by C. L. Werner
Table of Contents
Title Page
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons
and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the
world's ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury
it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds
and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the
largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known
for its engineers, explorers, traders and soldiers, it is
a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests
and vast cities. It is a land riven by uncertainty, as three
pretenders all vye for control of the Imperial throne.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the
length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly
palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north,
come rumblings of war. In the towering World's Edge
Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault.
Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of
the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the
skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the
land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the
ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen
corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods.
As the time of battle draws ever nearer,
the Empire needs heroes
like never before.
BOOK ONE
The year 2302, two hundred years before the reign of Emperor Karl-Franz, was a time of horror; It was the Great War Against Chaos, and it was the largest attack from the forces of Chaos in the far north that the world had ever seen. The Empire was fractured and divided, with the different states battling each other in bitter civil war. It was only thanks to the efforts of the great leader Magnus the Pious that the Empire was not overrun. Magnus united the states, and led a grand coalition to the north to face the enemy in Kislev. The battle raged for several years, yet the forces of the Empire were at last victorious. The forces of Chaos, led by the Warlord Asavar Kul, were shattered. With the death of the Chaos leader, the tribes were split, and they began warring on each other once more. Many tribes were destroyed in the great battles, but others were scattered. Many retreated back to their traditional homelands in the north, to resume their constant warfare against their own, but others entered the forests and mountains around the Empire itself.
The Empire was victorious, but it was a broken land. Decades of civil war had ensured deep-seated enmity amongst the states, and many nobles slipped back into their old, petty rivalries. Plague was rife, and the populace was on the point of starvation. The Great War had bled the coffers dry, and many of the standing armies of the elector counts had been decimated. The Chaos threat had been pushed back, but scattered tribes continued to raid the northern towns and villages, and there were not enough soldiers to defend against these attacks. It was a grim time for the people of the Empire. There was always the threat from the north - for if any of the Chaos-worshipping chieftains grew powerful enough to unite the scattered tribes, then a new era of warfare would be unleashed, resulting in a war that the Empire would be unable to endure.
CHAPTER ONE
His eyes flickedopen, but all he could see was darkness. A foetid stench filled his nostrils and he gagged, his stomach heaving. He could taste bile on his lips. His arms felt leaden and weak, the muscles aching and sore, but he pushed up with all his might at the weight pressing down upon him, crying out with the effort. Red light reached his eyes and he blinked painfully. With the last of his energy, he surged upwards, rolling the weight from his chest. It flopped beside him, and he found himself staring into a pair of cold, dead eyes. He cried out in horror, pushed away from the staring cadaver, and found himself looking at another corpse, its face obscured by long black hair. Pushing himself away again, he scrambled back, onto the chest of another corpse. Half its head had been cleaved away. Panic filled him - he was on the top of a great pile of the dead.
Then the drumming started. An infernal sound, like the heartbeat of an evil god, it reverberated around his head, coming from everywhere and nowhere. He could feel the sound beating at him, hammering down upon him like a weight, eroding his will to live. He curled up in a ball, head in his hands, trying vainly to block out the monstrous sound. Tears ran down his face, and he felt his insides twist and knot. He thought he heard laughter, swords clashing, the roaring of daemonic hounds, and the screams and shouts of the dying and the victorious. He was dead, he thought, and this was the hellish afterlife.
His eyes were closed, yet he saw flashes of hateful, violent, maddening images. He saw the daemon with the eyes of fire staring into his soul, muscles rippling and flexing over its massive red, ritually scarred chest. The hateful creature's lips drew back, exposing fangs stained red with gore. Blood slid in thick rivulets down the massive curving horns on its head. He felt that blood drip onto his face, and felt the heat emanating from the creature as it reached for him.
With a tortured gasp, Hensel awoke. His body was slick with sweat and his flea-ridden bed sheets were wrapped around him tightly - he felt like a corpse, freshly wrapped by the priests of Morr. Thrashing his limbs frantically, he kicked the covers away, trying to dispel the disturbing thought from his mind. The chill night air cooled his body almost instantly.
Sitting up, Hensel placed his feet on the freezing floorboards and rubbed his callused hands over his unshaven face. His heart still beat frantically in his chest, and he breathed in deeply, trying to calm himself. He had been having the nightmares for over a year. Not a single night would go by without the terrifying visions plaguing his sleep. The only time that he could get any blessed dreamless sleep was after he had drunk himself into a stupor - something that he had been doing ever more frequently in the past months.
Hensel wished that he had got drunk that night, but drink cost money, something he was particularly short of. The goodwill of the Cock-eyed Firken, the cheapest pub in Bildenhof, had also dried up. Not that he could blame them, because he'd been penniless for weeks.
Resigning himself to not getting any sleep that night, Hensel arose from his vermin-infested pallet and dressed quickly, throwing on a dirty shirt and belting his most valuable possession, his sword, at his side. Pulling on his heavy greatcoat, he yanked open the door to his room and stepped into the night.
