Burn-Bridge, Burn-Things

I am Skreek Voltspit, third nozzle of the Stormlash Volt-Pack, survivor (for now), and this is how the bridge burned.

We were told we were rescuing rats.

Rescuing! Ha. That usually means “stand in front and explode later.” But bridge was narrow, good place for fire, yes-yes. Etoch himself stood ahead with the Fist, big shapes blocking the way, muscles twitching, claws clicking. We liked that. Big friends mean less stabbing for us.

The gnawhole yawned open behind us, warm and humming, and we took position—three of us, coils glowing, fingers itching. Below the bridge the sea hissed like it wanted us dead too.

Then the sky screamed.

Not Skaven screaming. Screech-screaming.

Bird-things. Goat-things. Blue fire.

“Not rats,” I squeaked. “Not rats at all!”

Tzaangors came crashing in—not at us, not at the bridge—but at Struk and the bell-rat and the fodder mob behind. Smart-clever, those flame-cultists. Too smart. Flamers vomited colour-fire, arrows fell like hateful rain, and we heard the bell ring once, twice—too loud, too proud.

Then CRACK.

Reality bent.

A huge thing appeared—horns, staff, muscles like hate given bones. Khar’vhal the Riftborn - Ogroid Thaumaturge. It smashed the Bell-Engine and the bell-rat went flying, screaming all the way into the tunnels. We laughed. Nervous laughing. That bell was annoying anyway.

Then things went bad.

Orders screamed down the line: hold the bridge, burn everything, do not die.

We burned.

Warpflame roared from our scourges, green-white arcs splashing across goat-things. They fell, twitching, melting, screaming properly now. Good screams. Right screams.

Then behind them—behind them!—the ground tore open.

Gnawhole.

Out burst the Surgeon’s Dream, all claws and chains and too many eyes, and the Doomwheel Mk V, spinning and shrieking like it remembered us. We cheered. Briefly.

The cult turned.

Fire met fire.

The brood terror fought like a nightmare with teeth, but nightmares still bleed. It staggered, roared, and finally fell in chunks. The Doomwheel spun, blasted, nearly tipped into the sea, then fled like it had learned fear again.

The cult advanced.

Closer now.

Too close.

Etoch’s Fist slammed into them, ogors tearing, needles firing, bodies flying. We fired until our coils screamed, until our hands shook, until the air tasted like cooked fate. Clanrats poured from another gnawhole, dying enthusiastically to buy us seconds.

Then the Ogroid was back—again!—teleporting into the crush.

We panicked.

Then Etoch appeared behind it. Quiet. Calm. Surgeon calm.

One shot.

Head gone.

The Ogroid fell like a dropped idea.

That was the moment. Just enough death. Just enough fire.

Orders came fast: withdraw, withdraw, now-now! We ran, still firing, backing over the bridge as the cult howled and cursed and promised revenge in too many voices.

I did not look back.

I am alive.

My packmates are alive.

Our coils still glow.

That means we won.

Yes-yes. We won.