The Death of a Dreadlord
Dreadlord Sathar, lord and highest of house Sather was first off the ships, spurring his nauglir mount down into the icy water. The beast’s blood was up, newly fed on fresh slave-meat. Its fangs dripped venom and it hissed blunt reptillian rage as the spurs drove it into the water.
The defenders did not stand a chance. The first charge broke their pathetic line, lances splintering horrifically in flesh, fanged reptiles tearing into the fallen before being urged free with spur and sword-blade.
The Druchii assault was unstoppable.
Lord Sathar turned his mount, his helm high and proud in the darkling dusk. Arrows and bolts from the ships, and the towers of the Black Ark rained down, driving the ragged Ulthuanii survivors up away from the beaches.
The invasion had begun. He reached down, and run his fingers across the iron tablet that hung from his belt. This was his Writ of Iron, granted him at the very court of the Witch King, his doom to lead the charge in Ulthuan, and win glory for his house on the battlefields.
The honour of House Sathar to be amongst the first wave of worthy princes of far greater houses had been bought by the Writ. But should he fail, the iron tablet would be melted down and poured down his throat. Such was the burden of the thing.
He laughed. He would not fail. House Sathar would bathe in the blood of its foes upon the battlefield.
He would lead the way.
Peculiar. Lord Sathar blinked, reached down, his fingers finding the hot blood running from beneath his arm. An inconsequential wound for a Dreadlord, but he could already feel something was amiss.
He glared around him, not in panic - something so crude was beneath him, but in rage. Who had done this? The cold, merciless faces of the other noble princes darkenned around him, simply watching. His breath came raggedly. Froth bubbled from his lips.
Poison!
Treachery!
His fingers fumbled at the iron tablet, hanging from his belt.
He collapsed from the saddle, dead before his proud corpse hit the soil of Ulthuan.
