Topic: Padre's A6 Fluff (Bertold van Haagen & the VMC)

[Padre]

Ask not what the VMC can do for you, but what the VMC is already doing for you!

Many of you have been wondering what life will be like when the foul taint of the Chaos Wastes recedes far from this land? Well, the VMC has been giving the good folk of the north a taste of that life. Take happy Haddrigar, here drinking in the Sigmar’s Barrel alehouse - he’s the one in the yellow shirt raising a tankard of frothing ale in a toast to the men of the Crusade for their selfless work in fighting the wicked servants of chaos.



Haddrigar is a norseman twice chased from his home by raiding marauders serving foul gods, his career as a mammoth dung collector ruined when said marauders killed all the mammoths in his village for nothing more than their horns (both kinds). But is he down-hearted? No sir! He drinks his fill of ale and hot waters every night, for now he earns a good living as a miner in the NRMC.

Monsters?

You might ask ‘But what about the monstrous spawn of chaos? Will we be safe from their depredations?” Well, here too you can be reassured, for the brave soldiers of the Crusade of the First Saint of Sigmar and the Expeditionary Force of the VMC have already begun cleansing the land of all such creatures. Here you can see a captured and caged beast of chaos, a mutated harpy of hideous form, spouting three heads and four arms.



After having some well earned fun with the beast, betting on which head would give out a shriek when the beast was prodded with a halberd tip, the soldiers dispatched the beast, sending its corrupt spirit(s?) back to whatever hellish realm it (they?) had issued from. (Much rhetorical and dialectical debate has followed concerning just how many souls a three-headed beast possesses.)

Wenches

And your women folk, what can they expect? Well the future looks bright for them too, for with the prosperity brought to the realm by the VMC families will thrive. In truth, it is already happening. Take Arfllifig, once nothing more than a mere scavenger for cockles and whelks along the shores of Scarpa Bay, but now a peasant farmer with no less than six wives (yes, six - count them).



And not just half a dozen wives. You can tell by the way Arfllifig stands that he has come up in the world. His cottage is a sturdy construction of good stone, his yard well stocked with hens and geese (two fine examples seen here in the arms of his wives), and he has a field of oats in which the stalks grow straight - uncorrupted by chaos - for the first time in decades. Mind you, wouldn’t you grow straight with six wives like Arfllifig’s? (Well, perhaps not the one on the far right, but she did come free with the one with the goose.)

[Padre]

There's a massive bunch of four long fluff pieces I can't post here yet, just in case other faction campaign players read this thread. You (if anyone is actually reading all this nonsense) will just have to wait. A6 is still a very 'active' campaign, and to publish those pieces publicly would simply not be strategically sound. So instead I will continue with the start of my next bat rep.


The First Battle of More-Og Troms

It came to pass that the Blacktusk tribe thought to make themselves rulers of all the realm about Skraevold, of Mor-Og Troms and even further afield. They came to loathe the very idea that they might ally with men from the south, and certainly none amongst them were willing to become subject to the Southerners’ rule. Such an attitude might well have sprung from their own pride, their own traditions, but it was nurtured and encouraged by agents of the Unbowed who moved amongst them, some whispering and muttering of honour and independence, others shouting to the crowds of hellish visions and demonic visitations, of the need to appease the wicked gods of chaos.

Much blood was spilled in the mammoth herders’ uprising, both that of all those who came before them, but also that of their own warriors. So it was that their greatest chieftains gathered to discover how victory might still be theirs even though many of their warriors were slain and their strength was depleted. It seemed the Unbowed expected them to fight their own battles, and had encouraged them through the urge to stir up mayhem and wars - not at all in a spirit of friendship. Little aid was to come from them. 

So instead there was much talk in which the chieftains remembered the debts owed them by neighbouring tribes. Surely those tribes would lend aid? Yet many chieftains said that such weak tribes were of little use, and that instead they should look to harness the greed and pride of the more powerful tribes, a brace of motives that might well spur them to come and join the fight: the greedy would lust for the loot to be had, while the proud would yearn for glory, and the chance to prove to the gods that they were no less worthy than the Blacktusk.

The word was sent and allies came: nomadic horsemen rode from the rolling steppes of the Fjellsendem, bands of mounted Baersonling came from the Sturen Ridge and ogres strode from the great stronghold of Wallcrusher Mountain. These laid aside their grievances, ceased their petty wars and squabbles, and joined together on the journey to Mor-Og Troms to fashion an army the like of which had rarely been seen in these (or any) parts.

............

(Game Note: The following army was made using my current hardcopy of the Empire of Wolves campaign list  http://warhammer-empire.com/theforum/index.php?topic=36888.0 and is intended to represent as best I can the sort of forces that this region contains according to the GMs’ fluff. The Ogres are, well, Ogres, and the horsemen are like a wild cross between Kislevites and mounted marauders - just right for that part of the world).

