Chapter 65

At the heart of the chaos, amidst the swirling clouds of dust and smoke, stood two towering figures, each a titan of their respective races. On one side loomed the massive form of Gorbad Ironclaw, his muscles bulging beneath layers of crude armour, his eyes burning with a primal fury that seemed to ignite the very air around him. Gripped tightly in his massive hands was Morglor the Mangler, a legendary axe forged in the fires of ancient hatreds, its jagged edges pulsing with dark energy.

Opposite him stood Astragoth Ironhand, High Priest of Hashut, his stone-like form encased in arcane armour of black iron and glowing runes. With a gaze as cold and unyielding as the mountains themselves, Astragoth surveyed his opponent with a calculating intensity, his hands wreathed in flickering flames of sorcerous power.

For a long moment, the two warriors stared at each other across the battlefield, their eyes locked in a silent challenge that spoke volumes of the enmity between their races. Then, with a thunderous roar that shook the very earth beneath their feet, they charged towards each other, weapons raised and battle cries echoing into the heavens.

As they clashed in a whirlwind of steel and fire, the air crackled with the raw power of their conflict. Gorbad swung Morglor the Mangler with savage ferocity, each blow aimed to cleave his opponent in two. But Astragoth was no easy prey, his shield and armour deflecting the blows with uncanny precision as he unleashed torrents of flame from his outstretched palms.

The duel raged on with breathtaking intensity, each combatant pushing themselves to the limits of their endurance in a desperate bid for victory. Gorbad's enchanted axe danced through the air, its razor-sharp edge slicing through Astragoth's defences with alarming ease. But the Chaos Dwarf was relentless, his mastery of fire magic weaving a deadly web of flame that threatened to consume his foe.

As the battle reached its crescendo, both warriors found themselves locked in a deadly stalemate, their strength and skill evenly matched. With every swing of Morglor the Mangler, Astragoth countered with a blast of searing fire, while Gorbad's runic talismans shimmered with protective energy, deflecting the worst of his opponent's onslaught.

In the midst of the chaos, the fate of the battle hung in the balance, poised on a knife's edge as the two titans clashed in a clash of titanic proportions. As the dust settled and the smoke cleared, it was clear that neither Gorbad Ironclaw nor Astragoth Ironhand would emerge from this duel unscathed, their destinies intertwined in a struggle that would echo through the annals of history.

Astragoth's mechanized legs hissed with pneumatic force, driving pistons that propelled him with swift, mechanical grace across the battlefield. From his elevated vantage point, he surveyed the chaos unfolding below, his stony countenance betraying little emotion as he witnessed the carnage wrought upon his fellow Dwarves.

Despite the sight of his kin falling in droves, Astragoth felt no pang of remorse. For him, their lives were but fleeting sparks in the grand forge of history, expendable in the pursuit of his greater ambitions. Yet, even as he watched their valiant struggle, a cold calculation gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. Too many losses would spell disaster for his empire, and so he knew he must act swiftly to stem the tide of bloodshed.

His thoughts momentarily distracted him, leaving an opening for Gorbad to take. The pain was first as the enchanted axe parted the flesh of his shoulder leaving a fountain of blood; his arm had been cleaved. Astragoth Ironhand had been forced to transform one of his arms with machinery and sorcery from an injury long ago that earned him the title of 'Ironhand'. Now his ironhand, lay in the dirt while he felt himself getting weaker.

He had to act fast if he wanted to turn this around, otherwise his head would become a trophy for that troublesome Greenskin.

With a grim resolve, Astragoth reached into the depths of his armour, his fingers closing around the smooth surface of a talisman formed from shimmering crystal. The artefact pulsed with malevolent energy, its presence a palpable weight in the air that sent shivers down Atlas's spine, even from afar.

Knowing the risks but seeing no other choice, Astragoth clenched the talisman tightly in his hand, his fingers trembling slightly with the weight of his decision. With a decisive motion, he snapped the artefact in half, a resounding crack echoing across the battlefield like thunder.

Instantly, a surge of power erupted from the shattered talisman, its fractured remnants glowing with an otherworldly light. Astragoth's eyes gleamed with a fanatical zeal as he channelled the eldritch energies, his will bending the forces of magic to his command.