Looking up, Hensel saw that the glow of the silver moon, Mannslieb, was high in the sky, partially obscured by wispy clouds. It was not yet midnight, and he had slept for little over an hour. Trudging through the clinging mud, he walked down the deserted main street of Bildenhof. Dark houses lined the street. A rolling low fog hugged the ground, slipping under doors and seeping through cracked windows. Its touch was cold and wet. He looked up at the dark windows, jealous of the sleep the townspeople were getting.
The buildings of Bildenhof were dirty and misshapen, their timbers cracked and warped. Not a window or doorframe was even, their angles skewed and twisted. The roofs were uneven and ramshackle, and you always had to be careful walking under their drooping eaves for there was a very real threat of falling tiles.
Like the Empire itself, thought Hensel, the town was rotten and decaying, just about on the point of collapse.
He made his way over the covered bridge that crossed the pitiful muddy stream passing through town, his footsteps echoing loudly within the enclosed space. Trudging up the small rise beyond the bridge, he neared the watch post.
It was a crude affair, having been hastily erected some months earlier. Little more than a wooden box built atop
the thick, twisted trunk of an ancient oak tree, it allowed a sentry a clear view of the northern hillside leading up towards the dark tree line. The beasts of the forest had attacked three nearby villages over the last months, and, in response, the council of Bildenhof had ordered eight of these watch posts to be built along the outskirts of the town. A score of sharpened stakes had been driven into the ground around the base of the watch post, and a shaky ladder leant against it. Hensel shook his head.
He climbed the ladder stealthily, reaching the top with barely a sound. Gingerly he raised his head to look inside. There, with his back to him, he could see a motionless crouching figure, looking out to the north. A pair of crossbows leant against the wall next to him.
'Evening.' said Hensel. The sentry started visibly, a strangled yelp escaping his lips at the unexpected voice behind him. 'You should really pull this ladder up, you know. It would stop people catching you unawares.'
'Sigmar above, man! What the hell is wrong with you?' the man asked. 'Creeping up on a man like that!' 'I'm sorry, Mathias.' said Hensel, his dark-ringed eyes glinting with humour. 'It was too good an opportunity to pass by.'
'Yes, I bet it was.' said Mathias, shaking his head.
'You alone here? Who's meant to be on watch with you?' asked Hensel as he crawled over to take a seat next to the sentry.
'Konrad. He slipped off about an hour ago - to warm his body a little, if you know what I mean.'
'Ah. Who is it this time?' asked Hensel.
'Magritte.'
Hensel guffawed. 'Damn, but she's a popular one with the men of this town!'
'Aye, she is. She won't be if her father ever catches her. He'll pack her off to the temple in Wolfenburg if he ever hears about what she's up to in the darkening hours.'
'Lucky for her he's a heavy sleeper, eh?'
'Aye, indeed it is.' said Mathias. He paused for a moment, and frowned. 'How do you know he's a heavy sleeper?'
'How do you?' asked Hensel, with a grin.
Mathias laughed out loud, and slapped a meaty hand on his thigh. The pair sat in silence for a minute, staring out into the night.
'Couldn't sleep again, huh. The nightmares?' asked Mathias.
The older man nodded slowly in response. 'Ever since Kislev.' he breathed. Mathias didn't ask anything more, which Hensel appreciated. The pair fell into silence, each engrossed in his own thoughts.
A sharp noise echoed through the night, breaking the quiet - a bell was ringing frantically.An attack.
Lights flared to life in the houses of the town, and Hensel could hear muffled shouts as people moved onto the streets in fear.
Hensel and Mathias grabbed the crossbows, loading them hastily, and stared out into the night. Minutes passed, and Hensel began to think that it had been a false alarm, until Mathias stiffened at his side.
He looked over at the younger soldier, and saw that his eyes were wide and filled with dread. He followed the youngster's gaze to the tree line, peering into the darkness. At first he saw nothing, just a vague movement in the darkness.
Then he saw them. The dark figures were almost completely hidden in the gloom beneath the trees. There were scores of them.
It was then that the drumming started.
Deep and powerful, the rhythmic pounding of the drums rolled out over Bildenhof. Beating slowly, like the giant heart of some ancient, monstrous creature, the sound reverberated off the high hills surrounding the town, so that the thumping sound seemed to come from all around.
The infernal sound brought Hensel's nightmares to life. For over a year, this same hateful drumming had haunted his dreams, accompanied by images of slaughter and bloodletting, of corpses lying atop corpses, and of giant piles of skulls that reached up to the heavens. The sound struck at him like hammer blows. His whole body flinched with every pounding beat.
At the top of the rise, a single figure stepped from the tree line. Even from this distance the man was clearly massive, and Hensel stared at him in utter horror. He recognised the creature. This was the vicious, hateful daemon-kin that hunted him in his nightmares. He knew every turn of bronze that bedecked the creature's blood-red armour, and instantly recognised the massive re-curved ebony horns that sprouted from the daemon's full-face helm. Heavy, ornate armour covered all but his massively muscled arms, which were decorated with bronze ring piercings and crude tattoos. Chains were wrapped around his forearms, and Hensel recognised the thick, black-furred cloak draped over the daemon-kin's giant shoulders, hewn from the flesh of some Chaotic beast of the north.
