Chapter 1: The Lady Commands
He was dreaming, of that Nicodemus was sure.
He floated through a black abyss that threatened to overwhelm him in its inky embrace. Yet he did not despair, he was a knight of Bretonnia! He had tasted the waters that flowed from the blessed cup of his Lady! He knew no fear in the yawning hole of the darkness around him, instead he patiently waited upon his Goddess’s leisure for she had spoken to him thusly on various occasions throughout his life. Although, if he had been completely honest with himself, he would have admitted that each time was just as unnerving as the previous time.
He did not have to wait long, shades of color began rippling through the blackness and eventually a scene formed in front of Nicodemus’s eyes. In this vision he beheld the image of a man lying in a cell, some kind of prisoner that had been beaten and tortured. His bearing spoke of nobility, perhaps even royalty, and his shoulders were those of a warrior born. Nicodemus watched as the door to his cell opened and a skittering child of Chaos entered the narrow room. The rat-like creature held a strange object in its hand, it pulsated with a faint green light beneath folds of withered cloth that lay over it in a futile gesture of disguising an artifact of great power. Even on the other side of an eternity looking at the scene from the detached visions of his Goddess, Nicodemus could feel the power emanating from the shrouded item. The ratman carefully removed the fabric to reveal a sword with a glowing emerald blade that had runes carved into its surface that writhed and swam in Nicodemus’s vision as if they held a life of their own. Gently, the creature lifted the man’s hand and placed the hilt of the enchanted weapon into his hand before chittering excitedly and scurrying out of the room.
Nicodemus watched as the man woke and stared first at the open door and then, inevitably, his gaze focused on the weapon in his hand. Gripping the sword tightly, the man pursed his lips and stood, moving towards the door. His feet padded softly against the rock walls as he made his way through the corridors of what was obviously a large stronghold until finally he arrived at a large, sturdy door. Breathing heavily in anticipation, the prisoner slowly opened the door and then Nicodemus saw what lay beyond the portal.
A large humanoid creatures sat on a stone throne, its face was more like a skull than anything else, its body enlarged through what seemed to be various mutations. There was something oddly human about the shape, as if it were a distant cousin to humanity. Voluminous purple robes fell across the sitting form in luxurious waves. It seemed to be staring right at the prisoner yet did not stir as the door swung soundlessly open. Like a passing shadow, the man crept closer to the throne until he was standing directly in front of the abomination. He raised the glowing sword and prepared to strike. The world held its breath.
As the blow fell on the sitting, skeletal form some sixth sense seemed to stir the would-be corpse to some parody of life. Balefires flickered in the sockets of its eyes and it instantly took in the scene. A breathless scream echoed from the creature and it raised its hand to ward off the blow and in that regard was somewhat successful. The blow deflected off the creature’s wrist, severing the hand at the joint, but flew wide of the intended target. The corpse screamed a raspy cry that shook the very stones of the keep. The scream grew in intensity as Nicodemus clasped his hands over his ears to block out the impossible sound. Higher and higher the noise trembled the very air with discordant notes of pain that set one’s teeth abuzz and a trickle of blood streamed from the prisoner’s eye as he staggered back from his would-be victim. A blackness welled up in the edges of Nicodemus’s vision and threatened to throw him into oblivion when the sound suddenly stopped as the skeletal figure imploded into a thousand particles that washed the room in an eerie green light before disintegrating into the very stone. The prisoner stood slowly and looked around the room in disbelief. The vision faded as he began running out of the chamber, still clutching the strange emerald blade with the caustic runes etched in its surface.
“Thus was Nagash struck down by the King Alcadizzar, a pawn to the Skaven menace that even now threatens the balance of this world,” a soft voice behind Nicodemus caused him to turn slowly, bracing himself for what he knew he would behold. He was disappointed to see another swirling vision before him instead of the majesty of his Lady, but he nevertheless looked into the vision as he knew what was expected of him.
Images flashed before his eyes and he watched as Alcadizzar wandered through the wastes, his own flesh wasting away as he staggered on, his eyes unseeing. Any creature that stood in his path was quickly struck down by the cruel blade that the maddened king held in his hand. Scenes played out of the King’s life, a short and cruel existence thereafter that ended with a violent death brought upon him by his ongoing addiction to the power that the sword had granted him. Upon his demise the blade fell back into the hands of the Skaven and was whisked back to their underground cavernous cities where warlords squabbled over the weapon with a demonic fervor.
“The weapon was too powerful for any one mortal creature to handle for any given time and so it was quickly passed between the short-lived skaven like a bad disease until it came to a certain gray seer by the name of Karsak, who saw an opportunity.” The vision shifted and showed a rat-creature with curling ram’s horns sprouting from the top of his skull holding the blade. “Using the blade as a template, this creature forged a new, more powerful version of this Fellblade, by utilising copious amounts of wyrdstone and making several demonic pacts that granted this new blade ever greater amounts of power from both this world and the world beyond.” Nicodemus watched as the new weapon took shape. Karsak summoned several demons who each in turn imbued the blade with even greater power all the while snarling at the rat wizard with an unfettered fury.
“How was he able to control the demons?” Nicodemus queried.
