Skeleton warriors crawled out of the churning sea and onto the Ravaged Coast, dripping brine and clinging seaweed.
They had scarcely formed ranks when the first barrage came shrieking across the shoreline.
“TAKE COVER!” Ikh’sat roared, raising his shield.
The tide of bone scattered as rusted iron and warpstone shrapnel tore into the sand around them.
“Rats,” he spat. “They were expecting us. How can that be?”
Khatur Khar looked at his general. “This realm rewards those bold enough to seize it, my liege. You can hardly fault a swarm of rats for doing the same.”
Ikh’sat ignored the jab. His empty eye sockets locked on the advancing Skaven lines, searching for an opening, calculating whether a pincer strike was possible under the continuing artillery assault.
“This reminds me of a vision,” he murmured. “A future world… another realm entirely.”
Khatur’s skull turned. His odd, mis-set eyes narrowed with interest. A faint smirk stretched across his rigid features.
“In that vision,” the wizard said, “warriors rose from the waves and suffered the heaviest losses ever known.
But they were also the ones who claimed glory in the end.”
Ikh’sat considered this only a heartbeat.
“Well then…” He lifted his blade.
“What are we waiting for? ALL UNITS — CHAAAARGE!”
For a moment, it worked.
The sudden surge of the Ossiarch ranks caught the Skaven off-guard.
Bone met fur with brutal force.
A reinforced pack of Rat Ogres was smashed to pieces under the relentless assault of Necropolis Stalkers and the help of the Deathriders.
But the momentum did not last.
Without cohesion, without clear commands, the Ossiarch forces became scattered across the battlefield.
The Skaven, by contrast, were focused, vicious, and unnervingly organised.
Artillery continued to pound the shoreline, turning the skeleton ranks into splinters.
Ikh’sat, blinded by the sight of early success, wheeled his mount to intercept a flank, refusing to allow the Skaven to steal an objective.
By the time he reached it, the Archai sent to reinforce the Deathriders was turned into hollow dust.
Only when he looked back did he realise his mistake.
Khatur Khar stood alone — far behind the position where the reinforced Stalkers had once been.
The sand where they had fought was now empty.
No limbs.
No remains.
No survivors.
There was no need for the next barrage.
Only three figures made of bone still moved on the Ravaged Coast:
Ikh’sat.
His skeletal steed.
And Khatur Khar.
A failed landing.
A shattered force.
And the grim beginning of their Path to Glory.