Contents
I The Pieces move
II Hostile Encounters
III Trapped
IV Escape
V Salvation
VI Unfinished Business

Part I
The Pieces move

Heinrich Voltz sat huddled under his grey winter blanket, his back resting against the wall of an old barn. Both his arms and legs still ached from the forced march of the last two days. He yarned and slowly stretched himself out of his slumber.

As he opened his eyes the sunlight of the new dawn shone from the glittering puddles of water that covered the cobblestone courtyard of the Manor house. The brightness of the sun light made him flinch. It had been a restless night for the men of his regiment and Heinrich wished he was back warm and dry in his own bed.

The storm had only abated a few hours earlier and everything was still waterlogged. Heinrich’s wet jacket stuck to his body like a second skin. His leather waistcoat and blanket had completely failed to keep out the rain. Heinrich shivered intensely and could feel the first signs of a fever. The young swordsman coughed before lifting the blanket back over his head. His vain attempt to escape reality and return to a state of slumber failed miserably.

His uniform was still only a couple of weeks old; yet it barely resembled the smart green and yellow tabard and troos he had been awarded upon completing his training. The knees and elbows of the uniform had already started to scuff and wear away. One of his knees even sported a patch that he had cut from his grey blanket. The proud green and yellow slashes of his uniform had faded to a degree where they simply appeared as different shades of brown.

During his swift induction to campaign life Heinrich had acquired a studded leather waistcoat at his own expense. The State of Stirland suffered from a severe lack of wealth, which meant that very few men were lucky enough to obtain a breastplate or any form of armour from the Quartermaster General. Many soldiers had to make do with what they scavenged for themselves as spoils of war.

Heinrich had, like countless others who enlisted into the Stirland State Army, been required to attain much of his equipment personally. Along with his studded leather jacket he had bought his huge, now waterlogged, blanket, a sturdy leather backpack, lantern, flint, polish, sowing kit, whetstone, skull cap and spare socks.

The soldier lamented upon spending a whole gold crown on the ravens skull he now wore on a brittle silver chain around his neck. The priest of Morr had promised that it would provide protection for evil spirits. Heinrich just hoped it would prove adequate protection against Sylvanias invading armies.

Huddled under the heavy blanket Heinrich thumbed his, now almost empty, money pouch. He had spent almost all of the six gold crowns he had received upon completing training. Most he had paid straight back to the hand of the Quartermaster General as payment for the equipment he needed. Had he been duped to sign up by the promise of six gold crowns? The simple answer to that was yes.

He had three copper coins left to last him until the next pay packet arrived from Wurtbad. With the State now in open war with the Undead, Heinrich would soon find out how far away that eagerly awaited day actually was.

The recruit frowned as he remembered the smile on the face of the Quartermaster General. He had handed back four of his six gold crowns as soon as he had received them. It was a common ploy by the Stirland Army. In this way it recouped much of its expended funds. The gold coins could then be offered to the next lucky recruit.

It was not like an enlisted man could refuse to buy this ‘vital’ equipment from the army stores. Attending the Regiments’ morning assembly with an incomplete kit was the fastest way to be flogged and thrown into the stockade.

After spending many water soaked nights feeling quite aggrieved by the situation, Heinrich had decided to accept his lot in life. The young recruit had come to realise that he was actually far luckier than many of men who served in Stirland’s Army.

As a cadet he had excelled during his training and as a result had been hand picked into the 14th Regiment of foot. The 14th was unit of swordsmen known across the Old World as the Iron Skulls.

The ‘Iron Skulls’ were unlike many other regiments in service. With the Scarlet Guard Halberdiers and Count’s Greatswords aside, very few others were so well maintained. Low morale was almost unknown even during times of dire peril.

All of this was down to the Units Commander, Baron Mikel Von Schroeder. The Baron personally supplied his swordsmen with their uniforms, shields and side arms.

Such actions did much to endear Von Schroeder to his men. Many of the Barons’ peers knew that he had inherited much debt along with his title. Despite years of campaigning and plunder he was not a rich man, even by the lowly standards of Stirland.

Baron Von Schroeder’s regiment were considered quite a rarity among the units that made up the core of Stirland’s armed forces for other reasons, beyond that of the quality of their equipment.

Many of the existing state regiments were armed with either half-pike spears or halberds. These units were much cheaper to equip and maintain than a unit of swordsmen, thus proving less of a demand upon the States already overstretched economy. Further more it was much easier to train the under-educated masses of rural Stirland in the ordered drill used by such units.

Swordsmen needed to be skilled fencers and were often romantic figures that hailed from the urban centres of a province. A recruiting ground that was very uncommon in the agricultural heartlands of the empire.

The regiment was further distinguished by the dark red kite shaped shields that they carried into battle. Each of the shields sported a skull motif that had been carved out of bone by craftsmen in Wurtbad. Despite all of his bellyaching, Heinrich was proud to be a member of such a renowned regiment.

Heinrich eventually forced himself to stand up and look for food. He shook the water from his blanket as best he could. It was then folded tightly and tucked through his belts so that it came to rest on his left hip. He ran his hand backwards through his short blond hair, flicking the water from it as he looked around.

Other swordsmen flittered around the courtyard of the walled manor house. The smell of breakfast was already in the air and the young recruit’s empty stomach ached in anticipation of his first proper meal in days.

Opening his backpack, Heinrich reached inside and fumbled enthusiastically for his tin dish and fork. Feeling his way through the many items that he had managed to stuff into his bag Heinrich was unaware of Corporal Steinman’s approach.

‘Not so fast soldier!’ barked the ill tempered Corporal. ‘Breakfast is for heroes Herr Voltz’

Heinrich’s head sagged and he let out a long sigh rather louder then he had intended. He looked up promptly to assess whether the Corporal had heard his protest. Unfortunately for the recruit he had, and a firm hand grabbed his shoulder and lifted him to his feet.

‘Seems to me that we have a slacker in our ranks’ announced the red faced corporal to no one in particular, but loud enough for everyone in the courtyard to hear.

To Heinrich’s relief no one seemed to acknowledge Steinman’s outburst and simply continued with their morning tasks.
‘My apologies corporal, I only…’ stammered Heinrich, only to be cut off in mid sentence.

‘Get you equipment in order!’ barked Steinman, ignoring the soldier’s futile defence. ‘I need volunteers for reconnaissance duty.’

‘Yes Sir!’ conceded Heinrich with a salute.

His tone came across dejected even through he had tried to cover the disappointment in his voice. It was best not to give the Corporal too many reasons to reprimand him. Over the Steinman’s shoulder he could see that the men of his company had raided the nearby Chicken coup and slaughtered a pot bellied pig.

Heinrich realised that he would miss out on a relative feast. The young swordsman was somewhat crestfallen as Corporal Steinman passed him half a ration of dried meat. Dejected Heinrich shoved the dubious looking supplies into his backpack. He was surprised that soldiers could be expected to survive on such poor quality food.

‘Beef jerky… again’ he conceded silently.

Heinrich followed the plump corporal across the courtyard with his head down. His concentration was fixed on cramming his personal effects back into his backpack while getting his other equipment in order.

His sword, shield, belts, hat, skull cap and back pack all had to be checked and straightened. Every few steps Heinrich looked up to find the corporal had out distanced him. The recruit had to brake into a jog to keep up with Steinman’s brisk pace every time he fell behind.

Corporal Steinman came to a sudden stop a few yards from the door of the farmhouse, where two other men were standing. The look on their faces told its own story. It was clear that they too had missed out on the luxury of a cooked breakfast. Heinrich still had his head down and had failed to notice that the corporal had stopped until the last possible moment. Looking up he saw the back of Steinman only inches from his face. Heinrich threw himself off balance in and attempt to avoid crashing into the ill tempered Corporal and instead fell into the mud at his feet.

‘Up! Clumsy Oaf’ Shouted Steinman with a sly kick to the young mans chest.

Heinrich stumbled to his feet as quickly as possible to avoid any further punishment. He took up position beside the other two men and stood to attention.

‘Muller… Schilbaden’ Boomed Steinman pointing at each man in turn.

‘Take this… Fool… with you and scout the road ahead as far as the Rohrwald Forest.

The Iron skulls will follow you as soon as we are reinforced by the rest of Von Schroeder’s column.’
Kurt Muller and Albrecht Schilbaden nodded as Steinman continued.

‘And keep your damn eyes open! Recent reports from local huntsmen have it that small groups of Undead have been raiding as far west as the river Steyr. If you see anything, report back here, to me, immediately. Stay focused and for Sigmar’s sake keep your wits about you… Ok!’

‘Yes Corporal’ the three soldiers answered in unison.

*****

ANTON VON HELMBURG adjusted himself in his saddle with a long winded yawn. His long exhale was more a show of his apathy than an indication of tiredness. He turned to face his second in command, Martin Keats, who had drawn his horse alongside his.

‘Sigmar damn the world, patrol… Again!’ snapped Anton in a tone of utter disgust.

‘Yes Anton, It would seem so’ answered Keats with a sarcastic smile etched as always across his face.

Anton raised his left eyebrow and sighed before continuing.

‘It’s no wonder that Stirland finds itself in such a sorry state!’ Anton paused and gestured to the landscape around him with his hand. ‘When her noble youth is wasted on such menial tasks as this… The sooner I win my bloody spurs as a knight the better for everyone involved… Eh Keats?’

‘Of course cousin, of course.’ agreed Keats, as disinterested with his relative’s constant rambling as ever.

Anton Von Helmburg was a rash young man even by the standards of an Imperial pistolier. He was well noted amongst his peers for his fiery temper and stubborn attitude.

As was the case with most pistoliers, Anton’s father had funded the young man’s armour, clothing, equipment and even his mount. What set him apart from the other young nobles was the sheer quality of the items he displayed about his person.

His family was one of the richest in all of Stirland and Anton made no effort to hide this fact. He wore a grand dark green fur lined coat with gold leaf detail. It had been imported all the way down the River Reik from the ports of Marenburg.

His armour had been crafted by the Dwarven smiths employed in Altdorf. The gold trim and design of the breastplate was a thing of wonder, especially for a man that hadn’t even gained his spurs as a knight.

Anton complemented his grand attire with a red felt riding cap. The hat sported huge swan feathers, which had been dyed many bright and extravagant colours.

The young Lord Von Helmburg looked every part the rich and powerful nobleman. Underneath he was nothing more than a spoilt brat.

He hated Stirland for what it was. A poor backwater province that struggled to hold onto any semblance of its former glories. He hated every man of Stirland. He hated the lazy peasantry and common folk whose ignorance had (in his eyes) perpetuated Stirland’s demise. Contempt for the masses was not a rarity among the aristocracy, however Anton also deeply despised the incompetent ruling class. Sigmar curse them all for failing to recognise his genius, his military prowess and his steadfast devotion to the Sigmarite faith.

In truth Anton did have considerable assets, despite his best efforts to undermine them with his attitude. He was as skilled a swordsman as could be found east of the River Stir. He had mastered the art of pistolier warfare, and had shaped his command of arrogant hot headed nobles into a formidable fighting force.

Unfortunately his over zealous devotion to himself and his own career had done much to hinder his advancement into a knightly order. Anton Von Helmburg could not see past his own greatness and for this he hated the world.

The fourteen pistoliers of Von Helmburg’s command remained stationary upon the Praager Strasse road for several minutes while their commander put the whole world to rights in an extensive and agitated tirade. Only when Keats interjected did Anton’s rambling come to a close to an end. Needless to say the commander’s deputy was submitted to a choice collection of Stirland’s more colourful insults for this interruption.

The unit of pistoliers eventually started down the road towards their destination at the canter. Anton Von Helmburg assumed the lead of the column with all the pomp and ceremony of Karl Franz himself.

The horsemen disappeared down the track towards the small hamlet of Gablitz that lay on the eastern fringe of the Rohrwald Forest. The rest of Baron Von Schroeder’s force was making its way down the same road from Tenneck. The bulk of his column was still miles away and by eleven o’clock that morning was still over half a days march from where Anton Von Helmburg’s Pistoliers had paused for breakfast.

THE THREE SWORDSMEN were ready with-in a matter of minutes and Corporal Steinman conducted a brief inspection of his men before they set out on the patrol.

The first man in the line up was the twenty-nine year-old Kurt Muller. This man was a rarity among the soldiers of the Iron skulls who were mostly slim and agile fencers. He was of broad build and one of the few men in the unit above 6 feet tall. He had dark hair and rough beard. He was equipped with an expensive looking breastplate that he had scavenged during his time with the regiment. Kurt had a strong northern accent and hailed from the region of Vorderbergen on the Ostermark border.

Next to the towering figure of Kurt Muller was the older form of Albrecht Schilbaden. He was of standard build and was originally from Stirland’s capital Wurtbad, although he had not set foot there for over a decade. He was one of the oldest men in the regiment at forty-seven. His beard was grey in parts and he wore a standard issue helmet that covered his balding head. He displayed a deep scar above his right eye, which he claimed was an old war wound. In actual fact he had been kicked in the head by a horse in his youth. As a result of this injury his speech was often slow and fragmented.

The third man in the line up of Steinman’s ‘volunteers’ was the most recent addition to the Iron Skulls Regiment. Heinrich Voltz was still only nineteen, but had distinguished himself as a militia man during a number of engagements around the Leithag Hills the year before. His recruitment into the Iron Skulls followed six months of training in Wurtbad. Heinrich was a skilled swordsman even by the standards of his renowned regiment. For reasons unknown to him he had somehow angered the regiment Drillmaster. Corporal Steinman seemed determined to destroy his self belief one way or another.

In actually fact the Drillmaster’s close attention was born out of the simple fact that Heinrich was the most recent member of the regiment. Corporal Steinman was an orthodox style of leader and always gave a fresh recruit the harshest of inductions into the Iron Skulls Regiment. In his eyes this ensured that by the time a recruit saw action they will have developed a ‘healthy fear’ of him. Steinman knew that if a recruit feared him enough, then they would follow his commands in the heat of battle without question. The rank and file of the Iron Skulls knew that it was better to die at the hands of the Empire’s enemies than to suffer his wrath after the battle had been won.

Steinman ran through the fine details of the reconnaissance mission with the three men for the second time. Heinrich however, found that he was unable to concentrate fully on the instructions reiterated by Steinman due to the ache in his empty stomach. His gaze shifted towards a number of men frying eggs off to his left. Steinman, who was quick to pounce on any minor indiscretion, noticed immediately that Heinrich’s mind was else where. He knocked the young man to his knees with a firm backhand and followed with an animated verbal assault. This time he managed successfully to draw the attention of every man in the courtyard.

During this distraction Kurt Muller, who was by all standards an extremely competent scavenger, put his skills to good use. Six eggs and several pounds of fresh bacon disappeared from under the nose of a regimental cook. The cook, like everyman in the courtyard, was too intent upon learning about the more interesting details of Heinrich’s lineage, to notice the missing food. Kurt was back in line and standing to attention when Steinman, turned again to address his scouts.

‘Like I said before keep your Sigmar cursed eyes on this one’ sneered the Corporal who proceeded to clip Heinrich around the ear.

‘He won’t be any trouble sir… I’ll vouch for him’ announced Kurt, much to Heinrich’s surprise.

Heinrich Voltz had found it very difficult to even speak to another enlisted man. Corporal Steinman’s constant close attention had made him quite an undesirable man to be associated with. The last few weeks he had felt like a Halfling in Wurtbad. Tolerated but despised. Perhaps now with Herr Muller’s backing he had started to be accepted by the other men.

The three soldiers set off under the watchful eye of Steinman. Passing under the arched gateway the led out of the courtyard. Heinrich turned to Kurt and thanked him for stepping in on his behalf.

‘Well it had to be done lad’ answered the gruff swordsmen. ‘Besides I kind of owe you one’

‘For what?’ questioned Heinrich with a confused look on his face?

‘For our… breakfast son’ interjected Albrecht with a stutter. Kurt took the recruit’s puzzled expression as his cue to toss him an egg from his knapsack.

Heinrich caught it and smiled at the two older men. His stomach groaned in delight.

‘You took this while Steinman punished me didn’t you?’

‘No Heinrich’ replied Kurt ‘That would be stealing.’

STIENMAN’S VOLUNTEERS MADE a steady pace for the first eight leagues of their journey. Heinrich had at first struggled with the pace that the Iron Skulls marched. Albrecht noticed that the young man was hiding a limp during the regiments’ journey from Tenneck, but had said nothing. Despite the constant dull pain in his leg Heinrich conceded that the further he did march the less he seemed to notice it. The past few days had proven to be more of a problem than usual. The damp conditions, caused by an almost continuous down pour, seemed to aggravate the wound terribly. At least today the good weather seemed to be holding, thought Heinrich.

Heinrich Voltz had received the wound behind his left knee during his first ever engagement. A zombie had grabbed him by the leg, only to have its arm severed at the elbow. Unfortunately for Heinrich the animated claws of the undead creature continued to close its grip on his limb. Blinded by adrenaline and the heat of battle he had not noticed this until the fight was over. Only the medical skill of his Bretonian colleague Cedric had saved his leg.

‘An… old wound’ stated Albrecht nodding towards Heinrich left leg.

Voltz nodded and continued on. He felt slight embarrassment that his limp had been noticed. The men walked down the road in silence for a few more steps.

‘Vinegar, silkweed and wool!’ exclaimed the older man.

‘I don’t understand’ replied Heinrich looking to Kurt for further explanation.

‘He’s right lad… as always. I used a clump of wool soaked in vinegar and silkweed when I broke me foot. Still use it now on wet days such as this. It lessens the pain and stops it tightening up.’

Albrecht passed Heinrich a leather pouch containing wool, linen and a small bottle of silkweed mixed with vinegar.
‘Keep it’ he added.

The men stopped a few minutes later, by the side of the road. They unburdened themselves of their equipment and prepared for breakfast between a number of large stone blocks. There were eight stones in total. All were about seven feet tall, broader and deeper than the base of a great Oak. The stones were set in a loose circle about thirty paces across. In the centre was a larger stone alter. The land of the Empire was littered by a number of such ancient monuments. Many were already ancient in the time of Sigmar himself. Heinrich was at a loss to their purpose, but was surprised when he felt a niggling feeling of something unnatural when he approached them. A strange burnt smell like that of ozone filled the air. The young man dismissed his concerns, putting them down to his overactive senses. Kurt and Albrecht seemed completely unfazed by the monument and Heinrich was comforted enough by this to enter the perimeter of stones.

Heinrich’s companions set about using the foreboding features as a wind block. They set a small fire in a matter of minutes. Kurt proceeded to fry the eggs and bacon he had commandeered from the regimental cook. The smell was like heaven to Heinrich, who had not eaten in what seemed like an eternity. He busied himself with rolling up the left leg of his trousers and applying Albrecht’s ointment to his wound.

‘By the blood of Khrone!’ exclaimed Kurt upon catching sight of the wound behind Heinrich’s knee.

‘It looks like you had a run in with a bloody Ogre!’

‘How did you?’ enquired Albrecht who had noticed the wound following Kurt’s outburst.

Heinrich explained about the night-time skirmish and the zombie that wanted to get to know him a little more intimately. The people of Stirland were well noted for their interest in stories and fables. Kurt and Albrecht listened on intently.

As he continued with his tale Heinrich finished wrapping the silkweed and vinegar soaked wool with the linen bandage and tied it off. Pulling his trouser leg down he proceeded to tuck it into his leg brace. The young man stretched his leg and then finished telling his story. He noticed that when he mentioned his Militia Captain. Alfred Marsdon, the two older men exchanged looks.

‘You know him don’t you’ asked Heinrich.

‘We know of him’ replied Kurt ‘He served with the Scarlet Guard Halberdiers’

‘When he wasn’t locked up in the stockade!’ Added Albrecht.

The three men laughed.

‘Yep that’s Alfred’ said Heinrich as he chuckled to himself.

‘He lost a leg at the Battle of Leithag Hills didn’t he?’ questioned Kurt, now quite interested in the recruit’s tale.

‘He did aye’ replied Heinrich looking down at his feet. Heinrich Voltz felt his heart sink a little when he thought of Alfred. The last time he has seen his old commander was when he was carried from the field of battle. A smile found its way back to Heinrich’s face and he began to chuckle again. He remembered vividly how the old man had fought with two young priests because they forgot to pick up the remnants of his leg.

‘So that’s what our Corporal Steinman has been complaining about lately’ sniggered Albrecht as Kurt continued to laugh. Seeing a look of confusion again descend on Heinrich’s face he answered the recruit unspoken question.

‘Our Corporal Steinman is married to old Alfred’s niece.’

‘And guess who he’s gone to live with, now he can’t look after himself.’ Added Kurt unable to hide his amusement at his corporal’s misfortune.

The men completed their meal in good sprits. Heinrich mopped up his bacon and eggs quickly with a piece of stale bread that he had been saving. Seeing a look of jealousy etched upon Albrecht’s face he quickly split it with his companions, much to the veterans’ gratitude. Kurt patted the young lad on the back and commented that he would fit in just fine.

‘Just don’t go getting yourself killed or anything daft like that lad’ he added.

‘Well I wouldn’t want to upset you now would I?’

‘Ha… wouldn’t want to see…a …grown man cry’ laughed Albrecht.

Kurt almost gagged on his food, surprised by the old mans quip. Spitting out the contains of his mouth he made an attempt to reply, but instead burst into laughter.

The men exchanged more war stories and tales of their home towns. Kurt added to the good humour when he offered around a flask of hot mead he had heated on the fire. When asked by Albrecht where he had ‘found’ it the Northerner simply shrugged. The soldiers drank it quickly, and then forced themselves up with stretches and protests. Once the fire had been put out and their kit secured the three men started off down the track towards their destination.

Most of the region they passed was populated by sporadic farmsteads with high walls and no windows on the lower levels. The buildings were designed like this all along the border with Sylvania. The high walls and out of reach windows turned the farms themselves into little fortresses when attacked. Even a small number of armed men defending such a building could have some hope of holding their assailants at bay.

The region of Eastern Stirland offered little quality. The dead soil made it difficult for a man to grow crops or keep any number of livestock. Stirland’s border with Sylvania offered little but the bleakest of lifestyles for its inhabitants. It often troubled more civilised folk why people still chose to make their homes here. The main reason was that due to harsh reality of the region, it was often overlooked by the Elector Counts’ over-zealous tax collectors. As a result people were able to sustain themselves well enough.

As the three companions continued on, they passed many such farmsteads, but did not encounter another living soul. The local residents had obviously been scared away. Very probably by the same travellers and refugees that Heinrich had seen more and more of during the last few days. In recent weeks the soldiers of Stirland’s Eastern army had encountered many such groups of displaced people. All had exaggerated tales of countless undead legions descending from the borders of Sylvania. Some prayed to Sigmar for their salvation while many more fled west with all the possessions they could carry.

It was only when the sun began to descend behind the hills to the west; the men noticed the movement of horsemen about a half a mile to the North. They were heading in a similar direction to Heinrich’s party. Kurt jogged off toward a ridge further north of the track. Despite taking a closer look he was still unsure as to the identity of the horsemen. Heinrich felt his stomach churn. He had witnessed Undead cavalry once before at the battle of Leithag Hills. The charge of the black knights had almost shattered the Imperial flank. Many had perished by their sword. The thought that the horsemen may have been Undead continued to plague Heinrich. Both Kurt and Albrecht held similar fears. The good mood of the scouts descended into one far more serious. The men felt alienated and alone. They spoke very little for the remainder of the day. Every step felt weighted, but they pushed on regardless.

THE ARMY OF EASTERN STIRLAND broke camp around the town of Tenneck an hour before sunrise and advanced towards the borders of Sylvania. The town awoke to find the fields around it deserted of the tents and men that had littered the landscape for almost a week. Most of the grass had been trodden to mud by the passage of the soldiers. It would be many days before Tenneck returned to any semblance of normality.

Baron Mikel Von Schroeder sat hunched on his huge black destrier. He had come to a halt by the side of the Praager Strasse road. Around him his entourage were busying themselves with the details of the coming campaign. Mounted messengers arrived and left frequently. Soldiers meandered past the command group in droves and it was clear that the Baron commanded a considerable force. Eight hundred state soldiers made up the elite core of his army. Archers from the Stir River patrol advanced at the head of the column. They were followed by units of spearmen and halberdiers that marched in ordered formations. A number of old war machines were dragged between the units by large oxen and were protected by handgunners from Wurtbad, who marched on their flanks.

The bulk of Von Schroeder’s command was made up by over one thousand militia who had answered the call to arms. These men marched in disorderly bands compared to the formations of the professional soldiers. They were equipped with a wide variety of weaponry that included old fashioned swords, half-pikes, axes, clubs and pistols. The very presence of so many irregulars gave the army an ad hoc, erratic feel. Priests of Sigmar and Morr walked up and down the line as the companies of men marched by. The preachers inspired the troops with tales of Sigmar and the heroic Count Martin. Groups of men slowed down when passing the warrior priests. Soldiers seemed intent upon hearing as much of their tales as was possible. In the East of Stirland, the whole landscape appeared to be in motion.

The army crested the summit of the hill where Von Schroeder sat and surveyed the terrain to his fore. The column then descended into the valley below like a living stream. A number of men upon recognising their General removed their hats and helmets to cheer to him as they past by. Mikel raised his hand in response and nodded. The soldiers cheered again and Stirland’s war cry could be heard from further down the line.

‘Victory or Death!’ was the chill call as it rippled down the column. Von Schroeder smiled. The men of Stirland had heart. Ill equipped and poorly supplied, yet they would march on in high spirits regardless of what foe they moved to engage.

The battle of Hel Fenn in 2154 demonstrated Stirland’s stubborn military resolve. A unit of state halberdiers held the line stoically against Manfred Von Carstein’s undead onslaught. The heroic and costly stand bought the Imperial forces time to launch a decisive counter attack. The regiment was renamed the Scarlet Guard after the battle. Mainly due to the fact that almost every survivor was covered in head to toe in their own blood and that of the comrades. In honour of the terrible losses sustained by the regiment, its uniform was changed from the state colours of yellow and green to scarlet red. Von Schroeder knew that they would need every bit of the iron will demonstrated at Hel Fenn in the coming months.

The Baron Mikel Von Schroeder sat in his saddle awkwardly; he adjusted himself every few minutes in a vain attempt to find some comfort. He had been an officer of foot for most of his career and did not take kindly to horses. While his station as a Baron required that he ride, it was not uncommon to find him marching and fighting along side his troops. The Elector Count of Stirland, Albrech Haupt-Anderssen had scolded him a number of times for what he considered was unfitting behaviour. Upon their last meeting, in the chamber of war in Wurtbad, The Boy Count had advised Mikel;

‘You are a noble man sir. Best that you remember it!’

The Baron frowned as he remembered the confrontation. The young Elector Count held stern views upon how his subordinates should represent the State of Stirland. He had made it his personal crusade to raise Stirland up from the depths of the depression that had ravaged the land for generations. Von Schroeder had apologised to the Elector Count even though he did not share his views on what makes a good general. To Baron Mikel Von Schroeder honour and bravery were a general’s greatest assets. He knew that once the battle reached its climax he would be where he always was, on foot and fighting where the mêlée was most ferocious.

By night fall the Army of Eastern Stirland was still over twenty leagues from the encampment of the Iron Skull’s Swordsmen. Von Schroeder had sent his own regiment ahead of the main column two days earlier. He required a competent force to hold the advance of the undead incursion if it turned north-west towards Wurtbad. The Baron knew that the Iron Skulls could hold long enough for him to re-enforce them in strength, rather than having to rush blindly into the fray. Von Schroeder had every confidence in his swordsmen and their senior officer. In the Barons absence the 14th was commanded by Henri Frey, a notable Duellist from the northern town of Marburg. Frey was an acute tactician and an excellent fencer. His humble background as the son of a blacksmith had kept him from elevation into the pistoliers; however Von Schroeder had recognised his promise and tutored him from an early age. Now twenty-eight Henri Frey commanded the Iron Skulls more often than not.

II
Hostile Encounters

Heinrich, Kurt and Albrecht continued down the track until almost an hour after dark. Each man was unnerved and could feel something close by, as if stalking them. The trio kept an unspoken agreement that they would not make camp until they found adequate protection. Tales of the recent undead incursions in the area weighed heavy on Heinrich’s mind and gave further rise to his caution. The other men shared his concerns. Normally the white glow of Mannslieb, the greater moon, provided a comforting light for those unfortunate enough to travel the roads of the Empire after dark. Tonight however, it failed to relieve their apprehension. The scouts were all to aware that the lesser moon Morrslieb was higher in the sky than normal. This was often a sign that the ruinous powers were stirring in the land of Sigmar. As the night wore on the lesser moon appeared ever larger and more dominant than its twin.

The combined glow of the two moons illuminated the surrounding landscape under an eerie mystical glare. Even the most common of natural features like rocks, streams and clouds took on a menacing ghostly feel. The branches of trees appeared to reach out hungrily to tear at their clothes. The howl of the wind masked primitive mutterings and chanting just out of ear shot. A heavy mist had slowly crept into the land and now smothered the whole landscape. Each man scanned their surroundings anxiously; in the faint hope they would stumble across somewhere to escape the misery of the night. As the soldiers marched on, their legs became lost to sight. The unnatural sea of vapour seemed alive. Rising and falling like waves. Even at its most shallow point the living mist reached as high as the knee.

It was Albrecht that first noticed the small farmstead that rose from the barren landscape roughly seventy feet to his left of the track. Heinrich’s fear lifted for a moment, with the hope of salvation. As they moved closer to the buildings, the men fanned out slightly so that they were about six feet apart. They advanced without a sound until they were ten paces from the walled compound.

‘That’s far enough!’ challenged a voice from the gateway.

Heinrich almost jumped out of his skin.

‘We are state soldiers of Stirland and require shelter from this accursed night… We mean you no harm’ answered Kurt with his hands now raised. He advanced slowly towards the gate.

‘I said that’s far enough! Hold fast damn you!’

Kurt paused. And glanced to his side to see both Heinrich and Albrecht crouched with their shields raised and swords in hand. Albrecht looked to Kurt and shook his head.

‘We have marched from Tenneck and require rest’ the lofty northerner responded.

Kurt listened intently for a reply, but none came for well over a minute. He made a move to step forward but heard a distinctive click.

Kurt threw himself to the ground, as the loud crack of a firearm thundered through the silence of the night. Albrecht instinctively sprinted for the gateway to close the gap before the gunner could re-load. Heinrich followed suit and chased the veteran towards the gate.

Another click. Albrecht lurched to the side and raised his shield as the gun again exploded. Heinrich saw the flash of the gun barrel to the side of the open gate. He led with his shield and smashed it into the waiting man’s face. The man lurched backwards and fell to the ground holding his bloody features. Heinrich levelled his blade to the man’s neck.

‘Yield!’ he demanded sternly.

The man lay still, but refused to let go of the smoking pistols he held in his hands.

‘What in Sigmar’s name is this?’ Demanded a voice to Heinrich’s left.

Heinrich Voltz turned slightly so that he could observe who had addressed him. In the darkness he saw a figure emerge from the door of the main farm building. The man on the ground attempted to get up but realised that the swordsmen’s blade had not yet been withdrawn. Heinrich looked down and shook his head.

‘Release my trooper… Now!’ ordered the man as he cautiously approached the gate way.