Empire of Wolves 3002 pts List

Kubamaksym - Ogre Warlord 290 pts
Heavy armour , Great weapon, Talisman of Endurance, Helm of Success
Combat skill:  Whirlwind attack // Special rules: Retinue (Ogres = core)

Haggpotryr - Ogre Captain 130 pts
Battle Standard, light armour, Talisman of Preservation

Boguslaw - Kislev Boyar 115 pts
Heavy armour, shield, warhorse, horseman's mace, Orc-skull Helmet
Combat skill:  Hopelessly stubborn  (Stubborn)
Special rules: Retinue (Kossars, Winged Lancers & Ungol Horse Archers = core)

Felicjan - Kislev Boyar 147 pts
Heavy armour, warhorse; Ogre Blade, Enchanted shield

Two Shamans (Level 2 Battle Wizard) 2 x 80 =160 pts
Warhorse (+10) // School of magic = Shamanism (Beasts and Life)

Core

Two units of 10 Border Horsemen  2 x 170 = 340 pts
Warhorse, short bow, shields, light armour, spears. Full Command; fast cavalry

Retinue units

Two units of 15 Winged Lancers  2 x 325 = 650 pts
Full Command. Lance, hvy armour, shield, warhorse

10 Ungol Horse Archers 150 pts
Warhorse, bow. Full Command; Fast cavalry.

8 Ogre Mercenaries  340 pts
Hand weapon, light armor. Full Command; Magic Banner EoW Banner of Respite

8 Ogre Mercenaries  330 pts
Hand weapon, light armor. Full Command

Special

2 ('counts as') Great Cannons 200 pts. (See illustration below - these are ogres carrying cannons)

2 ('counts as') Mortars 150 pts. (See illustration below - these are ogres carrying mortars)

............

The iron-clad warlord Kubamaksym was ‘elected’ leader of the army, though none stood against him and so he was the only choice. He himself claimed that the Unbowed had bowed to him and begged that he lead this force to aid the tribes of the Mor-Og Troms. His personal banner showed a blood red scimitar and a white crescent moon, and his bodyguard of bulls sported blades from their gut plates , though he himself had a rather fancy golden gut plate to cover the old one that he had worn so long his flesh had begun to grow over it.



He brought with him two large bands of Ogre bulls, as well as four Ogres skilled with the use of cannons and mortars, but not in the way leadbelchers more normally employ such weapons. Rather they used the iron roundshot and grenades exactly as the men of the south did in their guns, and so had learned how to achieve the same effects.



From the Fjellsende came two Boyars, Bogulsav and Felicjan, both leading large contingents of lancers.



While the Baersonling sent lighter horsemen with short bows and spears, as well as some more specialised archers.



This was the army that approached the Mor-Og Troms. This was the army that the VMC Middenland force sent ahead by Captain DeWynter would meet in bloody battle.

[Padre]

First Battle of Mor-Og Troms, Part 2

Battle was joined north-west of  Skraevold, directly north of Sturen Ridge, two days after the men of Fjellsende, the Baersonling and the Ogres met together. The advance VMC Middenland army was marching eastwards, and had just begun to set up their camp (as ordered to do until the rest of the VMC force came up) when the army scouts reported the enemy’s proximity.



The field of battle was dominated to the south by large piles of rocks and boulders, but apart from a few copses of conifer trees was otherwise a flat and barren stretch of land.



The VMC army’s commander, General Arnuld Holldrigson, lost no time, and gave the order to deploy into line of battle despite the fact that there were only two hours of daylight remaining. This was a good thing, for the enemy was fast moving, entirely consisting of riders and ogres, and even as the blue and white clad regiments ordered themselves as they had been drilled to do the first enemy units were approaching.



Captain DeWynter’s advance force of VMC Middenlanders: 2994 pts - Empire Roster

General of the Empire (Arnuld Holldrigson)
Full Plate, Sword of Swift Slaying, Enchanted Shield, Holy Relic, Ironcurse Icon
Wizard Lord (Grey Geddrik)
Level 4, Seal of Destruction, Aldred's Casket of Sorcery
Grand Master (Pieter Ironwill)
Full Plate, Shield, Warhorse, Sword of Sigismund, Talisman of Preservation
Battle Wizard (Beardy Bozmid)
Dispel Scroll, Ruby Ring of Ruin
Captain of the Empire (Dornulf)
Battle Standard- Griffon Standard, Full Plate
Captain of the Empire (Heinrich Clatterswig)
Barding, Full Plate, Shield, Warhorse, Ogre Blade

15 Knights of the Inner Circle with full command
10 Knights with full command

40 Halberdiers with full command
20 Handgunners with full command
20 Spearmen with full command

25 Greatswords with full command
2 Great Cannons
1 Mortar

1 Helblaster Volley Gun

.......................

General Holldrigson sent the best of his men, his two fine regiments of knights, to the far right flank, intending perhaps that they might destroy all in their path and then turn to attack the foe’s main body in the flank. He entrusted this vital mission to his Templar Grand Master, Pieter Ironwill.



