Thorrik couldn’t sleep, and he sat in the cave mouth smoking his pipe as he
watched the passage of the sun overhead. Finally even he succumbed to his
weariness, and he slept.
The great city of Praag, in the lands of our Kislevite allies, has been taken
by the foe. It is as if history is repeating itself, and the world is beset as
it was during the Great War. Then, Magnus the Pious rode forth and confronted
the enemy at the gates of Kislev, but alas, I cannot do the same—for the
shadow of the enemy reaches far, and its vanguard cuts ever deeper into our
lands.
Half of Talabecland has fallen to the foe—even the mighty Talabec has
proved to be an ineffective barrier against their hatred and power. The ranks of
Talabecland are supported by the armies of Reikland and Stirland, but still the
enemy is barely held at bay.
However, if the Ostermark falls to the enemy then all will be lost.
Bechafen still holds out against the hordes of Chaos surging southwards, but
its days are numbered, and almost all of the Ostermark has fallen to the enemy.
The last Imperial armies there are desperately holding back the tide from
sweeping behind our defences in Talabecland, but I fear they cannot resist for
long.
If the enemy bursts through these lines and descends on our rear in
Talabecland, then it will only be a matter of time before the war comes to
Altdorf itself. I dread to think what would happen if our shining capital fell
to the infernal enemy. The resolve of our armies would be shattered.
I cannot allow such a thing to come to pass, and as such the Ostermark must
hold, at any cost. I have dispatched the Reiksmarshal, Kurt Helborg, and a full
demi-legion of Reiksguard knights to lead the Order of the Griffon to bolster
that region. This weakens Reikland considerably and was met with much
opposition, but I feel that it is necessary. I just pray that the Ostermark can
hold until their arrival, for alone they will not hold against the Raven Host
forces there.
And for all this, I know that what we suffer now is but the opening phase of
the long war to come—the Raven Host has not yet unleashed its full strength
against us. They seem determined to destroy Kislev utterly, so that when they do
send their full strength against us, they would not have the threat of an enemy
upon their rear.
But hope is not lost I have ordered armies to push north into the lands of
Kislev. They march on Praag, for if we can reclaim that city of the damned, then
the forays of the enemy will become stalled. I pray that by making a positive,
aggressive move we will take the enemy by surprise and weaken him at his heart.
There was dissent amongst my Electors at the decision, but the weight of their
counsel was with me—the result of many months of negotiations.
It is a dangerous gambit, for marching north leaves our own lands less well
defended, and the wolf is already in our midst. However, I feel that it is a
necessary risk, and our only chance of success. I pray that my instincts prove
to be the right course of action—there shall be none left alive to denounce me
should it fail.
I go to Talabecland myself now, so as to be seen to be fighting on the front
line. The resolve of our armies is a fragile thing, the gap between victory and
defeat narrow. Joining the fight personally will make a more forceful statement
to the soldiers and commanders of the Empire than months of politicking here in
Altdorf.
I pray that the Ostermark holds, for the balance of the war hangs on it being
able to weather the storm of Chaos until the Reiksmarshal arrives to bolster
their strength.
May Sigmar be with us in these dark times. I truly fear the End Times draw
near.
K.F.
Udo Grunwald stood over the twisted corpse. It was emaciated far beyond human
endurance, and its ribs pushed against its grey, dead skin. Once it may have
been human, but its shape was mutated and contorted, its flesh altered so that
it truly could not have been called so when it died.
Its hands were no longer those of a man, but more closely resembled the
hunting talons of a great bird of prey. In death, those talons had clenched
tightly, the thick black claws digging into its own flesh. The skin of the
talons and forearms were yellow and scaled like a bird’s, but there was also
other evidence of foul, Chaotic mutation—soft, downy black feathers had burst
through the flesh of the creature’s neck, forming a strange collar, and a bony
spur of bone had split through the skin at the base of the creature’s neck,
extending up along the skull like a sharp ridge.