Three more men filed out of the farm house. They held their ground following a hand gesture from the first man. The authority of his demeanour told Heinrich instantly that this was the leader of the group. An awkward standoff ensued.

Heinrich held his sword firm and eyed the commander vigilantly. Under his gaze, the man paced carefully into view. A torch on the eastern wall of the courtyard now illuminated him. From his armour and attire Heinrich identified that he was a young nobleman, a pistolier perhaps. As the gentleman turned to face Heinrich, he saw the brace of pistols hanging from his right shoulder.

‘Stand back sir’ answered Heinrich. ‘Or you will lose your trooper’

‘And what then?’ replied the pistolier following Heinrich’s gaze down to the prone man lying at his feet.

Heinrich clenched his sword tighter. The pistolier could see that the cornered man was running out of options. The pistolier took a step back attempting to ease the tension.

KURT PICKED HIMSELF up from the ground. The side of his head sang with pain and he felt blood running freely down his face. Fighting to his knees he felt as though he might choke. The mist had consumed him as he fell and now his nose stung with its arid rotten stench. Regaining his senses he fought to open a large pouch on the side of his belt. Kurt then proceeded to pull out a white silken scarf. Undoubtedly this was yet another item he had ‘acquired’ on his travels. Tearing a strip form it he rapped it tightly around his head and tied it off.

Looking up the tall northerner could see Albrecht crouched with his back against the wall of the farmstead sword and shield in hand. Kurt shrugged off his over-loaded pack and reached for his shield that lay on the ground beside him. The swordsman slowly drew his blade and crept over to the veteran. As he approached the farmstead Kurt could make out voices. One of them was clearly Heinrich’s

‘Put you sword down!’ demanded the other voice.

‘What so that you can shoot at me again? Your man here opened fire without due cause.’ Heinrich tapped his sword on the prone mans chest.

‘An unfortunate mistake I assure you’

‘It was no mistake sir. We introduced ourselves clearly and this…’ Heinrich paused as he realised is mistake.

The only man who knew that he was not alone was the bloodied pistolier at his feet. With a sword resting against his throat he was unlikely to risk sharing this information with his comrades.

Kurt banged his head against the wall as he heard Heinrich’s slip.

‘Sigmar’s Balls!’ he blurted, as he realised they would soon be discovered.

He was about to make a run for it when something caught his eye.

‘So there are more of you then’ questioned the pistolier as he looked through the small gap between the half closed gate and archway. He couldn’t see anything through the mist and darkness.

‘There were… Yes’ answered the young swordsman looking down towards the man at his feet.

‘And where are they now?’ asked the pistolier. He had already guessed that the gun shots that woke him had very probably claimed the soldier’s companions.

‘That all depends on how good a shot this bastard actually is?’ Heinrich felt an overwhelming desire to plunge his sword into the man’s chest.

The situation inside the court yard was quickly heading towards an inevitable and bloody climax. Before the state of affairs had time to escalate any further a heavy clatter broke the strained silence. The gate behind Heinrich burst fully open. Two more swordsmen tumbled in. For a second the four pistoliers stood in stunned silence. To their surprise, the two intruders paid them no attention, but proceeded to turn quickly and shove the heavy gate closed. A deep thud sounded as it was slammed shut and then another, as the cumbersome wooden latch was crudely dropped into place.

Kurt turned and slouched back against the gate, letting out a sigh of relief as he did so. As he opened his eyes he could see that everyone was staring at him and Albrecht. Their mouths were open. A look of confusion was etched on the face of each individual. Kurt answered the silent questions with one word that resonated terror the moment it left his mouth.

‘Undead!’ he cried.

All was motion. Heinrich lifted his sword and allowed the pistolier at his feet to rise and stumble over to his companions. The Commander of the pistoliers clicked the fingers of his right hand twice and pointed to a first floor window of the farmhouse. The window over looked the surrounding fields from the direction of the gateway. Two of his men darted inside. Heinrich could hear them climb the stairs frantically. “Undead!” one of the pistoliers confirmed from the open window.

Heinrich thrust his sword into the ground.

‘Truce?’ he asked as he stepped forward offering the young nobleman his hand.

‘Truce’ confirmed the pistolier with a nod.

The swordsman left his hand outstretched for the nobleman to accept. Heinrich conceded to himself that the pistolier would find it difficult to look beyond class differences and simply accept the hand of a commoner. Looking into the man’s eyes Heinrich could see that the noble was weighing him up. He started to withdraw his hand. To his surprise the nobleman then reached to accept it, as if he had just reached a conclusion about the young man.

‘I am Martin Keats’ the nobleman added in eloquent Reikspell.

Heinrich introduced himself and the noble nodded again. Then with a bow he moved off to see to his blooded comrade. As far as Heinrich could see the pistolier was ok, despite a few missing teeth and a fat lip. Not that he cared anyway. ‘Stupid son of a whore’ he thought.

‘Should have stabbed the fool’ advised Kurt following the young lads gaze over to the wounded pistolier.

Seeing a look of concern on the recruit’s face he added

‘I wouldn’t worry about him, I doubt he’s got the balls for vengeance’.

Heinrich did not reply. It was not the pistolier that worried him. He could feel the slow methodical approach of the dead. The Undead had haunted his dreams since his first encounter with them and now they stalked him once more. He turned emotionlessly and picked up his sword. Feeling his impending doom approach, Heinrich sought to clear his mind before the coming fight. He loosened his shoulders with a shake and cracked his neck. He noticed his mouth was dry, but he dismissed the thought instantly.

An explosive crack of a pistol broke the silence, then another. The pistoliers in the farm house had started to pick off the approaching Undead. They must be close now, to be in pistol range thought Heinrich. His whole world shrank. It was just him and the gate in front of him. This was where the assault would come. The eight foot high walls that surrounded the small courtyard were sturdy enough to withstand an attack, but the wooden gate would eventually fall.

Heinrich was so focused that he failed to notice that the pistolier commander and two of his men had taken up position on his left hand side. Kurt and Albrecht were already on his right. One of the pistoliers spat blood and a tooth onto the floor in-front of him, then shot Heinrich an angry look. Kurt eyed him sternly. Despite what he had said to Heinrich, he knew that the young man would be a problem. There was no way that an arrogant young nobleman would accept such a beating from a commoner. Kurt had seen soldiers hung for less during times of open war. The livid expression that was engraved across the youth’s pox covered face spoke volumes. Kurt knew that he and his comrades would have their necks stretched for certain if he was to survive the night.

‘How close are they now?’ Keats shouted to his men on the first floor.

‘About ten feet sir, but they appear to have stopped’.

‘Wonder what they are waiting for’ mused Heinrich out load. No one replied.

Kurt knelt for a moment and offered a prayer to Sigmar. The other men reiterated his words. Keats thumbed a small golden hammer that he wore on a chain around his neck. Time seemed to stretch into minutes and still nothing happened save for the occasional crack of pistol fire from the first floor of the farmhouse. Keats again asked as to the situation. One of the Pistoliers by the name of Josef began relaying what he saw to his commander.

‘We have hostile forces to the south and east, can’t make out their numbers Sir, but its safe to say its in the hundreds. I can see more movement along the road heading east. They don’t seem interested in us. And Sir’

‘Yes Josef’

‘They are… well… dressed like us. I mean in Stirland state colours. A lot of peasant attire mixed in, but large numbers of ours. It looks like Gablitz has fallen Sir.’

‘May Morr preserve our souls’ said Keats. He looked pale and for the first time a little unnerved.

Heinrich had followed enough of Steinman’s orders that morning to understand that Von Schroeder’s force was marching east to join up with the regiments stationed at Gablitz. Regiments routed from Sylvania the year before had rallied there and refitted for the coming campaign. Over two thousand men at arms and an even larger number of civilians had resided there for the winter. If that force had fallen and the poor souls had been raised from their grave to join the undead army. Sigmar alone knew the sheer size of force that passed only yards from the gates of the small farmstead. Heinrich felt like the courtyard had shrunk in size. The farmstead now seemed a feeble defence against such a force.

A LONE FIGURE STOOD on the grass verge and peered out into the gloom of the night. Raphael Vigee-Lebrun had emerged into the darkness leaving the corpse of his last meal in his carriage. He stood for a moment in a trance his left hand twitching ever so slightly. The rush of strength he derived from feeding left him like this for a short time afterward. Slowly Raphael’s eyes opened as the initial ecstasy of the blood rush subsided. His hearing and vision came back to him and he realised he was now outside.

It was often the case after feeding that things became vague. Images came back to him slowly at first in waves. Then as his thoughts and memories became stronger Raphael dropped to his knees. The rush of information consumed him quickly. He now remembered clearly how the girl had at first struggled against his embrace. He had toyed with her for a while as he often did, leaving the possibility of escape open to her. Then as the charade became tedious and the hunger took him, he bit deep into her neck. His grip had slackened as her struggling ceased. She surrendered herself completely as the pleasure mortals derived from the embrace consumed her totally. Raphael had lost himself to the blood lust and she had died with a smile on her face.

Although he had not intended to drain the peasant girl completely, he did not feel pity at her passing. There were plenty more pretty young girls to be found in Stirland anyway. He paid her no further thought as his burley manservant Lucan dragged her body from the carriage and dumped it by the side of the road. Her eyes stared skywards in a vacant expression of pleasure, Lucan closed them gently with his hand. His master stood and looked out into the night like he had just that second realised he was outside. Surveying the darkness Raphael watched for a moment as the undead masses made their disorganised advance over the surrounding fields. A smile found its way to his normally expressionless face, as animated corpses in the green and yellow of Stirland’s state troops moved passed him.

So far everything had gone to plan. All the preparation and intrigue that had consumed much of his long life had come to fruition in the last few years. Sylvania had taken a lot of time and effort to secure. The time constraints of such a venture were of no consequence. The arisen did not concern themselves with such mortal concepts as the passage of time. The exertion that such grand plans required would have driven even an educated and focused man insane. Raphael Vigee-Lebrun was much more than that. Unlife had given him the time and inclination to look beyond short term goals and focus himself completely on his aim.

Complex and multi layered webs of intrigue had been woven by Raphael and his siblings. They had set rival blood lines against each other to weaken and fragment the fragile network of alliances that characterised the hierarchy of the arisen. Once undermined these families had either joined his venture or perished. In time even the Council had fallen under his influence. There were those more independent groups that could not be brought under his direct control. This did not concern him however, the truces and agreements he had put in place would keep them from interfering. At least until he was in a position to remove such nuisances.

The mortal ruling classes of Sylvania had for the most part been bought with gold and promises of immortality. Its militia force had been infiltrated and rendered ineffectual by the time he staked his claim. Raphael had bathed in the blood Sylvania’s aristocracy in an orgy of death he had thought beyond one so cultured. As he remembered the details of the blood letting he felt the darkness inside revel in the most gruesome of details. He did not realise he was still smiling.

Gablitz had been infiltrated by his sister Rosalind years earlier and the residing burgomiester Victor Von Richter had fallen under her control in a matter of months. Despite being reinforced by the mortals fleeing form Sylvania the town had proven vulnerable and unprepared when assaulted. Raphael still felt a little annoyed with his little sister. She had protected Victor when the undead force has sacked the town . Now the displaced burgomiester acted like he belonged in the presence of the arisen. The man had enough wits about him never to stray to far from his protector’s side. Rosalind’s main weakness had always been with the bonds she formed with her pets. The annoying little man was starting to irritate Raphael more than a mortal man should dare. Still he would not be the first pet of hers that he had disposed of. Raphael sighed. Victor would have to wait for the time being. He accepted that it would be wise to keep at least one of his siblings onside until the campaign for Stirland had ended.

With his thoughts already drifting over his siblings Raphael wondered as to the whereabouts of his brother. Claudius had disappeared following the fiasco of the previous year. The young Lord’s premature invasion of Stirland had ended in defeat at the Battle of Leithag Hills. He had gone into hiding soon afterwards. His failure was of no real consequence and Raphael knew he would forgive Claudius for this rashness. Whenever he decided to show his face that its. He was probably consoling himself in some back water town, by drinking its population dry.

Weak old Stirland had failed to heed the warnings of the previous year. His spies had reported that no grand alliances had been forged, or even messages requesting aid sent to neighbouring provinces. The Elector Count had failed to muster anywhere near enough troops to hold back the Undead force. Raphael no longer feared the Stirland Rune Fang like many of his predecessors had. Ever since Count Manfred Von Carstein had been cut down by the ancient blade at the battle of Hel Fenn, his race had feared the power of the sword. Raphael did not consider his self immune to the rune blade. He simply knew that the weapon was now wielded by a child. The Boy Count, Albrech Haupt-Anderssen, was not a warrior like Count Martin had been. Raphael had timed his invasion perfectly.

The Vampire was pulled from his thoughts of conquest by the crack of pistol fire. Lucan approached with his head bowed and answered his master unspoken question.

‘Pistoliers my liege. They have found shelter in a farmstead about half a league to the east’

‘How many Lucan?’ enquired Raphael tilting his head slightly to left

‘Not many milord, a hand full at most ’

‘Kill them’ he commanded softly before returning to the carriage.

‘Excellent my liege’.

III
Trapped

Keats walked to the stables briskly, returning moments later with a bundle of fire-arms. He distributed them amongst his troopers then tossed the remaining pistols to the swordsmen. He knew that they would need every fire-arm and round when the gate fell. Even more so if they were forced to shelter in the farmhouse. Heinrich pushed the pistol through the belt behind his back. The other swordsmen did likewise. Anticipation and fear filled the heart of each man. Heinrich hated this part of a battle. Once the fighting started he knew that he would rely on his instinct and reflexes. There would be no time to think or to fear. At that moment waiting for the inevitable Heinrich did not know which situation he preferred.

Almost half an hour had passed and still the Undead made no advance towards the gate. Pistol fire from the upper window had claimed a score of kills, however many more of the undying still remained. Just as Heinrich thought that the tension was too much to take a haunted groan filled the night. Heinrich felt a shiver run down his spine. Hundreds of broken voices joined the call until all those surrounding the farmstead were bellowing the cry of the Undead. Then as suddenly as it has started the call ended and was replaced by the sound of a hundred footsteps.

‘Here they come!’ cried Josef from the upper window. Fear filled his voice.

Moments later the gate braced itself inwards against the wooden latch. The iron hinges creaked in protest. Heinrich could smell the rotten flesh now and the stench made him retch. A splinter fell form the door after the weighted impact. Keats stepped forward calmly, levelled his pistol through the hole and fired. He repeated this several times until all his pistols had been discharged. He then moved behind the swordsmen and started to reload. His controlled and unhurried demeanour filled the men in the courtyard with confidence. It was clear that the man was a born leader and Heinrich found some comfort in that. The other two pistoliers stepped forward and repeated the actions of their commander. Their movements were not as confident as their commander, but their actions showed that they were at least competent pistoliers.

Another impact on the gate forced it inward, but still the barricade held firm. Heinrich felt useless as his heart pounded in his chest. He considered drawing the pistol Keats have given him and joining the others. After careful deliberation he decided not to. He would more than likely need it later. He knew he was just frustrated at not being able to influence that battle. He also knew that very soon he would be fighting like a madmen for his life. A third impact forced the hinges at the top of the gate to buckle. Slowly under the weight of those outside the gate tilted inwards and fell almost like the drawbridge of a castle. The men inside stepped back so as not to be crushed underneath, then sprang forward to block the gateway.

Kurt was the first to launch himself into the breach. Showing agility that belied one so broad. He swung both sword and shield wildly. Clattering the first creature through the gate to the ground and decapitating another.

‘Victory or Death!’ he bellowed as his sword smashed through the ribcage of a third corpse.

Kurt kicked it to the ground where it was crushed below the feet of its advancing companions. If the Undead felt any sort of fear from this display of brute force they showed no sign. Those armed with swords, clubs and pitch forks swung lazily, others tried to garb the swordsmen and pull him into the sea living death that the pushed on behind. Kurt kept them at bay with the wide arch of his sword.

Heinrich and Albrecht moved forward to support their comrade, striking from behind him at any of the Undead that made it past his flanks. The pistoliers all the while continued to pour their supporting fire into the mass of copses. Keats fired the last of his loaded pistols and tossed it into his left hand. Taking hold of the weapon by the barrel so as to use its heavy handle as a club. He then drew is sabre and advanced into the melee. The young noble fought with an elegance previously unseen by Heinrich. Even the most skilled fencers in his unit of duellists failed to match him for grace and killing prowess.

Still it was not enough. As Kurt began to tire more and more Undead found their way in behind him. The pistolier that Heinrich had bludgeoned earlier broke and ran for the safety of the farm house as four Undead got around the Northerner’s right hand side. Silently they moved to surround Albrecht who was forced back by their advance. The old man held one at bay with his shield and stabbed another through its empty eye socket. As the creature fell his sword became stuck and he lurched forward refusing to let go of the blade. Albrecht managed to keep his hold on the weapon, but was knocked from his feet by a clumsy blow that tore deep into his exposed side. The old man attempted to role clear but was quickly set upon. His last gargled words were for his wife and family before his life was ripped brutally from him. More Undead now moved through the gap in the soldier’s defence.

‘Fallback!’ cried Keats seeing that they would soon be over-run.

In the centre Kurt and Keats fought their way back to the farmhouse one step at a time. Heinrich however, had been pushed back to the far wall near the stables. He and the remaining pistolier now fought back to back. The way to the farm house was still clear, but time was running out. Heinrich’s arms ached. He held his shield high as he had been trained to do and stabbed from behind it time and time again.

‘Now!’ shouted the pistolier and both men turned and ran for the open doorway.

Kurt and Keats still fought frantically to keep the Undead from it. Heinrich was only meters from safety when the pistolier fell. One of the pursuing Undead tripped him with a lunging blow, struggling to his feet he cried out in pain as his leg was torn open by a rusted blade. The cry of pain stopped Heinrich in his tracks.

Turning around he saw the pistolier lying on his stomach, arm outstretch, a pleading look on his face. Before he knew what was happening Heinrich found himself running back to the fallen man. ‘What in Sigmar’s name are you doing’ cried the voice inside his head. Heinrich had no answer as he reached the pistolier. Swinging his sword in a figure eight Heinrich sliced the undead creature’s gullet, stomach and legs. The creature fell back over the prone pistolier. Heinrich turned the man around into the sitting position. He grabbed a leather strap that held his breastplate in place and hauled him towards the doorway. Sweat glistened on the young swordsmen’s forehead as he struggled with the armoured man’s weight.

More creatures moved towards the two men. The pistolier drew two pistols and fired them both at the leading zombies. Only one fell from the impact of the hit. The other creatures closed in and swept over him. Heinrich dropped the pistolier that now battled frantically for his life and swung his blade recklessly into the pursuing group. Heinrich fought for his life against the teeming mass of bodies packed around him. His shield was torn from his arm and he almost lost his footing as more of the Undead poured into the courtyard. Despite their best efforts Kurt and Keats were forced back through the doorway of the farmhouse. Kurt’s cursing could be heard over the sound of battle as door slammed shut. The young swordsmen knew he was cut off now and alone.

Heinrich backed away towards the stables. In the few rare moments that he wasn’t desperately parrying enemy blows, he glanced around for the fallen Pistolier. His screams had ended in a high pitched wail and Heinrich knew then that he had perished. He could feel his courage and strength draining from him. The courtyard was now filled with the Undead and all their attention seemed to have turned on him.

He stepped back expecting the cold touch of the stonewall behind him, but it never came. Instead he fell back through the stable doorway as it opened under his weight. Heinrich kicked his legs out hysterically as the leading creature fell to its knees and attempted to bite into him. He caught it square in the face with his boot. The rotten corpse rolled clear of the doorway with its head hanging loose at the shoulders. With the last ounce of strength left in him the young recruit launched his body weight against the door. It slammed shut with a heavy bang. He fumbled for the iron bolt and succeeded in ramming it home. Sitting with his back to the wall he fought to regain his breath.

‘Too close’ He gasped.

NSIDE THE FARMHOUSE Kurt was pressed up against the wall with Keats’ hand firmly against his chest. Anger and adrenaline coursed through his veins. The burly northerner had had to be wrestled from the door when it had been slammed shut. He was all for charging out into the night to die beside the last of his comrades.

‘For the love of Sigmar!’ boomed Keats in a commanding tone. ‘There is nothing more to be done.’

‘I will not leave my friends to be… eaten. It’s not right.’

‘They are gone man’ interjected the pistolier Lucius Weiss, the same pistolier that had shot at him earlier.

Blood still ran freely from the wound to his head. It was all Kurt could do to refrain himself from running the arrogant hot-head through with is blade.

‘No thanks to you…. Coward.’ Spat Kurt. The pistolier fumbled for his pistol. A glance from Keats stayed his hand. He turned to face the swordsmen.

‘You forget yourself sir.’ Kurt tried to interrupt, but Keats continued ‘Do not pretend to forget you are amongst your betters here. I understand your grief and anger. You are not the only one here to lose a comrade. I grew up with Stefan and served with him on many campaigns. And he lies out there too.’

‘Don’t you forget my friend died trying to save him. Even after he had been shot at by your company.’ Kurt’s murderous gaze shifted towards Lucius Weiss. Keats interjected again hoping to ease the tension.

‘And may Sigmar preserve his sole for it. He died a true hero. We must honour him yes, but not by throwing away our own lives in some reckless action.’

Keats could see that his words were starting to get through to the enraged swordsmen.

‘We must honour him by taking as many of those foul abominations to the grave with us. The longer we all stay alive the more of them we can kill. Agreed?’ Keats offered his hand to seal the pact. Kurt’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated the nobleman’s words.

‘Agreed’ conceded Kurt after a few tense moments. He took the commander’s hand and nodded. His gaze shifted back to the other pistolier. ‘You’ll keep’ he added before grabbing the side of an oak table and dragging it towards the locked door. Keats moved over to help him.

IT WAS DARK INSIDE the stables. The only light came from a lantern at the far end of the long corridor. Either side of this passage were a number of stalls where the pistolier’s horses and livestock from the farmstead had been sheltered. The animals were noticeably spooked by the presence of the Undead outside. The horse in the nearest stall kicked and whined constantly. Heinrich lifted himself to his feet tentatively. He still bled from a dozen minor cuts that he hadn’t noticed until know. He jumped as the main door to the stables thudded. Evidently the Undead wanted to finish what they had started. Heinrich shivered excessively and not from the cold.

Looking up Heinrich could just about see the wooden beams holding up the thatched roof. The soldier quickly surmised that his most likely escape route would have to be through the roof. If he could make it up there perhaps he could drag himself through the thatch and around the walls toward the farmhouse. It would not be the most enjoyable journey he had ever made, but Heinrich knew that the stable door would not hold forever.

He walked gingerly past the first stalls. The spooked horse kicked out at the gate as he passed and it clattered loudly. Heinrich instinctively cowered from the impact. Looking up he saw the horse rearing up again. In the red torch light the startled horse took on a demonic appearance. Heinrich hurried past. The other horses and livestock also reacted nervously to his passing. In the last stall to his left a large cart-horse lay on the ground. Its flanks glistened with sweat and foam covered its mouth. Heinrich could see that it was no longer breathing. Poor thing probably died from fear he concluded.

‘I know exactly how you feel’ he said silently. Heinrich made the sign of the hammer across this chest.

From the far end of the stables Heinrich could hear the door creaking on its hinges as wood splintered from it. ‘Move’ he told himself. He sheathed his sword quickly and bounded up onto the gate of the stall. The animal in the neighbouring stall kicked and groaned nervously. Heinrich kept his focus on climbing. Balancing with his feet on the highest run of the gate he stretched as far as he could. The very tip of his index finger brushed one the beams, but it was too high to gain any sort of a grip. At that moment the door to the stables exploded open and a wave of Undead burst in. Heinrich instinctively jumped for the thick wooden beam and was rewarded with firm grip. He dangled there precariously for a few moments while fighting to swing his other arm up. He knew that the Undead were closing on him. Praying to Sigmar for extra strength he pulled himself up so that one of his arms wrapped around over beam.

‘Sigmar deliver me from evil!’ he cried as his body ached in protest.

Another loud bang announced an unexpected development. The gate of the first stall burst open and the frightened stead inside crashed out, thrashing a biting its way through the Undead in a fit of terror. Broken bodies few to the ground and were trampled under foot. The much needed diversion allowed the young swordsmen time to swing his legs up and lift himself to safety. His prayers had been answered and he thanked Sigmar from the bottom of his pounding heart.

KEATS STOOD STOICALLY next to the barricaded door as it shuddered from another impact. All the furniture from the down stairs room had been packed against the only entrance. For the time being it was holding firm. Next to him stood Kurt. He chewed a piece of jerky in one side of his mouth and glanced towards the staircase frequently. Martin Keats had sent Lucius Weiss to replace Josef and the young squire Karl von Hoffenberg upstairs. He was concerned that the two pistoliers on the first floor were expending too much ammunition as they peppered the sea of Undead below. He knew that it would not be wise for them to expend all their ammunition now.

Martin Keats had other reasons for redeploying his men, outside of any tactical considerations he may have had. He wanted to keep as much space between Lucius and the giant swordsman as possible. It had been all he could do to prevent them from tearing each other apart earlier. From the display of brute strength shown by Kurt during the battle for the gateway, he was under no illusions as to who the victor of that encounter would be.

He understood the Swordsmen’s anger. He still sported a wound on his forehead that had been inflicted by the young noble. His older friend had fallen soon after Lucius Weiss had vanished from the court yard. Secretly he too blamed Lucius for the turn of events in the courtyard. Keats was under no illusions. He knew that the gateway would have fallen sooner or later, but he couldn’t help feeling Weiss’ actions had exacerbated the situation. Two of the swordsmen were dead, his good friend Stephan was dead and he was trapped like a rat in a drain pipe with only a hand full of men.

‘If only Anton were here.’ He found himself thinking.

True he could hardly stand being near his younger more arrogant cousin. But Anton always had some harebrained idea to get himself out of situations like this. They had split up following a run in with a pack of dire wolves earlier that day. Keats held no concerns over his cousin’s wellbeing. Anton would be ok. He always was. Keats also knew that his current situation was dire. Two men had been killed during that first encounter with the wolves and now Stefan was dead. His men obviously knew that they had little chance of escape. Josef was uncharacteristically quite and the Young Squire was pacing again. Still, for the time being they were still alive.

Josef had said very little since coming down stairs and simply busied himself cleaning and reloading his fire arms. He sat at the table that made up part of the barricade across the door. He appeared completely unconcerned about the Undead outside only yards from him. His hand was steady and he did not flinch like the young squire did, whenever the door shuddered. Von Hoffenberg paced anxiously behind him. He held a repeater pistol in his right hand and nervously clicked the hammer of the pistol from home, to primed and back again. He made a conscious effort to avoid eye contact with the other men, all of whom were much older than he. While upstairs he had continued to load and fire is sidearm’s without much thought. Inactivity only fuelled his fears. The endless groaning of the Undead outside did nothing to comfort him.

‘For Sigmar’s sake! Stop that infernal clicking’ barked Josef.

For the first time distracted from his routine. The Squire stopped his pacing and glanced down. Without responding he pulled out the chair next to the other pistolier and sat down. He placed the pistol in the table in front of him and stared vacantly towards the doorway. Keats moved around the table a put a hand on the younger mans shoulder. The squire said nothing.

HEINRICH PULLED HIMSELF up through the gap he had created in the thatch of the stable roof. He had discarded much of his equipment in order to make his escape. He had had to remove his cumbersome leather jerkin to allow him the room to squeeze through the small hole. The swordsmen had questioned the intelligence of removing his only armour. After further thought he concluded that he could not sit forever balancing on the wooden beam. Fear had almost consumed him already. A few moments crouched helplessly above a sea of hungry re-animated corpses had helped to make his mind up. As he emerged fully into the night only Heinrich’s sword and pistol remained strapped to his main belt. His uniform sported a number of new tears, but Heinrich didn’t care. The wind cooled his reddened face. For a moment he forgot his surroundings and felt free.

Movement from over his left shoulder brought him back to reality. Heinrich climbed into a crouched position and drew his blade. Surely a zombie could not have been able to climb to the roof of the stables. Heinrich was quite athletic, despite the old wound on his leg that plagued him and he had struggled ascend to the roof. A gargled wail announced the presence of his new foe. A pail grey face emerged from the crest of the roof and Heinrich stepped back instinctively. The eyes that stared hungrily back at him were dark red and very much alive. The creature’s teeth were needle sharp and looked more like those of a wild cat from Araby than that of a man. Even that of an Undead man. A clawed hand gripped the edge of the thatch, then another. The beast then effortlessly lifted its hairless, emancipated form on to the roof.

‘Ghouls’ gasped the swordsmen ‘fantastic’

Zombies and Skeletons were bad enough, but ghouls terrified him. Living men driven mad by their thirst for human flesh and mutated beyond recognition by the dark powers. The Ghoul tilted its head to one side and grunted twice. Other grunts answered it from below. The creature started to round the swordsmen as the first of its companions clambered up. It came closer but remained outside of Heinrich’s reach. As the second ghoul found its footing Heinrich lunged towards the first. Sensing the swordsmen’s move the creature made to side step, but was caught high on its shoulder. The Ghoul rolled rapidly inside Heinrich’s guard and made to bite at his neck. Heinrich punched it hard in the face with his free hand. The Ghoul lost its footing on the roof top and disappeared into the darkness below.

A second ghoul jumped at Heinrich before he could recover his balance and pushed him flat on to his back. The swordsmen fought frantically to keep the ghoul’s snapping jaws from him. Its claws tore at his chest and bit deeply into his unprotected flesh. Holding the possessed creature at bay with his right arm, Heinrich fumbled for the pistol Keats gave him with the other. Seconds seemed like an eternity. He could feel the pistol digging into his back, but failed time and time again to grip the firearm. His strength began to wane. Heinrich brought his knee up sharply. The Ghoul grunted but held firm. His knee came up again and again. The creature’s hold loosened for but a second and Heinrich was able to seize the firearm.

‘Flesh!’ cried the ghoul in a rasping voice that empathised the sssh. It’s desperation to feed now very clear to the swordsmen. Drool dripped from its fangs. The smell of its breath alone was almost enough to incapacitate him.

‘Not my flesh’ gasped Heinrich pulling the pistol free ‘Eat this!’

He jammed the pistol into the ghoul’s open mouth breaking several of its sharp teeth in the process. Fire and lead exploded from the barrel. Heinrich held his breath as fragments of blood, bone and things he didn’t want to think about covered him. Gun power burnt and blacked his face. He lay still for a moment in shock. Then realisation descended upon him and he let out a long breath. Seconds latter he began to frantically wipe himself clean. The sleeves of his arms however, were as just as bloody and Heinrich only succeeded in spreading the filth further.

What was that?’ Blurted the Squire, as a sharp bang echoed through the night.

‘Weiss upstairs more than likely’ answered Josef still cleaning his pistol.

‘Can’t be. That was outside’ corrected Keats as Kurt bolted for the staircase.

‘Stay here’ ordered Keats as the other pistoliers made to stand up.

He turned and quickly followed the swordsmen. As Keats emerged onto the first floor landing he saw Kurt disappear into a doorway to his right. He pursued him quickly. Lucius Weiss stood at a window with is pistol levelled. Before Kurt could reach him he fired. The northerner pushed him firmly to one side as he ran to peer out of the window. Through the darkness he could make out Heinrich stood on the roof of the stables. His sword was drawn and the corpses of two ghouls lay about him. Others closed in around. Kurt shot a confused look at Lucius.