“By using forbidden and long since forgotten sorceries and an unusual amount of bravery and focus from such a cowardly and mantic race. However, these rites proved his undoing. Fatigue from the ongoing exposure to these two powerful artifacts mixed with anticipation of the weapon’s completion led Karsak to make a fatal error. In his final summoning he did not complete the ritual correctly and the demon burst through its bonds and tore Karsak to shreds rather than imbue the blade with its final enchantment. When his remains were finally uncovered the blades were seen as simply magical weapons and were again passed from chieftain to warlord until it came to rest in one of the nest cities underneath your beloved Bretonnia. It was here that the Lichemaster Heinrich Kemmler discovered the blade during a raid on the ratmen. Realising what he held, Kemmler constructed a powerful scabbard that was capable of containing the unfinished weapon and he stole it away to Mousillon among one of his many caches in the vast necropolis cities that have been built there. His intentions were to keep the blade in order to challenge Nagash himself should he ever rise again, but Kemmler’s demise was foreseen long ago and has recently come to pass, much to our dismay.”
Nicodemus shook his head. “I do not understand why you are showing me these things.”
“You will understand, listen and it will become clear.” The images before Nicodemus shifted and showed an infernal gathering of undead ghouls and elven warriors gripped in the throes of battle. Far behind them some infernal ritual was being performed, a dark amethyst light lending a foreboding light to the massacre happening all around it. “Nagash has risen again, the original Fellblade was a key component to his resurrection, among other infernal ingredients,” at this the Lady’s voice seemed to sneer in disgust, “but now the lord of the undead is once again made mortal and his existence has become a key piece of this world’s salvation.” At this Nicodemus could not hide his shock.
“You mean this abomination will save the world?” He sputtered.
“I mean that he will be part of its salvation. But not the only one.”
“How can that be? He defies the very order of nature! How can his continued existence be a good thing?
“That is not for you to question, my servant, or have you forgotten your place?”
Nicodemus fell to his knees and bowed his head. “I am sorry, my Lady! Please forgive me!” There was a long pause that seemed to stretch over the knight like stones placed on his shoulders.
“You are forgiven, but you shall not question me again,” Nicodemus nodded and the voice continued, “The Skaven have long been aware of the loss of their fabled weapon and have come to search for its copy, knowing that it was last seen being taken by Kemmler into Mousillon. They have sent an army to reclaim the weapon, and to destroy anyone who gets in their way. The Ruinous powers have also taken note of this weapon, realizing its potential use against their enemy, for they see Nagash as a threat to their Grand Game. They, too, have dispatched their champions to rain down destruction on your homeland. While my champion, Gilles le Breton has gathered the armies of your nation to him and prepares for the onslaught, he is unable to stop the coming violence as he prepares for another mission for which I have prepared him. You are the last hope for your people in this regard. I want you to go to Mousillon and find the Blade. You must keep it safe from the grasping hands of Chaos. It is imperative that you do so. If not, all may be lost.”
Nicodemus raised his head, at last his eyes fell on the glory that was his Lady.
“I will do as you command, my Lady.” His eyes rested only a moment on the beauty before him before once again inclining his head. A soft, glowing hand reached down and once again lifted his head so that his eyes met hers.
“There is one thing more that you must see, and it pains me to show you.” Her face was pulled down in a concerned look, Nicodemus nodded.
“I am ready for whatever you would require of me,” he replied. In an instant the scenery changed and Nicodemus found himself sitting in a tent beside the prone form of a woman. Her once pretty face was thinned by sickness and her eyes were closed. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps and her hair, normally silky and voluminous, was now plastered to her skin with sweat. The features and details of this vision were so sharp that it took Nicodemus a moment to realize why: this was a memory, not a vision. Nicodemus watched as he took a damp cloth and laid it across the woman’s forehead, he had no control over the movement. He couldn’t, it was a memory, and he couldn’t change a memory even if he wanted when the Lady had summoned it. The woman groaned and shifted weakly on her bedroll. This was Kalia, the husband to Nicodemus’s great friend, and she was dying. That could only mean that this memory…
“No! Please! Do not make me relive this. I beg you!” Nicodemus screamed from behind his eyes, the sound never leaving through his mouth because he had not said such things in his memory. A sudden gust of wind pushed open the tent flap and Nicodemus turned to see the startling visage of Kalia’s husband.
Aantar had changed, he now wore a strange set of intricate, baroque armor that was tinged the color of midnight, a regal blue cape swirled behind him. But this was not the most startling change. His head was now completely shorn and his skin was milky white, but the most startling thing of all was his eyes. Once a bright blue they were now bloody red, and crimson rivulets ran down his face as if he had wept bitter tears that had carved their path through the skin of his cheeks down past his chin. Aantar barely saw his friend.
“How is she?” He asked, his voice as dry as the barren wasteland outside of the tent.