Ironwill personally commanded the supposedly 'mercenary' elite knights that the Graf of Middenheim had encouraged to join the expedition - though it was an open secret that such men as these would never have come for the pay if they had not also been directly ordered to serve by the Graf. Captain Clatterswig led the Knights of Morr to support Ironwill’s men, their black banner hanging almost limp as the wind died as if the elements themselves were subdued at the prospect of battle.

In the centre and to the left of the VMC line General Holldrigson himself stood ready with his Greatswords, flanked on both sides by artillery and footsoldiers …



… and a fine sight they made too!

Holldrigson saw immediately that the enemy was no mere band of brigands, nor mercenaries like his own force, but brute ogres and wild, native men of the north. Several large bands of horsemen were cantering forward upon both flanks (though somewhat concealed to the General’s right by the massive rocks), while a large body of Ogres made up the centre-left of the enemy force. The actual centre seemed at first to be a sort of skirmish line of Ogres, but when the General caught site of the brutes' burdens he realised it was an artillery battery of a kind he had never witnessed before (nor heard of).



The Ogre Warlord Kubamaksym stood at the front of his personal guard of Ogre Bulls, while Captain Haggpotryr led the second regiment on his immediate right. The Fjellsende Boyars galloped in column on the far left, Boguslaw at their head, the steel of his scimitar glinting in the afternoon sun as he attempted to round the rocks in a move which was almost exactly the same as that the enemy intended.



Meanwhile the Baersonling horsemen to the far right split to navigate past the little wood before them, spurring their horses on in an attempt to close with the foe before roundshot, grenadoes and bullets could do too much bloody work.



Indeed so keen were they to reach the foe that they had burst past the woods and in emerged right in front of the enemy before they had even had a chance to take stock of what lay before them (Game Note: Fast Cavalry making their Vanguard Move).



When they did take a moment to judge the enemy’s disposition, they saw a sight which struck considerable fear into their hearts - a brace of cannon barrels, a Helblaster ready to belch thunderous doom, and the serried ranks of sturdy footsoldiers already prepared to receive a charge.



Note: Deployment and Vanguard moves done. Army lists posted. So … Who do you reckon will win this one, eh? I played the ‘bad guys’ and the honourable Damo-b commanded the Middenlanders.

Go on, ‘ave a guess!

[Fandir Nightshade]

I say Middenheim wins this one !hoooooooooo!

[Von Kurst]

I do think Middenhiem looks better able to win, but I know nothing of either 8th edition or the army lists.  Loving this thread Padre.  Not much else on A6 that I have followed, but its impossible to go to the site and figure anything about the campaign out.

[Padre]

Thanks Von Kurst. Now, to business ....


First Battle of Mor-Og Troms, Part 3

The Middenlanders did not move. They did not have to - the enemy was coming to them. Instead the massed foot soldiers hefted their weapons in readiness, the handgunners blew upon the burning coals of their matchcords, and the artillerymen lifted the lead aprons from the touchholes of their pieces and poured their finest powder in readiness for firing. And as well as all these mundane preparations, the wizards now began to unleash their own rather more arcane form of warfare. Shem’s Burning Gaze joined with the burning fireballs pouring from a Ruby Ring of Ruin to fell three of the Baersonling horsemen, while the Net of Amyntok settled upon the archers on the enemy’s far right.

This was not enough to halt the foe, but what came next was. The handgunners’ first volley lifted three riders bloodily off their horses, while the helbaster sent a shower of leaden bullets so dense it killed seven of the other light horsemen. The five Baersonling closest to the centre of the field fled in panic …



… while the two pathetic survivors from the other company also ran.



The rest of the Middenland artillery did little injury to the enemy, apart from slightly harming one of the mortar carrying Ogres in the centre. Still, what had been done was impressive - now the wild men of the north had nothing facing the foe on the right of their battle line apart from their magically ensnared archers and a single, terrified shaman.

Warlord Kubamaksym was utterly ignorant of the Baersonling’s misery on the other side of the field, and if he had known, he would not have cared a jot. He simply bellowed his command to advance. The trouble was (Game note: I am rubbish at spotting these sort of terrain difficulties) the two large piles of boulders prevented Kubamaksym’s warriors from advancing in anything even slightly resembling a line; and although the Boyars led the Fjellsende lancers as best they could, Boyar Felicjan’s regiment in the rear could not get up to Boyar Boguslaw’s flank …



… while the ogres ground to a somewhat ignominious halt between the rocks, jammed like two fat hogs trying to squeeze simultaneously through a sty door.

The wild men’s shamans conjured the Savage Beast of Horros to descend upon Boguslaw the Boyar, only to have the spell fail as a Seal of Destruction was employed by the southerner wizards. The spell not only failed, it was lost from the Shaman’s mind, as if he had never known it in the first place.