‘Looked like he needed help’ answered the nobleman in an arrogant tone.

Martin Keats knew Herman better than that. Despite how it may have appeared, the pistolier’s act was not one of charity. Lucius Weiss held grudges longer than a dwarf. He obviously wanted to save the young swordsman for the gallows or simply to prolong his torment. Revenge was personal and Weiss evidently wanted a hand in Heinrich’s demise. Keats caught Lucius’eye as a smirk crossed the pistolier’s face.

Keats had no time to think about the twisted motives of his subordinate. Two more ghouls closed in on the stranded swordsmen. Martin Keats pulled two pistols from their holsters, aimed silently and downed the ghouls with perfect head shots. Both fell limply, like puppets that had just had their strings cut.

‘Move lad!’ shouted Kurt.

Heinrich glanced back and threw a thumbs up towards the window. He turned swiftly and ran across the stable roof. Reaching the end of the roof Heinrich dropped down a few feet and started tentatively along the high walls of the farmstead.

A ghoul rushed out of the darkness and across the rooftop after him. Before it drew close enough to strike it was caught in the small of the back by pistol ball. The creature dropped with a howl of pain and fell back into the night. Heinrich’s balance almost failed as the ghoul flashed past his right shoulder. The Undead packed into the courtyard below reached out their arms hungrily. Heinrich recovered enough of his composure to continue on. His knees trembled as he willed himself to put one foot in front of the other. The top of the wall was slightly curved and made it more difficult to keep his footing. Still he edged closer.

Heinrich was now only a few feet from the farmhouse. The closest window of the first floor would still take some effort to reach. It was a good arms length away to the left. It was also well above head height, even though he stood on the high wall of the farm stead. He could feel a hundred undead eyes upon him. Watch and waiting for him to slip and fall. Heinrich reached the wall of the farmhouse and stretched with his left hand. Kurt leaned out of the window and grabbed him firmly by the wrist. The young swordsman was lifted clean off the wall and dragged through the open widow. Kurt didn’t even strain while lifting the stranded man to safety. He collapsed into the shelter of the Farm house. Keats helped the Northerner move Heinrich over to the bed.

Heinrich sat on the edge of the bed with is head in his hands. He panted heavily. Kurt stood next to him and pattered his head softly. The northerner had a beaming smile etched on his battle-scared face. Like that of a proud father upon the birth of his son. Heinrich looked dreadful. The jacket of his uniform was covered in blood and gore. His face was blackened and burnt by gun powder. His blond hair was no longer blond, but had taken on a dark red-brown colour. He sported a number of minor cuts and bruises.

‘You look terrible’ chuckled Kurt, glad to have his comrade back by his side.

‘Never one for stating the obvious are you?’ smiled Heinrich.

‘Well mate, I suppose it’s understandable. I doubt most people look as good when they’ve been raised for the dead. You had no right to survive that you know. I Guess Old Sigmar’s been keeping his eye on you.’

‘Something like that.’ agreed the exhausted swordsman, before slipping back onto the bed.

Exhaustion reached out and grabbed him and he was asleep before his head hit the mattress.

IV
Escape

It was still dark when Corporal Steinman emerged into the gloom of the Court yard. He closed the heavy door behind him and let out a frustrated sigh. He had left the meeting with Henri Frey and that obtuse young noble with orders to rouse the camp. Anton Von Helmburg, He would not forget that name. Even General Von Schroeder never spoke to him like that young upstart had.

‘Bloody aristocracy’ he muttered to himself. ‘How can this state ever regain its old glory with idiots like that in charge?’

He continued to grumble to himself until he reached the far corner of the wide courtyard. There he found the regimental bugler, Hans, sleeping soundly. With his temper at boiling point he kicked the man firmly in the stomach. The man woke with a start. It was just plain bad luck that the bugler was the first subordinate that was to encounter the Corporal after Anton had scolded him. Hans jumped to attention.

‘Stand too’ Steinman ordered loud enough to wake the camp anyway.

Hans knew better than to question why and simply sounded the order. The camp woke quickly with very few groans in protest. In only two minutes the entire regiment, two hundred and forty seven men, stood to attention. All were fully armed and armoured. The regimental standard had been unveiled and now fluttered in the light breeze. Such a feat would have been quite an achievement even for the Counts own Greatswords. The well oiled machine, as Steinman called it.

‘A bunch of Ostland Grandmother’s could have done that faster!’ Boomed Steinman. ‘I expect better from sons of Stirland’

He had a voice that would deafen a man in the garden of Morr. Although loud and heavy it had a sharp edge to it that sounded like a yapping dog. His voice suited him for his role as the regiments drill master perfectly.

A soldier in the second rank shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Steinman spotted this immediately and marched over to the unfortunate individual with his arms waving wildly. After a detailed verbal assault, which outlined the finer points of the man’s lineage, Steinman had the soldier running laps of the courtyard with sword, shield and pack lifted arms length above his head. He spurred him on faster with threats and the flick of his cane.

‘Anton Von Helmburg’ he grumbled again.

A number of local Huntsmen stood at the gate and joked among themselves. They had stayed up late drinking and found the agitated corporal to be better entertainment than the game of cards they had just abandoned. One of the Huntsmen, a fat bearded man, started to mimic the Corporal to the amusement of his companions. If Steinman saw them mocking him he made no sign.

Henri Frey emerged from the farmhouse closely followed by a young aristocrat and several pistoliers. His face looked like thunder. The entire courtyard went quiet. Steinman marched the exhausted solider he had punished back to the ranks. Even the jovial huntsmen stood to attention. Frey paced to the centre of the courtyard and turned to face the regiment. He cleared his throat before addressing the men.

‘Gentlemen… I bare grave news.’ The men murmured for a second before he continued.

‘Our esteemed comrades here are from the Pistolier Corps. They have informed me that an Undead army of thousands has sacked Gablitz and is heading this way. General Von Schroeder himself has charged me with holding my ground here. I will face this threat and triumph. Who amongst you will stand with me?’

‘I will!’ answered Steinman. Every voice in the courtyard joined him in agreement.

‘I warn you now, that the coming fight will be difficult and many of us will fall. But I know of your quality. I know that we will stop these abominations here. Our fine regiment has emerged victorious against such odds before and I know that with Sigmar’s help, you will all make this country proud. Victory or Death!’ cried Frey drawing his sword and lifting the fine blade above his head.

‘Victory or Death!’ answered the Iron Skulls as one.

ANTON VON HELMBURG followed the commander of the Iron Skulls through the corridors of the manor house. They turned towards the large study that Henry Frey was using as his office. A swordsman stood guard outside. As Henry Frey approached the sentry proceeded to open the large oak door. He offered a salute as the men passed. Frey nodded his thanks. Anton simply ignored the soldier and followed the commander in. The study was lit by candle light. Huge Suddenland wool curtains were drawn over the bay window on their right. A fire burned dimly opposite. The walls were covered by many bookcases that were filled with a variety of leather bound volumes and parchments. A large varnished oak desk sat in the centre of the room. Documents littered the surface.

‘I demand that you give me command of fifty men so that I can conduct a detailed search for my missing troopers.’

Frey did not answer the demand. He kept his back to the disgruntled pistolier and walked around the oak desk. The swordsman let out a sigh as he lowered himself into a red leather chair behind it. Taking up a parchment Frey started to read a correspondence from General Von Schroeder. Anton’s forehead wrinkled.

‘I said!’

‘I heard what you said’ answered Frey looking up from the letter.

‘Then you will issue the orders immediately!’ demanded Anton. His voice was getting louder as he became agitated. Henry Frey was a man of common birth. The fact that he did not give Anton Von Helmburg his full and undivided attention was starting to infuriate the pistolier.

‘I will do no such thing sir’ answered Frey flatly.

‘How dare you deny me! How dare you! Your duty is to…’

‘Do not presume to tell me my duty sir!’ interrupted the swordsman sharply.

Anton stood for a moment stunned as Frey continued.

‘I have been charged with holding back the spear tip of an Undead invasion. We are not playing soldiers here sir. If the Undead get here before Von Schroeder’s column, then we are all that stands between them and Wurtbad. I will not weaken my tenuous hold here so that you can go looking for men that you should have kept a better eye on in the first place. Do you understand me sir!’

Fires burned in the pistoliers eyes. No one had ever spoken to him like this before. Let alone a man of common birth. Frey returned to reading Von Schroeder’s letter. A gauntleted hand pulled the script from his eyes.

‘You do not seem to understand what I am saying Herr Frey. It was not a request, either you give me the men or I will take them.’

‘These men have fought with me for over a decade. Do you really think they will follow some hot headed young fool so he can look for his friends’ Henry Frey was past discussing the matter in a civilised fashion. Now he was baiting the pistolier.

‘Do not mock me sir. It is not wise to make an enemy of me Herr Frey. I have influential friends at Court’

‘And I fear them much less than the legion of Undead that descends from Gablitz. The answer is no Anton. Learn to accept it!.’

Anton cursed the swordsman as he broke into rage. He cleared row after row of books from the shelves with the sweep of his arms. They clattered to the floor in crumpled heaps. Frey was surprised at how quickly he had agitated the pistolier into a rage. The swordsman allowed him his tantrum and simply started to read Von Schroeder’s correspondence once more.

When Henry Frey had completed reading the letter he looked up to find that Anton had calmed himself. The irritable pistolier now sat across the table from him with his arms folded tightly across his chest. Anton stared at him with a smirk on his face. Frey raised his eyebrow.

‘Are you quite finished milord’ he asked the pistolier in condescending a tone that reminded Anton of his nanny.

The Pistolier’s response was cold and spiteful. Like one would expect from a scolded youth.

‘I will see to it personally that the Elector Count hears of your cowardice and of your treachery. You will hang like the peasant dog you are!’ scorned Anton, hammering his fist onto the table.

‘Do as you will Anton. If the Elector decides that I have failed in my duty then so be it. I believe it is of little consequence either way. My regiment stands alone against the largest undead incursion into the lands of the Empire since the time of Count Martin himself. In all reality I don’t think the Elector Count will be required to judge my actions. It would appear that my fate is already sealed. So you will understand that I hold no fear for your idol threats or insults.’ Henry Frey stood up and rested his hand upon the pommel of his sword.

‘Now get out of my sight before we have a real… disagreement.’

Henry Frey’s tone was quiet but was laced with menace. Years of authority were evident in each syllable. Anton understood that it would be best to leave, even though his temper still boiled intensely.

‘The next time I see you Herr Frey. I will delight in seeing you hanged.’ Sneered Anton as he toyed with the handle of one of his pistols.

The noble smirked as Frey’s gaze followed his hand to the hilt of his weapon. Henri Frey however, was not a man that was easily intimidated.

‘Let’s just hope we both live that long.’ He declared calmly. The swordsman drew his own blade about an inch. Candle light reflected from the burnished steel and caught the pistolier in the eyes. Anton blinked away his discomfort before standing up to meet the swordsman’s gaze. He held the stare for a few moments before turning sharply.

‘The gallows Herr Frey!’ He taunted before leaving the room.

Corporal Steinman entered as the pistolier left. He shot Anton a disgruntled look as he passed. The pistolier didn’t acknowledge that the swordsman was even there and Steinman was forced to side step around the young nobleman as he stormed past. He shook his head and muttered something to himself before walking over to his commander’s desk. Frey knew that the plump corporal had probably eavesdropped on the whole conversation.

‘An eventful meeting sir?’ enquired the corporal with a salute.

Henry nodded. He silently sifted through a number of other parchments that littered his desk before adding;

‘It looks like our esteemed colleagues from the Pistolier Corps are leaving on a most heroic and vitally important mission.’

‘I did happen to over hear that part sir’

‘I’m sure you did Corporal’ answered the commander with a knowing look.

‘We are better off without the likes of him anyway sir.’

Henry glanced up from the papers again and smiled at his drillmaster. He knew that he would need every able bodied man he could muster in the coming fight and yet he had just let a unit of pistoliers disappear on some fools errand. ‘Well history will judge me’ he thought resigning himself to his fate. Despite the all military advantages a unit of pistoliers would have provided him, Henry Frey found it hard to disagree with his corporal.

THE SLEEPING SWORDSMAN was woken suddenly by a loud clatter, pistol fire and raised voices. He was alone in the room lying on a small bed covered in furs. Heinrich sat up and reached for his sword that lay at his side. He shook his head and freed himself from the grip of slumber.

The swordsman hurried to the doorway using a practice swing of his sword to loosen his aching muscles. His shoulders and arms felt like a dead weight, but he knew full well there was more fighting to be done this night. Turning out of the doorway toward the staircase he was met by Kurt coming the other way. The northerner had the unconscious body of Josef slumped over his shoulder. Pistol fire echoed from down stairs.

‘Looks like we’re leaving’ he said flatly.

Sweat glistened on his brow. The blood on his face had crusted. His breathing was heavy. Heinrich followed him to a room at the back of the farm house. The large bedroom was less spartanly furnished then the other rooms of the farmstead, but still it reeked of poverty.

‘They got in?’

‘Aye they did lad. They just keep coming.’ Replied Kurt as he placed Josef on an old rocking chair beside the only window of the room.

‘Keats and your new friend Lucius are holding them off at the bottom of the stairs. They came up through the floor boards, those chaos cursed scum. Sigmar alone knows how they got down there.’

Kurt took hold of an oak bedside cabinet, lifted it easily and launched it through the window. The glass shattered and fell to the ground outside. Josef stirred for a moment but did not wake. Peering out into the darkness the swordsman could see that the way north appeared to be relatively clear of hostile forces. A few wandering Undead littered the field between the farmstead and a wood. They appeared unconcerned by the fighting around the farmstead and simply wandered aimlessly.

‘What about the other pistolier?’ asked Heinrich following the northerner’s gaze across the surrounding landscape.

Kurt looked up and simply shook his head before moving across the room toward the bed. He lifted the straw mattress from it and threw out of the open window. The pillows and blankets followed soon afterwards.

‘That should cushion our fall’ he said more to himself than to Heinrich. He didn’t sound too convincing either way.

At that moment Martin Keats and Lucius Weiss entered the room. Both men bled from a number of new wounds. Their once gleaming steel breastplates, leg guards and helmets were battered and bloodied remnants of what they had been. Lucius turned aimed his pistol through the open door and fired. Heinrich heard a loud thud as the body of a pursuing zombie crumpled onto the wooden floorboards. He closed the door quickly. Kurt and Keats dragged the remaining furniture to block the wooden door.

‘Are you really going to make a run for it?’ asked Heinrich as he peered out of the window again.

‘Any better ideas?’ asked Lucius sarcastically.

Kurt nudged past the pistolier firmly, knocking him off balance. Lucius held his tongue before he blurted out an insult. Keats was amazed at his comrades’ control.

‘It looks clear enough Heinrich, Anyway even I can out-run the walking dead.’

‘And what about those ghouls or the dire wolves that attacked you earlier’ he replied, now facing Keats.

‘Look, we don’t have any other options! If we run now there is a chance we can escape. Sigmar knows it is a slim one, but it’s all we have. They don’t seem eager to give up any time soon and we can’t hold out here indefinitely. The longer we stay here the more chance there is of something much worse being alerted to our presence.’

Everyone looked uneasy. Keats’ harsh words were of little comfort, but he spoke true enough. With every hour that passed more of the men had died. Heinrich knew he had only escaped the ghouls earlier by the skin of his teeth. Kurt patted him on the shoulder.

‘We’ve got to warn the Iron Skulls anyway lad, let’s just go now.’

Heinrich nodded his agreement remorsefully. The burly Northerner moved silently past him toward the window. He lowered himself out of it slowly, carefully avoiding the broken shards of glass that still lay on the window sill. He dangled about nine feet from the ground before dropping heavily onto the ground.

A nearby zombie loitered aimlessly, but was altered by the Northerner’s presence as he crashed to the ground. The living corpse turned its head in his direction as he climbed to his feet. Kurt drew his blade and waited for it to close on him. It moved methodically to within a few silent yards of its intended meal. The zombie’s arms then clicked sickeningly as cartilage cracked against cartilage. Its limbs were now fully outstretched and Kurt’s stomach turned as he caught sight of the rotten flesh hanging loose from the exposed bones of its forearms. It was close now and the Northerner could see the hunger in its dead eyes. Kurt spat before decapitating his unnatural foe. The body remained standing for a few moments headless, arms out stretched, before crumpling into the mud.

Heinrich dropped to the ground behind him and Kurt turned to help him to his feet. Heinrich had landed with most of his weight on his wounded knee. It took all of his strength not to cry out from the pain. He bit down for a few moments and composed himself. Kurt saw him wince and propped him against the wall of the farmstead.

As the burly Northerner looked up he could see that Martin Keats and Lucius were now holding the unconscious form of Josef out of the window. Getting into position he nodded to the pair, who then proceeded to drop their comrade into the swordsman’s waiting arms. He caught the armoured man clumsily, but did not drop him.

Heinrich heard noise from around the left hand corner. He turned and drew his blade. His eyes squinted through the darkness as he stalked silently to the corner of the walled farmstead. Despite the pain in his leg he did this with only the slightest hint of a limp. The young swordsmen peered around the corner. About thirty zombies stood unmoving, still tightly packed together in a group. He could hear the familiar sounds of a large army marching along the Praager Strasse road. Familiar he thought, until he realised that there was none of the usual chatter that accompanied an army of the move. He could not see what made the sound, but the reoccurring click of bone against bone and metal told him that an Undead army of thousands marched by. The zombies did not appear to sense Heinrich’s presence, even through his breathing was heavy. Deciding not to stretch Sigmar’s good will more than he had already Heinrich crept back to his companions silently.

Martin Keats was the last man to drop from the window. Landing with considerable dexterity as Heinrich approached. The pistolier adjusted his breast plate and drew his sabre. He turned and whispered to his remaining conscious pistolier.

‘Lucius draw your sword and keep your pistols holstered. We can’t afford to draw attention to ourselves by using fire arms.’

Lucius Weiss raised his eyebrow, withdrew his helmet for a moment and bowed elegantly. Keats knew he was being mocked but said nothing. Like the Northerner had said earlier, Lucius Weiss would keep.

THE SMALL PARTY made their way across the north facing fields at a steady pace. Heinrich ran side by side with Kurt who carried the armoured form of Josef over his shoulder. The two swordsmen had already started to drop behind the pistoliers when a haunted howl filled the night. Kurt and Heinrich exchanged worried glances. Keats and Lucius disappeared into the wood about thirty yards ahead of the swordsmen.

Heinrich looked up again as he heard another howl. This one was much closer than before. The two men increased their pace. They broke the tree line only to find that the pistoliers had vanished.

‘Which way now?’ gasped Heinrich now rubbing his swollen knee.

‘North-west. Keats said that he passed a small hamlet of some sort in that direction. We should be able to find the manor house from there at sunrise.’

Heinrich nodded his agreement as Kurt adjusted Josef’s body into a more comfortable position.

The two men struggled on through the dense undergrowth of the wood. Mist still lay at their feet and made the going ever more dangerous. One could easily step into a rabbit whole and break an ankle in this type of weather. The twin moons offered very little light under the canopy. Vision was down to a few feet at most. Heinrich led the way with his sword drawn. He chopped at branches that covered their path. Kurt struggled on behind with Josef now on his back. Minutes stretched into hours as they made very slow progress through the wood. Heinrich knew he had lost all sense of direction, but carried on all the same.

A cry of pain echoed through the night followed by the reply of pistol fire. Heinrich stopped in his tracks but could not tell which direction the noise came from or how far away it was. He looked to Kurt. The northerner was breathing heavily and spat on the ground.

‘We should continue on.’ Suggested the young man.

Kurt nodded his agreement and smiled.
‘Besides we might get lost if we run off chasing the sound of pistol fire.’

The look in Kurt’s eyes told him that the Northerner knew they were desperately lost anyway. Heinrich turned and chopped at the branches ahead of him. Kurt followed his lead.

WHERE IN SIGMAR’S NAME were those idle swordsmen and Josef? Even the company of commoners would be better than pacing through the woods of the Empire alone at night. Especially with the souls of the dammed stalking the darkness. Somehow he had escaped from the clutches of the dire wolves once again. It was very probable that he had left Martin Keats to his bloody fate when he ran. ‘Better him than me’ he thought as another haunted howl filled the empty night.

The Pistolier’s left arm sang with pain and blood ran freely from it. Lucius Weiss stopped in his tracks and again tightened the make shift tourniquet he had applied to himself. He whimpered from the pain again. His heart pounded and he fought for every strained breath. Sweat glistened on his brow. He wiped it from his eyes with a silken scarf. It was then he realised that he had lost his helmet, but he could not remember how or when.

Another howl started Lucius running again. Warmth in his trousers told him he has soiled himself. He did not dare look behind him, but he could hear the soft sound of padded paws moving through the undergrowth. The sound was getting louder. Branches cut at his exposed face and he stumbled headlong over the roots of a nearby tree. The pistolier landed facedown in a puddle of water. He had never been a religious man and barely remembered what the inside of a Sigmarite church looked like. Now he prayed to his deity reverently for deliverance. Fear took hold in his heart and as darkness started to consume him. He vaguely remembered hearing someone screaming, but did not realise it was his own voice.

STUMBLING FROM OUT OF the tree line, Heinrich fell to his knees with fatigue. Kurt emerged moments later and lay Josef on the ground. He checked the man’s airways and found that he was still breathing. Although very weakly.

‘I thought we would never get out of that maze.’ gasped the Northerner as he sat down beside his comrade.

He took a canteen from his belt and offered it to Heinrich. The young man took the flask in both hands and gulped back a mouthful of the liquid. He coughed and spluttered after a few moments as he realised it was not water.

‘Bretonian cognac!’ announced Kurt chuckling to himself.

Heinrich passed the container back and Kurt gulped down a mouthful himself. Sigmar alone knew how the Northerner had obtained the spirit. A flask full of the rare beverage normally went for ten gold crowns in Wurtbad. Heinrich knew enough of what happened to a soldier’s pay packet in the army of Stirland to know that Kurt hadn’t bought it with his salary.

The twin moons had descended behind the distant hills to the west. Dawn was still an hour or two away. Mist still suffocated the countryside in front of him. A gentle breeze blew in from the east. Heinrich scanned the surrounding landscape in search of the Hamlet Kurt had mentioned earlier. The Northerner had made Josef more comfortable by removing his armour. Blood crusted over a wound on his neck and another around his waste. He had the first signs of fever and trembled continuously.

‘Any sign Heinrich?’

‘Not that I can make out… wait… there’ He raised his hand and pointed his finger westwards. ‘Looks like a dim light from further down the valley.’

‘torch light?’

‘I think so, should we chance moving the pistolier?’

Another howl came from the woods.

‘I think we can chance it!’ answered Kurt lifting the prone pistolier swiftly onto his shoulder.

Heinrich picked up the Pistolier’s discarded armour and weapons. Both men set off down the valley with as much pace as their tired bodies could muster.

V
Salvation

With sunlight now creeping into the world, the old priest lifted himself from his knees. His aged joints creaked in protest. He had prayed for over an hour before the dawn came, as he did every morning. He gave thanks to Sigmar for many things during his morning prayers. Today he thanked his god especially for the coming of a new day. He had sensed evil magic the previous night and knew that the ruinous powers were again scheming against Sigmar’s heirs. He prayed for the strength to protect his flock. Other prayers were offered in thanks for his health, the food in his belly and his humble quarters.

The Spartan accommodation he was so grateful for was nothing more than a small wooden hut at the rear of his chapel. As Sigmarite priest the old man did not find pleasure in acquiring possessions, so this accommodation was more than adequate for his needs. All that lay inside the hut was his wooden bed and blanket, a clay wash bowl, razor, soap, and his beloved copy of Dieter Von Alicante’s ‘Gospel of Sigmar’.

He took the razor in his hand and continued with his morning routine. Shaving his head and body for exactly ten minutes insured that his mortal form was free of hair and therefore contamination. The Arch Lector had always told him ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’.

‘Silly man’ he muttered ‘Sigmar told me that a clean soul is more import than clean flesh’

He nodded to himself, satisfied that he had once again invalidated the Arch Lector’s teachings. Despite his mighty victory he continued to shave. Carefully he avoided the twin tailed comet birthmark that lay in the centre of his forehead. In truth the old priest had been completely bald for over two decades. The process of saving was simply ritual.

He hummed one of his favourite hymns to himself as he shaved. The one that described how Sigmar had saved the Dwarven King from a band of Greenskins. Yes he liked that one especially.

‘Sigmar performed well that day. Well done my lord!’ he said with a smile on his face. He started humming the same tune over again.

A BLOND HAIRED YOUTH dressed in heavy winter furs ran across the cobblestone town square towards the church. Erik the sheepherder’s son was a little out of breath, but his pace did not slow as he reached the stone staircase that led to the great wooden doors of the church. The youth bounded up the steps two at a time. He sighed a defeated sigh as he tried the doors only to find them locked.

‘Father!’ he shouted but no answer came.

He scanned the town square for any sign of life, but found none. The town had become more and more deserted over the passing weeks, but surely the priest would not have abandoned his post. Hearing the faint sound of humming from the behind the church Erik bolted back down the steps and around the side of the white stone chapel. He found the old priest in the wooden shack to the rear of the building. The old man was sat contently upon his bed shaving and humming a tune to himself enthusiastically.

‘Father Jonas!’ gasped Erik standing at the open doorway.

He did not enter the old mans quarters, but bowing low, he made the sign of the hammer as he spoke.

‘yes my child’ said the priest looking up at the boy with a toothless smile.

‘Come quickly father. My old man sent me to fetch you. He has seen wolves and soldiers being chased. Come, come father.’

The boy was close to becoming hysterical. Father Jonas calmed him by patting the young lads shoulder and smiling. Erik turned and motioned the old cleric to follow him. Before pursuing the youth the priest leaned to his left and whispered;

‘looks like trouble Sigmar. I must go protect my flock.’

LED BY THE HAND OF Erik, Father Jonas hurried around to the front of his church and unlocked the heavy doors. Both men kneeled and bowed low before entering the holy place. Father Jonas paced into the church hall leaving Erik standing at the open doorway. The priest’s footsteps echoed loudly inside the shadowed hall of the church.

The first rays of light from the morning sun shone through the stain glass window on the eastern wall. Erik was distracted momentarily by the mosaic reflected onto the floor of the church. It depicted Sigmar standing upon a mountain of dead beastmen holding his hammer aloft triumphantly. Erik had always marvelled at the detail shown in the stain glass windows of Father Jonas’ chapel.

‘Magical’ he whispered making the sign of the hammer across this chest.

Father Jonas reached the far end of the church hall and climbed several steps toward the stone alter. He bowed low and made the sign of a hammer across his chest. He stood with rehearsed familiarity and lifted the ancient hammer gently from its ceremonial place on the stone alter. The priest brought the terrible weapon to his lips and kissed it. He turned following a second bow and headed swiftly toward the door.

‘Will you not need your armour father’ asked the youth pointing towards the plate armour displayed behind the dais.

Father Jonas approached shacking his head merrily, wearing nothing more than the red robes of a Sigmarite priest.

‘Fear not my child, my faith is my shield and it will protect me better than any mortal armour ever could.’

Erik nodded; he could well believe the priest’s claim. He was surprised at how much the priest had grown in stature since lifting the hammer. He no longer appeared as the frail old priest Erik had found sitting on his bed humming to himself. Father Jonas, even without his blessed armour, looked every inch the mantel of a Warrior priest.

‘Come child, show me the sons of Sigmar, who require our aid.’

Erik led Father Jonas to the edge of town and pointed to the far hillside. Through the faded light of dawn the priest could make out two figures running towards the town. The smaller was closer than the other, who appeared to be carrying a bundle or something heavy over his shoulder. Looking further up the hill Father Jonas saw broader shapes moving quickly after them. They almost looked like wolves, but were far larger and moved more methodically than a pack of wild animals.

‘Well done my child. Now go and wake Alexi and his band. Sigmar tells me we may need their help today.’

‘But father they scare me’ answered the youth his voice trembled with fear.

‘Nothing to be scared of child. They a children of Sigmar too. Now run along quickly and wake them.’

The boy nodded resolutely and ran off towards the flagellant camp that lay just outside the town. Father Jonas Von Sigismund turned and scanned the hillside. He leaned to his left once more and whispered.

‘Come Sigmar we have work to do.’

STREAMS OF SWEAT RAN down the swordsman’s reddened face. He panted heavily as he struggled for his next breath. The Northerner attempted to move his comrade’s body into a more comfortable position as he ran. Failing miserably in his attempt he contemplated dropping the nobleman and leaving him to his fate. Kurt knew in his heart of hearts that he could never leave the man to such a bloody death.

Part of him argued for making his last stand here rather than continuing on. All his muscles ached in protest as he ran. At least he would die facing his enemy rather than with his back to them. As if sensing Kurt’s dilemma Heinrich turned his head and looked back at the struggling Northerner. He saw that every footstep Kurt made was laboured. He was almost bent double by the dead weight of the unconscious pistolier.

‘Keep going Kurt! Its not far now, just down the hill that’s all’

Kurt threw a thumbs up in Heinrich’s direction. The younger swordsman smiled before turning and continuing on himself. The exhausted northerner found a little more strength and pushed on for a few more yards. His arms, legs and torso ached. All he had done since yesterday morning was run and fight. Right now he was sick of running. Kurt came to a halt and turned to face his pursuers. The dire wolves were closing fast, only twenty yards separated them now. He put Josef down as gently as he could, then drew the pistol Keats had given him. He lined the firearm up with the leading wolf and fired.

The beast went down in shrieking agony. It had been running a full pace when the pistol ball impacted into its chest. Falling to the ground heavily, the wolf’s neck snapped from the impact. A second creature was tripped by the carcass of the leading wolf and fell to the ground at Kurt’s feet.

He drew his sword silently with his free hand, rotated it in his palm and plunged it deep into the prone creature’s torso. The beast thrashed wildly for a few moments and then went still. Kurt spat to the ground and dropped the smoking pistol. He stared at the surrounding beasts with hatred burning deep within in his eyes. He drew a broad hunting knife from behind his back and pulled his sword free of its latest victim.

‘Victory or Death!’ he cried in defiance.

THE PISTOL SHOT ECHOED down the valley and stopped Heinrich in his tracks. He drew his own blade before even looking back. The soldier had prepared himself for this eventuality. The look that Kurt had given him moments earlier had told him this was coming.

Heinrich knew the Northerner was going to make his stand sooner or later, he just hoped it would be later. He hoped it would take place when they were much closer to the town. There would be some small chance of aid reaching them if Kurt had waited. ‘So close as well’ he thought out loud, throwing one last look at the Hamlet and his salvation. Heinrich willed his tired legs into motion as he started back up the hill.

The young recruit closed on the ensuing melee swiftly, discovering some untapped resource of energy he had some how saved. Heinrich moved to engage the closest dire wolf. A huge black furred beast that tried to circle the embattled Northerner while he was distracted. With its back to Heinrich it was completely unaware of the swordsman as he approached.

Heinrich had discarded most of the pistolier’s equipment further down the hillside, but had taken Josef’s sabre in his left hand. The swordsman would have preferred the comforting presence of his large shield. Unfortunately it had been ripped from his arm earlier that evening. Heinrich would have to make do with what he had and hope that it was enough to keep him alive.