“Not good, what did you find in there?” Nicodemus’s voice screamed urgency. Aantar did not even respond, simply brushed his friend aside and knelt beside his wife’s sleeping form. Gently he scooped his hand behind her head and carefully lifted her up, placing his other arm around her waist he hugged her feverish body to him. Nicodemus watched again as sanguine tears tore themselves from bloodshot eyes as Aantar’s body began to shake from uncontrollable sobs. Slowly the armored giant began rocking back and forth, his body a gentle metronome to the soft sounds of his grief. In time Nicodemus heard him beginning to whisper something softly into her ear.
“I’m so sorry! I tried so hard…. I really did… I can’t…” He buried his face into her hair, hugging her tight with the hand behind her head, the other hand coming out to rest on his belt, “There is no other way, though.” Then in one swift motion, Aantar slid his knife from its sheath and rammed it firmly into his wife’s heart.
The world tilted, and the clarity of memory shifted to the exaggeration of a dream. Nicodemus knew this dream well, he’d had this nightmare regularly for the past ten years, ever since the memory had become too horrible for him to remember properly. Nicodemus’s body flew to its feet.
“What have you done!?” He accused. Aantar slowly laid the body of his wife down and looked up at his friend. Outside of the tent, Nicodemus was vaguely aware of the sounds of steel on steel and the screams of dying men.
“It was the only way to save her, Nicodemus. Nurgle had her in his grasp and I was promised that if I killed her that she would be left free, that the gods would not concern themselves with her. It was the only way! You have to believe me!” Nicodemus stared in abject horror at the words coming out of his friend’s mouth.
“The gods showed me the end of all things, they showed me so many things, all of them terrible. I have seen how this world dies, and it does so to the flowing of blood and the screams of the butchered. I brought her mercy in denying her those things!” Nicodemus stood back further and drew his sword from its scabbard, the metallic smell of the oiled blade filling the tension between the two warriors. Aantar searched Nicodemus’s face for something, and his face fell when he did not find it.
“I will not resist the commands of my lord, southlander. If you dare bring steel against me you’d best be prepared to use it!” Aantar snarled and leapt at Nicodemus with the bloody dagger still in his hand, his sword flying free of his waist in an equally quick manner. The dream shifted the landscape and somehow they were now outside, fighting across the white dunes while a maelstrom swirled about them. Shadows of Nicodemus’s men fighting against great hulking brutes dotted the peripherals of the duel between the former friends, each one ended with a bloody scream followed by a meaty thunk and then silence. Nicodemus was barely keeping track of Aantar’s blades, each strike barely deflected, narrowly dodged. The old knight could only see to his defense, any attacks were purely reflexive in nature. In the nightmarish fashion of this memory turned dream, Aantar’s features were twisted and demonic with the exception of his eyes which combined to make his entire visage that much more terrifying. His all-too-human eyes staring out at Nicodemus, pleading with him to end it all.
As he knew it would happen, a dried up dead tree appeared behind Nicodemus. Twisting his blade to the left, Aantar’s riposte tore Nicodemus’s blade from his hands and in one smooth motion the northman grabbed his hands at the wrist and with his dagger pierced through both of them in one fluid motion with such force that the blade carried through into the trunk of the dead tree. Inside his own mind Nicodemus screamed.
“Why show me this?” He yelled, “what purpose does it serve?”
“To remind you of your promise,” came the reply
“What promise?” Nicodemus watched what came next with a falling sensation in his stomach.
“The promise you made to your friend. The promise I am calling upon you now to fulfill.” The Lady’s voice was fading. Nicodemus could not tear his attention away from the events unfolding before him, he knew them by heart already but each time the pain was renewed as if there could be no emotional callous to cover such trauma. Aantar bent slowly to be level with Nicodemus’s ear, the fateful words dropped from his mouth in a hushed whisper.
“I will help to bring about the End Times.” Aantar paused, his eyes showing the internal struggle that resulted in his next words.
“Please, please stop me, my friend.” Aantar’s words trembled as he spoke. The last thing Nicodemus remembered was the searing pain in his stomach as Aantar’s sword buried itself to the hilt.
* * * * *
“My lord?” The voice startled Nicodemus out of his reverie. Weeks had gone by since that dream and yet it had been so vivid as to cause his neck to break out in cold sweats whenever he called upon the memory. Looking to the side Nicodemus saw his ward, Gregor, riding beside him with a troubled look on his face.
“I’m fine,” Nicodemus replied, his hand scrubbing his eyes and wiping his forehead as he spoke, “what news?”
“We’ve just received word from our scouts that the dwarves will be here in an hour.” Gregor continued his sideways look at Nicodemus as he spoke. “Also, in a strange turn of events, a small elven fleet has anchored in our harbor, they seek an audience with the local lord. Seeing how Master Grier has escaped this mortal realm, I thought you would have to suffice.”
“Elves? What on earth could they be doing here?” A small ember of hope stirred itself in Nicodemus’s breast.
“That sounds like a question that you can ask them. They are waiting for you down by the docks.”
