Where the great continent of Ghur ended in a splintering plate of black ice, the god-beast Kragnos led his herds toward the last free bastions, and the storm broke to meet him in what the survivors named The Battle of Andtor. The ice itself was hungry, groaning and heaving beneath the armies, swallowing whole regiments into lightless water without care for which banner they carried.
The Stormcast Eternals held the shelf in shield-lines that stretched past the horizon, their sigmarite dulled by rime and their war-cries snatched away by the polar wind. Against them surged the Orruk Warclans, a green tide swollen by Kragnos's passing until the very ice sang with the thunder of their charge. Each dawn the lines met and each dusk they parted, the dead left frozen where they fell, so that the battlefield became a glacier of corpses growing thicker with every assault.
No victory came, only attrition. The Stormhosts were reforged and hurled back into the fray until their commanders lost count of the reforgings; the orruks, for their part, could not have been more delighted, for a war without end was a Waaagh! without limit. The mortal levies of the free cities, caught between god and god-beast, died in their thousands merely holding the ground their betters fought over.
Andtor settled nothing. When at last the ice broke apart entirely and cast both hosts into the churning sea, the war simply moved elsewhere, and the free peoples counted the battle a defeat measured not in ground lost but in the sheer weight of the dead.
The chronicle continues