He was close now and could smell the rotten, musty and unnatural odour of the undead beast. His nose wrinkled at the invasion of his nostrils. The Dire wolf sensed Heinrich’s presence as he lunged towards it. The beast darted to its left and made to round the swordsman as he committed to his assault. Despite its agility, Heinrich was quicker and he caught the huge beast in its abdomen with his own blade.

The beast frantically attempted to twist free of the blow and made to clamp its canine jaws around Heinrich’s neck. The swordsman held his blade steady, as the wolf’s own motion increased the size of its injury. Blood and Intestines fell from the terrible wound and the creatures attack fell short. The cavalry sabre in Heinrich’s left hand came down swiftly and decapitated the creature in one fluid motion.

More dire wolves bounded down the hillside towards the encircled swordsmen. Kurt stood aside the unconscious pistolier and offered another challenge to his foes. The blood splattered Northerner sported a deep wound to his right arm. His metal breastplate was battered out of shape and the corpses of four Dire wolves lay unmoving at his feet. Both of his blades were covered in blood and gore. Josef lay unconscious behind the towering swordsman. The circling wolves had failed to pull him clear from Kurt’s protection, despite several determined attempts.

Heinrich moved to join his comrades, but fought a deadly game of cat and mouse with another Dire wolf as he edged closer. He was now about twenty yards from his companions, the dire wolf stalking his every footstep, waiting for him to slip or lose focus. The creature was low to the ground, like a wild cat from Araby preparing to pounce on it’s pray. Unlike the wildcats however, the undead beast was far from invisible in the undergrowth. Even though the grass on the hillside was as high as the waist in some parts, the bulk of the undead creature was easily recognisable in the vegetation. Heinrich could see that it was closing with an unnatural swiftness and the swordsman knew that he could not make it to his comrades before it pounced.

‘Victory or Death!’ he bellowed, launching himself into a suicidal charge toward the beast.

Adrenaline pumped through his body, lending his limbs extra power as he ran. He had no fear of his own death now. Exhaustion had pushed him far beyond lateral thought and although his breathing was laboured he felt as though he wasn’t breathing at all. It was almost like he did not need to breathe. Heinrich felt like he had detached himself completely from his body and proceeded to watch the spectacle unfold from a vantage point above himself. The young swordsman bounded across the hillside bellowing his war cry, while Kurt stood stoically in defence of Josef.

Heinrich saw the Dire wolf crouch low, preparing to meet his charge as he closed to with in striking distance. At that moment, as he swung both his blades towards his foe, a crack of light flashed before his eyes and he was back in his own body.

The combat flowed as if in slow motion.

Heinrich lunged desperately with his two blades. The blow was both clumsy and obvious and the beast evaded it easily, leaping out of Heinrich’s killing range and around his unprotected flank. The swordsman turned sharply to meet his opponent as it sprang at him, bringing his blades up hastily to protect his head.

The Dire wolf knocked him off balance, but he evaded it’s lethal bite by parrying wildly with his sword. The blow caught the beast high on its left shoulder, but had little force behind it. The shallow wound failed to even slow Heinrich’s adversary. Within moments wolf launched itself again against the swordsman as he battled to keep his footing. This time Heinrich failed to raise his blades up in defence and the creature clamped its huge jaws around his chest trapping his left arm. All the air wash pushed from his lungs as the undead creature bit down.

The swordsman battled in vain as the huge wolf dragged him to the ground.
Darkness closed in around the edges of Heinrich’s vision, as his struggled to free himself from the creature’s death grip. He tried in vain to suck in some cool air, but the weight around his unprotected chest prevented him from doing so. There was a sickening crack as one of his ribs broke and he could taste blood in his mouth. He stopped struggling, realising the futility of his situation. Heinrich tried to let the darkness consume him quickly, accepting the release that death would provide. However he was always aware of the wolf’s jaws around his chest and the final release would not come.

A heavy impact lifted the weight from his chest instantly and Heinrich in hailed a desperate deep breath that caused excruciating shooting pains in his chest. Scrambling weakly to his knees, he tried to lift himself to his feet but there was no strength to be found in his arms or legs. The swordsman crumpled heavily to the ground.

Blood flowed freely from a dozen serious wounds, his limbs tingled numbly. Heinrich’s eyes stung when he forced them open and when he did; he could only see faint shapes and changes in light. The young swordsman knew he was near to death, he had been close to it once before, but a Bretonian surgeon had pulled him back from the abyss. Lying in a pool of his own blood he waited for the undead beast to return and finish its work.

Heinrich silently mouthed the words of Sigmar’s Prayer and waited for death.

THE DIRE WOLF LANDED heavily and reeled from the sheer force of the old mans blow. Its rear quarter was completely limp. The terrible hammer had shattered the creature’s spine on impact and all it could do now was to raise its head and accept the killing blow when it came.

The priest paced towards the creature and cursed its mutated form and the winds of chaos that he created it. The ancient warhammer glowed with sunlight in his hands, as he mouthed the words of a prayer. Father Jonas raised the weapon above his head and brought it down with all his might. The sound of thunder echoed from the impact, as the life force that held the undead creature together was torn apart. The dire wolf slumped to the ground in a pile of bone and rotten flesh.

Father Jonas lifted his hammer on to his shoulder and surveyed the surrounding combat. A thick set swordsman defended the body of a nobleman further up the hill. The man fought with considerable skill and strength. Father Jonas instantly likened the man to the ferocious barbarian forbearers of empire. The corpses of about seven dire wolves lay about him and although clearly wound the soldier looked like he could stand against his adversaries all day.

Looking back down the hill Father Jonas could make out Alexis’ band of around thirty Flagellants moving towards the melee in a frenzy of self abuse. Their dirt and blood covered forms advanced quickly in their ragged clothing, with loud proclamations of the end of the world. Their flails, rusted swords, clubs and whips held high as a challenge to the beasts of chaos. The sound of Alexis’ horse voice could be heard quoting religious passages that further encouraged his crazed followers.

The body a dead swordsman lay a few yards to the left of the priest. Father Jonas advanced solemnly towards the blood drenched corpse. He placed a hand upon the young man chest and closing his eyes, started to offer a prayer to help his passage into the realm of Morr. The priest’s eyes opened wide in surprise as he felt the shallowest of heartbeats in the young mans chest.

‘Well who’d have believed it Sigmar? The young mans alive.’ He exclaimed with a smile.

Alexi and his Flagellants charged past the priest and engaged in combat against the undead. The crazed warriors swung their weapons wildly with smiles upon the scarred faces.

Father Jonas dropped from his crouched posture and knelt beside Heinrich’s body, muttering an incantation of healing. He laid his mighty hammer on the floor beside him and clapped his hands together firmly. A yellow light began to glow inside of his closed hands. It grew quickly in size and brightness making his hands near translucent. He rubbed his palms together in time with his chant and his voice became louder as he neared its end.

The priest clamped both his palms onto the mans chest as the last syllable of his mantra left his mouth. Heinrich’s body convulsed and started to rise from the ground. The priest held the soldier’s form about six inches from the bloodied soil. Heinrich’s wounds slowly closed, his heartbeat became stronger, his breathing more pronounced.

Heinrich opened his eyes slowly and saw the face of an old man staring back at him. The daylight stung his eyes and the mans face appeared distorted an bathed in light.

‘Am I dead?’ he asked tiredly.

‘No my child.’ chuckled the priest ‘Sigmar tells me you are not ready for the Gardens of Morr yet.’

Heinrich shook his head free from drowsiness and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. A new sensation of energy pumped through his veins like white heat. Heinrich likened it to birth, not that he could remember what that felt like.

His breathing was not restricted like before, the air fresher than he could ever remember. Everything was much brighter, more defined than before. Sounds were sharper. In fact all his senses seemed heightened. The sensation passed quickly, but Heinrich was left with an awareness he could not quite identify. He looked to the Priest to provide the answers to his silent questions as they rushed through his mind. Father Jonas simply smiled back at the soldier, content that he had saved the youth from realm of Morr.

The Priest lifted Heinrich to his feet slowly and held him steady while he regained his balance. The swordsman checked the wounds on his chest clumsily. Finding that many of the teeth marks had fused with scar tissue, others had disappeared completely. His legs were still like lead and he was again near exhaustion. The rush of energy he felt from the healing ritual having worn off. He looked the old priest in the eye before groggily adding.

‘Didn’t think I was dead… I hurt too much to be dead.’

‘The pain will pass my child and with rest you will soon be as strong as an ogre’ promised the old priest tapping the soldier on his chest with two pointed fingers.

‘Thank you father’ Replied Heinrich as he steadied himself by firmly holding onto the old priests shoulder.

‘It looks like you missed most of the fun’ added the swordsman looking up the hill towards where Kurt and the flagellants brutally finished off the remaining Dire wolves.

The fighting on the hillside had ended with the frenzied charge of the flagellants claiming a score of kills. The maddened Zealots swung flail and blade in a fury with no regard for their own safety. Their blind hatred of the undead creatures further fuelled their primeval assault. Within minutes the last of the undead creatures had been put to the sword.

Six of the zealots had been killed in return. No remorse was shown by their companions, who pessimistically claimed that the fallen were in fact the lucky ones. They walked back towards the town miserably; many still lashed themselves with their flails as the rush of combat dissipated.

Alexi walked alone solemnly, his head bowed and hood raised. He no longer quoted from his ancient tome, holding it closed in his right hand. He moved past Heinrich and the old priest without comment. Heinrich exchanged a quizzical look with the priest. The swordsman was about to comment upon the Flagellant but the words became jumbled as he spoke them. Despite Father Jonas’ best efforts at providing spiritual strength to the swordsman, exhaustion reached out and took him. Heinrich collapsed into the Priest’s arms and all went black.

THE MEN OF THE Iron skulls worked relentlessly all that morning preparing the terrain around the Manor House for the assault that everyone knew would soon come. The regimental Corporals Steinman, Blucher and Hollbrecht moved with a clear purpose. Each of them determined complete the work assigned to their section first. Steinman’s horse voice could heard well above the noise of the labouring regiment, shouting commands and insults in equal measure. The serious business of war had descended upon the Manor house and everyone now worked with redoubled effort.

The tireless work teams had been dispatched in the early hours of the morning following Henry Frey’s regimental address. The Commander’s words lay heavy on the mind of each man as they worked. Talk of the Undead armies of Sylvania rallying and uniting under the banner of Vigee-Lebrun had spread the year before. Many in Stirland had been duped into believing that this threat had been extinguished following the victories around the Leithag Hills. Many soldiers even believed that they only moved now to engage the remnants of a defeated army. Henry Frey’s stern words had brought a grim realisation to everyone that the war hadn’t even started.

The morning sun was already high in the clear sky when Henry Frey emerged from the Manor house. The brightness of the day made him squint. Frey had not slept all that night and had been completely unaware of what time it was. He had remained in his office with the heavy woollen curtains fully closed. The only light that from the fireplace and candles. Frey had issued orders via runners all that morning. He continued stoically all that morning setting in motion his plans for holding back the coming Undead onslaught.

Frey knew he didn’t have the men or resources to meet the Undead host in a pitched battle. With this in mind he had devised a plan where by his small force would manoeuvre from one fixed position to another. Faked retreats by militia detachments and huntsmen would split the assaulting Undead units. Leading them away from the fortified Manor house in a series of wild goose chases. If all went to plan he could harass the larger force while he retreated slowly. He knew he had no chance to defeat the much larger army, but he also knew he did not have to. Baron Von Schroeder would arrive in force either tomorrow or the next day. All he had to do was hold them.

But how long can I keep them here? How long can I stop them from bypassing me and driving straight for Wurtbad? Frey shook his head. He had gone over almost every possibility he could think of and had planned numerous counter measures to combat them all. The commander knew he was tired but instead of rest he had decided to conduct an inspection of his troops and their positions. Just to be sure. Stop thinking so much, he told himself. You have prepared well enough everything else is Sigmar’s will.

‘Sigmar’s will’ he muttered to himself.

At that moment he saw Corporal Steinman enter the court yard. Frey let out a little sigh before he started towards his second in command with a renewed vigour, which completely disguised his weariness.

‘How are your men Corporal?’

‘Working hard sir, they’ve almost completed the work on our northern flank sir.’

‘Good’ Frey clasped his subordinate on the shoulder before adding. ‘Once they are done, post sentries and have the bulk of your force help Blucher’s men in the centre.’

‘Yes sir.’ Answered the plump corporal with a salute.

Henry Frey returned it gladly. He knew full well that almost everyman in the regiment would walk into the chaos wastes with smile on their face just for the opportunity of pissing in Steinman’s ale, but by Sigmar could he get a job done. Frey smiled before marching past the corporal. Steinman turned and followed him silently towards the open gate.

Bare chested soldiers worked with pick and shovel turning the Manor house and the hill it sat upon, into a killing ground of steep sided pits, defensive positions and hidden traps. Scattered trenches marked where detachments would make their stand before falling back to other pre-designated positions.

The men worked stoically, but with a weight of foreboding upon them that was altogether unusual in the Iron Skulls. The older men of the regiment as if sensing the unnatural demise in morale attempted to encourage the younger soldiers with jokes and stories of home. Strained laughter echoed down the trenches as the younger soldiers forced themselves into good humour. The ever present shadow of fate hung over them all.

‘They will come tonight’ mused Henry Frey out loud.

He stood between the open gates of the walled Manor house looking over the surrounding landscape with is one good eye. His left hand rested firmly on the pommel of this duelling blade, his right stroked his auburn beard thoughtfully.

‘Has there been any more news sir? Of Baron Von Schroeder? Of the reinforcements’ asked Corporal Steinman, the concern evident in his voice.

‘No…’ Frey shook his head still scanning the terrain to his fore, he didn’t look back at his second in command. ‘No – none at all.’

‘They will come though?’

Frey did not answer straight away.

‘Of course they will.’ He answered, as the tense silence became unbearable.

But Sigmar alone knows if we will still be here to welcome them. Frey thought, but he held his tongue in check.

THE OLD PRIEST entered the room carrying a tray of food and wine he had collected from the innkeeper downstairs. Heinrich lay in the first bed. He was in a semi-conscious state, but had colour in him and his breath and pulse were strong. Kurt sat beside him a concerned look upon his face. The giant Northerner had been washed and his wounds dressed. The priest again motioned Kurt to use the sling he had provided, but again the soldier refused.

‘Can’t fight with one arm now can I father?’ Kurt made the sign of the hammer across his chest as he spoke to the holy man.

‘I firmly believe your more than a match for most… even with one arm my son.’

Kurt blushed a little from the priest complement before nodding toward the nobleman. Josef lay in a bed opposite he was near death, his skin cold and clammy. He mumbled something inaudible.

‘Can you heal him father, like you did Heinrich?’

The priest put the tray down on the dusty dresser to his left and moved silently over to the nobleman’s side. Father Jonas placed his had upon Josef’s head and closed his eyes. Kurt watched intently as the priest frowned and tilted his head to the side.

‘Hmmm’

‘What is it father?’

‘I am afraid that your companion is beyond my skill to save. The wound he received has become deeply infected. I fear that he will die very soon’

The old man looked up at Kurt sadly.

‘I’m sorry my child.’

The Northerner looked from the nobleman to Heinrich and back again. A troubled expression etched upon his scared face. As if sensing the soldier’s next question, Father Jonas added;

‘Your friend Heinrich, now he was strong and his wounds fresh. I was able to help him quickly. I also sense that he has survived the damned Undead infections once before. This aided his recovery. His body seemed to know how to fight the affliction. His faith in Sigmar is also strong. The Nobleman on the other hand …’

The priest paused and rubbed his fingers across his chin.

‘I’m afraid it was too late for him my son. I can not… sense his faith any longer. He… he is too far gone… I’m sorry.

Kurt nodded his acceptance. What a fool I am, he thought. I should have left him back at the farm stead or in the woods. It’s my fault that Heinrich almost died. If I had not being carrying Josef then…

‘Your deeds are not without value Kurt Muller.’ Interjected the priest. ‘Sigmar told me how proud he is of your actions. You saved a comrade, one of Sigmar’s heirs from a fate he did not deserve. For this you can… No you must be proud.’

Kurt accepted the Priest’s kind words, but still he felt foolish. Anyway the priest was clearly mad, probably sent to this backwater town to save the church face.

The nobleman stirred. He sat up and looked at the men in the room. He smiled at the priest who made the sign of the hammer over the nobleman’s forehead. All the pain and troubles seems to vanish from Josef’s face.

‘My…th.. thanks to y ..you.’ Josef said in a soft voice as he stared at Kurt and Heinrich.

Kurt stood and walked over to the man. He knelt and supported Josef in the nook of his arm as the Nobleman fought weakly to keep his balance.

‘Take my armour… f… for the boy’ he nodded towards Heinrich. ‘He …lost his… but the sword is my fathers… return it to him.’

Kurt nodded silently as the Young nobleman iterated his final wishes in fragmented speech.

‘Th…thank y…ou’ were Josef’s last words.

The Nobleman’s body went limp in Kurt’s muscled arms. The Northerner bowed his head solemnly and made the sign of the hammer over the Josef’s forehead, before gently closing his vacant eyes. He then softly lay the Nobleman back down into the bed. Father Jonas moved closer and offered a prayer to ease his passing into the realm of Morr. Kurt sat back on his heels a tear welling in his eye. Never had a Nobleman thanked him for anything.

‘Perhaps there is hope for Stirland’ he said aloud, but not meaning to.

‘Yes perhaps there is’ replied Heinrich who had come to stand behind the Northerner to watch the nobleman’s death in silence.

Kurt jumped up and clasped his comrade in a bear hug of an embrace. Lifting the smaller swordsman clean off his feet in the process. Then as if realising his comrade’s weakened state he let him down gently.

‘How many lives have you got lad?’ exclaimed Kurt through his smile of broken teeth.

‘Not enough to survive another embrace like that…’ he replied weakly ‘No wonder you’re not married’

VI Unfinished Business

FATHER JONAS led the Swordsmen and a small party of townsfolk across the town square. A gruff patron from the Inn helped Kurt carry Josef’s body on a makeshift stretcher. The party reached their destination minutes later. It was a small shrine to the Morr the God of Death, which was situated upon the outskirts of the small town of Brookesburg. It was here that Josef’s body was laid.

The shrine itself was like a tomb where the bodies of the recently deceased were placed to await burial by the local priest of Morr. Father Jonas assured Kurt that Josef could be laid in this place to await collection by a family member. Josef was a nobleman and as such would be laid to rest within his family crypt in the grounds of his fathers estate. Payers were offered by the Priest for his eternal soul. Kurt stood quietly and supported Heinrich, who was still rather weak and not fully recovered from the healing ritual.

Father Jonas led the swordsmen back to the inn about an hour later and begged them to take some rest. Kurt and Heinrich begrudgingly agreed and slept for a few hours. They were woken by the chapel bell as it tolled for noon.

Heinrich sat up and lazily began to pull on his shirt, he became aware that Father Jonas was sat with his back to him staring out of the window. The priest hummed a tune which Heinrich recognised as the Hymn ‘Of Sigmar and The Dwarven King’. Kurt who was also awake stood up and walked over to the Priest. He knelt beside him and made the sign of the hammer across his chest. Father Jonas looked down at the mighty swordsman.

‘Father thank you for your hospitality and for your aid, but I fear we must go now and carry our warning on to the regiment. We dare not wait any longer. The Iron Skulls must to be told of the Undead approach and the fall of Gablitz.’

‘Gablitz has fallen?’

‘Aye Father, Sigmar save our souls.’ interjected Heinrich sadly.

‘We are almost certain Father… they are led by the Count Vigee-Lebrun and have sacked everything along the Praager Strasse road’ added Kurt.

The Priest stood up slowly his right hand shaking slightly. Father Jonas looked as white as Morr himself. He fought to stop his nerves and started to pace the room in silence, he appeared deep in thought and scratched at his chin nervously.

The two swordsmen exchanged a look of concern. The priest paid them little attention as they started to get their equipment in order. The men were ready within a matter of minutes. Heinrich lifted Josef’s shining breast plate proudly and put it carefully into place over his uniform. Kurt helped him fasten it into place. Heinrich couldn’t help but feel safer for having the armour. Kurt simply nodded his approval.

As the swordsmen began to pack up the remainder of their equipment, they also began to explain everything they had witnessed to the priest. Father Jonas continued to pace, but stopped every so often when something caught his attention. Heinrich told him all about the patrol, the farm house, how they had met the pistoliers, of Albrecht’s death, the skirmish, the Undead army, the fall of Gablitz and their flight. Kurt interjected with other parts of the tale ‘including what Keats had told him of his own doomed reconnaissance. He finished by urging the priest to round up the town militia and head off with them to warn the Iron Skulls of the Undead approach. The priest however had gone silent.

Father Jonas crossed the dimly lit room shaking his head. Heinrich and Kurt stood ready near the door way. Worried looks were fixed upon their faces as they watched the nervous Priest pacing in a confused daze. What had brought about this sudden change in the kind old man’s nature? Clearly he is mad thought Kurt, but he is a priest none the less and we have a duty to him. The Northerner stepped towards him and lay a hand upon the priest’s shoulder.

‘Father… are you alright?’

The priest looked up at the Swordsman, as if only seeing him for the first time.

‘Galbiltz fallen?’ the priest spoke softly, he did not realise that his bottom lip had started to shake.

‘I’m afraid so… I looks like Vigee-Lebrun’s army is on the move again.’

Father Jonas shuddered at the name Kurt used so lightly. Nervously he began to pace around the room again. He was now deep in thought. The realisation of what this meant started frighten the old man. Many believed that the Priest had never been afraid of anything in his entire life. For the most part they would be right, apart from one shadow in his soul, a primeval fear that the Priest had tried so hard to put out of his troubled mind. He had tried for so long to exile it into the furthest reaches of his being. For years he had battled with it and until now he had believed it buried.

Father Jonas felt so at ease in his old age, he had believed himself beyond ever being scared of anything ever again. He had fought against too many incursions by bands of Beastmen and invasions by tribes of Greenskins. He had stood against the Storm Chaos with other Sigmarite priests armed only with his hammer and faith. In all his years he had witnessed such things that would make a mortal man go mad. But he had remained calm and had felt secure by his faith.

‘Vigee-Lebrun’ he whispered, flinching at even the mention of that dreaded name.

Father Jonas looked at the two swordsmen.

‘I had heard whisperings and rumours of his name, I had feared I would have to stand against him again, to face his… but he was defeated… defeated… yes…at Leithag hills. Are you sure he leads them?’

The Priest was rambling now. Kurt had questioned whether or not the man was completely mad before, but now he was convinced of it. The burley Northerner exchanged a worried glance with Heinrich.

‘I’m sure Father… Josef and Martin Keats both mentioned seeing a flag with his coat of arms flying from the spires of Gablitz. That was before the Direwolves first attacked them. Josef also saw large numbers Stirland uniforms among the ranks of the Undead as they passed by the farmstead. So yes father I am sure Galbiltz has fallen and I’m as sure Vigee-Lebrun leads them.’

The Priest stopped pacing and started to mutter to himself . Heinrich could not hear exactly what father Jonas was saying so he looked to Kurt who was standing closer to him. He shrugged his own confusion to the Northerner.

‘He talking to Sigmar’ replied Kurt in a whisper.

Heinrich rolled his eyes. The two swordsmen shook their heads and turned to walk out of the room, but were shopped in their tracks by Father Jonas’ next outburst.

‘I will muster the town watch and any other able bodied man that has not yet fled west. Kurt Muller you and Heinrich will go and inform Alexi and his band of all you have told me. Tell them to be ready in one hour.’

New authority was evident in every syllable. Heinrich and Kurt looked back toward the Priest. Wild fires burned deep within his eyes now. He no longer appeared as the old gaunt figure of a frightened man. He stood tall again, like he did that morning upon the hillside. Kurt and Heinrich were taken aback by the priest’s sudden change.

‘I apologise for my lapse.’ He offered with a firm smile. ‘My faith was tested… I will not be again. Understand me. As a Sigmarite Priest I am the hammer of Sigmar, his will made flesh. It is my duty and honour to fight the enemies of his heirs.’

Kurt and Heinrich believed the Priest’s grim tone. New strength flowed from him freely.

‘you said you had met him before father … you mean Vigee-Lebrun?’

‘I have faced the Vampire Raphael Vigee-Lebrun once before. Long ago. When I was much younger, long before I took up the hammer in our lords name. When I was but a child… He came… He came with fire and he came with death… nothing was ever the same’

Anger flared in the priest’s voice although his voice tone quite. His shear hatred of this foe was as clear as the sun in the skies of Araby.

‘What is it father?’ asked Kurt his heart now starting to pound deep within in his chest.

‘Unfinished business’ answered Father Jonas in low growl.

THE SUNLIGHT HURT HIS eyes, already the skin on his hands and face had began to blister. Raphael lifted his cowl so that it covered his face, blocking out the uncomfortable sunlight. One of the shutters on the carriage window had come free and now clattered noisily.

‘Lucan’ Raphael called his man servant’s name softly, but he could already feel the carriage begin to slow.

The carriage came to a halt and Lucan quickly secured the shutter, offering fearful apologises as he did so. Raphael simply nodded his acceptance. With the invasion of the scorching sunlight at an end his hand emerged from the folds of his cloak. He stroked a large golden box, which lay on the seat next to him.

‘You have done well dear sister.’ Offered Raphael in mocking gravity.

Opposite sat the slender form of Rosalind and next to her that arrogant pet of hers Victor Von Ritcher. Raphael would have liked nothing more than to drain him completely there and then. He had seen the smirk cross the whelps face when the sun light had started to burn him. Although it was for but a moment Raphael would remember to point this out to him during the final pain filled moments of the mortal’s life. No, he told himself, that can wait.
‘The honour is all mine dear brother.’ Replied Rosalind in the playful tone of voice she always used when addressing her siblings.

Rosalind’s tongue delicately probed the end of one of her extended fangs. Victor squirmed in his seat and fought hard not to stare. Raphael could sense the mortal’s desires and his tension. He stared at him icily. Their eyes met and Victor froze under is glare.

‘Dear brother, does something trouble you?’ interjected Rosalind lightly.

Raphael released Victor from his hypnotic gaze and turned his attention to his sister.

‘Of course not.’ He said rather too quickly.

A knowing smile crossed his sister’s face; Raphael pretended not to see it. She knows how much that cursed mortal boils my blackened blood. He thought angrily, she only brought him here to aggravate me. Why does she always play these games? Almost Three hundred years of unlife, and still she acts like the 15 year old child she one was.

‘I am eager… that is all’.

Rosalind raised her eyebrows and motioned her brother to continue.

‘Our time is almost at hand Dearest Sister!’ he stroked the gold lined casket again. ‘With this gauntlet’ he paused allowing the words to take full effect. ‘Stirla… No… the entire Old World will tremble before us. Contained within this box… Is the artefact, into which had been poured all the knowledge and power of old Khemri.’

Raphael shuddered with naked anticipation. The exhilaration was almost too much to bear. Power emanated from the box, he could feel it now flowing within the bounds of the protective bindings. It called to him at the edge of all his senses. Rosalind shot him a concerned look.

‘I can feel it too brother… but I urge caution. The gauntlet of Khemri was lost to the world for an age and it resurfaces now. Now, following the greatest incursion south by the forces of Chaos.’ Rosalind flinched at the mention of the word ‘Chaos.’

‘What are you saying Rosalind?’

‘I am saying, what if it was lost in the wastes for all those years? The forces of Chaos corrupting its power and bending it to fit their will? Wouldn’t that make us pawns in their game rather masters of our own?’

Rosalind voiced her concerns as lightly as she could, however she was unable to hide her concern completely.

‘Sister’ Raphael responded in a displeased tone, but then changed tact speaking happily.. ‘I hardly believe that an artefact created with all the knowledge of the ancient cultures, could be so easily undone or even corrupted by such powers. There is no evidence that that artefact even came from the wastes.’

Rosalind bit back her response. Angry that Raphael could so easily dismiss such real concerns. He had not seen what she had, he did not understand. Rosalind shook her head. How could he know? It was Claudius and herself that had re-captured the gauntlet. In 300 years of unlife she had not witnessed such primeval depravities.

A year earlier the undead siblings had stalked a retreating Chaos horde. Raphael had foreseen that they carried with them a thing of great importance and had sent his most trusted vassal’s to retrieve it. In fact the worshipers of the blood god held the gauntlet among many other ancient artefacts. Yet somehow the vampire with only the faintest understanding of sorcery had known of it.
Rosalind and Claudius had sent their armies forward and after a terrible battle close to the cursed field of Hel Fenn, they had vanquished their foe and attained the gauntlet. Raphael had kept the gauntlet under lock and key, deep with in the vaults of the family keep. Only now had he retrieved it from its hiding place.

‘The time is right my Dear Sister. Tonight at the circle of stones, a place of most ancient magic, I will perform the ceremony I was created for and take the gauntlet as my own.’

‘Yes Brother… and the world will tremble.’

THE TWO SWORDSMEN marched quickly across the town square towards the white stone chapel. Father Jonas stood at the top of the steps. A crowd had gathered below to hear him speak. About fifty townsmen loitered in groups waiting for him to start. This sort of turn out was encouraging to the swordsmen, who had worried they would have to set out again on their own. They had not expected to return and find that so many had answered the priest’s call to arms.

They had good news of their own to share with the old priest. The meeting with the flagellant leader had also gone well. Alexi had happily promised to accept his doom by leading forty two of his fanatical followers to aid the Iron Skulls. It was all he could do to restrain himself from indulging in a fit of self flagellation when the swordsmen told him of their mission.

‘The end is here and our doom approaches’ he finished with a smile, before shoeing the swordsmen out of his dirt encrusted tent.

Heinrich had seen flagellants before, but had never actually spoken to one. Who in their right mind would want too? Kurt summed up both their feelings on the subject once they had walked beyond earshot.

‘I can well believe the end is nigh!’

Heinrich frowned at his compatriot. Kurt smirked before adding.

‘What I mean is… everyone we have met since we started out on this reconnaissance mission has been as mental as beastman on heat. What else can it be? All the bad omens and that… I mean all of it… just doesn’t feel right If you ask me.’

‘I don’t know’ Heinrich Mused ‘Keats was alright, Sigmar save his soul. I hope he’s still alive.’

‘I sure he’s fine, He’s a Nobleman’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Noblemen are always ok. It’s us commoners who do all the dying… Like poor Albrecht, May Morr watch over his remains.’ Kurt had the sign of the hammer fleetingly across his chest.

‘And what about Josef, he was a nobleman?’

‘Ha!! Well that just proves it! The end is nigh! The status quo has all turned on its head… I think I might just get myself a flail and join Alexi’s band while there’s still time.’

Heinrich joined in with his friend’s good humour and began to laugh.

‘Victory or Death’ he offered, and Kurt reiterated the solemn words with a nod.

Suddenly Heinrich stopped in his tracks. Kurt carried on a few steps before realising his comrade was no longer by his side. The young swordsmen rubbed his eyes in disbelief. The Northerner looked back towards the younger man, then to where he was staring and then back again.
‘You look like you’ve seen a …’

‘Don’t even say it’ Heinrich interjected ‘just look’

The younger swordsman pointed past the crowed to the left of the chapel. Kurt stained his eyes but could not see what had caught Heinrich’s attention.