Nicodemus nodded and waved his dismissal. He looked around the streets of Mousillon, a dirty city on the edge of swamplands where they met the eastern seashore. A port harbor made up the vast majority of the cityscape, one that was dotted with dirty houses and capricious towers. Here and there smaller necropolises dotted the landscape. Nicodemus had pushed his men hard to arrive in good time. He had left his post in the Borderlands to arrive here, and the march had not been easy. On top of that, many of the knights he had brought with him had deserted in favor of seeking to answer their king’s call for a host to march to the Empire’s aid. He had little hope in victory for the coming weeks that he knew would be bloody. He had sent for aid from the dwarven holds to the south, and they had responded swiftly that they would send what aid they could. The dwarves were indebted to him for saving several refugees, not least of which was a high thane’s son, during a raid on a skaven nest. Nicodemus was glad that the dwarves were so dedicated to honoring their word. Shaking his head and sighing, the old knight spurred his horse in the direction of the docks. With any luck he might be able to convince the elves to join the fight as well. Either way, the coming weeks promised nothing more than hard work and blood for those willing to participate.
Chapter 2: The March East
Nicodemus hesitated before opening the door. He was getting too old for all of this. Over fifty summers he had seen, and fighting had been a part of every one of them. His bones ached from old war wounds and breaks that hadn’t healed correctly, his peppered beard hid more than its share of scars and his eyes hid a deep reservoir of regret. He rubbed at the deep puncture scars in the center of his palms as he steadied himself for the residents in the room waiting for him. He wasn’t sure he could save his home from this threat as he had in the years previous. A large portion of his troops had left to answer the new King Gilles’ call to arms, and he had been left with so few men. It was a miracle that the Dwarves and Elves had agreed to help him, but it galled him to no end that the salvation of his home lay in the hands of foreigners. Taking a deep breath, he reached up and pushed the door open before stepping through.
A group of sour-faced Dwarves looked across the room at the Elven war council that had convened to discuss the state of affairs, all men save one equally sour looking female. A large table with a map and several small models to represent armies stood in between the two groups in a room illuminated by candles that gave off a golden glow and illuminated the smoke coming from the pipes of the dwarves. The Elves held a look of barely contained disdain for the shorter elder race across the room from them, and covered their noses from the odious stench of the tabacco, twisting their faces in offense at having to share a room with the stunted creatures. Nicodemus reflected on the irony of their situation, it seems a heavy rain can make even cats and dogs take shelter together, he thought to himself. The Bretonnian lord wasted no time and immediately launched into his report.
“My lords, I cannot express in words my gratitude that you have accepted our plea for help against the incursions brooking against us.” Nicodemus paused to look each of the room’s occupants in the eyes as he said this to ensure that he offended none of them by making them think he was not referring to them all. “My scouts have reported on the Chaos army to the east is making steep advances and is marching steadily for the coast, it seems. We cannot allow this. At the same time the vile ratmen are raiding settlements to the south within the Barony of Mousillon where we suspect the artifact that they seek is located. Both armies are aware of the general location of the Felblade, and we cannot allow it to fall into their hands. I have dispatched my own troops to hold back and help my people evacuate before the coming armies, but they will not be able to hold back the enemy for long. With that in mind I would request your aid in this by sending the Elves to the East to Soude to evacuate the population there to Castle Bastonne where they will be safer and more easily defended. I fear that you will arrive there just ahead of the Chaos army, and there will be bloodshed from there. To the Dwarves I would ask that you travel south to Turris Vigilans to gather in the hamlets around there to the capital city of Mousillon for the same reasons, as we have noticed that the Skaven have been progressing steadily northward in their attacks.”
A tall figure dressed in white silk with a silver breastplate and gold filigree throughout his clothing stepped forward and looked at the map as Nicodemus outlined his plan.
“You mean to send us into the maw of this Chaos invasion while the halflings are tasked with taking care of your pest problem?” He demanded in a voice that dripped with insincerity.
“Ye were going to fight the bloody nor’men before yer worthless navigators washed you up on these shores an’y how, what diff’rance do it make if ya do it here or in a diff’rent manling kingdom?” A surly dwarf figure thundered from beneath a massive red beard. Nicodemus sighed inwardly, bracing himself for the coming argument.
“I am merely implying that it seems as though our tasks are of a disproportionate scale, and it seems as though my troops will be facing a far greater risk than yours. I simply would like to know why the young Lord feels that we are more capable of taking care of this problem, while you get stuck playing the role of exterminator.” The Elf’s mouth rippled slightly, the closest thing to a smile Nicodemus had seen him come. Nicodemus’ temper was rising, he rankled at the Elven Prince’s condescending tone, but mostly he was upset at the time and inconsistency the alliance was already showing, they didn’t have time for this. Nicodemus struggled to pull himself back before he offended either of the dignitaries by screaming at them.
“To the fires with ye, ya beardless she-male! I’ll put mah’ axe to yer throat and shave yer worthless heid fra’ yer een more worthless shoulders and take care a’ both problems on mah’ own! We dinnae need yer frilly white frocks gettin’ sulli’d in this.” The Dwarf gripped at the large axe at his waist and stepped forward menacingly. The Elf’s smile became an amused smirk as he delicately laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, another Elf stepped forward and grabbed his free arm as if to restrain him and shot the offending Elf a warning glance. Nicodemus stepped forward and placed himself between the two.