But it was the creature’s face that was truly horrific, all the more so for
it was almost perfectly human. The corpse’s face was drawn in a horrid
expression of what might have been ecstasy, or glee—a smile that was chilling
and horrific. Its eyes were wide and staring, the pupils and irises completely
white. When the girl Annaliese saw the face of the corpse she backed away
quickly, horror on her face, and Grunwald guessed that she had seen similar
corpses before, just as he had.
“How long ago did it die do you think?” asked Karl. Grunwald shrugged his
shoulders.
“Hard to say. The carrion-eaters won’t touch them. Very wise.”
It was easy to see what had killed the plague victim. Its arms were covered
in sword cuts, and there was a deep gash in the figure’s head, but from his own
experience Grunwald knew that these alone would not have stopped the foul
creature—but the sword still protruding from its heart had done the job.
The witch hunter rose to his feet. They stood in the centre of a small
village, thirteen hard days’ march from the base of the Worlds Edge Mountains.
He didn’t know the name of the place, nor even if it had a name, for it was
little more than a group of five shabby buildings. The plague had originated in
the north, it was said, so it was not surprising that small villages like this
had suffered such a fate. It was happening all across the Empire—people got
sick, withering and falling into a comatose state before dying, at which time
some foul sorcerous power makes them rise up to kill those tending them.
In grim silence the group left the village. It seemed; that all of the
Ostermark had suffered a similar, or worse, fate. They passed dozens of villages
and small towns, once thriving communities now reduced to smoking ruins.
Evidence of war was everywhere, from the skeletal corpses to broken swords,
armour and arrows that they trod into the ground beneath their feet. Some were
laid low by plague, others by violence and war, while others were remarkably
untouched, but their inhabitants nowhere to be found.
The Ostermark was the most north-eastern state of the Empire, bordering
allied Kislev to the north and the towering heights of the Worlds Edge Mountains
to the east. While much of the Empire was swathed in forests, much of the
Ostermark was high moorland or marshes, dangerous and bleak countryside dotted
with villages and fortified road warden stations. And now, thought Grunwald, its
people had been massacred.
Cut off from the Empire since they boarded the dwarf steam engine in Black
Fire Pass, they had received no word of the progression of the war, and for all
Grunwald knew, they were now in enemy territory, behind the Chaos lines sweeping
down from the icy north.
As they skirted the smouldering remains of yet another village, he made the
sign of Sigmar to ward off the Ruinous Powers. In silence they marched past a
massive pile of skulls arranged carefully one on top of another to form a
pyramid some fifteen feet in height. Each skull had been scorched in fire, and
was bereft of skin or hair, and a blue mark had been daubed onto the forehead—a stylised, wide, staring azure eye.
As they passed, a cloud of ravens and crows launched themselves from its
peak, cawing loudly as they began to circle around it, almost protectively.
Other groups of birds could be seen rising in the distance, circling “My clan is
fighting north of Bechafen,” said Thorrik. “And so that is where I go. I will
continue on to the north, with or without you.”
“And if there is nothing left of Bechafen?” snapped Karl.
“Then I will join my ancestors,” said Thorrik.
“If the Empire forces pulled back from the Ostermark, your clan would have
retreated with them,” said Grunwald.
“Aye, that is true, but we don’t know that Bechafen has fallen.”
“Look around you dwarf!” snapped Karl. “We have seen no life since leaving the foothills of
the mountains. Thirteen days and not a living human soul! And yet we have seen
what, a dozen villages and towns sacked by the enemy? Bechafen is over a hundred
miles to the north! If the enemy are laying waste to the land this far south,
Bechafen is no more.”
“Be that as it may, without solid proof that my clan is no longer there, that
is where I go.”
“Then you are a stubborn fool,” said Karl. “Bechafen is where my knights and
I were due as well, but to head on blindly is folly. We must seek the armies of
the Empire. I say we cut to the west and head towards Talabecland, or to the Stir.”
The dwarf did not respond.
“I too will head on to Bechafen with Thorrik,” said Annaliese, breaking the
tense silence.
“What?” said Karl. “Has everyone lost their sense?”