‘What? I can’t …. Wait… for the love of Sigmar it’s…’

‘Keats!’ finished Heinrich.

‘I flaming well told you!’ Boomed Kurt before breaking into a run close behind Heinrich who had already started across the town square.

The nobleman leaned against the frame of the inn’s door way. He smiled as the two swordsmen approached.
As far as Heinrich could make out Keats seemed uninjured, although his uniform and armour had seen better days. His breast plate hung loose from a severed leather strap. One of his iron shin braces was missing. The left arm of his once flamboyant uniform had been ripped clean off.

‘I thought you were dead man!’ blurted Kurt, before realising he was addressing his better.

The Northerner thumped his clenched fist across his chest in the offer of a salute. Heinrich did like wise. Keats overlooked the swordsman’s lapse in etiquette and returned the salute with a smile.

‘Pray tell me how you men survived that damned evil night?’ asked the Nobleman in the same eloquent Riekspel he always used.

Kurt bowed his head and explained

‘When we broke into the tree line Lucius Weiss and yourself had vanished. We…’

‘Didn’t you hear the sounds of fighting?’

‘Wolves yes but no fighting… not until later, but by then we were hopelessly lost in the woods… sire, and we couldn’t tell from which direction the sounds came.’

Keats nodded for the Northerner to continue.

‘Yes Sire! Well we continued to walk through the woods, Heinrich here leading the way while I carried Josef.’ Keats looked the man in the eye when he mentioned his companion’s name. Kurt did not tell him at that point about his death, but instead continued on chronologically explaining the details of their cursed night-time flight. ‘All the time we heard the sounds of wolves, close by then far away, then gunfire and screams… Eventually we blundered from out of the tree line and collapsed for a moment exhausted.’

‘Sigmar was certainly with you’ offered Keats with a smile.

‘Yes sire, but that wasn’t the end of it….’

‘Do continue’

‘Yes sire’ Heinrich now took up the story ‘we saw the lights of this town and started to run, Kurt here carried Josef on his back while I ran off ahead to get help…. Then we saw them. Huge wolf like things bounding down the hillside after us… dozens of them.

‘They were too fast’ interjected Kurt ‘So we stood our ground’

Keats eyes widened in disbelief, he had only survived his own battle by a lucky turn of fate. He had fallen several feet into a ravine. At first he had cursed his bad luck, but then realised that the tight space protected him fully, the wolves were unable to get to him and so left him in search of easier prey. During his own frantic battle he had killed one maybe two, but their number would have surely defeated the swordsmen if they had stood their ground.

Kurt saw the Nobleman’s amazed reaction and continued. ‘We were able to hold our ground long enough for help to arrive.’

Keats was about to ask who would be mad enough to willingly join battle against a pack of Dire wolves. That was before the saw the band of Flagellants emerge from the far side of the town square.

‘I see’ he said quietly. ‘Well done men, I will be sure to tell your commander of your continued bravery. Now where is Josef? Is he awake now?’

‘Sire’ the words caught in Heinrich’s mouth so Kurt continued.

‘Josef died this morning sire’ Kurt bowed his head apologetically. ‘I am sorry sire’

‘You left him to die?’ The nobleman responded icily.

He now saw that Heinrich wore is friend’s armour and Kurt held his sword sheathed next to his own. Murder flashed in his eyes. He was scarcely able to believe that these two commoners had robbed Josef and left him for dead, but what other explanation was there.

‘Murderers’ he gasped. Keats’ right hand shot to his sabre, but a firm hand grabbed him by the shoulder before he had time to draw the blade.

‘No my son they did not, far from it!’

The three men turned as one to face father Jonas who now stood beside the nobleman. The priest looked resplendent in his ancient armour and the blood red robes of the Sigmarite order. His very appearance commanded reverence.

‘These two heirs of Sigmar defended your comrade’s body bravely, even when he was beyond saving. They deserve Stirland’s highest honour for the way they fought today. Heinrich here almost joined your companion on his way to the Gardens of Morr. Josef gave his armour willingly before he died and entrusted his blade to Kurt, who promised to return it to his father.’

Keats shifted from one foot to the other. Kurt bowed and handed the dead nobleman’s blade to his companion silently. Keats accepted it gladly.

‘Then I thank them whole heartedly and apologise for my misled assumptions’ Keats’ bowed low toward the swordsmen and then the Priest. ‘Can I see his body?’

‘Of course my son follow me.’

Martin Keats followed the Priest silently. His grief evident in every heavy step he made. Kurt made the sign of the hammer across his chest and spat to his left. Heinrich toyed with the pommel of his blade.

‘That poor man has lost his whole command.’ Offered Heinrich.

‘Aye… which is a hidden blessing for you lad.’ Heinrich looked up unsure at what the Northerner was getting at. Kurt continued. ‘Lucias Weiss would have had us hanged if he’d survived the night, of that I have no doubt’.

Heinrich nodded.

‘Come now let us forget about such ill omens, we must prepare for our journey.’

HIS HORSE WAS CLEARLY spooked but he urged it to continue on with a ‘click click’. He scanned his surroundings cautiously. By Sigmar he was eager to be out of this damn claustrophobic woodland. The seven remaining pistoliers each shared their commander’s grim determination to continue onwards, even though their mounts groaned against every step. This was no terrain for the young noblemen to fight in, hemmed in on all sides by the trees and undergrowth of the wood. Their mobility and firepower nullified. They were vulnerable, and this agitated their commander greatly.

‘How far now!’ demanded Anton in an aggressive tone.

The old forester walked next to Anton holding the Nobleman’s horse by its reigns, as he guided the party thought the dense undergrowth. He scratched his chin thoughtfully, but did not turn to face the Anton.

‘Not far, Milord.’

Anton shifted in his saddle, aggrieved by the commoner’s complete lack of respect. He managed to control his temper and stopped himself form striking the guide down. Don’t do anything hasty Anton you need him, the Pistolier told himself, anyway you have other more pressing matters at hand. Anton nodded to himself and looked back along his command. Further down the column a wounded pistolier sat on his comrade’s mount. The owner of the horse, a young Pistolier called Franz, walked by his side. The youth glanced up every few paces to ensure the unconscious man was secure in the saddle.

Anton frowned.

‘You said that an hour ago’

‘I’m sorry Milord’ the woodsman turned and half bowed. ‘…but its just beyond this next turn in the track.’

Anton breathed in through his nose intensely.

‘Very well then. Please do lead on’

The commoner bowed again and led the horse by its reigns. The column continued along the barely visible track for a while longer. Branches caught cloth and flesh, tearing and scratching. Anton leaned in against the undergrowth like a man shielding his head and raising a shoulder against a storm.

Rustling in the under growth caused Anton’s horse to rear up nervously and he fought to regain control. The old guide held onto the reigns and attempted to calm the beast. He was unwilling to allow the nobleman to fall, but was kicked in the chest for his efforts. The Woodsman crumpled to the ground and was kicked again. Blood flowed freely from the new wound to his head.

Anton paid no attention to the Woodsman’s demise as more movement sounded all around the pistoliers. Primeval mutterings could be heard from all directions. The sound of movement became louder with every passing second. The noblemen drew their pistols and searched the undergrowth for signs of their pursuers. I will not sit here and wait for doom to approach Anton told himself while still fighting for control of his mount. At that moment an arrow impacted into a tree only inches from his head.

‘Pistoliers to me!’ he bellowed, kicking his horse into forward motion.

Anton bolted down the track, followed closely by the rest of his command. The old Forester twitched away the last moments of his life alone, as the pistoliers rode past. Anton Von Helmburg did not look back.

At the rear of the column Franz heard the hasty command as an arrow caught him in the calf. He grunted away the pain and levelled his pistol into the tree line and fired. Painfully he swung himself onto his horse behind his wounded comrade and urged his steed to follow his companions. The beast refused to obey. Franz looked around frantically, but was relieved to see his close friend Hauptman close behind him. He alone had stayed when the others made their escape. Hauptman nodded to his comrade before turning and firing his pistols at more of the pursuers who moved just beyond the line of trees. This distraction was enough for Franz to regain control of his mount and follow the rest of the pistoliers down the track.

Branches broke as the pistoliers crashed through the undergrowth. All the time the nervous horsemen glanced around search for some sight of the pursuers. A shadow here and movement there was all that could be seen during the maddened flight of the Empire’s finest.

The suffocating darkness of the wood was replaced instantly by the bright afternoon sunshine as the band of pistoliers broke the tree line and emerged into a golden field of corn. Anton came to a halt and reined his horse about thirty feet from the woods edge. His men rallied around him, all levelled their drawn pistols toward the tree line.

Anton noticed immediately that the group was a man short. He was about to order a role call when blood filled screams began to echo from the wood. The horses shifted nervously as the cries became louder.

‘Hauptman!’ cried Franz, realising it was his friend that was missing. Guilt flooded through the young noble as he realised he had left his comrade to his fate. The abandoned pistolier cried out again in agonizing pain. Franz fought again to shift his mount and urged it back towards the wood. The wounded pistolier that shared the mount groaned.

‘Stay yourself!’ barked Anton, but Franz urged the terrified horse forwards

Anton lifted his pistol high and fired into the air. The gunshot brought Franz back to his senses and he eased his mount back towards the other pistoliers. At that moment another horse broke the tree line with an unnatural shriek. The young noble men jumped as one, as the terrified beast bolted past them. Blood glistened upon it flanks. The men knew instantly that it was Hauptman’s mare. The screams from the wood ended in a high pitch wail.

Anton felt the rush before it actually came.

‘Present arms!’ he bellowed as men dressed in peasant attire and armed with clubs, pikes and bows broke the line of trees and charged towards the mounted noblemen.

A volley of pistol fire answered the charging men and many crumpled to the ground in broken heaps. The spent fire arms were quickly holstered and load pistols drawn with rehearsed familiarity. Another volley felled a score more of the pursuers that were now only yards from the stationary horsemen.

‘Break contact!’ barked Anton above the noise of pistol fire and the death cries of wounded men.

The pistoliers turned as one and galloped away though the field of corn. Their mounts easily encouraged to move away from the unnatural Pursuers. The maddened peasants followed hard on their heels but were soon out distanced by the mounted soldiers. About thirty men still followed shouting ancient curses towards their quarry.

‘Who are they’ gasped Franz.

‘Sylvanian peasant Levy!’ spat one of his companions as they rode. ‘Curse them all! Men like you and me press ganged into the service of the Undead! Morr Curse them!’

Poor souls thought Franz for a moment, but then cursed himself. They had killed Hauptman and from his screams had enjoyed doing it too!

‘Morr curse them!’ he cried.

Anton Turned his horse and his troop did likewise. They calmly levelled their remaining firearms toward the band of Peasants as they bore down upon them

‘Fire!’ cried Anton and a scored more of the Sylvanian militia fell. Then in a moment they were amongst the noblemen. Anton had drawn his sabre only moments earlier and now slashed left and right as the Peasants fought to drag him from his mount. The other pistoliers fought with equal zeal as the Peasants sought to overwhelm them by shear force of numbers. Anton beheaded an assailant to his left and kick out at another to his right. A third smashed a club into the horse’s face causing it to rear up in pain. Anton was thrown clear losing his sword as here rolled through the melee.

The Nobleman dragged himself wearily to his feet. A man confronted him immediately, swinging a meatcleaver towards unprotected head. He ducked under the clumsy blow and punched the man in the side of his face with right hand. He fell away and was tramped under the hooves of a horse. Another man charged in form Anton’s left with a rusted pole arm levelled towards him. Anton was unarmed and so backed away instinctively. He tripped backwards over a corpse as the man closed in. Anton scrambled the get up but realise it was too late. The crazed Sylvanian charged towards him bellowing his war cry. Anton closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable.

Bang! A gun shot sounded through the noise of the melee. Anton opened his eyes and saw the Sylvanian fall away, a smoking hole in his chest. The Nobleman looked up. Standing over him was the wounded pistolier that Franz had been carrying on his horse. A smoking pistol in his hand.

‘My thanks Herr Weiss’

Lucius bowed with a smile and lifted his commander to his feet.

HE HAD BEEN ON THE road for a whole night and day. He had set off from Wurtbad with four horses and a message of great importance from the Court of his Elector. Two of his horses had already died from exhaustion, a third had gone lame near Tenneck and he had sold it to a scruffy looking Farmhand for a couple of copper coins. His last horse panted heavily as he crested the rocky hill. He searched the horizon for any sign of General Von Schroeder’s Army. Nothing .He sighed miserably; despondent that he hadn’t yet caught up with his quarry.

‘Sigmar curse that old fool’ he said lightly not meaning it. ‘If anyone could hide an entire army in the open, it would be Mikel.’

He kicked the tired beast into motion once more and followed the Praager Strasse road eastwards towards the boarders of Sylvania.

The weary herald had expected to catch up with the Old General at Tenneck. Von Schroeder had been stationed there under direct orders to hold is ground and prevent any Undead force advancing into Stirland’s heartland. It was common knowledge among the nobility of Stirland that the Great General only ever followed the loosest interpretation of his orders. Mikel believed in his own intuition rather than the will of someone issuing orders from behind a desk, miles from the front line. At first only his victories had stayed charges of treason, now he was a national hero, and loved by the people.

Alexander had served under Von Schroeder before and knew full well of his reputation. Never the less, the exhausted courier was somewhat surprised, when he arrived in Tenneck to find it all but abandoned. There was evidence that a large force had occupied the town for some time. The surrounding fields were trodden to mud. Latrine pits had been dug into the hillside and scorch marks from hundreds of campfires littered the area.

‘Where have you gone too?’ he asked to the wind.

A town elder had approached unnoticed in the mean time and had answered him by pointing eastwards.

‘They left yesterday morning sire!’

Alexander had left the town without further word and had travelled for several hours, riding hard along the ancient road way. Now he grumbled to himself almost constantly. He did not know the significance of the message that he carried for the Elector Count, but Albrecht Haupt-Anderssen had handed it to him in person with orders to leave at once. This action alone was most un-characteristic of the young Graf and hinted at the importance of the scroll he now held. Alexander had marked the tension evident in the Elector’s face, when he had bowed low to accept the scroll. Right now he wanted nothing more than to reach is destination. Where ever that may be.

THE IRON SKULLS HAD worked relentlessly all day preparing the terrain and Manor house for the coming Undead assault. Dusk had started to settle in the valley as the sun passed behind the western hills. Bands of huntsmen had been dispatched down every possible route that the Undead force could emerge. A fire arrow would be fired high into the night sky as soon as the enemy force had been encountered. The Iron skull’s camp itself was quiet; all companies stood to attention along the make shift battlements. Although no orders had been issued to silence the men, all held their tongue and waited nervously. Even the scattered bands of militia reframed from their usual drunken banter and adhered to the silent vigil.

Henry Frey paced along the first line trenches, occupied by Blucher’s company of around eighty swordsmen. An equal number of local militia men had been attached to protect the flanks and provide a roaming reserve for the frontline. Frey offered words of comfort and light hearted jokes with his soldiers, many of whom he knew would not see out the night. The soldiers, both professional and volunteer, saluted proudly as he passed them. The commander had donned his armour and now held his sword unsheathed at his side. Henry Frey always held the blade in his hand during the lead up to a battle, joking that he wouldn’t want to forget where it was when he needed to use it. Now it had become a sort of custom for the regiment. Something simple that defined them all, Like their large red shields, Steinman’s horse voice, or Kurt Muller’s humor.

‘Be patient lads!’ he offered with a smile. ‘I have no doubt that the Undead legions will crumble to dust willingly, rather than face the justice we plan to give them.’

‘Huzzah!’ was the reply from those around him.

Frey held his sword high accepting the salute. Despite all the calm smiling faces that now looked at him, the commander knew full well the torrent of apprehension that raged just under the surface. Pride filled him, his men now knew about the fall of Gablitz and the overwhelming numbers they now faced. He knew that right now every man was weighing up his chances of surviving against such a foe. He knew that, because that is what he was doing. Frey lifted his shining blade again in a salute to his brave comrades. At times he felt that he was only just controlling his nerve, yet his men had not faltered once. He bowed his head and moved off further down the trench.

The tenable position around the Manor House had been slightly improved that day, when Henry Frey’s small regiment had been reinforced during the afternoon. A hand full of town watch had wandered into the Manor grounds by accident. They had been surrounded by sentries, disarmed and taken to the officer on watch. Unfortunately from these men, that officer was Corporal Steinman. The Red faced corporal had alleged that the men had ‘clearly deserted’ from their unit and when Steinman had talked of putting a noose around their necks, they had happily given up the location of their comrades.

Steinman left at once with fifty men from his company and had returned just before dusk with over two hundred more militia men. Steinman marched the new recruits into the Manor House courtyard with a proud smile etched upon his pox covered face. He stopped at the head of a column of men that now doubled the size of Frey’s command. Henry Frey had been dumbstruck when he emerged form the Manor house.

‘How?’ he had asked.

‘Well sir! I took me-self on a little recruitment drive. These lads were recruited from nearby villages and farmsteads. All volunteered to fight and die for you and Stirland sir.’

The men had shifted nervously as Steinman emphasized the die and he Plump Corporal took much pride in that. In reality Steinman had found the men hold up in an old Farmstead further to the south. Their commander had a strong Northern accent and nervously explained about his unit’s own flight from Gablitz. Steinman had promised a pardon for their desertion should they join his men in defense of the Manor House. Although Steinman had neither the rank nor authority to promise such a thing the Militia Captain accepted the offer gratefully and mustered his troops.

Frey welcomed the reinforcements, but silently questioned their ability to fight. To a man they were malnourished, bare footed and their uniforms ragged. They had their own weapons, which were at least sharp and well maintained. Frey had them fed and equipped as was far as possible then split them up into smaller bands and dispersed throughout the three companies that made up the Iron Skulls. In reality he knew full well he would need five times as many men to hold the position in definitely. Still he thanked Sigmar for this gift.

A little further along the trench he stopped again and looked out across the shadowy fields to his fore. Nothing moved and there was no sound. Even the wind and birds seemed to adhere to the unnatural stillness of this unholy evening. While he held onto his faith like a shield, Frey was a more of a realist than he liked to admit. He knew that when the assault finally came it would wash over them all like a great wave.

All he could do now was pray for aid to reach them in time. He had a few hours, maybe until dawn, depending upon how quickly the Vampire concentrated its massive force. The last dispatches he had received from Baron Von Schroeder were over a day old. They ordered him to hold fast and wait for the Army of Eastern Stirland to join him before advancing on Gablitz. However since then, Anton Von Helmburg had told him that Gablitz had fallen and its dead now swelled the ranks of the Undead Army. Henry Frey knew that his position was a good one. The steep slopes of the hillside had been reinforced by trenches and wooden barricades. Traps and ditches had been set along all of the approach routes, but without more men only the will of Sigmar would protect them.

‘Sigmar’s will’ he whispered, making the sign of the hammer across his chest.

‘Sir’ Corporal Blucher had approached while his commander was distracted. He was a tall thin man with hollow cheeks and a silver grey head of hair.

‘All’s ready Sir, I’ve issued your orders, and have dispersed the militia men throughout the company. My men will do Stirland proud this night!’

‘Of that I have no doubt Olde Blue.’ Frey used the veteran’s nickname that Baron Von Schroeder had given him years earlier. Frey raised his voice, so all could hear, but he still spoke to the old Corporal

‘You understand that once the command is given you must retreat from the forward positions and join with Corporal Blyant’s men in the second trench.’

‘Yes sir!’ answered Blucher with a nod.

‘Good!’ Frey turned to the men surrounding himself and Blucher ‘Because I know how much Old Blue’s company hate to leave a fight before it’s won.’

The men cheered happily again.

‘Victory or Death!’ bellowed Frey at the top of his voice his gleaming sword held high. The entire hillside answered the call as one.

He smiled contently ‘Sigmar’s will’ he whispered.

‘ARE YOU SURE HE knows where he’s leading us?’ asked Heinrich nervously nodding toward the Old Priest several paces in front of him.

Kurt looked down at his comrade and shrugged, rolling his eyes to emphasize his own concerns. They walked on for a little longer in silence. The sun disappeared beyond the distant hills and dusk had started to settle over the land. The twin Moons had not yet started their ascent into the sky, but the whole region already seemed deftly silent, everything was completely still.

‘You know, I wonder who is more foolish, the fool or the fools who follow him?’ interjected Kurt breaking the silence of the evening.

‘Well I’m glad to see you’re a barrel of laughs…’

‘Just supposing that’s all. I mean it looks like we are heading in the right direction. Although watching him mutter away to himself while we follow… just well… ‘

‘Disturbs you?’

‘Aye! in a way’

‘Maybe he does have divine visions?’ offered Heinrich unconvincingly.

‘Aye I suppose… and while we’re at it, maybe me and Karl Franz were separated at birth!’

The men shared the joke and carried on a little further through the field of corn. They had been marching now for around six hours, following Father Jonas through field and ford. Behind them walked Martin Keats silently his head half bowed. He had said very little since the party had left town. His losses almost overwhelmed him now and his foot falls were heavy for such a nimble man. Heinrich and Kurt stayed close by, but did not intrude upon the nobleman’s personal space. Grief flooded from him and unnerved them all.

Behind Martin Keats followed the fifty-odd townsmen armed with meat-cleavers, pitch-folks and an assortment of other pole arms. Behind them, Alexi’s crazed band flogged themselves repetitively as they walked. Alexi himself as if sensing the nobleman’s grief had moved to walk along side him. Although clearly uncomfortable with the Prophet’s very presence Keats did not ask him to leave. He seemed to half listen to the man’s constant doom saying. Alexi’s preaching soon started to find a hold in Keats’ grief.

Martin Keats was the proud son of a well known Wurtbad noble; he was the veteran of many battles, an expert swordsman and strategist. He had looked death in the eye and smiled back at it many times, but some thing had happened to him that night fleeing from the Farmstead. The fire in his heart had started to smoulder. The deaths of his men, all of his men laid heavy on him and consumed him with a fear of the inevitable. His own death? No that wasn’t it… Something else… something bigger… Alexis’ haunted words filled his ears;

‘Dark clouds will smother the lands of Man,
From Worlds Edge Mountains to the Vast Ocean.
The Dead will rise and stalk and feed,
To punish man for his Sins and Greed.
The end of times is now hither
Time for man to die and wither.
Repent Thy Sins, I beg of thee this
Before Death comes with sorrowful Kiss’

A heavy hand pulled Alexi away from Keats. The massive paw held Alexi by the front of his rags stopping the Prophet mid-sentence. Kurt looked the zealot directly in the eye and shook is head. There was no aggression in the grip, but the Prophet of Doom struggled in vain against its strength. Kurt shook his head again and spat to his side. Heinrich positioned himself between Keats and Alexi, unaware that his hand now rested upon the pommel of is sword.

The entire party soon stopped and had started to surround the swordsmen and Alexi; the militia men quickly gave way to the impertinent zealots allowing them to all but surround the soldiers. The commoner’s fear of the flagellants far out weighed their will to see how the confrontation would develop.

‘Would you be so kind as to put me down’ asked Alexi with mocking politeness.

Kurt frowned, his eyes narrowed and he held Alexi in his stare. He did not reply. Heinrich looked from Kurt to Alexi and back again.

‘Didn’t I speak slowly enough for you, Barbarian? Or is it that you wish to meet your doom here with me, rather than wait for our sky to fall and the World to end in a flood of fire.’

Kurt let a smile wash across his face; ‘No, nothing like that. I just don’t like you.’

Alexi tried again to free himself, but Kurt held firm. The closest zealot stepped forward to help free his Prophet, Heinrich moved instinctively to block him. The young swordsmen battled to keep his face like stone, which was difficult when facing off against a maddened zealot whose eyes had been lost to madness for Sigmar knows how long. The Young Swordsmen shook his head, his hand still on the pommel of his sword. The Flagellant scowled at him, but abandoned his attempt to free Alexi.

‘Put-Him-Down-my son’

Father Jonas’ voice cut through the tension like a hot knife through butter. Kurt gently lowered Alexi to his feet and then loosened his grip. Alexi flashed a toothless smile towards the Northerner, but then made towards Martin Keats who now stood out side the ring of men. The young nobleman appeared unaware of what had transpired and simply stared vacantly at the ground. Oblivious of confrontation that had developed because of him. Kurt’s hand shot out and stopped Alexi in his tracks once more.

Father Jonas pushed through the crowd and stopped between the two men, forcing Kurt to release Alexi from his iron grip. The Prophet of Doom made another attempt to speak with Keats, however this time Father Jonas’ hand gripped him gently around the arm. Alexi stopped and looked the Priest in the eye. The zealot had a defensive look upon his face. He attempted to protest, but was cut off by Father Jonas.

‘Please… Brother Alexi, would you be so kind as to speak to me for a moment.’

The Priest motioned Alexi to walk with him and away from the crowd of militia and flagellants. The Doom Sayer reluctantly followed him like a chastised child. The tension soon dropped as the two men walked away through the field. Father Jonas’ talked much, while Alexi nodded. The Prophet threw an occasional glance back toward the group, but each time the Priest distracted him. The other Flagellants were first to move off, many throwing twisted looks at Heinrich and Kurt as they passed by. The Townsmen moved next cautiously keeping their distance from the crazed fanatics as the whipped themselves happily. Kurt and Heinrich exchanged glances, before walking over to Keats and encouraging him to follow. Keats fell in behind the militia but said nothing.

The swordsmen hand gone a few paces, Heinrich all the time shaking his head.

‘Alright! What? I know your going to say some thing so just say it.’ Snapped Kurt.

‘What? I don’t know what you mean?’ chuckled the younger soldier.

Kurt raised his eyebrow before turning and spiting to his left.

‘I’m in awe of your people skills that’s all.’ Added Heinrich, knowing that this would antagonise his companion further.

Kurt threw a light jab at Heinrich’s arm which caught the younger man square. Heinrich jumped away following the impact and rubbed his arm. Surprised at how much the playful punch actually hurt.

‘No need for that.’ Heinrich protested.

THE FIVE REMAINING Pistoliers lay prone in the overgrown field of crops. They did not speak, reluctant to give away their position. The skirmish with the Sylvanian Peasant Militia had hit them hard and all now sported fresh wounds. To the rear their three remaining horses stood silently in a gulley. Their reigns were tethered to the post of a crooked wooden bridge, which enabled easier access to the field across a wide irrigation ditch.

Anton clicked his neck anxiously and listened. He was certain that he could hear voices now, although he could not tell whether they were friend or foe. Lucius looked up at him, he had two pistols in his hands. Blood still dripped from his left sleeve. Lucius Weiss knew the bite he had received the night before from the Dire Wolf had re-opened. It hurt, by Sigmar did it hurt, but the adrenaline pumping through his body helped to take the edge off it. He nodded to his commander, urging him to engage this new foe.

Franz was to the left of his commander and wore a mask of concern across his face. His left arm hung limp at the shoulder, his broken ribs burned. He held a cocked pistol in his good hand, which still trembled. He waited nervously for the command to attack, but willed Anton not to give it. Wave after wave of Sylvanian militia had hit them, each time Anton had reformed and counter charged. Eventually the young lord Von Helmburg had been persuaded to break contact. The five Pistoliers had lost the pursuers shortly after the sun had gone down. Now they could here the voices getting louder. Franz tried in vain to shake the nagging feeling that he had just witnessed his last sun set. He gulped down and waited.

They were close now, perhaps ten feet away at the most. Anton clicked the hammer of his antique pistol back and raised a finger to his lips, gesturing that his command remain quiet. Lucius shifted enthusiastically.

‘Calm yourself my son’ said the first voice.

Anton lifted his head as high as he dared, but still could not see who was speaking. The voice was calming, but had a strength to it that demanded respect. Anton remained still. The other man replied. A sort of intelligence madness resonated as the second man spoke, his voice haunted and shaken.

‘How can one be calm, when end of times is at hand?’

Anton was almost sure now that it was the Sylvanian Militia that stood less that a pistol shot away. That haunted voice could never belong to any Sigmar fearing man. He remained motionless for several moments, still unsure of their numbers. Slowly Anton turned and motioned his men to make ready. Lucius looked like he was unable to retain himself. Anton lifted his hand and held it straight. The pistoliers were well trained; all knew that when their commander’s hand came down they would attack as one, quickly and without warning.

‘Sigmar works in mysterious ways, Alexi.’

Anton froze, strange, why should they speak of Sigmar as their deity? He looked to Lucius.

‘It’s a trick!’ he whispered, still eager for a fight. ‘If we strike now we will have the upper hand, it’s a trick I tell you!’

Franz looked nervously from Anton to Lucius, he wanted to protest but found himself unable to speak. So instead he waited for the command, and prayed to Sigmar for deliverance.

PEERING THROUGH THE encroaching darkness, Kurt could see that Alexi and Father Jonas were still exchanging heated words. Their voices were quite muffled at this distance, but their tone was audible and the tension between them clear. The Northerner felt somewhat responsible and considered moving forward along the column to offer the Priest his support. Heinrich seemed to read what the Kurt was thinking. The younger swordsmen grabbed his comrade firmly around the arm and shook his head. Kurt stopped for a moment, before he fell back into step alongside Heinrich.

‘Father Jonas will have it under control.’ offered Heinrich, attempting to ease the concerns of his troubled companion.

‘Aye’ conceded Kurt

‘Besides that last thing he needs is you stirring things up again. I mean just look what happened when you interceded on Keats’ behalf.’

Kurt spat to his side, accepting that he should have handled his earlier confrontation with Alexi differently. Kurt Muller had never been noted for his subtlety, but the way he reacted to the Zealot was more than a little surprising to Heinrich. The lofty swordsmen clearly held deep routed contempt for all Flagellants and especially their orators. In truth he thought them all deranged doomsayers, whose sole aim in life was to terrify good common folk with exaggerated tales of the end of times. Deep down Kurt knew that he couldn’t have handled Alexi any differently.

‘Sigmar’s will’ he muttered under his breath.

Kurt stopped for a moment and frowned. A smile soon spread across his face. ‘Im starting to sound like gloomy old Henry Frey, Sigmar help me’ he thought.

He had never liked Flagellants, then again who in their right mind would say that they did. The hulking swordsmen simply could not get his head around the whole thing. It wasn’t the fatalism of the cult; Sigmar knew that any man who had served in the ranks for as long as Kurt had would have developed a sort of fatalism himself. It was just the certainty of their word that the world would end. Not because of a Greenskin incursion, or another Chaos invasion, but because of our sins. The pox to that he thought. The Northerner fought to hold his temper in place. Who are they to tell me?

‘What was that’ whispered Heinrich, steeling Kurt from his thoughts.

‘What was what? I can’t see anything in this darkness.’

‘The grass verge to our fore’ Heinrich pointed ‘something…. Someone lifted their head, just for a moment.’

‘Maybe this cursed night is taking its toll on you? The moons are only starting to rise and Morrslieb already looks like its going to consume the whole sky’ Kurt looked Heinrich directly in the eye ‘bad omens Heinrich.’

‘Aye, I agree with you about the omens.’ Replied Heinrich drawing his blade, ‘but I’m certain something is watching us.’

Heinrich left it at that and moved quickly to his left. The young swordsman disappeared silently into the darkness. He bounded over the grass verge several feet away before dropping down into a ditch, which ran parallel with the edge of the field. Kurt followed him automatically, not registering he had done so until he landed in the ditch beside his comrade. The two men exchanged a look of understanding, before Heinrich turned, leading the lofty Northerner down the irrigation ditch towards his quarry.

