As the Purple Wind of Death surged through the battlefield, Atlas felt its potent energy coursing through the air, swirling around him like a shroud of darkness. The chaotic maelstrom of magic, drawn to the countless deaths occurring within the confines of the Black Fortress, filled him with a sense of power and purpose.
With each gust of the Purple Wind, Atlas felt his own magical abilities heightened, his connection to the dark energies of death strengthened by its presence. As he raised his hand to command the undead forces, he could feel the raw power of the wind coursing through his veins, lending him the strength to overcome even the most formidable of foes.
Drawing upon the energies of the Purple Wind, Atlas unleashed a torrent of dark magic upon his enemies, his spells crackling with an otherworldly intensity as they tore through the ranks of the Chaos Dwarfs and their infernal allies. Bolstered by the power of death itself, he fought with a newfound ferocity, his every movement infused with the unstoppable force of the Purple Wind.
As the battle raged on, the Purple Wind continued to gather strength, its eerie glow illuminating the battlefield with an otherworldly light. With each passing moment, Atlas could feel its influence growing, filling him with a sense of invincibility as he fought to claim victory for his undead horde.
With the power of the Purple Wind at his command, Atlas pressed forward relentlessly, his enemies falling before him like wheat before the scythe.
Perched atop the crumbling roof of a nearby building, Atlas began to weave the intricate threads of magic, his voice rising in a haunting chant that echoed across the battlefield. The spell he invoked was no mere incantation—it was a powerful invocation of death itself, fueled by the potent energies of the Purple Wind and the blood essence he carried.
Using his artefact, the Caldron of Blood, he had been refining the blood of many enemies and found that he could refine blood beyond the typical level for blood wine. He could extract the traces of life-giving energy in the blood, crystalising it to use in his spells, or dilute it back into blood wine.
As Atlas poured the blood essence into the spell, he could feel its dark power infusing the incantation, heightening its potency and unleashing its full potential. With each drop of the concentrated blood wine, the spell grew stronger, its reach extending further and further until it encompassed the entire battlefield in its malevolent embrace.
With a final, resounding incantation, Atlas unleashed the spell upon the Black Fortress, channelling the energies of death to raise the fallen warriors of the Darklands in the surrounding area to his command.
From the shattered earth and broken bodies, skeletal warriors clawed their way to unlife, their bones rattling with a macabre intensity as they answered their master's call.
But it was not just skeletons that rose to join Atlas's undead army. From the depths of the battlefield, spectral Banshees emerged, their wails of anguish echoing across the plains as they swept through the ranks of the living like a tide of death. Alongside them, monstrous creatures of nightmare lumbered to their feet, their twisted forms wreathed in dark magic as they lumbered forward to wreak havoc upon the Chaos Dwarfs and their infernal allies.
From both within the city, the mass graves of the slaves surfaced once more for vengeance while even outside of the walls, Atlas's spell raised hulking beasts long since perished and warriors from forgotten ages binding them all to his will.
As the newly risen undead surged forward to join the fray, Atlas watched with grim satisfaction as they fell upon the enemy with a ferocity born of undeath itself. With his army bolstered by the power of the spell, he knew that victory was within reach and that nothing could stand in his way as long as the Purple Wind continued to blow.
The pressure of so many undead was a burden to him, pressing down like a mountain wanting to crush his will, however he would not yield. He knew he couldn't sustain the army himself, however he could bind them to
As the weight of the undead army pressed down upon him like a suffocating shroud, Atlas felt the immense burden of their presence threatening to crush his will. But he refused to yield to the overwhelming pressure, steeling himself against the onslaught of death that surrounded him on all sides. He knew that he couldn't sustain the army indefinitely on his own, but he had a plan to alleviate the strain. Enchant talismans similar to those he gifted the Cathay merchants.
Retreating from the front lines of the battle to a safer distance, Atlas focused his attention on the valuable talismans he had crafted from the rare materials looted during their campaign. Each artefact was adorned with precious metals and gems that shimmered with latent magical energy, their surfaces imbued with the power to bind the undead to their will. He had spent many weeks carving and preparing these for this purpose.
With practised precision, Atlas began to enchant the talismans one by one, weaving intricate spells of binding and control that would allow him to transfer the burden of the undead army to these powerful artefacts. Drawing upon the raw magic of Shyish, he channelled its dark energies into the talismans, infusing them with the power to contain and control the restless spirits of the undead.
As the enchantments took hold, Atlas felt the oppressive weight of the undead army begin to lift from his shoulders, the pressure easing as more and more of the restless souls were bound to the artefacts. With each transfer, he could sense the strain on his own magical reserves diminishing, the burden of commanding the undead army shared among the talismans he had created.
Now, with the undead bound to the artefacts, he could return to the fray. The undead would remain as the thick energy of Shyish sustained the talismans without the need for his intervention, however it was only temporary. When the magic waned, the dead returned to the soil dormant until the magic of Shyish was once again replenished, at which point Atlas could summon them forth to do his bidding once more. It was a temporary solution to a pressing problem, but for now, it was enough to ensure that he could continue his campaign against the Chaos Dwarfs without being overwhelmed by the weight of the undead horde.
Atlas turned his attention back to the battle. His skeletal troops, aided by the newly risen dead had started to push the Infernal Guard back. Surrounding the dwarfs like a storm, picking them off one by one until their formation shrank and then finally broke.
The undead would not be denied access to the fortress.
With the gatehouse now secure and the infernal guard was driven back, Atlas turned his gaze upward, his crimson eyes scanning the towering walls of the Black Fortress. From his vantage point, he could see the chaotic chaos unfolding within the city streets below, where slaves clashed with the risen dead in a desperate struggle for control.
But it was the looming silhouette of the great forge, situated within the heart of the volcanic mountain, that drew Atlas's attention. There, hidden within the depths of the fortress, lurked the true enemy—the Lord of the Black Fortress and an essential asset for the Chaos Dwarf empire, their power and malice concealed behind layers of stone and flame.
The Chaos Dwarfs were no fools; they understood the value of their forces and were unwilling to squander them on mere cannon fodder. Instead, they bided their time, conserving their strength and waiting for the opportune moment to unleash their full fury upon their assailants.
Atlas knew that the battle was far from over. The true challenge lay ahead, within the depths of the fortress where the Chaos Dwarfs held sway. But he was undeterred, his resolve unyielding as he prepared to face whatever horrors awaited him within the infernal depths of the Black Fortress.
With a grim determination, Atlas rallied his undead forces, marshalling them for the final assault.