Now the boom, boom, boom of the Ogre’s artillery was heard in the centre of the field. Twenty halberdiers fell to the direct hit of a mortar grenade, a Middenland cannon was torn to pieces by a bouncing roundshot, while three handgunners and a lone spearmen fell to the less accurate shots launched by the others. The archers, despite the magic oppressing them, thought they would attempt to shoot anyway. This proved a costly decision, for the net of Amyntok’s magical barbs blazed bright and killed four of them. This, combined with the fact that everyone else seemed to be fleeing, broke their spirit - and they too joined the general flight on that flank.



Now, with the dire threat of further bombardment tearing them to shreds, the men of Middenland decided to advance. On the Empire left. All three large regiments of foot moved forwards.



While on the far right a rather more bold action was taken. The Templar Grand Master, Pieter Ironwill, commanded his Knights of the Inner Circle to charge, and they slammed into Boguslaw the Boyar’s lancers.



The knights of Morr, however, held their restive horses in check. They had no intention of putting themselves where the Ogres could charge them, and instead awaited the outcome of the fight taking place in front of them to see how best they might joint the fray.



Three more Baersonling horsemen, who had only just rallied in the centre of the field, fell to two successful castings of Shem’s Burning Gaze. This time, however, they found the courage not to flee. Bronwin’s Timewarp embraced the Middenlander Greatswords in the centre, gifting them with an unnatural fleetness of foot. And as well as magical harm, gunpowder played its part too. A mortar carrying ogre fell to a cannon ball, but apart from that the rest only scratched the enemy.

Now came the first real fight of the battle - steel clad elite knights led by a Sword of Sigismund wielding Templar Grand Master against an only slightly larger company of winged lancers. The knights were better armoured, the Grand master much more experienced in the martial arts and armed with more powerful magic, and they had the charge. All the knights thought (understandably) that this would be an easy fight. Yet it was not to be so. Ironwill could not even harm the lancer’s champion, and of all the rest, only one Lancer fell. It could still have been enough (Game note: Knights win by 2) but the Boyar Boguslaw and his tribesmen were made of stern stuff and they stood their ground. Against the odds, they had held against the foe. (Game note: Sometime the dice save a poor general like me. Here they did, anyway. Poor Damo could not roll anything but 1s and 2s when he attacked.)

Now things looked bad for the Middenlanders. Although the second regiment of lancers were stuck in the rear, the Ogres thought they might just have a chance, and being Ogres, that was enough. They charged. The Ogre Captain Haggpotryr and his bulls smashed into the flank of the Grand Master’s knights, while Warlord Kubamaksym, now that the way was clear, slammed into the Knights of Morr.



(Game note: I needed to roll 8 and 9 if this was gonna work. And I did! In was a bit giddy with how good my rolls had been so far, and decided to go with the flow of it! In fact one unit rolled 12, thus 2D3 Impacts cf. )

On the wild men of the north’s far right the last pair of fleeing Baersonling riders m rallied, and immediately wondered how they could keep themselves alive, but the last of the archers fled the field for good. The Ogre’s artillery blasted once more, killing eight more halberdiers and 4 Great Swords, as well as destroying the last enemy cannon. The three artillery ogres were starting to feel very pleased with themselves!

Kubamaksym and his ogres hit hard, very hard’ killing a knight of Morr from the impact alone. The Warlord challenged the Empire Captain Heinrich Clatterswig …



… and although he was bloodied by the brave young knight, the warlord easily cut him dead, sending his severed head bouncing across the field. Although no-one else harmed anyone upon either side, it was all too much for the Knights of Morr and they fled.



Meanwhile the Ogre Captain and his own retinue hit home even harder (Note: 2D3 Impact hits = 6 Str 6) killing two of the steel clad noblemen in that first moment of impact.



Grand Master Pieter was still caught up in the challenge against a mere champion, and yet, to the great surprise of all (and great relief of the Fjellsende champion) could not kill him! One knight died to the Boyar’s lance, another was felled by his horse, and yet another was slain by a lancer. (Note: Never have I seen so many 1’s rolled for 1+ armour saves!!) Another knight died at the hands of an ogre, but only two lancers fell on the northerners’ side. (Note: I win the combat by 9!)

When the knights and the Grand Master inevitably fled, they were cut down to a man.



Not one knight remained who was not dead or fleeing. Had the battle turned completely in the wild men’s favour?

End of Turn 2.

[Padre]

First Battle of Mor-Og Troms, Part 4: Turns 3-6

The Knights of Morr were utterly shaken by the massacre of the Grand Master’s knights. With the Ogres still bellowing behind them, they could not find the courage to rally and fled the battlefield for good. Entirely unaware of what had happened to all the mounted nobility on their far right, the Middenland Foot regiments began a desperate advance directly towards the muzzles of the enemy’s peculiar artillery.



A fireball burst into existence and, directed by the outstretched hand of wizard Beardy Bozmid, burned its way into the cannon carrying Ogre in the centre, killing him instantly (the broached power barrel by his side did not help him). The Middenland mortar lobbed a more mundane sort of fireball at the Ogre warlord’s regiment and did even better, killing two of Kubamaksym’s bodyguard.

