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The Ghoul King

A folk tale of Wissenland


Wissenland is a fascinating place. Its history is the history of resistance, for the people of Wissenland value freedom above all else, and will not long suffer tyranny of any kind. Avaricious Averland and militant Reikland have many times tried the conquest of Wissenland, but always they have foundered in the face of the implacable courage of the people. Even Emperors have been sent fleeing from Wissenland's soil with their tails between their legs. The folk tales of the province often reflect these stubborn, independent tendencies.

This particular story was told to me by a man of more than eighty years. He recounted the tale with considerable enthusiasm, often leaping to his feet to pantomime out a particular moment of action, hale and vigorous despite his considerable years. I have chosen to retell his story in the form of a personal narrative, in an attempt to better convey some of that passion to the reader. - JWG


When I was a young man, in the days that came after the war[1], I often went hunting for rabbits in the foothills of the Grey Mountains. My clothes were ragged and I had no shoes, but neither the cold wind on my back nor the sharp rocks beneath my feet bothered me. Necessity had made me hardy, and a deadly shot with my sling. I rarely came back empty-handed, and so my family ate well always, though many others went hungry. Still there were times I thought of my father, killed in battle and left to the crows, and I found that the sorrow did not grow less with time, as I had thought at first that it must.

One day, close to winter, I found myself further from home than I would normally have gone. It seemed that there were no rabbits to be found, though I had searched for many long hours, and I began to think of giving up. But then I caught a glimpse of movement in the corner of my eye, and turning my head saw a goat lapping away at a small stream. I murmured a prayer of thanks to Taal, father of beasts, and began to creep carefully towards the creature, a halter of rope in my hands. Yet it seemed that Taal did not favour me at all, since the goat turned its head suddenly when I was still a few yards away, and at once took flight. I gave chase, following the goat over many miles of rough ground, until at last I lost sight of the beast in the failing light, and sank to the ground in despair.


Now, I had cut my foot during the long pursuit. I bound the wound with a strip torn from my shirt, but was able to move at no more than a limp. I was far from home and the darkness was gathering, and so I began to look around for a place to wait out the night. Sure enough, a narrow cave opened among the rocks close by. I gathered some dry twigs, and built a small fire at the mouth of the cave before settling down to sleep.

But the night was filled with strange and fearful noises, and I could find no rest. I soon began to wonder how far the cave extended, and what horrors might lurk in its depths. Just as much I thought of the terrors that might roam the hillside, and be drawn to the light of my fire as moths are to a candle-flame. I prayed to Sigmar to grant me strength and courage, to Taal to deliver me from the clutches of wolves and other animals, and to Morr to take my soul into his arms should I die.

The night was half over when a sound came from further down the cave - a scraping, scratching sound like a knife drawn slowly over a whetstone. At first I sat still and silent, not daring to move, but as the sound drew nearer I knew I had to act. I pulled a burning brand from the fire and stood up, my injured foot forgotten. I held the torch out before me like a sword, and soon enough a great black shape loomed, massive in the flickering light.

The monster was taller by a full head, and twice my build. It had the general shape of a man, but there were claws like filthy icicles on its hands, and wan light like corpse-candles in its eyes. It lunged for me with a bellowing rage in its throat, and I jabbed at its face with the torch while screaming out the name of the Heldenhammer. Cold, deathly pain came to me then, as the monster's claws raked my chest, and I fell and knew no more.

I woke with pain gnawing at my body. I soon realised that I was within the cave, and that I lay on a rough bed of uncured hides. My shirt had been torn up and used to bind the claw-cuts on my chest. I sat up, realising that a torch had been set nearby to allow me to see my surroundings - the cave chamber was larger than my own home, so far away now, and decorated in a peculiar fashion. There were bones and skulls, human and animal, arranged in neat piles. But there were also broken pieces of furniture, and rusted cooking pots, and even children's toys. Someone had drawn and written on the walls. The writing was strange and unreadable, but the pictures were clear enough - houses and cities, people and animals.