“That is enough!” Nicodemus thundered. The two grudging eldritch races paid him no heed and continued to advance on each other, their voices rising to a dull roar as each one attempted to speak over the other. The Elf, having shook off his advisor, began to draw his sword, whether for menacing purposes or for actual threat of violence could not be measured, as before the blade was fully out of its sheath a flash of movement to Nicodemus’ right produced a ragged old knight with a simple yet efficient knife at the Elf’s throat.
‘Drop de blade” the grizzled knight growled menacingly at the shocked Elf, who snarled contemptuously, but slid his blade home into its scabbard.
“Thank you, Sir Grimme,” Nicodemus breathed, sweat began trickling down his neck and back as his heart continued to pound in his temples in anticipation of the sudden movement coming to blows. “Now, Prince Lianthur, I hope that your humours will not unbalance themselves in such a choleric way towards my allies again while you are part of this alliance?” The Elf did not even deign to reply, a savage snarl making a stark contrast on his chiseled features, Nicodemus sighed and continued. “I need your elves, with their speed, to march with a company of my knights. Unfortunately, the dwarfs do not have your ability to reach the settlement before the Chaos reaches it first. As it stands it will be a hard, forced march for us to make it there now. The dwarfs and Sir Grimme with his soldiers to defend the closer settlement and buy the population time to get to a safer location. If we are to save lives, however, we must leave now! Gather what troops you will and I shall accompany you with my retinue of Grail Knights to help if we can. I remind you that you have both given your oaths to aid me in this, and I hold you to them. I will not speak of this indiscretion again. Do not let your old rivalries prevent you from honoring your words.” With that, Nicodemus turned and strode from the room.
* * *
Lianthur shifted uncomfortably in his saddle as the military column filtered slowly around him. He stared balefully across the way as Nicodemus conferred with Lianthur’s battle commander, some prince whose name that he hadn’t bothered remembering. How dare that inferior beast humiliate him as he had back in the planning chambers! Lianthur nursed his wounded pride as dark thoughts began to circle like the crows overhead behind his darkened eyes. So absorbed in his own imaginings, Price Lianthur did not hear the muttered whispers of alarm and the sudden, tangible shift in the mood of the troops. The Elf did not stir from beyond his own private visions until he heard a cry from nearby. Only then did he smell the smoke, and looking up he beheld a vision of Hell. The city of Soude was located within a mountain forest.
That forest was now a rolling kaleidoscope of angry flames.
Nicodemus broke away from the battle commander and came at a gallop towards Lianthur, shouting as he came.
“Prince Lianthur!” He bellowed “, I am riding ahead to secure the village, I don’t believe the fires have reached Soude, yet, and we need to get those people out of danger and headed towards Bastonne. I have spoken with your battle commander and he has agreed that this is prudent, he will bring up your troops to hold off the Chaos invaders who are approaching behind the fire, there is a small outpost that may have a few survivors from the fire further east of Soude. I am leaving a company of my knights in your command, use them as you see fit!” Without waiting for a response, Nicodemus turned and spurred his horse towards the mountain, his bodyguard of Grail Knights fell in behind him. Lianthur sneered at the receding dust clouds trailing behind Nicodemus.
Several hours later found the elven force approaching the burnt out remains of the outpost. A few mostly destroyed buildings still stood, damaged but repairable, and the outpost tower which was the only truly defensible position still stood largely unscathed. As they approached the door to the tower burst open and an old soldier in rusted armor came hobbling out to greet them. Behind him various women and children filtered out, interspersed among even dustier and more ancient looking soldiers than the first who even now scampered towards them.
“Oh thank the Lady!” he cried as he got within earshot and fell to his knees. “, Please masters! Help us! The barbarians are advancing on us even now! From the top of the tower we could see a horde of them coming, they’ll be here within the hour!” The man continued babbling for another few minutes before Lianthur waved him disdainfully away. The battle commander took the old man off to the side and brought up a small contingent of warriors. He ordered these elves to accompany the survivors of the village while they met up with the survivors from Soude and make their way to Castle Bastonne, that the main body of the army would meet up with them en route to there, once they had given them a head start by fighting off the advance party. Lianthur chose to accompany them, leaving the battle commander to have full control of the battlefield. If one listened closely, one could hear the distant drums of the advancing enemy.
* * *
Grimme stared out across the fields surrounding the small town where the Dwarven miners claimed that the Skaven would be attacking. They cited a great number of reasons why they felt that this would be the first place they would attack, but Grimme didn’t understand any of it. The only thing that he needed to know was if the commander of the dwarfs believed it, which he did. So here he sat, in a hamlet outside of the mostly ruined city of Mousillon that was a regular resting site for travelling patrols. A lonely stone tower stood next to the road and a few scattered buildings lay further back from there. The fetid marshes stank as an easterly breeze carried the rotting stink of decay from out of the wetted fenlands that plagued this countryside. On top of that the sense of decay was only enhanced by the above ground cemeteries that littered the landscape, the army had passed several on the road to the hamlet where they now stood. The dank marshes made it difficult for the Skaven to tunnel, thus necessitating a land based assault. The miners had informed the army that the Skaven were fast approaching unsuitable ground for tunneling and would breach the surface, probably to attack the nearest settlement, which as fate would have it was this very outpost where Grimme now stood. The villagers here had already been evacuated and now all that was left was the terrible waiting game before the battle. The dwarven lines were already formed and ready.