Kubamaksym bellowed his commands even louder, and led a pell mell rush around the rocks by both regiments of Ogre Bulls and the Boyar Boguslaw’s Lancers, trying to reach the centre of the field where the enemy foot was massed.



Felicjan led his own Lancers past the other side of the rocks, and it looked like he and his men would reach the enemy first.



An Ogre cannon ball skipped deceptively daintily across the field and tore right into the helblaster, breaking the machine to pieces, while the last of the Baersonling riders simply stood, hoping to sit out the rest of the battle behind the trees - perhaps they did not realise that the Middenland spearmen were about to outflank them around those same trees?



General Arnuld Holldrigson now led his Greatswords in a charge against the last mortar carrying Ogre …



… dispatching the overwhelmed brute easily, and then reforming to face the centre. This was while the Halberdiers also reformed to face to their right and the spearmen continued their attempt to get around the long way. The next mortar grenade missed its mark, and a volley from the handgunners did not even scratch the cannon wielding ogre.



The Baersonling now began a merry dance in their keenness not to be engaged by the Middenland spearmen …



… as the lancers led by Boguslaw failed to reach the mortar.



The handgunners fled from Warlord Kubamaksym’s charge, out of his reach, running right past the front of the second Felljsende Lancers.



Spurred on by Bronwin’s Timewarp, the Middenland general and his Greatswords now charged at the last Ogre artillery piece but (Note: Damo rolled snake eyes on his charge) somehow still failed to reach!

Once again the handgunners fled from Warlord Kubamaksym’s charge, and Boguslaw’s Lancers could not reach the halberdiers either. The last Ogre cannoneer sent a ball thudding into the earth in front of the Greatswords, after which the mud-spattered Greatswords finally reached him …



… and as they had done to the last such foe, cut him down easily. The handgunners were cheered by this sight (perhaps) and rallied. When they turned to face the way they had come they saw an ogre fall to Shem’s Burning Gaze, which cheered them even more! Then they themselves were magically emboldened by Briona’s Timewarp, and altogether they felt a lot better about their fate.

Now Boguslaw led his men against the poor crew of the mortar, revelling in their easy deaths. Warlord Kubamaksym once more went for the halberdiers, this time hitting them square on. To the warlord’s right Felicjan and his lancers, even though they sensed something strange about the handgunners, also charged in.



Kubamaksym’s impact alone killed seven halberdiers, then the halberdiers’ champion was literally torn into two from top to bottom by the warlord (Note: +3 overkills). Captain Dornulf the army standard bearer was hacked down where he stood, his severed hand still clutching the shaft of the standard as it fell to be trampled in the mud. What few halberdiers who survived the initial combat attempted to extricate themselves, but their luck had well and truly run out. They were cut down to a man as they turned to flee.

Felicjan’s men survived the magical flurry of blows the handgunners’ delivered, hacked down eight of the Middenlanders in return. The footsoldiers had no chance when they ran, the horsemen trampled them down, galloping over their broken bodies to charge headlong into the Greatswords behind …



… thus it was that the last real fight of the battle would be fought.



End of Turn 6.

Result: Big Victory to the Wildmen of the North (me!). This was due entirely, we were both agreed, to the dice rolls being ridiculously skewed in my favour. What’s annoying is I was playing the ‘bad guys’, what with me and Damo being in the same faction! Maybe I should have played to lose? Still, if I had, with Damo's truly appalling dice rolling, I could still have won! Who fails three 1+ armour saves in a row? I mean, come on!

[Padre]

Teach me!

“Teacher, teacher!” Bertold shouted, his excited voice not unlike that of a child. “An answer! The Scribe has answered.”

He was almost running to the teacher’s tent, splattering mud, with the parchment clutched in his hand. His guards rushed after him, unwilling to lose sight of the master they had vowed to protect.

The teacher appeared at the door of his tent, a very different figure to that presented by Bertold, for he was serene, his arms folded so that his hands were hidden in each opposite voluminous sleeve, his face showing the merest hint of surprise. Still, his master’s excitement was infectious, and when he spoke it was with a vigorously loud voice.
   
“I take it his words have given you hope?” he said.

Bertold could not help but look once more at the parchment, simply to reassure himself that it was real. “More than that, Teacher. He has shown me the way forward, given me a new path to follow.”

The teacher smiled, and removing his right hand from its hiding place he gestured to invite his master inside. Bertold stepped through the door and took his seat on the wooden chair reserved for his use, while the teacher sat upon his little stool as always.

The tent was spartan - containing little more than what was needed for the Teacher’s warmth and something to lie upon at night rather than the cold, hard earth. He had brought very little with him from Cathay, and whenever he ate or drank, food and vessels were brought to him then taken away. The stool and the chair were the only furnishings.

Bertold was re-reading the letter, considering how he might explain to his master. Finally he looked up. “Before I tell you of its contents, what say you? Will your wisdom predict the hope this letter gives?”