Yet all of this did not long hold my attention, because my eyes soon saw a sight that came close to stopping my heart. The creature that had attacked me earlier sat watching me from a wooden throne, a golden crown upon its monstrous head. I immediately tried to stand, but lacked the strength and fell back onto the bed of hides. The beast cocked its head on one side, narrowing its eyes and drumming its talons on the arm of the throne. Lying helpless and immobile, I found myself reciting an old rhyme that my mother had once sung to me, when goblins lurked beneath my bed and bugbears peered through my window:

Little soldier, do not weep
Sigmar guards you as you sleep
Little soldier, do not cry
Morr will save you, if you die[2]

The demon on the throne seemed to listen to the words attentively. When I was finished, it gave a low growl and waved a hand at me in a gesture that seemed familiar. At once, the thought came to me that the creature wanted to hear more, and perhaps it had kept me alive for just that purpose. Sitting cautiously up, I saw for the first time that a set of pipes had been placed beside the bed. Picking them up, I began to play - shaky at first, but growing in confidence as I worked through every tune I knew. All the while the beast sat upon its throne and stared at me, for all the world seeming to enjoy my performance.


When at last I could play no more, I set the pipes aside and instead began to tell stories[3]. I began with the tale of Jan the Quick and the Giant, and I moved on through the War of the Golden Kettle, through the Castle of the Otters, through the Worm of Thirsk, and so on through many more. My throat grew hoarse with the effort, and my eyes began to close with weariness. To my surprise, the beast seemed to recognise that I was tired. It rose from the throne and left the chamber, and a moment later I heard the sound of a heavy rock being rolled across the entrance. So tired was I, that I lay down and at once passed into sleep.


When I woke again, the demon had returned and sat once more upon the throne. There was food and water by my bed, and I ate and drank with swift enthusiasm. The creature waited patiently for me to finish, then gestured with its claws and growled in a way that almost suggested speech. So I took up the pipes and played what I could, then told what tales I could, and even sang a few songs in my weak, untuneful voice.

I do not know how long I continued in this fashion, since time quickly lost all meaning to me. But after a while I had no more tales to tell nor tunes to play, and my strange host seemed to recognise this. With one clawed hand, the beast seized my shoulder and dragged me to my feet. There was no question of fighting. I closed my eyes and waited for my life to end. But instead I was led from that inner chamber into an outer part of the cave. There, gathered around small, smoky fires were a great multitude of creatures. They were shaped like men and women, but they were naked and hairless, and their skins were the colour of corpses. They were sharp-toothed and long-nailed, and they feasted on rotting flesh that clung to bones I knew as human.

When these eaters of the dead saw the beast, they at once abased themselves before him, chanting praises in voices that reminded me of the cawing of crows. My captor took me through the adoring mass of his subjects, and brought me finally to the mouth of the cave. The sun was beginning to peer around the edges of the land, and the waking light made the beast shy back. He released his grip on my shoulder, and pressed something cold and heavy into my hand. Then he was gone, back into the cave. I needed no further encouragement. I fled at once, as fast as my battered feet would carry me.

It was only later, when the sun was full in the sky and I dared to rest for a moment that I looked at the gift the beast had given me. It was a golden sceptre, covered with rubies, that shone bright as a dawn star. I marvelled at the thing, valuable beyond anything I could imagine - a royal gift indeed, to a skilful bard from a lonely king.



[1]The war referred to is the greenskin invasion of 1707. A full account of this catastrophe, which saw the province of Solland utterly destroyed and the provinces of Averland and Wissenland devastated, can be found in Holbein's excellent monograph, ‘On the green tide.’

[2]This odd little verse has its origins in Stirland - quite why it should be known as far away as Wissenland is unclear.

[3]Most of the stories mentioned here do in fact exist, but not all of them originated within The Empire. Bretonnia, Norsca and Tilea also have strong story-telling traditions, and merchants and sailors from those places often bring their stories with them. Some of them appear in my second collection of folk tales, which will be available soon from the Nuln University Press.