“Why would you wish to head there?” said Grunwald. The girl’s eyes were
clear, fearless and confident.
“Sigmar sent me to the north,” she said with a shrug. “And Bechafen is to the
north.”
“Karl speaks the truth, girl,” said Grunwald. “Bechafen is most likely no
more. The Reiksmarshal would surely have pulled back the forces of the north to
face the enemy on more favourable territory.”
“And give up this land that Sigmar united to the ravages of the enemy? This
land we stand upon is the Empire. It must not be handed over to the enemy
without a fight.”
“The fight has been going on here for centuries,” said Grunwald. “And it
would be folly to throw away the armies of the Empire in a fruitless war on
terrain already lost.”
“Surely running away like a dog with its tail between its legs will only
strengthen the foe,” said the girl, her eyes blazing with passion.
“You know nothing of what you speak,” said Grunwald, losing patience. “You
are a farm girl playing at war, but you know nothing of it. To go north blindly
will lead to nothing.”
“I’m sure the thousands who have already been killed in the Ostermark, their
villages destroyed, would be filled with pride to see the armies of the Empire
fleeing before the enemy,” said Annaliese scathingly.
“Villages can be rebuilt,” snapped Grunwald. “But if the Empire itself is
shattered, there will be nobody
to
rebuild them.”
A shout came from up ahead, interrupting the argument, and Grunwald swung his
gaze around to see the pale-skinned figure of Eldanair, his grey cloak whipping
around him, gesturing to the east. “I see nothing,” said Karl.
“Wait,” said Grunwald, shielding his eyes against the glare. “There,” he
said, seeing the flash of metal in the distance.
“I see it,” said Annaliese. “Riders?”
“Could be the enemy,” said Karl. At a shout from him, the Knights of the
Blazing Sun drew their weapons and formed up around the preceptor.
Closer the riders came, a group of around a dozen or so men riding in loose
formation. As they sighted the knights, they altered their direction and turned
towards them, cantering swiftly across the open ground.
Eldanair stood with an arrow nocked and readied, but as the horsemen drew
nearer Grunwald saw the tension leave his body, and his bowstring slacken.
“Outriders,” said Grunwald finally, relief in his voice.
They were young men bedecked in gleaming breastplates, plumes of feathers
bobbing from their conical helmets. They rode swift unarmoured steeds, and as
they drew near, the knights sheathed their swords. The young warriors wore
braces of expensive pistols over their torsos, and light cavalry sabres were
strapped at their sides. Their leader was a grizzled, bearded warrior who held a
strange, multi-barrelled handgun loosely in one hand, its ornate butt resting on
his thigh.
Karl stepped forward, his hand raised as the horsemen wheeled warily around
the motionless figure of Eldanair. They drew their steeds to a halt before the
preceptor.
“Hail, warriors of the Empire!” called Karl, and the leader of the horsemen
dismounted to greet him. He was a stocky man, and he nodded curtly to the
knight, still holding his ornate weapon in one hand. He seemed ungainly walking
on the ground—truly, he was more suited to life in the saddle.
“And to you, preceptor,” replied the warrior, his accent thick. “I am
surprised to see you here, in this forsaken land. The Raven Host controls the
Ostermark.”
“We travel from Kadrin,” replied Karl. “Seeking to join the templars
of the Blazing Sun in the north—the temple of Myrmidia in Bechafen.”
“Bechafen has fallen to the enemy,” replied the outrider grimly.
“The foe has crossed the Talabec, then?” asked Karl.
“It has,” replied the veteran outrider.
“And my brother templars?”
“They are falling back to Talabecland with the remainder of the armies of the
Ostermark. Our forces gather there in strength, at Zurin and Unterbaum.”
“Unterbaum… the foe has pushed so deep into the Empire?” Grunwald was aghast—things were clearly much worse than he would have predicted.
“Yes, witch hunter,” said the outrider, turning his gaze towards Grunwald.
His eyes flicked back towards Karl. “Your order are amongst the last to leave
the Ostermark they are part of the army not a day’s march from here to the
west.”