And then, with a deafening roar that drowned out the clamour of battle, the air around Astragoth seemed to warp and twist, as if reality itself were bending to his will. At that moment, Atlas knew that whatever sorcery Astragoth had unleashed would change the course of the battle forever.

As the crystal talisman shattered in Astragoth's grasp, a deafening roar echoed across the battlefield, drowning out the clash of weapons and the cries of the dying. From the broken remnants of the talisman emerged a towering pillar of flame, its flickering tendrils reaching skyward like the fingers of some ancient god.

In the heart of the inferno, two burning eyes blazed with a malevolent intensity, their gaze fixated upon Gorbad Ironclaw with an unrelenting hunger. Even from his vantage point, Atlas could feel the raw power emanating from the summoned entity, a primal force that seemed to warp the very fabric of reality itself.

For a moment, Gorbad faltered, his gaze locked with those fiery orbs as if ensnared by some unseen force. But then, with a defiant snarl, he shook off the momentary distraction and redoubled his efforts, his axe swinging in a relentless arc as he sought to cut through the flames and reach his foe.

Meanwhile, Astragoth stood firm amidst the inferno, his mechanized legs propelling him forward with uncanny speed as he closed the distance between himself and his quarry. With a grim determination etched upon his stony features, he raised his hands towards the towering flame, his fingers tracing intricate patterns in the air as he channelled his will into the eldritch energies that swirled around him.

With a sudden burst of power, Astragoth unleashed a torrent of searing flames that streaked towards Gorbad like a vengeful comet. The Greenskin warboss barely had time to react as the fire engulfed him, his screams lost amidst the roar of the inferno.

But even as Gorbad was consumed by the flames, his resolve remained unbroken, his defiance a beacon of strength amidst the chaos of battle. With a mighty roar, he surged forward, his enchanted axe cleaving through the flames with a fury born of desperation.

And so the battle raged on, each blow struck and parried with a ferocity that defied mortal comprehension. As the flames danced and the earth shook beneath their feet, Astragoth and Gorbad fought on, locked in a struggle that would determine the fate of nations and the course of history itself.

Emerging from the engulfing flames, Gorbad Ironclaw stood defiant amidst the inferno, his towering form wreathed in flickering green light. The fire had ravaged his surroundings, leaving behind a landscape scarred by destruction, yet Gorbad himself remained mostly unscathed, his enchanted axe gleaming ominously in the dim light.

Despite the devastation wrought upon him, Gorbad's spirit burned with an unyielding fury. Rarely had the mighty Warboss faced defeat, and now, as he emerged from the flames, his roar of defiance echoed across the battlefield like thunder, rallying his beleaguered forces with a fervour unmatched.

"Waaagh!" he bellowed, his voice a primal cry of rage and determination that reverberated through the air, echoing the war cry of countless Greenskins across the ages. Again and again, Gorbad chanted the ancient invocation, each repetition stoking the fires of war until the very ground seemed to tremble beneath the weight of his wrath.

As if in response to his call, the green energy of the Waaagh! began to coalesce and gather above Gorbad, swirling and pulsating with an otherworldly intensity. With a fierce glint in his eyes, Gorbad gazed upon the gathering energy, his lips curling into a snarl of triumph.

"Gork!" he bellowed, invoking the name of his god, the primal deity of clobbering, smashing, and unrelenting violence. The very embodiment of Orcish brutality, Gork's essence resonated deeply with the savage instincts of the Greenskins, fuelling their insatiable thirst for destruction.

And then, with a deafening roar that drowned out the clamour of battle, the gathered energy surged forth, taking shape in the form of a colossal green foot, a manifestation of Gork's divine wrath. With a thunderous crash, the foot descended upon the battlefield, its titanic force threatening to crush all who dared stand in its path.

No longer a battle of mortal creatures, now the divide stepped in to support their chosen champions. Burning flames battled Gorks crushing foot.

At this point, Atlas's plans were thrown out the window, he had tried to account for all variables however the presence of Gods, even just wisps of their power, caused a chill to settle in his spine.

What happened next, he would have no control or influence over.