Grimme rather liked the dour nature of the dwarves, it fit his own rather nicely. He’d fought alongside them before when he was with his lord in the border princes and had gone to assist the nearby holds against the raiding armies of the greenskins. He had felt for sure that he would die there, that he would never see his homeland again, even though he no longer knew this land as he had in his youth. Not since accompanying Lord Nicodemus on his crusade, and after him being chosen by the Lady for a special purpose Grimme had yet to spend more than a fortnight in his beloved homeland until now. Yet, now that he was home, it was not the home he remembered. The civil war had torn his home apart. Gone were the days of idle contentment among the commoners and earnest bravado among the nobility, vanity had given way to bitterness, ease to suffering and resentment. The loyalty that bound the knighthoods together like brothers was shattered, and the coming destruction loomed over the land like a cancerous shadow eating away at the hearts of men. The peasants felt it coming, too, and their craven hearts were difficult to bolster even in times of peace much less now when the world seemed to be coming to an end and everything they knew had been turned on its head.
Grimme shook his head and went down to inspect his troops, it was something comfortable, something that he’d grown used to, something he felt proficient doing. The call would be coming soon that the ratmen would be marching on them, and then the work would begin.
* * *
Skitr’sneek whined as he began to climb out of the hole. The army that his warlord had given him was completely inadequate to his status, he felt, and this slight would not go unpunished. But for now, the young chieftain would hold his mouth and follow orders like a good lapdog, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. At this moment his troops were on the verge of assaulting a man-thing outpost that was likely not expecting such an enormous army to come crashing down on them. If it weren’t for this stinking wet marshes that prevented the tunneling of his slaves, Skitr would have simply come up from underneath them, as it was the poor wretches would see their death coming. This filled the chieftain with a devilish delight.
Chapter 3: The Burning of Soude
Prince Daggon dismounted from his horse and walked over to the tower that embodied the only defensible position in the town, the rest of the buildings were burnt and in various states of disrepair, it looked as though the townsfolk had made a good effort to preserve their homes during the fire and that the village would be able to be repaired if his kinsmen would be able to fight off the incoming barbarians. Daggon called up his large unit of spearmen and his battle council. He was more concerned for the wellbeing of those refugees than he truly was for the town, such simple buildings would be easy to replace and the villagers who had called this home would be able to rebuild, however their lives were far more fragile and needed the greater amount of protection. Daggon convened a quick council and dismissed all of his army to guard the retreating peasants but his unit of spearmen and two of his captains: his brother Xiomar would introduce the barbarians to their doom by holding aloft the colors of their kingdom so that the enemy would know who it was that held the knife to their throat, and Alred the Archmage would stay to bleed out magical judgment against the northmen. Daggon also gave orders to the Master of the Menagerie to bring out one of the lone phoenixes as well as his beloved companion Archaiadynami, a legendary star dragon to help assist in defending the town. The arrangements were hastily made and soon the rest of the army was quickly marching to the west in order to meet up with Nicodemus and the rest of the refugees, Lianthur seemed all too relieved to be leaving the field of battle. The chosen warriors that remained settled in to wait for the coming horde, they did not have to wait long.
* * * *
On a charred hill sat a repulsive figure on a repulsive mount. White, leprous skin sloughed over bones and muscle that tore at the slightest movement, causing black, poisonous blood to seep out through a thousand wounds. Behind his grated face mask, Gethus Withertongue smiled at the contingent of elves that stood against him. In his right hand Gethus held a wicked looking scythe, and Gethus’ concealed grin became even wider as he slid the cruel curved blade across his exposed arm, coating the blade in his corrosive juices. Turning, he motioned to the warriors that came behind him forward and watched as the Slaaneshi riders galloped off at breakneck speed towards their chosen quarries, the false courage that their patron god had instilled in them spurring them towards the largest target on the field. Close behind them came Aantar’s Sorrowful Blades, knights who killed remorselessly and were one time friends of Gethus, but now they were simply pieces on the game board. Gethus watched as the Elven spearmen took refuge within the sturdy stone tower that dominated the town’s landscape as he marched forward on top of his rotting steed beside the Tzeentchian knights. Behind them rode a contingent of Khorne-touched Ogres, their bloodshot eyes rolling in anticipation of the coming violence, beside them rode a companionship of fellow Khorne worshippers atop the fabled juggernauts, the hissing and clanking of metallic joints resounded dully as they crashed across the ruined landscape. A mutant gorebeast tugged at the reins of the charioteer who guided the unwieldy but powerful vessel behind the ape-like creature. On the far right, the berzerkers of the Bloody Fist Clan advanced with their Chieftain Kholer at their head.