Without hesitation the teacher answered with another of his little lessons (he was a veritable cornucopia of such pithy little phrases): “A single conversation across a table with a wise man is worth a month's study of books.”

Bertold pondered this a moment. “Aye, it is. I could have spoken to many a man, read many a tome, and not found such hope as I have now. Yet it is strange you mention books - this letter might yet mean I must begin an age of reading.”

“Then breath deep, master,” said the teacher calmly, almost hypnotically, “and tell me in your own words what he says and what it means to you.”

Once again Bertold’s enthusiasm made him child-like. He took his breath as instructed, then spoke.

“He tells of his theories and concerns. He warns me how events can change a man, and that here in this land and at this time, events will surely come thick and fast. He says I must consider always my own beliefs and hopes, so that I might not stray from a true and considered path, not become lost, distracted, even corrupted. But he is more subtle, for he suggests that in order to stay true to one cause a man might well have to change.”

“These are his words?” asked the teacher.

“Yes and no. Some are his, the rest are mine. This is what I take from his letter.”

“Then please, continue.”

“Master Arturus has an interesting theory concerning this realm and the hellish realm of chaos. He believes there are places where our earthly realm and the hellish realm meet in some manner, as if that which divides them has been diminished so much that they are no longer separated at all. He does not say how large these meetings places are, nor if they are fixed and permanent, or whether they exist only for a certain time and in a certain place - though it seems to me that a more temporary meeting is implied. He does say that the Temple in the Sea of Claws was one such spot. If it is no longer so, then I suppose the marriage of the two realms must be temporary? And surely where the two realms touch then the one can influence the other, perhaps creatures and men can pass between them, magical forces might bleed from one to the other, or corruptions and plagues?”

“This much is believed by many of the thinking peoples of the world,” said the teacher.

“I know. But here there is perhaps something new. This is not an account of the hellish gates at the poles of the world where armies of chaotic horrors spills forth into our realm, nor does it concern the tiniest of influences, like when gods whisper inside the dreaming minds of men. This is something else, something novel. Perhaps caused by the machinations of Malal? Perhaps worked through the agency of four foul gods of chaos and their followers? I know not, but I wish to know. And I yearn to discover how such evil can be stopped.”

“Is this not exactly why the Crusader’s came here?” asked the teacher, his head tilted to express his perplexity. “Are you not here yourself to defeat chaos and then see the VMC profit in a land so tamed and secured?”

Bertold thought a moment. “Yes, yes it is. But here and now I see another way. The soldiers came here to fight, while I myself was perhaps a little more ambitious, for I came to fight, trade and build. But now I see I must also learn and understand. We must understand what is at work here in the north, for only then can we hope to prevent the destruction it might bring. Swords and gold are not enough. Knowledge is necessary, and yet … “

Here he hesitated, took another deep breath.

“… yet I am only now beginning. I did not see before, in all the time I have been here in the north, I did not see what I must do. My dream, the Scribe’s words, they awakened me, set me on another path. Arturus suggests we look to mages for answers. He says we must watch the land, judge its balance, see how it shifts here and there, now and then.”

Suddenly Bertold threw his head upwards and let loose a growl of frustration - an action unusual enough even to make the teacher blink.

“I have been a fool. I have wasted my time here thus far. Yes, we have begun trading, setting up factories, engaging with the enemy, but these were at best simply the necessities required of this realm and at worst, merely distractions. They were not what we had to do, not where we had to go. That is a path I have barely begun to tread.”

As Bertold fell silent, the teacher could not help himself. Out came another little phrase: “A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step.”

Bertold seemed to snap out of his anguish, and grinned broadly. “Well, I shall take that step now. I have letters to write, people to speak to. I must have books, maps and reports from the scouts.  I would know the true nature of the rituals being performed north of us - are they an attempt to further weaken the separation between realm and forge new connections, or to re-awaken or widen existing ones? My mind races with ideas - and I must try them, test them, find what truth they contain. Perhaps the waning and waxing of chaos in the north is entirely due to these meeting places of the realms? How are they being created? How might they be ended? Were the gates of chaos ever truly in one place, for surely such a concept - being fixed or even singular - is one that chaos would abhor? Perhaps the devourer Malal is taking bites out of the divide between the realms and so opening up these portals?”

The teacher held his hand up to signify that Bertold ought to slow his pace somewhat. “Your mind races, master,” he said. “You ask question after question, rushing headlong into confusion. Be not afraid of growing slowly. Be afraid only of standing still.”

Bertold closed his eyes, breathed deep again. “I doubt I will ever stand still ever again. Even now as I sit here questions pour through me, as if I am become a great list of ‘why such and how that?’ Of ‘if so, then this?’ Every question begets more questions, and before I have any answers at all.”

“He who asks a question is a fool for a minute,’ lectured the teacher. “He who does not remains a fool forever.”