Though he couldn't see the creature's eyes from this distance, he knew that hellfire burned in those cruel orbs, and he knew that its sharp teeth were stained red with blood. This being had seen thousands slain beneath its axe, and would see thousands more. A massive bald figure stood behind the fiend, holding aloft a rough cross-posted banner. Heads hung from the banner by their hair, and skulls hung in great strings, held together by loops of sinew tied through the eye-sockets.
Hensel's gaze flickered from the banner bearer back to the red-clad warrior. The daemon-kin raised its massive double-bladed axe into the air, and bellowed a savage, challenging roar. That roar contained the hellish promise of butchery and bloodshed to come. It was joined by screams and guttural shouts from hundreds of throats, and Hensel knew that both he and Bildenhof were doomed.
CHAPTER TWO
Soldiers dressed in the purple and yellow livery of Ostermark stepped hastily out of the way of the stocky captain as he stalked up the hill, his horribly scarred face thunderous. He stomped through the mud, past hundreds of tents and pickets, through the vast throng of the army of Ostermark. Laughing and joking stopped abruptly as the captain came into view, and men lowered their eyes and turned away. One soldier saluted briskly, but the captain took no notice.
He marched past row upon row of limbered great cannons, their gleaming barrels being meticulously polished and oiled by their dutiful crews under the watchful eye of a frowning, middle-aged engineer. His helmet grasped tightly under his left arm, his right hand resting on the worn pommel of his sword, the captain stomped onwards. His eyes were set grimly on the massive purple and yellow tent that sat on the peak of the hill, elegant tapering pennants at its tip waving lazily in the gentle breeze.
A pair of guards stood at the entrance to the tent, halberds held to attention before them. One of them nodded to the captain as he approached.
'The Grand Count of Ostermark has been waiting some time for you, Captain von Kessel.'
'Good.' the captain replied curtly. He swept aside the heavy cloth flap and entered the grand tent.
The tent was gloomy and poorly lit. The grand count was an ill old man, and bright light hurt his cataract-ridden eyes. A thick, cloying fug hung in the air. Censers swung slowly from side to side by faceless robed figures exuded sickly smelling smoke. The movement of von Kessel as he entered the tent disturbed the hanging smoke, sending it swirling in eddies.
'Stefan? Is it Stefan who enters?' enquired a voice, reaching out across the dim, smoky tent.
'Aye it is, my lord,' the captain stated sharply. He marched into the middle of the grand tent, and slammed his helmet down on a map-strewn wooden table, making the goblets and writing instruments on its surface jump.
Grand Count Otto Gruber, flanked by a score of advisors and courtiers, was propped up in his leather chair. He stared at von Kessel with his wet eyes, unfazed by the glowering gaze of the captain. The count was an enormous man, big in every sense of the word. His bulk filled the massive leather chair, so that it looked ludicrously small for him, and he shifted his weight uncomfortably every few seconds. His face was bulbous and fleshy, and he wore a wig, tightly curled and powdered, upon his pallid head. He was sweating profusely, and a young man dabbed at his face and neck with a damp cloth. Several years previously, the count had suffered a virulent skin disease, and open sores could be seen upon his pudgy hands and on the rolls of fat of his neck. Blisters, some that had burst and spilt the
ir contents, clustered around his left eye, which was partially closed, gummed-up and red.
'Where were my damn reinforcements?' asked von Kessel bluntly. He hated the sickly stink of the tent.
The count began to speak, but succumbed to a hacking, wet cough. Going bright red in the face, the veins of his nose and cheeks swelling alarmingly, the count hacked and spluttered, and spat into a bowl offered by a manservant. Another servant dabbed at his slack mouth, wiping the phlegm from his lips.
A figure that had been standing in the shadows behind the count's chair stepped forwards. He was a fierce-looking, rake-thin man in his early twenties. He wore simple, but obviously expensive, black clothes, and had a small beard on his chin that was neatly trimmed to a point. Stefan recognised him as Johann, the count's great-nephew and sole living relative. Gruber had married twice, although neither wife had borne him children, and as such, Johann was the count's sole heir.
'Your orders were to hold the pass. You disobeyed the elector's direct order,captain,' said Johann, just about spitting the last word.
Not taking his eyes off the count, von Kessel bit back a sharp reply, before he answered. 'I was speaking to the grand count.' he said, icily.
'You disrespectful wretch.' snarled the black-clad young man, stepping forwards, his hand gripping the ornate hilt of his rapier.
'Stop, stop.' rasped the Elector Count of Ostermark, waving a pudgy, ring-laden hand in front of him. 'Enough of this, Johann. Back with you.' The glowering young man removed his hand from his rapier, and stepped back, eyes flashing dangerously.
'The reinforcements, yes. What happened to the reinforcements? Andros?'
A copper-skinned Tilean advisor inclined his head towards von Kessel.
'The despatches were sent, my lord, as you requested. Doubtless the enemy intercepted them. An unfortunate and regrettable mishap.' he said smoothly in perfect Reikspiel, with barely the hint of an accent. He blinked as von Kessel snorted in derision.