Alred watched the advancing horde draw closer from his vantage within the tower, and began to plot how best he might serve his prince in battle. He noticed the armoured vanguard of knights closing in on the tower. Gathering mystical energies, Alred used his long years of training to curse the galloping marauders bearing the marks of Slaanesh on their banner, it was instantly obvious as their steeds began to tire and their advanced slowed, leaving them directly in the path of the charging knights behind them. Drawing on all of his magical reserves, Alred prepared an even greater curse to fall upon those blue-armored knights and in doing so he reached too deeply into the Winds of Magic. Instantly whispers began to echo throughout the recesses of the wizard’s mind. Alred focused on completing the curse and as the words of power echoed out of his mouth, his eyes ablaze with power, the curse descended upon the charging knights as they felt their limbs tire and their constitutions slow, the impetus of their charge was blunted to a near standstill as magic sapped their energy and their will to carry on. However, Alred still had so much power left over from such a deep reservoir from which he had pulled, especially for so basic a spell as the one he had cast. Desperate to release this power, it clamored within Alred and he attempted several small cantrips in an effort to dissipate the remaining flood of power within him, but it was not enough. The whisperings grew louder, they were chanting something. Alred felt the power still building within him, it was too much! It was going to burn his corpse to a cinder if it was not released! With a sudden cry, Alred released the power in a flamin spectacle which turned several spearmen around him to dust. The power streamed out of Alred while his screams continued until a bright flash of light lit up the room and caused the remaining Elven warriors to shield their eyes. When they looked back the wizard was gone.
Fuelled by a supernatural bravado, the marauder horsemen charged forward into the gaping maw of Prince Daggon’s draconic steed. The affair was short and bloody, the elven prince ripped through the slavering horsemen in a matter of seconds, torsos with missing limbs and heads were cast about in a shower of gore as the dragon and its rider tore through the northmen as if they were made of wet parchment. The knights, slowed by the draining spell that Alred had cast on them before being sucked away from this plain, attempted to charge forward and storm the tower. Gethus charged forward alone, leaving the safety of the knights’ flanks behind him in an attempt to lure the elven prince into the open where the cavalry would be able to flank the prize of the enemy general. Daggon signalled the Phoenix forward and it flew over the ranks of Chaos Ogres that were advancing on the right flank, bombarding them with streaming lines of fire. One of the ogres began bellowing in pain as tongues of flame began licking the flesh from his bones. The rest of his group barely even noticed his absence as they charged towards the nearest building. The gorebeast let out a bleeting yell and charged the long brick building before him, it managed to shatter a single support beam in a flurry of blows but overall the building remained relatively unscathed.
Bellowing a challenge, Gethus stormed through the doors to the tower. A squadron of spearmen moved to bar his passage. Gethus sneered as the cowardly elven bannerman slunk back up the stairs, denying the pox-ridden sorcerer his quarry. Swinging his scythe about in wide arcs, Gethus sliced into one spearman’s shoulder causing him to cry out for a moment before that cry became strangled as the elf began to make choking sounds before falling to the ground and vomiting blood upon the lacquered floor. Gethus smiled before the press of bodies against him pushed him back out the door.To the east of the town a group of Kurgen marauders approached a small manor house. Their chieftain, a hulking brute by the name of Kholer, and his Bloody Knuckles clansmen immediately fell to the act of destruction. The frenzied chieftain took his large axe in both of his powerful hands and in a series of herculean strikes he managed to cut several of the supporting beams that held the house upright. The building groaned as the majority of its weight teetered on the brink of collapse, the rest of the Bloody Knuckle berzerkers fell on the final support and in a cacophony of splintering wood the building collapsed in a series of shuddering crashes. The existing lamps that had been filled to light the darkened corridors of the building soon began to catch on the dried timbers of the destroyed building and in moments the entire set of ruins was alight with a shivering fire that billowed dark smoke into the evening air. A similar scenario had played out on the west end of town where the frenzied ogres laid waste to a stone tavern and managed to bring down the older building in a flurry of angry blows against the inanimate wood and rock that supported the old edifice. Prince Daggon cursed from his vantage atop his dragon as he witnessed both buildings fall, knowing that if any more fell to the same fate there wouldn’t be any point in defending the ruins of a former outpost. In his distraction, one of the Khorne warriors atop a juggernaut managed to get a blow past the writhing scales of Archaiadynami’s armored bulk and through Daggon’s own personal plate suit, biting deep into his side. He bit back a gasp of pain and thrust his spear tip through the eyeslits of his assailant while his faithful friend dispatched the berzerker’s metal mount in a series of violent clawings.
With the skullcrusher companionship dispatched, the elven prince charged the chariot team whose gorebeast was raking its fists against the side of a nearby inn. Daggon struck out with his blade and caught several fine hits against the mutated monstrosity in front of him. The pair of warriors manning the beast’s chariot struck out at the prince, and in his single-minded focus of slaying the creature of Chaos before him he was distracted when a warrior clad in black armor swung an overhead blow that caught the prince squarely in the chest, biting deep and knocking the air from his lungs. Archaiadynami roared in anger and pounced on the chariot crew, tearing the leather strips that attached the gorebeast to the chariot. Freed from his confines, the giant ape-like monstrosity used the massive trunk of the dragon’s body as he would a tree and pulled himself up next to Prince Daggon, who lay half stunned in his saddle and made a feeble attempt to defend himself against the onslaught raised by the muscle-bound creature. A resounding crack echoed as the gorebeast landed a hard punch against the side of the prince’s face. Daggon’s eyes rolled back in his head and his body tumbled limply from his saddle. Archaiadynami screamed in rage and tossed the ruined corpses of the chariot crew away from him as his jaws quickly closed around the gorebeast’s massive head. With a sickening crunch the gorebeast’s body went still and the dragon tossed the beast’s corpse away as it roared its defiance into the dying light of the evening. The dragon gathered up the limp form of his fallen master with a gentleness that belied his great form and looked around for further prey to satiate his need for vengeance. Looking to his left he saw the sorcerer of Nurgle still trying to pound his way into the tower that the spearmen were guarding. At the same time, the Phoenix spiralled around in his latest sweep of the town and spied the same sorcerer, marking him as the next target.