Both men moved silently at the crouch, each conscious of even the slightest noise they made. Their progress was slow, due to the muddy water that covered the trench floor and reached as high as the knee. The darkness hindered them greatly, their field of vision down to a few feet. The ditch veered to the left as the swordsmen closed in upon their target. They could hear Father Jonas and Alexi clearly now.

‘Calm yourself my son’ said Father Jonas in his soft but authoritarian voice.

‘How can one be calm, when end of times is at hand?’ replied the Zealot in his tormented tone of voice. Kurt shuddered as he spoke.

As the swordsmen rounded the turn in the ditch, Heinrich came to a nervous halt. To the fore about ten yards from their own position were three saddled horses tethered to a crooked wooden bridge, which traversed the irrigation ditch. There was no sign of the riders. Kurt’s brow furrowed.

‘They don’t look like Undead horses even in this poor light.’ whispered Kurt, consciously keeping his voice as low as possible.

Heinrich nodded, a concerned look carved upon his face.

‘Aye, they look like imperial mounts, pistoliers perhaps’

‘And we both know how jumpy they get after dark.’ replied Kurt, his eyes narrowing in an attempt to pierce the darkness.

Kurt made to step forward again but was stopped in his tracks by the crack of pistol fire. A crescendo noise of emanated from the firearms, breaking the haunted silence that had preceded the volley. Groans of pain and horror answered the explosion of pistols. Another volley sounded.

‘Those arrogant-hot-headed-fools!’ bellowed Kurt, no longer concerned by how loud he spoke.

The Northerner broke into a run and ducked under the low bridge, sidestepping the tethered horses in the process. The anxious steeds kicked out nervously in answer to the soldiers charge. Fortunately Kurt managed to avoid their trashing and only suffered a glancing bow to his side. Not that the enraged Swordsmen even noticed as he bounded up the side of the trench.

Heinrich started to follow his comrade, but his attention was drawn away by movement off to his side. He glanced around nervously, but was relieved to see two militia men drop into the ditch and move towards him. The young swordsmen turned to follow Kurt through the bridge. At least we won’t die alone, he thought. Suddenly something inside Heinrich’s head cried out in warning forcing him to turn and instinctively raise his blade in defence. This action saved his life, as he hurriedly parried a blow aimed for his head. With his mind racing Heinrich suddenly realised why his instincts had cried out a warning. The two militia men had dropped into the ditch from the wrong side.

Heinrich’s reactions had saved him from the initial blows of the combat and his superior training soon started to give him an edge over his opponents. Now he had time to think, the young Swordsman realised he was fighting Sylvanian Peasant Militia. Heinrich remembered the terrorised look of a tortured mind that was etched upon both men’s faces. He had faced such men before during the battle of Leithag hills and knew full well that such a foe would rather throw himself upon the blade of his enemy, than face wrath of his Undying Master.

Heinrich was soon able to hold his ground against his adversaries. The trench they now fought in was only wide enough for one man to swing his weapons and fight comfortably. Therefore the Sylvanians were unable to press their attack despite outnumbering the swordsman. The muddy base of the ditch further restricted their movement.

The young swordsmen parried a wild thrust from the first man with rehearsed familiarity and then countered quickly, striking the militia man in the neck. Heinrich then swept his blade low, slashing his foe across the thigh. The Sylvanian dropped away holding his neck with one hand as blood pumped from the severed artery. His other hand searched blindly for the wound to his leg. He crumpled away into the bog at his comrade’s feet.

The second opponent was momentarily distracted by the demise of his friend. The first man’s death throws further hindering his own advance. Heinrich used the distraction to his advantage. He leapt towards the trench wall on his left and sprang from it with considerable agility. This move would have been reckless against a trained duellist, but against his current adversary, the surprise was total. Heinrich’s blade drove deep into the waiting man’s chest. Both tumbled through the mud and came to a halt several feet away. Heinrich pulled his blade free and made to strike again, however the dead eyes of his victim stared up at him, staying his hand.

The sound of battle could now be heard from the crop field itself, with pistol fire and the clash of swords mixing with cries of pain and angered retort. Heinrich looked toward the bridge where he had last seen Kurt. More Sylvanian militia poured into the trench behind him, and started him moving in that direction. The young swordsmen kept to the side to the ditch in an attempt to avoid getting stuck in deepest part of the quagmire. He ducked under the bridge and noticed that only one horse remained tied to the post. The others had vanished.

‘Kurt!’ he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

No reply came.

THE SYLVANIAN STRUGGLED in vain for his next breath, the pressure behind his eyes and nose was beyond unbearable. His hands clawed frantically at the giant Stirlander’s hand, which held him by the throat in a vice like grip. His vision began to wane, along with the last ounces of strength in his limbs. He had the faint recollection of being stabbed several times before the blackness consumed him.

Kurt held the limp body of his foe high. Using it as a shield he swotted away the desperate lunges of the Sylvanian militia easily. The militia had initially surrounded the lofty Northerner seeing him as an easy target. Although the Swordsmen was unsupported by the Flagellants and Stirland militia that now fought frantically in the corn field beyond, the Sylvanians soon realised they had blundered into a combat that was far beyond them.

The corpses of six men now lay at the Northerner’s feet. Two had been killed by his bare hands. The charge of the Sylvanian Militia had been so rapid that Kurt had been unable to draw his blade in time to meet their initial onslaught. Kurt’s first assailant had lunged clumsily attempting to drive his blade deep into his chest. The Northerner had side stepped to blow and smashed his open hand into the militia man’s face, destroying is nose and driving it deep into his brain. He man fell to the ground in a broken, twitching heap.

Moments later a second man broke from the cover of darkness to the Swordsmen’s left. The Sylvanian made a wild swing, attempting to cleave the Northerner’s head from his shoulders with a rusty longsword. Kurt sensed the attack and turned in time to meet it. He grabbed the man by his sword arm, stopping the blow before it made contact. The Lofty Swordsman held his opponents arm tightly, looked him in the eye and shook is head silently. The Sylvanian seemed to register his mistake a split second before Kurt threw a quick blow to his head. With is assailant now incapacitated, Kurt stamped down towards the doomed man’s knees, shattering both his legs with the force of the blow.

Kurt twisted the longsword free of the Sylvanian’s hand as he fell and parried the attack of a third man, as more of the Sylvanian Militia moved to surround him. The swordsman drew his own blade with his free hand and fought aggressively with both blades. A head fell away from its owners body with a surprised look etched across its maddened face. Felling his forth opponent with a thrust of the longsword, Kurt found he was unable to dislodge it from the Sylvanian’s ribcage and so let the weapon drop away. He grabbed a fifth man by the throat and lifted him from the ground easily. Despatching a sixth man with a low blow to his groin Kurt battered away another’s sword with the body of the man he held by the neck.

The Northerner batted away another blow and countered quickly, putting the Sylvanian on the back foot. He was about the press the attack to its inevitable conclusion, but became suddenly aware that Heinrich was not longer with him. Kurt adopted a more defensive stance as he searched for his comrade. He scanned the terrain around him first, squinting through the darkness. Nothing. He could see the Flagellants and Stirland Militia fighting a winning battle against superior numbers in the field of crops further down the slope. He could not make out individuals, but was sure he had seen the Priest’s red cloak moving through the combat.

Kurt bellowed Heinrich’s name, but could not hear a reply over the sound of battle that raged all around. The Northerner decided to move back towards the trench in search of his companion. He threw the limp body of the man he had held by the neck into a group of militia that closed upon him timidly, knocking them to the ground in the process. His final opponent remained between him and the crooked bridge, all of a sudden very aware of his mortality. Kurt stepped towards him lifting his sword to the ready.

‘Let us dance!’ he spat at the Sylvanian.

The blade dropped from the terrified man’s grip, as his hand shook violently. Kurt stepped towards him and snarled. The Sylvanian’s next move surprised the Northerner as he turned and broke into a run. Kurt moved to follow but a pistol shot sounded sharply through the sound of battle. The Sylvanian staggered back toward him holding his smoking chest. He dropped to his knees heavily and looked up towards the Giant Swordsman apologetically. Kurt decapitated him with out remorse, spitting at the body as it fell away.

‘Morr curse your soul!’ he barked.

Looking up Kurt could see an imperial pistolier stood opposite, about ten yards to his fore. Kurt felt a smile cross his face for a moment. It vanished quickly as he made out the man’s features. Lucius Weiss smiled back. He tossed the smoking pistol to the ground arrogantly and drew another. The battle seemed to slow around them. Lucius levelled the pistol towards Kurt, a look of satisfaction clear, even through the darkness. The Pistolier squeezed the trigger and Kurt braced himself for the inevitable burning impact of the pistol ball.

The pistol fired, but Kurt realised instantly that something had gone wrong. The firearm sizzled rather than exploded. The Northerner’s eyes narrowed and vengeance called to him. Lucius simply shrugged his shoulders and bolted into the darkness. Kurt followed him quickly past groups of Sylvanians who moved towards the melee in the corn field.

Kurt dropped down into the trench moments after the nobleman had. Lucius hit the ground running and bounded over towards the crooked bridge where one remaining horse was tethered. Kurt followed him as Lucius battled to draw another pistol as he ran. Kurt followed closely, fighting his way through the quagmire around his feet. Lucius was lighter and soon made progress through the mud and moved away from his pursuer. The northerner cursed him as he battled on.

‘Kurt!’ The Northerner, heard his comrade’s voice from up ahead and was relieved to know Heinrich was still alive. He was about the reply when a Sylvanian leaped from the side of the ditch, landing a heavy blow on Kurt’s head. The dazed Swordsman returned the blow as the militiaman fought to his feet. The Sylvanian was hit on the back of his head with such force that he was dead before he hit the ground.

Kurt looked towards the bridge and horror filled him.

Lucius bounded towards the remaining horse, relief flooding through him. He had glanced back to see the huge Swordsman beset by a Sylvanian who had landed a blow strong enough to fell an Orc. Lucius prayed to Sigmar that the cursed militia man would do him a favour and finish him off once and for all. He turned reaching with his free hand towards the horse’s reigns. The surprise was total as he saw the cursed swordsman Heinrich looking back.

Lucius ran his tongue over his teeth and gums, probing the space left by Heinrich’s blow the night before. The Pistolier raised his firearm quickly and fired. Heinrich span away as the pistol ball thudded into his armoured breastplate. The force of the impact lifted him clean off his feet and landed him heavily several feet away.

‘FOR THE LOVE OF SIGMAR!’ Heinrich wheezed.

The Young Swordsman had curled himself into a ball and now rolled from side to side in a vain attempt to ease the pain. Ahh the pain, he could barely remember a time before it. His chest felt like it was on fire, it was all he could think about, it flooded his consciousness. He fought for his next breath but it would not come easily. His chest and throat burned. All around him men were locked in mortal combat. He was alone, he was vulnerable, he was in pain.

Kurt saw Heinrich collapse to the ground. He had seen the young swordsman twist away as the firearm exploded in fiery death. He prayed that his companion had turned away swift enough to avoid the full impact of the pistol ball, but knew at such range a gun shot would likely fatal.

‘Son of a Gnoblar!’ he bellowed, now completely enraged.

Lucius swung himself into the saddle of his horse and turned it gently to face the Northerner who now stood seething several feet away. The Young Nobleman smiled and made a mocking elegant bow. Kurt spat to his side and rotated his sword in his hand.

‘Come on then!’ challenged Kurt.

Lucius slowly drew his sabre and raised is to his lips, tilting his head to kiss the shining blade. The two adversaries held each other in a hate filled stare, neither willing to flinch away from the challenge. Kurt stepped forward, fuelled by his hatred of the man to his fore. Lucius kicked his spurs into the steed sharply, causing it to rear up.

As the horse’s front legs came down, Lucius racked it again with his spurs urging it forwards. The steed responded and appeared to jump straight into a gallop towards the swordsman. Kurt was surprised by how quickly the horse had been spurred towards him. The Northerner moved quickly to his right, but found that his left leg had become bogged down and stuck in the quagmire of blood stained mud. Kurt knew that he would have to act swiftly to avoid being trampled to death under the hooves of his foe’s mount.

Lucius leaned forward levelling his shining blade towards the stranded swordsman. Kurt tried to pull his trapped foot free, but only succeeded in wedging his other foot in the mire. He looked up to see Lucius bearing down upon him.

‘Think fast!’ Kurt urged himself as the Pistolier closed to within a few yards. The swordsman made ready to meet Lucius’ strike sword in hand, then a moment before impact Kurt changed stance and lightly flipped his sword from his right hand to his left. Plucking it from the air, the Northerner awkwardly parried the Lucius’ sabre thrust away. With only a fraction of a second to spare before he was trampled under the Iron shod hooves of the nobleman’s mount, Kurt threw a wild punch with his now free right hand. Arcing upwards towards the horses head with all his strength behind it, the blow impacted just beside the steed’s ear.

The impact itself was immense with the horse’s head dropping towards the ground sharply. Lucius was catapulted clear from his mount, as the horse’s front legs disappeared underneath its frame. The shocked beast crumpled to the ground with an unnatural whine, as Kurt dropped into a crouching position. The bulk of the swordsman disappeared from view as the steed tumbled over him. The Northerner felt the air being pushed from his lungs as the full weight of the horse passed above. Kurt could feel the crushing load on top of him, trapping him. Then suddenly the weight vanished as the horse rolled clear.

THREE SYLVANIAN MILITIAMEN broke form the combat in the corn field, as the Warrior Priest dispatched their sergeant with a thunderous strike of his hammer. All around them, their comrades fell to blade and flail. Repentant screams filled the haunted night, spurring them on in their flight. Although the Sylvanian unit still held the advantage in numbers, their heart had gone from the battle. The warrior Priest and Flagellants fought with the strength of ten men; fuelled by their hatred for the Sylvanian’s they had once called brother.

Bacus a tall man with a pox marked face and barrel chest, led his two brothers through the darkness and down into the irrigation ditch. All around them men fought a desperate battle for their lives, blundering into mortal combat, disorientated by the encroaching darkness. Moving through the darkness of the trench, the three men were soon confronted by a secluded Flagellant who stood between them and safety. The Zealot swung his flail around his head cackling wildly. Bacus barred his teeth, as the crazed Stirland launched himself directly at the three Sylvanians.

Bacus raised his shield above his head instinctively. The flail thudded into it moments later sending splinters flying. The Sylvanian brute swept his short sword low, clipping the zealot’s leg. The flagellant dropped without a sound and attempted to drag the Militia man down with him. Bacus fought free as his brothers set upon the down Zealot with Halberd and axe.

‘Took yer sweet time about it’ he barked, lifting himself to his feet.

Bacus discarded his now battered shield and drew his hunting knife.

‘Follow me!’ he spat, following the irrigation ditch as it turned to the right.

A gun shot sounded from up ahead as the three men rounded the corner in the trench. Bacus stopped suddenly and went to the crouch, motioning his brothers to do the same. Several yards away a Stirlander fell to the ground heavily as another man mounted a horse. Smoke rose from the downed man chest. Bacus smiled realising that the two Imperial lackey’s were more than likely fighting over the horse. Fools he thought, do they not know they’re winning this fight.

The three brother’s waited silently, allowing the mounted man to ride off in the opposite direction down the trench. Judging that the way ahead was free of any further danger, Bacus led his siblings forward. They closed in on the prone swordsmen, intent on looting the wounded man, confident of their victory. Bacus reached down and grabbed one of Heinrich’s arms pulling it away from his chest, uncovering a smoking hole in the Stirlander’s breastplate. The second man levelled his blade against the Swordsman’s throat.

‘Run him through!’ pleaded the third man, as the second smiled evily.

KURT FOUGHT TO HIS feet weakly, swaying slightly as he did so. He threw a glance towards where Lucius had landed. The Nobleman was lying face down in the mud about ten yards away. The Northerner smiled briefly believing him to be dead. Slowly Lucius lifted his head from the muddy water, retching violently to clear his lungs.

Kurt’s face clenched in a snarl and he spat to his side angrily.

‘By Sigmar I’m going to kill you!’ bellowed Kurt towards the young nobleman he so despised. Lucius heard the threat and his senses came back to him quicker because of it. The nobleman started to crawl away from his foe, as Kurt strode over to the incapacitated horse. The Swordsman searched the saddle bags and holsters frantically for a firearm and was rewarded with a fine pistol of Marenburg design.

Lucius squirmed to his feet clinging to the side of the trench wall, he was clearly winded. The Nobleman wiped his face with the sleeve of his silken shirt and shot a look at Kurt, seeing the giant Swordsman draw his father’s pistol from his own saddlebag. Lucius always hid the pistol there, that way he knew he would always have a loaded firearm in reserve, just in case things got desperate. He cursed himself for not using it against the giant Swordsman; he had been so intent upon trampling the annoying commoner under the hooves of his steed, that he had dismissed using his one remaining fire arm. Lucius cursed himself again for his foolishness and made to run for his life. He fell to his knees moments later in a fit of coughing.

Kurt saw him fall and smiled to himself satisfactorily. ‘This is for Heinrich’ he thought as he levelled the pistol towards the nobleman. Kurt allowed himself one sorrowful look towards his young comrade before he would execute his killer.

BACUS SLAPPED THE YOUNG swordsman’s arm away as the poor fool tried to stop him from looting the fine breastplate that the Nobleman Josef had left him before he died. Heinrich was weak and offered little resistance to a man of his size, but had succeeded in angering the Sylvanian terribly. Bacus looked up at his brother Heff, who held his blade to the Stirlander’s throat.

‘Run him through then!’ he ordered, but his voice was drowned out by the explosion of pistol fire.

Bacus looked up in shock, as he was covered in the blood and bone that had once been his brother’s face. Heff’s body fell back into the mud with a squelch. The third brother, Petr, trembled as he saw a giant of a man bounding towards them from out of the darkness. He made to rise and meet this terrifying opponent, but received a smoking pistol in the face as he stood. Kurt had thrown it with such force that it had shattered the smaller man’s cheek and jawbone. Petr crumbled to the ground whimpering.

Bacus stood with his shortsword in one hand and hunting dagger in the other, ready to meet this new foe. Kurt saw the Sylvanian stand to meet him, but did not alter his pace, bounding straight into combat with the Sylvanian. Kurt had drawn his own hunting blade, after throwing the pistol. This now supplemented the sword he already held in his right hand. Both men fought with equal fury, Kurt at the injustice done towards his fallen comrade, Bacus at the death of at least one of his brothers.

To an observer the two giant men could have been brothers themselves, each was well over six foot in height and broad across the chest, with unkempt facial hair and sharp features. Both fought with tremendous strength and aggression, parrying and then counter attacking in similar style of raw power.

As Kurt pressed his attack, the combat moved further down the trench and away from Heinrich who had dragged himself into a sitting position against the trench wall. The young Swordsman allowed the loose breastplate to fall away, reading himself for the terrible wound his was sure wound greet him. Heinrich gasped to see that very little blood had seeped through his uniform. He loosened is green and yellow shirt and white cotton under shirt. His chest was black and blue around where the pistol ball had impacted, however the skin was for the most part unbroken.

Heinrich frowned, unable to comprehend how he had survived. His hands inspected his breastplate; it was concaved where the pistol ball had pushed the metal inwards, which would account for the bruising and crushing feeling on his chest. A small round hole also showed that the ball had indeed punctured the armour. Heinrich felt his chest again looking for the pistol ball, moving his crow’s head charm on a sliver chain with his right hand. He had bought the charm from a priest of Morr just after enlisting. Such trinkets were carried by soldiers of the Empire for protection from mortal wounds. Heinrich smiled and praised his own forethought.

Where was the pistol ball? Heinrich was at a complete loss. He looked up and saw Kurt parry a brutal thrust from a Sylvanian. Heinrich realised his post-mortem would have to wait. For the first time in two days of constant fighting he had seen the Northerner matched for strength and aggression. The young Swordsman reached into the mud for his sword, he made to stand, but found this limbs lacking the strength. Heinrich cursed and tried again, but this time fell face down into the quagmire.

As Heinrich lifted his head, he saw that the crow’s skull had fallen from its chain. He lifted it gently then stopped for a moment in amazement. The missing pistol ball was embedded into the centre of the small skull. Even if the breastplate had stopped most of the impact from the pistol shot, the ball would have easily shattered the delicate trinket. Heinrich looked to the heavens reverently and made the sign of the hammer across his chest. He then lifted the skull gently and placed it back on the silver chain.

Kurt parried another blow with his sword, preventing it from tearing a chunk from his side. He counterattacked instantly with his hunting knife, which he now held in a reverse grip. The blade sliced up across the Sylvanian’s face and cut Bacus deeply above his left eye. Kurt pressed his attack with a low thrust of his blade, however Bacus was not to be undone so easily and blocked the blow with crossed blades. The Northerner kept up his relentless assault and aimed a head butt at the wound on Bacus’ face. This succeeded in opening the cut further, blinding his opponent with his own blood.

The Northerner relented for a moment as the Sylvanian staggered backwards disorientated. Bacus raised his blades to counter the attack he was sure would come against his wounded face. Kurt fainted a high blow towards his foe’s head, but then ducked low and tumbled, rolling past the Sylvanian’s left leg. Bacus was caught completely by surprise as Kurt drove his hunting blade into the back of his opponent’s knee.

As the floundering Sylvanian leaned forward in pain, his hand reached frantically to remove the wide blade form behind his knee. Kurt let go of the hunting knife and rose from out of his role. He turned to face the vulnerable Sylvanian and rotated his sword in his right hand. Then grabbing the hilt with his other palm, he lifted the blade high above his head. The sword came down in a great arch and severed the head of Bacus from his broad shoulders.

The Priest stood stoically against the tide of Sylvanian Militia as they charged through the darkness and into the ranks of the startled Imperial troops. The speed and ferocity of the attack should have broken the Stirland Militia and left the Flagellants to their heroic and bloody last stand. However, Father Jonas stood tall, resplendent in his ancient armour and blood red cloak. His voice started in a low chant, a prayer to Sigmar, pleading with his Devine Lord for the strength to smite his unholy foe. His voice rose steadily in volume and power and soon all fear had vanished from the hearts of the anxious Stirlanders.

Although they were but simple men and held no desire for war nor glory, they fought with an unflinching devotion to their warrior god. Each man was filled with the pride that they were Sigmar’s heirs and the descendants of mighty barbarian tribes. The priest stood to the fore, an island in a sea of his adversaries. The ancient Man of God was a beacon, quite literally glowing in the darkness, surrounded by an aura of the richest golden light.

The volley of pistol fire that preceded the charge, had felled Alexi instantly. He was stuck twice in the chest and once in the neck. Blood now flooded from the wounds draining the zealot completely of strength his and colour, Alexi fell face first into the dirt. The priest had been hit twice, but had remained unharmed. His breast plate had deflected the first pistol ball wide, barely scratching the scared armour as it did so. The second had impacted the mighty weapon that rested against his shoulder.

The impact sounded like one of the giant chiming bells from the great Cathedral in Altdorf and father Jonas was transported back to his youth momentarily by the likeness of the sound. There he had stood as a child. At the foot of the Cathedral steps staring up in awe at the magnificence of what stood un-moving before him. It was then, as the bells called though the surrounding bustle of the great city, that Sigmar had first spoken to him. He could see the white spires still, reaching into the bluest sky he had ever known.

The Old Priest was brought back to the present as a Sylvanian lunged desperately towards him with his twisted pitch folk. Still smiling, father Jonas stepped forward and swung his might hammer in a wide arch. The terrible weapon caught the hapless Sylvanian square in his chest and lifted him from his feet in the same moment it stole his life from his body. The broken body crashed into more Sylvanians, knocking them to the ground as it cart-wheeled through the air.

‘For Sigmar!’ he bellowed, lifting the gleaming hammer aloft.

The Priest’s call was instantly taken up by the maddened Zealots to his rear. The flagellant’s charged forward bellowing their Lord’s name, swinging their deadly flails wildly. Their Prophet of Doom lay twitching at Father Jonas’ feet. The old Priest had come to a halt and planted his feet firmly either side of his comrade’s prone body. A mighty struggle ensued as the Sigmarite Priest refused to give ground to his assailants. Broken bodies fell away with startling regularity, graced in death by the righteous fury of Sigmar’s chosen.

The flagellants charged past the priest and into the mass of Sylvanians forcing them back. The Stirland Militia held fast against their assailants to the rear. Father Jonas looked around for a moment free of the combat. The Priest used the brief rest-bite to see to Alexi’s terrible wounds. The zealot looked dead, but as the priest bent to turn him over, Alexi’s chest rose weakly as he struggled for his next breath. Father Jonas dropped lower on to one knee and placed his hand upon the Prophet’s chest. Alexi’s eyes opened instantly and stared accusingly towards the old priest. His eyes then dropped to Father Jonas’s hand.

‘Don’t! he said barely audible over the sound of the mortal combat that raged only feet away.

‘My son’ protested the Old Priest ‘By the will of Sigmar, I may be able to save you, let me work’

‘Don’t!’ responded Alexi with more force in his voice; the effort caused him to cough blood. ‘It is the end of times, my friend. Why would you save me from my fate, only to let me face one a thousand times worse… let-me-go.’

Father Jonas frowned, a tear welling in the old man’s eye. While he would never admit it openly, he had enjoyed the last few months, since Alexi’s band had made his town their home. Before they had come, he had been shunned by his church and left to whither in the backwater town, he now happily called home. Shunned by all Sigmar fearing men for both his visions and his eccentricity.

Alexi had never shunned him in such a way, never treated him as an embarrassment, or as a heretic. And while the Zealot held extreme religious views that Father Jonas could never bring himself to agree with, his grasp of religious text matched that of an Arch-Lector. He had spent long nights debating religious argument and text with the man who now refused his aid.

‘You’re a stubborn fool’ snapped the priest who was immediately sorry for the outburst. ‘But Sigmar has told me you will finish this fight.’

Golden light pulsed from the Priest’s hand into Alexi’s chest. His breathing became stronger and although blood still ran from his wounds, Alexi found a little more strength in his limbs. The Zealot nodded his acceptance to the priest and Father Jonas helped the Flagellant to his feet. Alexi swayed drunkenly, Father Jonas put out his arm to steady him, but Alexi knocked it away.

‘A weapon?’ gasped the Zealot as blood trickled from his mouth. Father Jonas knelt and picked up a discarded blade that lay at his feet. Alexi took the weapon from the Priest’s outstretched arm and smiled.

‘For Sigmar!’ bellowed the Prophet with all the strength of an Ogre.

Alexi Lurched forward into the combat, Father Jonas at his left hand side. The Priest blocked a heavy blow of a Sylvanian mace with the shaft of his hammer. The man’s face contorted in agony as Alexi countered for the old man, driving his bade under the man’s chin and through the top of his head. The priest kicked the dead man’s body away, freeing Alexis’ blade so that he could strike clumsily at another adversary.

Three Sylvanians charged out of the darkness towards the two men of Sigmar. The man to the left of them, wore an old fashioned black hat with a dyed purple feather hanging from it. Alexi and Father Jonas immediately noted the fat man as the leader of this band of rouges and made towards him.

Father Jonas parried a low blow from the Militia Leader with a swing of his hammer and countered by driving his left fist into the startled man’s face. In the same moment, Alexi ignored the thrust of the Sylvanian to his right and drove his blade downwards towards the groin of the man to his fore. His own blade bit deep and resulted in a high-pitch wail from his victim. The other Sylvanian’s blade stuck the Zealot high in chest just below his right armpit. Alexi took the blow without a sound, as it pushed all the air from his lungs. The prophet swung a back hand wildly, catching his assailant on the nose and bursting it into a bloody pulp.

The first man was now on the ground squirming in agony at the blade in his groan. Alexi looked back towards him and spat a mouth full of blood form over the hapless Sylvanian. He dropped to one knee weakly and reached out for the blade. A second impact thudded into his back square between his shoulders. Alexi looked down the see the end of a blade protruding from his chest. He smiled.

‘The end is nigh’ he mouthed the words, but had no air left in his lungs to carry them. With his last ounces of strength Alexi twisted his blade free of the prone man’s groin and swung it wildly, spinning himself around in a wide arch. The blade caught the second man, who was bent down following his on strike, across the neck slicing his windpipe cleanly. The Sylvanian staggered forwards as his head fell backwards. Blood spurted high into the night sky as he fell into the blood soaked ground.

Alexi had spun 360 degrees and ended up facing his first opponent. As darkness descended upon him, the Zealot drove his sword deep into the man’s groan for a second time, tearing into the wounded flesh. A second high-pitched howl filled the night. Alexi smiled, blood pouring from his many wounds. He fell to his side silently and died staring up at the twin moons.

Father Jonas batted away another blow from the Militia Leader and countered again in a flurry of motion that should not have been possible by a man of his age. The Sylvanian however, was not with out skill and parried the onslaught of blows away confidently, his longsword gleaming with an unnatural green glow. Just as the Militia Captain moved to start a fresh assault, the priest saw Alexi fall to the ground with a blade embedded straight through his chest. Anger flooded through him.

‘Sigmar! I-am-thy-vengeance!’

The Militia Captain swung his blade towards the Priest’s head as he bellowed his hate fuelled words. Father Jonas moved to meet him with unnatural speed and smashed his Ancient hammer into the sword with all the strength of Sigmar himself. Upon impact the sword shattered to dust in a symphony of thunderous noise. The Sylvanian dropped what was left of his evil blade. He knew that both arms had been broken from the shear force of the hammer blow. Father Jonas continued his assault without remorse and swung his hammer up above his head in one fluid motion, then brought it down with all the force he could muster. The head of the militia Captain simply disappeared in a river of blood bone and tissue. The hammer head was buried deep within what had been the man’s chest. Father Jonas cursed the Sylvanian’s soul and kicked away the broken corpse, freeing his terrible weapon.

All around the Sylvanians broke from the combat as panic swept through their ranks. Many were butchered before they had time to turn and flee, many more were hunted down an slaughtered like animals. For many minutes all was death and carnage. Then as the sounds of battle and of death dissipated an un-natural silence hung over the bloodied landscape. In the middle of the field, which had once been filled with towering golden crops, a figure dressed in red bowed low to the body of his dead friend.

SOPHIA SAT IN THE DARKNESS and sobbed. She had awoken here in complete darkness an hour or so earlier. She was now certain that she was awake, but could not understand why no one had answered her plea for help. He hands probed her surroundings and found that she was trapped. She had just enough room to sit crouched. What had happened? She had gone to bed happily, after helping her old mother clean up after supper. She had dreamed contently of her future and her proposed marriage to Otto the Miller’s son. Now she had awoken and was here alone in the darkness.

Where-ever she was Sophia could tell that she was on the move. She had gone with her father to market many times on his horse and cart and knew the vibrations and sounds well. Suddenly the cart, or what ever it was that was carrying her, stopped. Sophia let out a little whelp as she banged her head. She could here taking now, but could not quite make out the words. One man was well spoken, the other blatantly a brute.

The thundering sound of thousands of footsteps had started off as a low rumble and the scared adolescent was unsure whether or not she was actually hearing it. Sophia gulped as the noise rose in volume. She thumbed a small wooden hammer she wore around her neck on a length of string. Her father had carved it for one of her birthdays when she was but a little child, promising that Sigmar would forever watch over her. Now she prayed to the warrior god to free her.

