nobody was sorry to see him go. Bad Bloody Frumpkin and what was left of his mob headed in more or less the same direction, quite uninterested in rallying. Over on the riverbank, the orc stone thrower boss tried for speculative fire again. After all, could his luck stay bad forever? The law of averages must surely be on his side by now. He aimed at about the spot he figured the Red Dragons to be and ordered his boys to loose. A rain of rocks came down on the orc chariot, pounding it and its crew and draft animals into splinters and meat. The Orc boss scratched his head. "I've gotta be doin' somefin' wrong here, he thought. I knew I wasn't cut out fer dis war machine stuff. Shoulda stayed a boar boy." The bolt thrower crew pushed their machine as far as they could to the right, hoping to get a shot at the fallen von Treuehardt's halberdiers next round.
Feeling quite exhilarated by the act of killing von Nashorn and his men, Bungole Bushwhacka went galloping up to the manor gate, fairly salivating at the thought of all the sweet loot that must be inside. Tacked to the heavy oaken door was a small hand written note. Bunghole seized it and glared at it. "Out of Play" it said. "Gragghhh! Bunghole roared, crumpling the note and flinging it in the grass. 'At's typical, innit? I... suddenly he caught the scent of something...something...wonderful!
"Oy! he roared at Oogie Spazzjabber and his gobbos. "Ey gobbies! I smell booze, lads! Over dere!" He gestured. Pointy heads turned in the direction of the promised libations. Then, without a word, command or signal, the goblins were scrambling over the rocks and tree-roots, heading straight for ol' Piet's beer wagon.