Gethus’ face was a twisted mask of rage. His magics had availed him little against the occupants of the tower, and thus far he had been unable to gain access to the building. In a moment of distraction, the sorcerer looked to his left and saw not only the graceful form of a Phoenix bearing down on him, but that of an enraged dragon snarling as it blazed across the ground in his direction. Making haste, Gethus leapt atop his steed and galloped away in retreat. Seeing Kholer’s marauders marching towards the tower, Gethus made to use them as a distraction for his pursuers. Galloping through their ranks, the fleeing sorcerer used the Kurgan as a shield for his flight. The phoenix crashed into their ranks and ripped two of their warriors to shreds within the first seconds of the melee. The berzerkers howled in bloodlust, their sub-chieftain scored two direct hits on the fiery bird’s neck, causing the magical creature to reel in pain. Kholer stepped up and delivered several more key strokes to the injured monster. Baffled and in pain, the flaming creature attempted to take flight but its wounds were too great and the howling bloodlust of the Bloody Knuckles was too strong, the Phoenix was cut down under a pile of angry bodies seeking to be the first to claim the beast’s head.
Archaiadynami, upon seeing the cowardly sorcerer flee, instead adjusted his course to pursue another tempting target. Kindle Red Hair had been blasting away at the various buildings utilising his mild talents in fire magic. Watching with glee as the ogres tore through the inn that the gorebeast had failed to destroy and sent a small snarl of fire in the direction of the newly formed ruins, laughing as he watched the already dry wood smoke and then burst into flames, adding to the ongoing blaze that was consuming the city. It wasn’t until the dragon was upon him did the fire sorcerer notice his impending doom. As Kindle turned to flee Archaiadynami rent at him with his dagger-like claws, slicing down the sorcerer’s back. Rearing onto his hind legs, the dragon buffeted the chaos worshipper, the force of the blow sending the chaos worshipper flying through the air to land among the stick-like ruins of a blood forest that weakly clawed at the sorcerer’s body as he lay motionless.
Gethus stopped and turned back to observe the battle, his flight had nearly taken him from the field, and he would not have his troops see him fleeing in such an ignominious way. Turning, the plague sorcerer prepared a powerful spell in order to topple the last building still standing in the Bretonnian town: the stone Guard tower. However, the Winds of Magic were too strong in that area and the Chaos worshipper drew too deeply upon them, causing the fabric of reality to shudder around him. With a sudden cry, Gethus simply tried to release the excess energy, allowing the spell to flow through him in any given direction. The magic energies coursed through him and out, but it was too late. A calamitous explosion resounded next to Gethus and the power bled through his arm, literally tearing his flesh apart and throwing him unconscious from his horse to land in a crumpled heap. Meanwhile, Kholer approached the tower and with his infamous strength and the aid of his fellow Blood Fists, they hammered against the stone walls with such fervor that the walls began to buckle. Inside, Xiomar called out for his remaining soldiers to brace themselves. With a shuddering groan, the building collapsed in on itself, the unfortunate garrison within was thrown about as they attempted to flee the destroyed wreckage. Several elves were pinned by falling debris, but miraculously the majority of the squad escaped with nothing more than cosmetic dents in their armor. Looking out over the destroyed city as the flames reached higher into the now darkened skies, Xiomar, as the last of the commanders on the field for the elves, ordered a swift retreat. Caught up in his frenzy, Kholer was more focused on the complete and utter destruction of the town, and so did not strive to stop the elves as they fled from the battle, hoping that they had bought enough time for the refugees to make it back to the main army and Nicodemus’s promised safety. Upon hearing the trumpet sound for retreat, Archaiadynami, still holding the limp form of his master, spread his giant wings and lifted into the night sky.
As the fires died down and the red sun rose on the carnage that had been visited upon the town, a lone figure picked through the fallen stones of the tower. A faint voice moaned from beneath some rubble. The figure walked to its source and with a casual strength that belied the weight of the wreckage that he tossed aside, lifted the rocks that covered the voice. Beneath the detritus was an aged elf, his mage robes torn and his skin lightly scorched. He was wounded, but alive. Aantar stared down and smiled at his fortune. Knowing his patron god, this had all been part of his plan. The warlord turned and issued orders to a few of his warriors to have them haul the wizard to his tent and see to his wounds. Hopefully this elf would provide some answers about his army’s movements, at the very least he would provide some entertainment.
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