Within ten minutes the marching footfalls completely smothered the sound of the men speaking outside. Sophia now bounced around inside the large chest as she prayed, the ground itself shaking powerfully. She retched from the intensity of the vibrations then struggled to move away from her vomit, the smell almost smothering her in the confined space. Then suddenly both the sound and motion stopped, and Sophia listened intently for the next development.

After long moments of silence, Sophia heard a lock being turned and the jungle of chains. Then, suddenly the lid of the chest she was sitting in was opened. Staring down at her was a heavy set man with huge muscles. The young woman scanned for the man’s features but could not make them out through the darkness.

‘Sigmar?’ she asked hopefully, believing for the moment that her prayers had been answered. The giant man shook his head, but did not speak.

Sophia frowned ‘but I am safe now?’

The giant shook his head again and reached into the trunk pulling her out by her leg. The terrified farm girl found that she was too scared to scream as the man held her upside down. She searched around for help and saw two shiny black leather boots stood next to the large man’s feet.

‘Lucan that is no way to treat our honoured guest. Put her down.’

The other man’s voice was cold, but polite and Sophia smiled nervously as she was lowered to the ground gently by the giant. She stood up and dusted her self off, then pulled strands of her knotted blond hair from her grey-blue eyes. The man in the shiny leather boot’s knelt down a little so that his eyes were at the same level as the girl’s. They were as black as the night sky and seemed lifeless. Sophia held back her scream, biting her tongue and drawing a little blood.

‘And what is your name my friend?’

‘Sophia Von Breckenburg’ she replied after a long pause. Although clearly terrified the girl answered with a certain amount of pride.

‘And how old are you Sophia Von Breckenburg?’ asked the well spoken man.

‘I’m fourteen summers old’ she replied her voice now quivering.

The nobleman smiled and stepping closer to the girl, he lifted his head and wrinkled his nose as if smelling the air around her.

‘Perfect’ announced the Nobleman, standing straighter in order to address the giant. ‘Take her to the alter Lucan. I sense that this one is indeed pure, she will do nicely.’

‘Yes Milord, thank you Milord’ responded Lucan in his deep monotone voice. The giant pushed out his chest, proud that his undying lord had complemented him on his choice for the sacrifice.

Sophia made to turn and run, but after only a few steps found that her way was blocked by many armoured forms in the darkness. As she closed on them she, the farm girl began to make out their features. Sophia stepped back with her hand trembling across her mouth. She looked all around her, at the hundreds upon thousands of forms that now surrounded her.

Terror flooded through her as she made out fleshless faces of the purest white bone looking back at her with empty eyes. She screamed and fell back into the sitting position. Then clambered onto her hands and knees, before scrambling wildly for a way out, but every way she crawled was block by legs of bone and metal.

She came to a halt, exhausted both mentally a physically. The giant man walked over to her and lifted her by the scruff of the neck easily.

‘I don’t want to die!’ she pleaded with the other man as she was carried away towards a circle of stones several yards from the road.

‘You’re not going to die my child! Responded the well spoken Nobleman, who now chuckled as he spoke. ‘No, no… you’re going to live forever.’

Even as she heard to words Sophia was not re-assured, and she struggled against the iron grip of the brute Lucan as he carried her. Sophia the simple farm girl knew in her heart of hearts, that she would never see her family or the farm, or her betrothed ever again.

‘IT’S A MIRACLE I tell you, a miracle!’ announced Kurt with a smile firmly planted upon his battle scarred face.

‘It’s no such thing, I was just lucky that’s all’ responded Heinrich dismissively

The shorter swordsman did not believe the words as he spoke them. It was more than luck, it must have been. The men of rural Stirland were a superstitious bunch at the best of times. Heinrich did not want to make his lucky escape common knowledge. He feared that some how if people knew about the raven skull and pistol ball, his luck, or divine protection, or what ever it was, would leave him.

The two Swordsmen sat opposite each other, each with their back resting against the side of the irrigation ditch. A number of Stirland Militia men had joined them. Some spoke excitedly about their exploits, waving their arms to emphasise parts of their tale. Other’s sat in a state of shock speaking very little, and only nodding and smiling weakly in reply to the questions of others.

‘Well I think it’s a miracle!’ stated Kurt matter of factly, after a few long moments of silence.

Heinrich simply shook his head dismissively. He proceeded to hammer out the indentation on his battered breastplate with the pommel of his sword. Kurt sighed at his friend’s stubbornness and offered him a swig of the Cognac he still carried. The young swordsman accepted it with a smile. Kurt rubbed his right hand and flinched as it throbbed painfully.

‘I can’t believe you knocked out a horse.’

Kurt simply shrugged.

‘I can’t believe that slimly spawn of chaos got away.’ He spat as Heinrich passed the bottle back. The Northerner was clearly annoyed with himself at letting Lucius escape with his life.

‘Thank you… for…err… for coming back for me’ offered Heinrich, surprised at how awkward he felt about it.

‘Don’t be daft! Someone’s got to watch your back, especially with the amount of trouble you get into.’ Kurt took a long gulp of the spirit, his light-hearted nature again putting Heinrich at ease.

‘Can’t believe you knocked out a horse.’ muttered Heinrich again and both men started to laugh.

‘So this is where I find you? Drinking? This is war gentlemen, not a time for fun and games’

The two swordsmen jumped up sharply in response to the Nobleman’s voice and stood nervously to attention. Martin Keats emerged from out of the darkness, with a smile upon his face. The swordsmen relaxed as he approached.

‘It’s good to see you well sir’ offered Heinrich, surprised to see the nobleman in good humour following his dark mood earlier. Kurt shared a look with him, clearly he was thinking the same thing.

‘And you… both of you’ replied the pistolier sincerely, patting each man on the shoulder as he spoke. ‘I am sorry for my mood earlier and I thank you for stepping in on my behalf.’

Kurt nodded his acceptance of the Nobleman’s thanks. Keats was clearly having difficulty dealing with the way he had acted and Kurt would not make things worse by hold him to account for it. The Nobleman changed the subject quickly, feeling very uncomfortable discussing such things with rank and file soldiers.

‘We have won a remarkable victory here my friends’ he paused for a moment breathing in deeply through his nose, as if tasting the night air. ‘We must have been out numbered about 3-1 yet here we are victorious.’

The nobleman raised his voice to speak to his fellow countrymen that sat and stood around him.

‘How can any force stand before us, my friends. We were caught off guard, outnumbered, surrounded in the darkness, yet we were victorious! It is the will of Sigmar it tell you’

Several flagellants raised their heads at the mention of their divine god’s sacred name. They nodded their agreement.

‘Now we must prepare ourselves again for the march, and reach our destination with all due haste. The men of the Iron Skull’s stand alone, they will require our aid and our zeal before this night is through. Who is with me?’

Kurt and Heinrich responded loudly as one and the men sat closest to the Noblemen murmured their agreement also, but as a whole the others sat in silence. Keats frowned, he knew that the majority were simple town folk and that many had only tasted battle for the first time, this night. He knew that the zealots would follow, but he also knew he would need the thirty odd remaining militiamen before the nights work was done.

‘I am with you my son’ father Jonas’ voice tore threw he apprehensive silence, even though he spoke softly.

Everyone turned to face him as he paced up the irrigation ditch towards his companions. All sat and stared in a state of awe at the holy man, they stood silently as he passed them by. His strength and faith had won the battle, no one was under any illusions of that. People who had spent their lives listening to the old man’s crazy ranting, now looked upon him in reverence. Their new found respect clearly evident in the face of each and every man.

‘Thank you Father’ offered Keats with a bow, making the sign of the hammer across his chest as he did so.

‘Who else is with us?’ asked the priest softly, but with authority.

Not a voice was still as all the men of Stirland offered their agreement. Martin Keats looked Father Jonas in the eye, smiled and mouthed his thanks.

‘Sigmar’s will’ offered the old priest.

BERNHARD SHIFTED HIS WEIGHT carefully from one foot to the other, and stared out into the darkness. The young state trooper yawned tiredly as he leant to one side, most of his weight supported by his spear. He looked around at his seven comrades, who sat comfortably, surrounding a small campfire several yards from the roadway.

‘May you all wake up with the mark of nurgle upon you’ he whispered under his breath.

It just wasn’t fair. Yes he was the youngest of the group, but why did that have to mean he always ended up doing sentry duty, while they always got to drink, or play cards, or just sleep. What he wouldn’t give now for a decent nights sleep.

The young Soldier’s mind began to wonder a little, shifting happily through memories and images. First of his own bed in the borstal he had grown up in. No wait, if his mind was going to wonder, he would have it go places better than that flea infested hole. Bernard’s forehead wrinkled as he focused his thoughts, a room in a comfy Inn yes that was a good start, a warm bed with fresh sheets, with a fat serving wench tending to his every need. He smiled to himself contently, not realising that his eyes had closed and he had started to drift off to sleep.

The clattering of horses hooves woke him with a start. Without thinking he levelled his spear point towards the rider, who had closed to within a few feet. Only the horseman’s skill prevented him from being run through. His mount reared up as he pulled back hard on the reigns.

‘Alarm!’ cried Bernard, completely terrified by the situation he had awoken to.

The other spearmen scrambled to their feet, hastily grabbing their weapons and shields, they formed up hurriedly across the width of the roadway.

‘For the love of Sigmar!’ barked the mounted nobleman in the most elegant Reikspel, clearly just as shocked as Bernard was. ‘Put down your weapon boy, before you hurt someone. I carry an urgent message from the court of Albrech Haupt Anderssen, Sigmar preserve his soul. I demand that you let me pass.’

‘You did not announce yourself sir.’ Bernard managed defensively.

‘You were asleep sire! Who was I to announce myself to?

Bernard’s head sagged and he looked towards his superior. A man with grey hair and beard stepped forward shaking his head.

‘My apologies sir, I am Edmund Pankratz of the 5th Stirla…’

‘I don’t care who you are solder, I am Alexander Keats Captain and Herald of the Graf’s Court in Wurtbad. I demand that you let me pass!’

Edmund made to greet the Nobleman formally but was again cut off before he could speak.

‘I carry a most urgent message for Baron Von Schroeder, and do not have the time, nor the inclination, to exchange words with a witless fool like you. Now take me to the General’s headquarters at once!’

The veteran soldier stopped in his tracks. The mounted Nobleman had put him completely off guard with the tirade and he could no longer remember what he was going to say or do. Edmund Pankratz the veteran of a dozen battles stood in dumbstruck silence. The nobleman shook his head at the soldier who was clearly unsuitable for any kind of responsibility.

‘I will take you sire.’ offered Bernard nervously, eager to atone for his earlier letdown.

Edmund shot him a dangerous look, but the young soldier shrugged it off and stepped forwards to take the Nobleman’s reigns.

‘Thank you soldier, let’s just hope that you can stay awake long enough for us to get there.

‘Y.. yes sir’ offered Bernard with his head bowed ‘It’s just a little ways down the track.’

The Messenger nodded and kicked his horse into a canter. The two men disappeared down the road at a steady pace. Bernard had to quite literally run himself into the ground in order to keep up with the mounted nobleman. Edmund watched them go with a snarl on his face.

‘I’m going to box that young Pup’s lugs when he gets back’ he announced loudly, still very much aggrieved at the Nobleman’s outburst towards him.

One of the other men started to laugh nervously at the Veteran’s threat, however Edmund was still fuming and flashed him an angry look.

‘Well then Herr Lenz, seeing as you are full of humour this fine evening, you won’t mind standing sentry until Bernard returns.’

The soldier stopped his chuckle and moved to collect his spear and shield.

‘Yes sir’ he offered.

The other men moved back to the warmth of the camp fire, leaving Edmund standing there alone in the road. The Veteran straightened his tunic and belts and threw one last look up the road towards the encampment of General Von Schroeder. Edmund shook his head and then turned towards private Lenz who now stood in the same spot as Bernard had occupied.

‘And for Sigmar’s sake, make sure you stay awake!’

HIS DEAD LIMBS ACHED with excitement as he waited within the ancient circle of stones. The Vampire stared up into the night sky, counting the long moments that stretched out before him. When the lesser moon reached it’s apex, he would commence with the ceremony. The young maiden lay before him tied to the stone Alter, her intermittent screams consumed him and he marvelled in delight at her terror. Raphael stroked the golden chest that lay on the Alter beside the girl. Inside, lay the artefact that would grant him the destiny he had been reborn for.

The Gauntlet of Khemri, sleek and cold and filled with all the malice and knowledge of the long dead nations of the East. Raphael smiled contently to himself as the artefact called to him. He shuddered for a moment as the realisation of his situation dawned upon him. The vampire Lord had almost forgotten the feelings of nervousness, of fear and apprehension. They were but mortal feelings and had no place in the unlife of a vampire. Raphael was not repelled by the fact he was experiencing these feelings now. Here at the beginning of his ascent into godlike divinity they seemed to belong. Soon he would be as different to his own kind as they were to mortals. A shiver ran down his spine in anticipation.

Raphael stood alone within the circle of stones. The power of the ancient monument fuelled his own and that of the terrible artefact before him. The Vampire’s closest allies stood around the ring of stones and waited in silence. Each of them was careful not to encroach upon their lord and risk breaking the delicate balance of power that flowed within. Rosalind playfully stroked the neck of Victor Von Ritcher, the young ex-burgomiester of Gablitz, and he squirmed happily under her touch. Further down the line stood Lucan stoically, his face like stone. He scanned the faces of those surrounding for any tell tale sign of betrayal. Raphael had confided in him alone, that he would be vulnerable during the ritual, and Lucan would not fail the trust his master has placed in him. Other notable Vampires stood around in respectful silence and waited, many of them Undying though they were, could not hold the stare of Raphael’s mortal man servant.

At the appointed time, Raphael stepped forward and placed both hands upon the golden chest. The power within tingled through his finger tips as he opened the chest delicately. The Vampire bowed his head reverently before reaching into the box and gently lifting out the silk wrapped artefact. Raphael brought it to his lips and kissed it. For a moment he felt paralysed, as the raw power completely numbed his lips. The vampire could taste the magic at work within, only now awaking from a long undisturbed hibernation. He placed the artefact down on the alter carefully and removed the chest, throwing it with one hand out of the circle of stones. Lucan caught it easily and placed the box at his feet.

Raphael unwrapped the gauntlet from is silken cocoon with very ends of his finger tips. His touch was slow and gentle like that over a lover. The world around him could have crumbled to dust or vanished in a flood of fire and he would not have noticed. His full attention remained upon the artefact before him as he gently removed its envelope of scarlet silk. Raphael gasped as the last covering was removed to reveal the ancient Gauntlet of Khemri in all its terrible glory.

The artefact was a dull gold colour and its shape represented the bones of a hand perfectly. The pieces of the gauntlet seemed completely separate to each other, yet they remained steadfast in their appointed place. Each bone was interlaced with lighter and darker inscriptions, of ancient symbols and writing. These symbols glowed with an inner pulsing light. The under side of the gauntlet was not smooth like the other surfaces, but was characterised by a number of sharp pins, clearly designed to piece the skin of the wearer and hold the artefact in place. Raphael stroked the gauntlet playfully as he inspected its magnificence.

The burning smell of ozone, a tell tale sign of magic, consumed the whole area. The surrounding vampires shifted uneasily concerned by the speed of this magical invasion. The mortals who stood with them doubled over in agony at the empty feeling within their stomachs. Victor retched violently looking up towards his protector. Rosalind placed her hand upon his forehead and calmed him with her loving stare. Out of the many mortals that had accompanied their Undying masters to the ritual, only Lucan remained standing. His face was twisted in pain, but he fought against the agony to remain standing and ready to intercede should his master need him to.

Raphael placed one hand upon the head of Sophia as she thrashed against her bindings, the pain steadily becoming too much for her to bare. She screamed, but the sound appeared distant to her as if someone else had cried out on her behalf. Raphael smiled.

‘Not long how my dear’ he whispered locking Sophia’s eyes with his stare. The young girl fell silent under his hypnotic gaze. Although her agony remained evident as her body twisted and fought against the bindings.

Wind started to flow steadily within the circle of stone, while outside all remained calm. Raphael’s long black hair flapped wildly as the currents of air wrapped around him and spiralled into the sky above. Whispering started to call to the Vampire as the speed of the gusts increased. Forgotten primeval and ancient words started to invade his soul and while he had never heard the language before, he seemed to understand their meaning instantly. Raphael’s own voice joined that of the voices in the wind and he grew steadily louder and more confident as the wind increased it’s relentless onslaught.

Raphael reached for the gauntlet and placed it upon his hand as his chant reached it’s climax. The spikes on the underside of the gauntlet bit deep into his dead flesh and he could feel them extend and spiral deep within him. He became one with the ancient gauntlet as it connected with the very fibres of his being. Pain and ecstasy flooded throughout his form.

The wind continued to flow in a torrent however the Vampire’s hair and clothes stopped flapping wildly and simply dropped suddenly as if there were no wind at all. Raphael lifted his gauntleted right hand high into the sky and green tinted lightening lashed out to strike the terrible artefact. The Vampire stood as stone, unmoving as more lightening stuck him each time violent than the last.

Raphael began to laugh in a horrifying tone, which echoed in a thousand other, older more distant voices. All the surrounding vampires took a step back almost as one. Each was filled by a primeval fear that they could not explain. Despite the dread that flooded with in them all, no one could pull their eyes from the scene in front of them. Even the moon above seemed pulse with expectation.

If anyone had been able pull their attention away from Raphael and look to the heavens, they would have realised that the lightening itself did not emanate from a storm, but came directly out of the darkness. Forces beyond the understanding of the surrounding Immortals were at work now. All who witnessed the spectacle knew they would never erase it from their memories, no matter how many centuries they would endure hereafter.

Raphael’s eyes remained locked with Sophia’s, unmoving and filled with emotion, yet dead and empty at the same time. Behind his eyes, Raphael’s thoughts became lost to him as they mixed and merged with the memories and thoughts of a thousand other beings. All of whom had become one with the gauntlet before him. He knew from their continuous screams that none had survived its power and that all had succumbed to its overwhelming will. Raphael Vigree Lebrun was different; the gauntlet would succumb to his.

Deep within, amongst the other voices that fought for dominance inside Raphael’s consciousness, a tiny voice started to scream. Steadily it became louder and louder until it smothered all other noise inside his head. Raphael’s eyes closed, as he realise it was his voice that called out. He had risen high above all those who had gone before him. He controlled them and he controlled it.

Raphael’s eyes flashed open and he looked up at the Gauntlet of Khemri held aloft. Another bolt of lightening crashed into the artefact as Raphael brought it down into the chest of his victim. The entire palm of the ancient gauntlet passed into Sophia like a hot knife through butter. The girl made to scream, but the pain was beyond anything she could remember, and her voice would not carry the torment inside her. Her form was wracked both physically and mentally as her entire being was consumed by the Gauntlet.

Raphael lifted his right hand into the sky as the last of what had been Sophia Von Breckenburg disappeared from existence in a Explosion of blood. Night was turned into day as a final bolt of lightning impacted into the gauntlet. Then all went dark and still and quiet. None of the surrounding vampires dared speak as Raphael stood unmoving in the centre of the stones. He was somehow taller, although he stood hunched over the alter in silence.

Of the thousand voices that had screamed out for control of the gauntlet and his being, his had been the loudest, his had claimed the prize. Their memories and prejudices were now his. He held all their knowledge and powers. Raphael Vigree Lebrun delighted in his victory, but was unaware of another voice that had remained quiet throughout the entire ritual. This consciousness remained untouched and it waited silently for its own time to come.

HENRY FREY PACED into the small library he was using as his office, breathing heavily from the long climb he had just completed from the advance trenches. He removed his feathered hat, revealing his bolding head, and placed it upon the windowsill to his right. He stared out of the window and into the darkness for a long moment before turning away. Looking down he realised that he had trodden mud throughout the Manor house. Frey sighed and shrugged to himself, realising that if he did survive the night, he would be in for a severe verbal assault at the hands of the resident house keeper. Now that old woman scared him more than all the forces of Chaos combined.

Frey let an uncharacteristic smile cross his face as he walked over to his chair; he placed his drawn sword down onto the table before him and stood for a moment staring into space. The Iron skull’s Champion then lowered himself heavily into the red leather chair with a sigh. He had left the trenches in order to write a final dispatch to General Mikel Von Schroeder. He had heard nothing from the old Baron for several days now, despite sending several runners down the road towards Tenneck. Frey stroked his auburn beard with is left hand as he scribbled a final message to the General.

Several minutes earlier Frey had been stood in the forward trench staring out into the darkness, waiting and willing for the signal fire-arrows to announce the advance of the Undead. His men stood silently at his side, as the Irons Skulls Commander considered the many preparations he had put in place. His mind analysed the many possible dangers and advantages of his position, over and over again. It was during this reprieve that Henry Frey began to muse over whether or not the Old General had indeed started his advance from Tenneck the morning before as planned. If so why had he not heard from the Baron? What had happened to his own runners? Had they met with foul play? Or become lost? Or… No, he told himself again, the General is on route, he will be here this night, it is Sigmar’s will.

‘Sigmar’s will’ he muttered under his breath.

The bolding commander nodded to himself and began to pace, he threw a glance in the direction of Sylvania then another back along the roadway to Tenneck. His worries continued to niggle away at him. He hated the build up to a battle, because he could never stop his mind from wandering. Perhaps this is what made him a good commander. It was not unusual for Frey to pace the entire length of an emplacement just to ensure that a weak-point had been made secure, or to re-evaluate the number men needed to defend a particular position.

Henry Frey looked again towards the Sylvanian borders and in that moment turned to start his climb back to the manor house. Corporal Blucher moved to intercept his commander, slightly unnerved by his sudden movement away from the front. As he approached, Frey locked him with his one good eye.

‘Send me word the moment the fire arrows are spotted!’ he ordered, tapping the silver haired soldier on his arm as he passed by.

Frey did not break his step until he had arrived at the library within the manor house. Now he sat, slouched in the red leather chair, the quill in his right hand still. He scanned the dispatch again with his good eye, satisfied that he had included all the relevant information, Frey folded the letter tightly. He took a stick of green wax and held it against the candle flame until the end had melted. Then gently he pressed the wax stick on to the dispatch to seal it. Frey then removed the signature ring Baron Von Schroeder had presented him with, as a symbol of command, and pressed it firmly into the wax.

‘Sentry!’ he announced firmly.

A young swordsman entered the room by a side entrance and offered Frey a salute. The Commander nodded his acknowledgment and beckoned the guard over to his desk with is left arm. Frey sat up straight as the Young soldier approached.

‘Yes sir’

‘You will take this letter at once and proceed with all possible haste down the road towards Tenneck. You will present this letter into Baron Von Schroeder’s hand, and his alone.’ The swordsmen nodded as his commander continued. ‘Proceed to the sables at once and take my horse. Return with the Baron’s answer as soon as is possible… Do you understand?’

‘Y-yes sir’ confirmed the soldier, a look of worry finding its way on to his face despite his best efforts to hide it.

Frey stood and handed the soldier the dispatch. ‘I have faith that you will return swiftly lad, may Sigmar guide you’

The nervous swordsman puffed out his chest, as he took the parchment form Henry Frey’s outstretched arm. He was proud that the sour tempered commander had entrusted him with the Regiment’s safety and resolved within himself that this trust would not be misplaced. He offered a further salute and left via the same door he had entered.

Henry Frey sat back down into his chair and stared at the candle flame as it flicked. Long moments stretched out and Frey began to consider his own fate. He leaned back on his chair, lifting the front legs from the floor. He stared for what could have been a minute or even an hour, he could not tell.

A sudden flash of lightening stole Frey from his thoughts, his finely balanced chair gave way and the duellist tumbled to the floor, cursing himself. Frey stood up sharply and straightened his ruffled uniform, he kicked fallen chair the across the room. His temper abated moments later and left Henry Frey, the duellist, feeling rather foolish with himself. Another bolt of lightening flashed across the sky outside the great bay windows, then another. Each filling the small room with a greenish light.

‘What in Sigmar’s name?’ Frey gasped as he paced over to the window.

Another bolt of green lightening forked across the sky, then another. Each appearing stronger than the last. Frey could hear the commotion from outside; as his men also witnessed the spectacle unfold. The duellist paced over to the desk and retrieved his blade, he then turned abruptly towards the door retrieving his hat as he passed by the window.

Upon reaching the main doorway into the courtyard, two house servants opened the two heavy wooden doors with a bow. Frey made to leave the manor house but stood in the open door way. He was immediately aware that no wind blew and no rain fell. Another bolt flashed across the sky and Frey realised that no sound of thunder accompanied it.

‘Sigmar watch over us in our hour of need’ said the religious Duellist reverently as he made the sign of the hammer across his chest.

Henry Frey then broke into a run, heading towards the open gates of the courtyard with renewed purpose. Corporal Steinman stood there with a hand full of swordsmen surrounding him. The men were completely transfixed by the events unfolding before them and did not notice their commander’s approach. The usually vigilant Steinman jumped as Frey tapped him on the shoulder. The plump corporal recovered his composure quickly and offered an embarrassed salute. Frey was about to issue an order when a flash of white light lit up the whole night.

The sudden invasion of light made everyone shield their eyes and turn away. Without the use of his sight Henry Frey became overly aware of his heart thudding deep within his chest. He gulped away his nerves and made to scan the surrounding landscape, squinting intensely to block out the burning light. Then just as suddenly the night returned to darkness.

Silence consumed the returning darkness as each and every man considered how vulnerable his own mortality was. They had all witnessed a power far beyond their understanding. Fears were compounded further by the fact that the sudden intrusion of light had stolen the night sight of each and every man. If any man was to turn and run, Henry Frey realised that now would be the time. No one moved. Gradually the soldiers regained their lost night sight and voices could be heard throughout the imperial position. Frey looked to Steinman whose relief was evident by the expression painted upon his face.

Frey returned the Corporal’s nervous smile before looking out again across the darkened fields to his fore. All seemed still again. Frey began to exhale slowly, realising only then that he had been holding his breath since the bright light had erupted from the east.

‘See to your men Corporal’ commanded the Duellist softly as he began to make his way down the hill, towards the forward line of advance trenches. He had gone only a couple of steps when a fire arrow rose into the sky about a half a mile to the northeast. Another joined it, this time from a more easterly direction. Frey raised his sword as a third arrow rose into the sky from the east.

‘To Arms!’ bellowed Frey, as even more fire-arrows climbed into the sky, from almost every direction he had sent his scouts.

THE SILENCE OF THE haunted night was deafening. The twin moonlight offered the only light, but this was of very little comfort. The passing fields were illuminated in an unnatural half light, which played cruel tricks on the eyes of mortal men. Whilst the only sound that could be heard, were the footfalls of the small company as they moved swiftly towards their destination, they all knew that they were being followed. Each man could feel the pursuit of the Undying behind them and this spurred them to push on harder and faster.

Heinrich ran side by side with Kurt towards the front of the small column. The lofty Northerner would be the first to admit that he was not built for running great distances and his face had already turned a strange red colour. Kurt knew the look of concern on his companion’s face even though he could not see his features clearly in the half-light.

‘I’m ok… Lad… don’t go worrying… yourself’ he panted with great effort.

‘Well it’s not like you don’t have form, remember the Dire wolves? One second you were right behind me, the next you decided that you wanted to pick a fight.’

‘I know…’

‘With Dire Wolves!’

‘I know…’

‘With a DOZEN Dire Wolves!’ added Heinrich attempting to stress the recklessness of the Northerner’s actions the previous night.

The burley swordsmen grunted his acknowledgement and carried on for several minutes in silence. He focused his vision on the armoured and red robed back of Father Jonas who ran lightly in front of him. How in Sigmar’s name could that mad old man keep the pace, when he, a veteran soldier of Stirland was struggling so badly?

Kurt shook his head and looked around him. Most of the men who had set off from the irrigation ditch an hour earlier seemed to be present. Some of the townsmen were clearly feeling the strain more than the Northerner, but their fear of what lay behind them ensured that their legs kept pumping. They ignored the red hot burning feeling in their sore muscles as it threatened to render their limbs useless. Many gritted their teeth defiantly against the pain. The Flagellants ran with a sadistic determination, pushing themselves harder than the Militia men to atone for their sins. They smiled fanatically at the challenge offered by the swift pace.

Lightening tore through the sky above the group, making many of the freighted men jump.

‘One… Two… There…’ counted Kurt, oblivious to the looks he was drawing from many of the men around him.

‘What are you counting for?’ questioned Heinrich as Kurt continued.

‘Four… Five…Six…’ Another fork tore through the night sky casting a green light over everything. The Northerner frowned looking upwards, but then shrugged and started to count again.

‘Kurt?’

An expression of annoyance passed across the Northerner’s face as he turned to look at his comrade. Heinrich could tell that his friend was slightly annoyed at the interruption, but the shorter swordsmen simply shrugged as if asking the question again.

Kurt sighed, realising he would have to explain; ‘When I was growing up on the farm… My old man told me that… if you count the seconds between lightening and thunder… you can tell how many leagues you are from a coming storm’

Heinrich breathed in thoughtfully through is nose as he consumed this nugget of information. He nodded towards the Northerner accepting his reasoning, then followed Kurt’s gaze back to the sky and strained his hearing for the sound of distant thunder as he continued to run.

‘What Thunder?’ he asked quizzically moments later as yet another bolt cracked across the sky. Heinrich stole a look over his shoulder as the night lit up. About half a mile further down the hillside a hint of shadows moved silently, but Heinrich struggled to make out forms, or numbers, or indeed anything that would be of value.

Another bolt tore through the night, illuminating their pursuers clearly in a greenish glow. The valley behind seemed full of moving corpses as far as the eye could see. Fear flooded through his body. Heinrich mused that it take every Stirlander who had ever died to fill such a wide expanse. The Young Swordsman shuddered at the thought and shook his head believing that he was suffering from some unnatural hallucination. Another bolt made him stumble as he realised what he was seeing was in fact real.

‘For the love of Sigmar!’ he gasped as his footing gave way. I sturdy hand reached out and stopped his fall.

‘Easy lad… what’s got you so spooked? It’s only lightn….’ Kurt’s voice trailed off as he looked behind and saw the scene in the valley below.

‘Sigmar balls!’ blurted the Northerner as he came to a halt. Father Jonas turned sharply to reprimand the Swordsman for using his blessed lord’s name in vain, but his own words died in his open mouth. Instead he gulped down and simply stared. Others in the group began to stagger and stop as more of the men turned to see the spectacle unfold.

After a few moments the entire party had come to a halt and all now stood like statues on the hillside, their horrified expressions illuminated by each silent flash. The lightening came more steadily now with less and less time between the bolts. Each more violent than the last and thus illuminating more of the Undead.

‘There must be thousands’ gasped Heinrich without shifting his gaze.

‘Many tens of thousands’ corrected Martin Keats, a tear rolling down one of his cheeks. Normally he would have turned away and hidden his emotion from the commoners around him. However in that moment, transfixed by the sea of Undead that rolled in great tides slowly towards them, he was completely unaware of it.

‘I just thank Sigmar I can count that high’ added Kurt truthfully.

As the light cast by the final bolt of lightening died away, the spell which had held the men seemed to vanish with it. The stunned Militiamen started to look nervously around at their companions who had shared the terrible sight with them. A strange combination of camaraderie and pity in their eyes. No one dared to speak. Then just as the feeling of impending doom seemed to dissipate, a great flash of pure burning light erupted from behind the sea of Undead. The sudden invasion of sunlight burning those terrible images into their eyes as night turned to day.