Bertold snorted, then rubbed his brow. “I shall be a fool for some considerable time longer then Teacher, for I have more questions than I can count.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

Before long any trace of child-like excitement had vanished from Bertold’s demeanour. He quickly became as a man possessed, sleeping little, eating sparsely, and ever caught up in his frantic need to discover what was happening to the northern realms.

It began with him speaking to the other officers of the VMC as well as the Crusade, telling them that he believed our new priority must be not merely to fight on the front line, but to solve the riddle the land presented, and thus to cure the north of the taint of chaos. How, he asked, can the VMC hope to thrive if the land is tainted by chaos? Trade can only ever be harmed by the disorder and ruin chaos brings. But more than this, how can anything and anyone hope to prosper?

His conversations were a torrent of questions: Should we build more shrines and temples in supplication so that the lawful gods might look to this realm and pour their blessings upon it? How best might our forces fight the foe, so that the servants of chaos are truly destroyed, the land permanently cleansed? Where should we fortify, where attack? But then even as the officers attempted to answer, Bertold swept all he had said aside and announced that there was weakness in all these things: temples can be burnt or toppled, perverted or tainted; armies might fail due to lack of strength or courage, for the face of demonkind was truly terrifying; fortifications can so easily become weakened by siege, sickness and starvation.

It was then that he would launch into convoluted monologue concerning what he himself thought must be done. Could we discover - through inspiration, research, scholarly learning, exploration - the well-spring of from which chaos is re-emerging? Can identify the cause of its growth? The source of its growing hold on the land? How can we nip the re-emergence in the bud? Why wait, he pleaded, until an oak tree is fully grown to saw and chop it down, to struggle in the unearthing of its roots? By then it has weakened the foundations of all around it, and with its leafy canopy has robbed the ground beneath its branches of its share of sunlight. Why not instead simply pluck the sapling from the ground and burn it?

And then came the real reason for his words - would the men of the VMC and the Crusade support him, assist him? Would they allow funds to be used in his research? Would they pay for mages and scholars to gather? For spies and scouts to roam wide to discover the full and true disposition of chaos? And if the officers looked unsure, he would tell them how Arturus had written of the need for such, and how even in his dreams he was assailed by images of the fate of this realm. For the love of Sigmar, for the love of hearth and home, for the love of all that is good and lawful and proper, he cried, surely we must try every avenue, every path, until a way is found to halt this spreading corruption that will bring ruin to so many lives and threaten all that has been achieved in this land.

[Padre]

Fluff in support of Project ‘Research'

Bertold’s desk was, as always, cluttered: papers upon papers, pens, ink, wax and seals; contracts, ship’s inventories, maps and letters. But he could see none of these things - they had fallen from his sight and had become of no more import than the hardened earth of the ground beneath the desk.



There was but one paper he could see. Its contents filled his mind. Ever since the Scribe’s letter he had wrestled with the theory it attempted to show. How to imagine it? How to conjure it in his mind’s eye? How to explain it to others? How to express it upon paper?

Separate realms, yet joined. A divide so wide that it sat between worlds, and yet it was breached. Two lines that should not meet, and yet they do. A chasm so deep that its depths delved into a world quite different to that at its surface, yet at the same time the proximity was such that demons, and more, could pass through unharmed.



A conjoining of worlds that not only comprised a portal, but which allowed the swirling chaos of one world to pervert the natural order of the next.

Not an easy thing to explain.

In the end, he decided he would simply describe what Arturus had written, and see if those who were gathering could find better words.

…

That evening the first party of guests arrived, and Bertold was glad to see them. He and the teacher, as well as two of his gnomish scribes, came out of the tent to greet them.



A priest, a wizard, a mage, a scholar and a student. Bertold was pleased. Here there was age and wisdom, youth and quick wits - surely a recipe for success? And these were only the first to come. There would be more, for certain, as well as those who wrote, and those who sent their followers. Many minds.

He had one niggle, and that was the lack of a shaman. If he was to solve the riddle of this realm, then he would certainly need the aid of the wisest of the local inhabitants. Who else can know a land better than those who have dwelt in it all their days? It was an ingredient this first batch lacked, but he would not let it worry him. There was still time. And if tomorrow none came, then he would make it his first priority to find one out. There had to be some who were not corrupted by age-old chaos, and who understood the great good that could be done if this realm was cleansed.

After the introductions, he decided that while he had their attention he would begin his speech. That way they would recognise just how earnest he was.



“Let me begin, magi, priests and scholars, with some words spoken by the first Saint of Sigmar. There is wisdom in these words, and instruction to us all.

“‘The Four will not give up without a fight. We must be always … searching for the reason the wastes retreat and ensuring that it continues. It is not enough to simply fight, to engage the Four and become strong by our holdings, we must discover the truth of the matter before the Unbowed, or all else will be for naught. Why do the wastes retreat? How can we ensure it results in the death of the Four. This we charge you with. This we trust you with.’

“Let this, more than anything else, guide us. We must find the truth the Saint urges us to find. This is our battle, our fight. This is why you have been gathered.”