Sergeant Hans ‘Old Blue’ Blucher stroked his unshaven chin nervously as he peered over the battlements into the darkness. The men of his company stood shoulder to shoulder along the length of the first trench. Their shields locked together forming a blood red wall along the crest of the Imperial earthworks. A deep fighting step had been dug into the front wall, allowing the swordsmen an advantage of two or three feet against their undead opponents should they assault the imperial position head on, which they were sure to do.

Hans Blucher had fought the Undead in his homeland of Sylvania as a youth and his long years as a Stirland state soldier had taught him to expect the Undead assault to drive as straight as an arrow towards his earthworks. Ditches had been dug before his position to channel the overwhelming ranks of the Undying into dead-ends and killing zones and thus blunt their advantage in numbers. Detachments of Militia would hit from the front line, striking out at vulnerable enemy positions and disappearing again before the enemy could re-direct its efforts. The stage was set; it was simply a case of waiting for the enemy to commit itself.

The Veteran Sergeant reached inside his breastplate and pulled out an aged brass time-piece of Estillian design. Ten minutes had passed since the unnatural lightening had dissipated. No one had seen a fire arrow in at least five. Silence and darkness consumed all, even the normally high spirits of his company.

‘Anything?’ asked Blucher in his dry monotone voice.

‘Nothing Sir, I can’t see a damned thing’ replied Claus, a soldier to his left.

‘Sigmar’s bearded balls!’ muttered the Sergeant under his breath.

‘Light them up now sir?’ asked another soldier further along the line, nodding towards the ditches to the fore that had been filled with peat.

‘No, we need to time that perfectly soldier. If we light them up now, our element of surprise will be wasted.’

‘Yes sir, sorry sir, I just thought the extra light will even our odds, I can’t see a damn thing through the darkness.’

‘I can understand your concerns, but we need to wait, Sigmar knows we’re in for a long night here and ….’

The sounds of footsteps and branches breaking stopped the sergeant from finishing his sentence. The men in the first trench raised their shields instinctively and drew the blades as one.

‘Stand ready boys! Claus let me know as soon as you can see who is approaching; I don’t want us killing our own huntsmen!’

‘Understood sir’

Long moments passed and the footfalls became louder. Blucher’s years of experience told him that about fifty men approached at a steady pace. Too many to be Huntsmen, and he knew of no other friendly force that should be approaching from that direction. The sounds of approach were getting louder with each passing second, yet Blucher had no idea who it was moving towards his position. They were moving far too quickly to be re-animated Undead, ghouls then perhaps? or Sylvanian Peasant Militia? If that was the case why were they attacking in such small numbers? Something just didn’t add up.

‘Prepare to receive their charge?’ asked Claus eagerly, turning his sword over in his hand.

The sergeant shook his head and held up his hand as he strained to hear more.

‘Who goes there?’ came the call from the line. Blucher was about to reprimand the culprit for breaking the enforced silence, but then realised that it was his own voice that had shouted the challenge. The sound of footsteps soon dissipated and a few silent nervous moments followed.

‘That you Old Blue?’ came the instantly recognisable voice of Kurt Muller.

‘That’s Sergeant Blucher lad and don’t forget it’ replied the relieved veteran as word of the Northerner’s return spread down the line of the men. ‘Who’s with you?’

‘Well I thought you’d probably need some help so I’ve brought a few friends, t’show your lads how to fight.’ Kurt was a soldier of Steinman’s Company and banter between the three remaining companies of the Iron Skulls was always encouraged by Henry Frey. This created a healthy competitiveness between the men to the benefit of the regiment as a whole.

Blucher smiled ‘You mean to shore up Steinman’s yellow legion.’ His retort was met with laughter from the men of his unit.

An unshaven battle scared face emerged over the brow of the earth works next to the sergeant and smiled back. ‘Miss Me?’

‘Like a hole in the head, soldier’

Heinrich sat with his back against the trench wall still breathing heavily from the event filled journey he had just completed. The young Swordsmen was handed a cup of water, which he accepted gratefully and gulped down greedily. The Soldiers of Blucher’s company that how surrounded him gazed at Heinrich with something verging on admiration in their eyes. Martin Keats’ report to Sergeant Blucher had painted Heinrich and Kurt as Heroes of the Empire. A mantel that the young man was having difficulties adjusting to. Only days before the entire regiment had treated him as a burden and an outcast, now he was celebrated as a regimental mascot.

Kurt walked down the trench towards Heinrich; he received pats on the back from those he passed. Jokes were shared with more familiar faces and he was even offered a bottle of hot mead, which he accepted gratefully.

‘I could get used to this’ Offered the Northerner as he sat down beside his comrade. Heinrich smiled weakly back, but said nothing. His mind was swimming, every time he closed his tired eyes all he could see was the ocean of Undead that had been burned into his vision back on the hillside.

‘Here lad, drink up’ Kurt passed the flask of hot mead to his friend, but Heinrich shook his head to decline.

‘I think I need something stronger’ he mused staring into space.

‘you still thinking abo…’

‘Yes! Of course I am’ snapped the younger swordsman. ‘I mean aren’t you just that little bit worried about it? There aren’t enough arrows in the Old World to blunt a force of that size. We-are-all-going-to-die-here!’

The swordsmen surrounding the two friends now stood in silence and simply stared at them. Heinrich’s words stole away their good humour as swiftly as Morr would steal a dying man’s final breath. Kurt looked around, conscious of the accusing stares now focusing on them both. He shrugged as if dismissing Heinrich’s comment as that of a mad man and a number of swordsmen turned away to stare silently into the darkness. Kurt reached out and patted Heinrich on his shoulder, forcing himself not to flinch from the pain in his broken hand. The Northerner silently cursed the horse he’d hit when he broke it.

‘Look lad, You know I don’t hold much with all that Sigmar fearing bollocks’ Kurt had spoken quietly so only Heinrich could hear him, but he still stole a glance towards Farther Jonas who was talking solemnly with Sergeant Blucher and Martin Keats several paces away. The Priest glanced up and looked the Northerner in the eye. Kurt knew the crazy old man had probably heard him. He turned back to Heinrich and continued.

…But, I can’t believe we’ve come through everything we have, just to die here anyway. Something is watching over us, be it blind luck or the will of Sigmar. Whatever it is, I know it will see us both through this.’

Heinrich looked up and realised he had been rubbing the crow’s skull he wore on a chain around his neck, he looked down and stared at the pistol ball that still lay embedded in the centre of the skull. He glanced up at the burley Northerner and sensed the genuine concern his comrade had for his well being.

‘your not turning soft on me are you?’ he offered with a smile.

Kurt grunted dismissively and helped the younger swordsmen to his feet. Heinrich dusted himself down and took the flask of hot mead from is friend’s out stretch hand. At that moment a call went up from along the line.

‘Enemy sighted!’

All was movement; the two swordsmen strode down the line swiftly and stepped up onto the fighting step near where the company command now stood. Heinrich stared down the slope into the darkness. He could not see the Undead advancing, but he could now hear the thousands of footfalls. This was a truly frightening experience, even for the veterans of the regiment and sounded like a rumbling thunder emanating from the very ground. What was worse was that the soldiers could also feel the ground beneath their feet vibrating. ‘There must be thousands of them’ gasped Claus who now stood by Kurt’s side.

‘It feels like the whole of hell is coming up out of the ground’ stuttered another soldier to his left. Heinrich shared a look with Kurt. The poor souls didn’t know how right they were. Many more moments stretched out in nervous anticipation.

‘Steady lads’ bellowed Blucher, struggling to raise his voice over the all consuming sound of the Undead advance. Many of the swordsmen made the sign of the hammer across their chests, or spat away their growing fear. Heinrich tried to spit, but his mouth was dry, the hairs on his neck on end. The young Swordsmen felt like he would jump out of his skin if someone spoke to him.

Then came the voice of Father Jonas. It was soft, but filled with pious fury, flowing above the sound of the enemies advance as if by magic. Every word was like an elixir of strength and courage and Blucher’s company to a man, stood taller and straighter, eager for the coming fight. Divine vengeance was their work this night and it would be unleashed with all the fury of Sigmar himself.

‘And thus did Sigmar raise his Mighty hammer to smote the undying, to banish them from the lands of man, and rid his people of their unholy presence. So it shall be now upon the slopes of the Praager Strasse Road. The Undead will burn and the Heirs of Sigmar will stand victorious above the burning pyres of dead.’

The Warrior Priest paced along the line, walking along the battlements in front of the swordsmen. Filling their hearts with pride, His ancient hammer glowing like golden sunshine in the darkness, illuminating the surrounding landscape. Fifty yards from the front line the Advancing Undead faltered for a moment, as if afraid to move any closer to Sigmar’s chosen.

Father Jonas swept his hand in a gesture towards the Undead line.

‘Look how they falter, their unholy gods tremble at the sight before them. Men of Stirland, you will be Sigmar’s instrument of death this day, let me guide your hand!’

Over three thousand Undead stood immobile at the base of the hill, illuminated by the Priest’s divine light.

‘Victory or death!!!’ bellowed the Warrior Priest as he turned and bounded down the hillside hammer held aloft as a beacon. The old man’s legs carried him with all the speed of a much younger man.

The two hundred men in the front trench rose as one, Swordsmen, Free company, Flagellant and Nobleman, swords aloft.

‘Victory or Death!!!’ They all cried at the top of their lungs, before breaking into a charge behind the Warrior Priest.

‘What in Sigmar’s name is he doing’ gasped Henry Frey as he peered through the gold plated telescope he had commandeered from the library in the old manor house. The commander of the Iron Skulls stared in horror as his entire front line charged from the safety of their earthworks to engage the Undead in open ground.

Corporal Steinman stood at his shoulder dumbstruck. Frey turned to look his subordinate in the eye for an answer. The plump corporal blushed; he had none to give him.

‘Bugler!’ bellowed the Commander now read faced and furious. Hans approached his commander timidly, all to aware of the pious officer’s temper.

‘Y-yes sir’

Henry Frey turned aggressively and stared at him with his one good eye.

‘Well don’t stand there like a damned idiot Greenskin, Sound the Recall!’

Hans pulled the bugle to his mouth with his shaking hand and took a deep breath to steady himself before sounding the recall. Frey turned and stared through the eye piece and watched as his front line simply ignored the order and instead crashed headlong into the front rank of Undead.

The Swordsmen of Blucher’s company had formed a wedge before impacting their enemy. ‘At least Old Blue hasn’t lost all of his wits’ thought Frey still fuming. The commander focused the eyepiece towards the point of the formation expecting to see the silver head of his foolhardy subordinate. Then Frey saw it, he had to blink away the sight, believing it to be an illusion or some dark art, but there it was. A mighty golden hammer glowing with pure sunlight, held aloft as a beacon of hope. The wedge drove forward without remorse destroying all before its advance, the hammer bearer to the fore. Those Undead that were not crushed by the sweep of the mighty warhammer were trampled under foot by the advancing swordsmen.

Further along the front Frey could make out a small pocket of Flagellant’s swinging their flails wildly as they engaged the Undead. A large number of Militiamen followed behind the main advance of the state troops finishing off any of the re-animated corpses that had some how survived the initial assault. Clearly Blucher’s company had been re-enforced by a number of men, but what had persuaded the normally cautious commander to commit his full strength to a reckless death or glory charge? Henry Frey realised he had started to smile.

‘Victory or Death’ he said quietly, drawing several confused looks from Corporal Steinman and his entourage.

Although he thought the charge to be the height of foolishness, Henry Frey could see that the attack was going well. Blucher’s men were still greatly outnumbered by their un-natural foe, but the speed a ferocity of the assault had meant the overwhelming numbers of the enemy had not yet come to bare. The battle hung in the balance, Henry Frey could either consolidate his force upon the slopes, leaving each of the trenches under strength. Or, he could add the weight of around 350 more men to the assault and hope to break the Undead now.

Frey gazed up at the regimental standard, its slashes of green and yellow fluttering gently in the breeze. A skull made up the centre with a crown of gold braiding upon its head. Those famous words were displayed below; Victory Or Death. The commander nodded to himself;

‘Sigmar’s Will’ he whispered.

Corporal Steinman frowned and started to shake his head as if realising Henry Frey’s intention.

‘Sir…’

‘To Arms men of Stirland!!!’ Frey’s pious voice tore through the night.

‘Sir’ repeated Steinman more forcefully. Frey turned to face the plump Corporal, but his voice carried to every Stirlander still on the hillside.

‘It seems that Olde Blue intends to keep all the glory for himself and his own company, I for one will not be denied my share of it! What do you say?’

Steinman stood open mouthed, in silence, his red face failing to hide the shock at his commander’s apparent loss of sanity. Moment’s later a reply came from the second trench, the voice clearly that of Corporal Blyant.

‘For Stirland, The Emperor and Count Martin!!!’

The Corporal’s cry was taken up by the rest of his men as they clambered from behind their defences and charged swords in hand, down towards the ensuing melee on the valley floor.

Frey smiled raising his sword. He looked Steinman in the eye and the Corporal could see that there would be no arguing with Frey’s decision. He nodded to his commander before turning to his own company. Blyant’s men were now streaming at full pace down the hillside towards the first trench.

‘Right you lazy elf loving lay-a-bouts, by Sigmar’s hairy balls, My Company will not be the last into battle, move like you’ve got a purpose. Colours to the fore… Charge!!!!’

All was confusion; Rusted swords, clubs and spears rang from the tightly held shields of the swordsmen as they drove forward into the sea of Undead. Their great blood red shields were locked together and each man fought with all his strength to push ever onwards into the foe. Those in the second rank of the wedge leant their own strength to that of their comrades or lunged over their head’s with their swords, blindly hacking at the Undead that struggled for a way into the Imperial formation. The Heads of the re-animated corpses were often severed completely, leaving headless forms standing upright supported only by the press of bodies around them.

Those Undead unlucky enough to fall underneath the wedge formation as it rumbled forward, were trampled into the ground without remorse. The Iron Skulls were well drilled and although their tired limbs protested, the swordsmen continued to lift their knees high and march onwards. Father Jonas stood at the point of the Imperial wedge, his mighty warhammer smashing great numbers of the Undead aside as he strode on. Relentlessly the hammer rose and fell, claiming scores of souls from the re-animated dead with every swing.

The first moments of the battle were composed of a relentless drive forward, but as more of the Undead moved clumsily to engage the swordsmen, the going became much tougher. As the swordsmen tired, gaps started to open up in the shield-wall. Rank upon rank of rotten flesh soon greeted the swordsmen and the drive forward became a bitter affair. Every step was paid for in the lives of swordsmen. Men were dragged from the protection of their comrade’s shields and ripped apart before the eyes of their friends.

As the Undead closed in to finish their unholy work, only Father Jonas marched on at any real pace, his voice carrying easily over the chaotic noise of battle. He spoke of Sigmar’s divine vengeance, the glory of the Empire and Morr’s judgement. Hearing the words as clearly as if the priest was stood by their side, the swordsmen fought on with renewed vigour. Great mounds of dismembered corpses however, began to form before their shields. The Undying soon writhed five deep on the ground in front of the swordsmen, preventing any further advance.

Kurt and Heinrich fought together several feet from the protection of the Imperial formation, they had tried in vain to push on towards the Priest, but the press of rotting bodies closing in behind Father Jonas had started to pushed them back. The two swordsmen were now lost in no-mans-land, the only thing saving them from being consumed by the sea of Undead only feet away was the mound of corpses left by Father Jonas in his wake. Slowly, back to back the two men fought their way back to safety.

Heinrich thrust his sword under the chin of an advancing zombie as it clumsily lashed out against his shield with a jagged thigh bone club. The creature’s arms dropped limply and Heinrich twisted his blade violently to free it. Another rotting form dressed in Stirland state colours, sung its halberd towards the young swordsmen’s head. Kurt saw the attack coming and lifted his shield to block the blow. The impact vibrated viciously though Kurt’s shield causing the bite wound he’d received from a ravenous Dire wolf, to re-open on this forearm. Kurt grunted away the pain and both swordsmen counterattacked in a flurry of blows. The zombie fell to the ground in several decaying pieces.

As if sensing its moment had come, the re-animated corpse of a Sylvanian Militiamen clambered up the mound of twisted bodies towards the distracted Northerner, a rusted blade in each hand. As it closed the final few feet Kurt twisted his body round and jarred the full face of his shield into the creature’s upper body. A sickening crunch told him that the zombie’s back had shattered. Kurt tilted his shield to one side to kick out and another body fell limply onto the hill of corpses.

‘And stay down!’ Yelled Kurt as the creatures accusing eyes seemed to lock with his for a moment as it fell.

Another Undead minion emerged out of the darkness to Heinrich’s exposed right hand side and lunged a rusted longsword towards his flank. The young swordsman’s blade came down in a fluid motion and parried the blow easily. Heinrich allowed the sword’s motion to continue on so that the blade came level with the creature’s rotting featureless face. The sword then came down silently and claimed the head of another zombie.

‘They just don’t know when they’re beaten!’ Called Heinrich over the commotion of battle. Even though he only stood a couple of yards from the Northerner he had to shout himself horse to make himself heard.

‘Stubborn that’s why’ replied Kurt as he thrust his gore splattered blade into the chest of another adversary. ‘Not like Bretonians…. Now those elf loving wine drinkers, they know when to back down!’

Kurt smiled, side stepping a clumsy strike form a pitch fork, the zombie leaned forward as it lost its footing. The Northerner stamped down on the shaft of the weapon as it passed him. This forced the creature down onto its knees, as its dead hands refused to release the pole-arm from its grip. Kurt kicked out towards the abomination’s head and landed a terrible bow with his leather boot. The zombie collapsed as its head was launched twenty feet into the night sky.

The Northerner grimaced as the black blood of the Undead creature sprayed upwards in an arch. Heinrich dispatched another zombie with a low swing, which severed it legs. The young Swordsmen rotated his sword and stabbed it violently trough the falling creature’s open mouth. Before Heinrich had any chance to celebrate his victory, a heavy hand grabbed him by the shoulder strap of his breastplate and dragged him backwards.

‘Come on lad’ urged Kurt.

Both swordsmen hurdled over a pile of decaying bodies towards the shield wall of their comrades. An emancipated hand shot out of the pile at the last moment in a desperate bid to entangle the feet of the fleeing swordsmen, but was left with a handful of air as the two companions disappeared into the night.

The constant screams of the dying now provided a terrifying backdrop to the all consuming sound of weapons clashing. Men struggled in mortal desperation to keep the Dead from claiming them. The militia had also moved from behind the swordsmen’s formation to find shelter in side. The tide of Undead forcing itself closed around them. Had fear taken its hold within the hearts of the besieged men then their limbs would have weakened, their sword trusts would have been offered with less conviction and their shields would have lowered. Yet father Jonas’ calming chant could still be heard from within the surrounding sea of reeking death and the knowledge that he old man was still alive and fighting, filled all with a sense that they could emerge victorious despite their losses.

Corporal Blucher’s voice could be heard over the terrifying symphony of death, shouting frantic orders in an effort to keep the imperial formation together. Martin Keats paced behind the wall of swordsmen offering words of encouragement to the soldiers as they fought on. The noblemen showed no fear and his commanding demeanour did much to encourage the Iron skulls to battle on.

Time and time again the nobleman was at the heart of the fighting. Whenever a hole formed in the Imperial Formation, Keats was at the breach, often alone and surrounded by Undead, his superior skill at arms proving a match for their overwhelming numbers. Corporal Blucher was never far behind, directing reserves to support the Pistolier before he could be swamped by the sea of Undead.

Despite the resilient and determined defence of the Swordsmen and Militia the two commanders both knew that their situation was balanced on a knife edge. Yes the gaps were still being plugged by reserves and the shield wall still held strong. But as the battle wore on the breaches were been plugged by more and more Militia men rather than professional soldiers. This created weaknesses in the wedge which the Undead seemed to be fully aware of and determined to exploit.

Keats stepped forward as another soldier was trampled to the ground under the weight of four or five zombies. The shield wall around the fallen militiaman opened up as men instinctively stepped back away from the breach and the threat of being claimed by the Undead as they flooded through.

‘Close up!’ bellowed Old Blue as he strode over to the gap in his shield wall. The Corporal grabbed a militiamen sheltering in the centre of the wedge by his shoulder and pushed him towards the growing breach, signalling yet more of his diminishing reserve to follow.

As the first Zombie clambered groggily to its feet, Keats swung his sabre in a wide arch, which decapitated the creature before it could stand fully. The pistolier had taken up a fallen infantry sword in his left hand and now held it in a reversed grip. The noblemen allowed his own motion to spin him round. The Infantry sword impacted a second corpse as it made to clamber over the bodies at its feet. The sword entered below the creatures chin and downwards into is rib cadge. Keats allowed the sword to fall away and brought his own sabre to slice down and claim a third victim.

‘For Stirland, The Emperor and Count Martin!’ he bellowed at the top of his lungs as he kicked out at a fourth corpse as it attempted to rise.

The Pistolier moved to slash at a fifth foe as it emerged from out of the darkness and made to bound over the pile of corpses before him. At the last moment something inside stayed his hand and he dropped swiftly into a crouch as the form passed over head. The Pistolier chanced a look up and saw a larger figure coming through the breach. Keats rolled back over his left shoulder and away from the gap in the shield wall. The roll brought him back to his feet and he rose into a fighting stance and ready to strike. A smile made its way to the nobleman’s face as he saw a familiar face staring back.

‘Sigmar’s balls’ grumbled Kurt as he picked himself up from the ground. A zombie lurch towards the prone Northerner but he lifted his adversary from the ground with a swing of his shield as he rose. Heinrich was at his side within moments and thrust his gore splattered blade into the face of another foe as it rounded on the lofty swordsmen.

More militiamen joined the struggle to close the gap in the shield wall. Kurt, Heinrich and Martin Keats led the struggle from the front, effortlessly slaying the Undead as they entered the breach.

‘I thought you were both dead!’ exclaimed Keats, as he slashed his blade across the throat of another victim. Kurt kicked out and the same corpse fell back over the growing mound of dead. Another zombie making to clamber up over the pile, which now reached to chest height, was decapitated by Heinrich.

‘So did we’ gasped the Younger swordsmen.

Under Blucher’s close supervision the Militiamen formed up in the shield wall, allowing the three companions the chance to rest for a moment in relative safety.

‘That was damned foolish, rushing off like that’ continued the Nobleman, genuine concern evident in his voice.

‘My fault sir’ panted Kurt. ‘Didn’t want to leave Father Jonas…’

Keats listened for a moment and heard the Warrior Priest’s voice clearly over the sound of battle.

‘From what I can hear, the Priest seems to be doing ok for himself.’

‘Aye, his blood seems to be up, I’ll give you that… sir’

Corporal Blucher paced over to the three comrades and patted Kurt on the shoulder, a smile breaking onto his worn face for a moment. The Northerner turned to face the veteran.

‘Glad to have us back?’ offered Kurt.

‘Ha! Don’t be so soft, just thought I’d finally got rid of you.’

Keats looked around, a concerned look finding its way back to his face. The formation was holding, but it was clear that the company was down to about half strength. Militiamen now held as much of the front as the swordsmen. Another Undead breakthrough like the last would clearly signal the end of the heroic stand.
Corporal Blucher sensed the pistolier’s unease.

‘We can’t hold another one sire.’

Keats turned to face the battle scarred swordsmen.

‘Reserves?’

‘That was the last of them. Just ourselves and the walking wounded left.’ Despite the precarious situation, the corporal did not allow his concern to show in his voice. If it wasn’t for the mortal combat surrounding him as he spoke, one would think he was making a report in the safety of a command post.

Keats nodded solemnly.

‘Ok get all those that can still stand to lend their weight to the front rank. I only want able bodied men fighting. If we can rotate the men then do it. We need to give the lads some rest when we can.’

Kurt spat to the floor before turning towards the nearest fighting.

‘Come on Heinrich, let’s give them hell!’

Henry Frey stood before the first trench and surveyed the battle field to his fore, his two company commanders stood at his shoulder. Blucher’s company had come to a halt in the very centre of the enemy formation. Peering through his eye piece the Pious Commander could see that those brave troops were down to about half strength and were all but surrounded by their un-natural foe. The Undead had lost perhaps one third their number, but their sheer weight of numbers was starting to take a heavy toll. Frey could see no sign of the small number of flagellants he had seen earlier and surmised that the crazed zealots had met with their doom somewhere within the mass of Undead.

The Iron Skulls Commander panned across the entire scene before him in search of the hammer wielding Warrior Priest. An uncharacteristic smile found its to his face when he saw the mighty figure atop a pile of corpses to the west of the besieged Iron Skulls. All in all, the battle was a heroic struggle worthy of Sigmar and Count Martin themselves.

‘Right then!’ said Frey turning to address his commanders. ‘If we act now we can still turn this battle on its head.’

‘Sir, common sense would suggest we…’

Frey cut off Corporal Steinman’s protest with a wave of is gauntleted hand.

‘We have no time for common sense this day my friend. Only swift and decisive action will save our men from their bloody fate. Corporal Blyant, take your company east, form a wedge and charge straight towards our men. This should split the enemies flank and cause enough confusion to allow their withdrawal. Once this has been done I want both companies to retire in good order, back here to the first trench. Make preparations to defend this point to the last.’

Corporal Blyant placed his helmet onto his head and offered a salute, before moving off towards is company.

‘May Sigmar protect‘ he offered in parting.

Corporal Steinman stepped towards his commander, ‘So, that takes care of saving Olde Blue, what would you have us do?’

Frey smiled, excitement shining in his good eye. ‘We move to the west Corporal’ Frey turned pointing to where the Warrior Priest stood. Frey was a little un-nerved to see a figure illuminated in green light pace through the ranks of Undead towards the Holy man.

‘hmmm, it seems the Priest’s plan was to draw out the Undead necromancer. Slaying that vile creature would cause the remaining Undead to lose all co-ordination. Maybe even cause them to revert to a state of death, providing the sorcerer is the main source of their unlife.’

Frey frowned, he knew that something far more sinister than a rogue Necromancer was behind this invasion.

‘Either way it will buy us time, my friend and time is something we a perilously short of at the moment.’

Corporal Steinman nodded, finally seeing some sense in pressing the attack. The plump officer turned on his heels to address his company.

‘Alright lads, its time for us to have some fun. Stay sharp and keep the formation tight. Our destination is the beacon of light to the fore.’

Steinman pointed towards the Warrior Priest.

‘Sigmar has seen fit to show you the way, and I for one will not fail him! What do you say lads?’

‘Victory or Death!’ bellowed the company as one.

The mighty hammer arched towards the head of another zombie as it clambered up the pile of dead towards the solitary Warrior Priest. A cloud of blackened blood exploded into the air where the creature’s head had been but a moment before. The limp corpse dropped silently and tumbled back down the mound of twitching bodies into the Undead that waited to start their ascent.

‘I am Sigmar’s Hammer!’ bellowed the Priest at the top of his lungs as the back swing of his Holy weapon caught a plump zombie square in the chest. The figure, dressed in all the finery of a rich merchant, was launched several feet through the air by the force of the blow. It crashed to the ground, still spinning and proceeded to knock a score of tightly packed Zombies to the quagmire beneath them. The prone forms were trampled remorselessly to the ground by their Undead brethren as they advanced hungrily to engage the surrounded Priest.

‘Come to me foul abominations, the Gardens of Morr await!’

The zombies climbed towards the smiling Priest, with a primeval hunger evident in their dead eyes. Father Jonas drew back his hammer and lowered it’s gleaming head towards the ground. A rhythmic chant, which started as a hum, emanated from the Holy man’s mouth. His eyes closed in concentration. As the final word of the well rehearsed verse left him, father Jonas opened his eyes and let out an all consuming wail. The Priest’s pupils had disappeared behind a burning furnace of fire, which illuminated the scene around him for many feet.

All the Undead within a twenty yard radius started to judder uncontrollably, their advance grinding to a halt. Divine flames of golden sunshine started to leap from the ground beneath them, cleansing their unholy flesh in fire and melting their blackened bones. An un-earthly screech filled the air, as the Undead dropped the floor in twisted agony. Smouldering forms littered the area around the Priest as he stood for a moment illuminated in sunlight.

Father Jonas surveyed the carnage around him and smiled. His eyes narrowed, as a figure robed in black stepped from the now still ranks of Undead and into the perimeter of blacken flesh that surrounded the priest. This was what Father Jonas has been waiting for, his whole endeavour had been to draw out the foul creature controlling the teeming mass of Undead.

A wave of relief and disappointment washed over the old man as he realised it was not Vigree Lebrun that now faced him. For a moment the Priest’s shoulders seemed to sag, but new determination flowed though his aching muscles as he became aware of the first tall-tale signs of magic being conjured. The hairs on the back of the old man’s wrists stood on end as the unmistakable whiff of ozone wafted towards him. Green flame licked from the sleeves of the Necromancers cloak and made the twisted figure glow in an ungodly light. A bolt as black as night shot from the creature’s outstretched right hand towards the Priest.

Father Jonas lifted his hammer swiftly before him and dropped to one knee. The black bolt impacted into the golden brilliance of the ancient weapon creating a sound not unlike thunder. The Priest’s arms shook violently as he battled with all his strength and faith against the evil magic. Father Jonas tensed his muscles countering the Necromancer’s incantation with his own solemn prayer to Sigmar. Black sparks fell from bolt and hammer and onto the pile of dead at the Priest’s feet.

The confrontation of magic and faith began to subside as the Necromancer realised the futility of his assault.

‘Look what you have done to my beautiful creations’ spat the dark mage angrily.

Father Jonas rose to his full height and began to laugh.

‘That is nothing compared to what I have planned for you, foul creature’

The Necromancer pulled back the cowl of his robes and began to circle its adversary. Father Jonas’ eyes were drawn to the ancient tattoos which covered the dark disciple’s head. His eyes stung from the unholy invasion of twisted shapes and symbols that were wholly incorrect in their conception.

The Necromancer stopped several paces from the pile of corpses Father Jonas stood atop.

‘Pray tell me weakling, how do you plan to exact this terrible fate upon me when you cant even keep your footing?’

Father Jonas realised the danger only moments before the Necromancer plunged it’s wicked staff into the mound of broken corpses beneath his feet. The Old Priest made to jump clear but several outstretched arms caught his robe and entangled his feet. Father Jonas struggled with all his strength as he was pulled into the now living pile of Undead. He sunk further into the reeking death, all the time hands rising up to pull him deeper and deeper into the mire. The last glimpse of the outside world was that of the Necromancer’s smiling face staring back at him.

All around him was darkness and death. Claws and teeth snatched at him and threatened to rip him asunder. The smell of rotting flesh made him retch and he struggled to catch even the faintest breath to re-vitalise himself. So this was hell he thought, trapped in a cocoon of writhing death. In all his studies he had never come across or conceived of anything as foul. He felt old now, weak and alone. His faith started to leave him as the lack of air made him light-headed.

Then somewhere deep within his soul came an inner strength, something that had guided his long life and made him refuse to give in. His hatred. Under the layers of service, prayer and ritual that had defined his life as a priest, here was the one thing that he had tried so long to hide. His hatred for him, his hatred for Vigree Lebrun. Father Jonas gripped his hammer tightly and felt the hatred build inside.

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