“And so to my purpose. I wish to address several theories in succession, and to consider what is known and what has been said.”

“First, let us consider Malal. There are many who have said that he is the direct and obvious cause of the changes in the north. He was released, and made war against the Four. This weakened them, and so the north changed. The grip of the Four was loosened, their corruption weakened, and the land sprang to life.

“But here we must take care, for even though many have agreed that such is the truth, it is an assumption. Consider the Scribe Arturus’ words upon the matter, writ in a missive to our Crusade commander:

“‘If the Wastes recede, as it is supposed, because Malal devours the four, why does fertile and verdant land appear where once there was Waste? Malal devours, he does not bring forth life, the explanation does not match the facts.’

“So this most ‘obvious’ of answers is possibly, perhaps very likely, flawed. We must look elsewhere before we accept such an answer.

“If we cannot so easily find the answer to why the Wastes retreated, then perhaps we can discover why chaos now show signs of returning? Here I direct you to the warnings given us by our most holy Saint.

“She warns us of the Nurgle child, a Champion of the Four, her enemy, her bane, and that which she must face, that which wracks our most precious Saint and makes her rave in momentary madness, perhaps divine, perhaps of wicked origins? It seems to me that our holy Saint fights a battle within as well as a battle without. It seems to me - and I say so in full modesty and hope and pray in earnest that I might be proved wrong - that the wicked daughter of Nurgle assails our saint as an ethereal demon obsesses a demoniac. And by this I mean no dishonour, nor heresy - for I see the Saint as truly holy. A champion of the Four would of course seek out such as she - a worthy foe. The foul child’s attention is further (however unneeded proof) that our Saint as the blessed one of Sigmar.

“So perhaps this child plays its part in the new waxing of chaos in the north?

“Yet, I am not convinced that such a creature could be sufficient cause for an effect so widespread. The child is a mere pawn of the Four, not one of them. Yet we know full well that something assailed all four of them, and if not that, then at the least distracted them or weakened them. The changes in the north are of a mighty scale that surely surpasses the influence of such as the child.

“Our studies and research might prove me wrong. Perhaps the child is the cause? We must ascertain for certain whether it is so or not.

"But as of now, let us consider other theories also. I would not have us cling to one fear, only to build up false hope as we learn how to vanquish it.

"What else then, might be the cause?

"Farnoth tells us of the fearsome Skrolljedor tribe and their many conquests, and how they finally met their match in the being known as Ceomas. They bowed to this Ceomas and gave homage to him or her as a god. Perhaps, as some have hinted, Ceomas has a part to play in the changes? I cannot say, for we know so little of Ceomas. We must learn more.

"Or perhaps there is a cause more general, in that it is not the work of one god, nor even of many, but rather is the workings of the worlds? The Scribe, Master Arturus has delivered to me personally a theory concerning our realm and that of chaos - that there are places where the two meet in some manner, where that which divides them is so diminished that they are no longer separated. I know not whether these meeting places are fixed and permanent, or if they exist merely for a certain time and in different locations. Arturus himself believes that the temple in the Sea of Claws was just such a meeting place, and so perhaps thinks of them as temporary. If all this is true, and there is way between the two realms, then perhaps not only demons and other wicked creatures pass between them, but magical forces, corruptions and plagues might bleed from one to the other? Perhaps the meeting of the two realms creates an infectious admixture of both, and thus it is that our realm becomes akin to that of chaos, and its foul corruption spreads? 

"All this we must enquire into.

"We have work before us, good friends, and I would be honoured if you would now share your thoughts on what I have said - what you know, and how we might learn more. I am aware of my own ignorance, indeed it is that which drives me on, and so I ask you also to tell me of possible causes I have not spoken of.

"There is mystery here, I think, enough for all of us, and threat enough for the whole world."

[Padre]

Fluff in support of Project ‘Outrider’

Just after dawn, Arnold Sprong, ship’s pilot and apprentice navigator, had laid out on his blanket his own possessions, so that he might inspect them, clean them, and repair them if necessary.



He had little idea of what lay ahead, but this did not worry him over much as none amongst the party knew. It seemed somehow reassuring that it was not he alone who was ignorant. He knew there would be dangers, and so he would need his ‘arme blanche’, his trusty cutlass. This he had kept with him day and night throughout his time in this realm, and now with the journey ahead he had oiled it once more, and honed its edge to the likeness of a barbers’ razor.

He was to take his dagger and boarding axe too - the former was vital to survival in the wild, the latter he expected to use more in the chopping of wood for warmth at night than to use in a fight. Still, as several sailors had told him, if you want to be certain of quickly dispatching a fellow, apply an axe vigorously. Few got up after a n axe head split their skull!

He had bartered amongst the crew for a perspective glass. He was not purblind, nor were his eyes failing with age, but on a journey such as this, in which espying and descrying would play a major part, such a tool was very necessary. They had been told to scrutinise everything of note - from the waters they waded and the people they met, to the distant mountains and forests and even the sky, and the glass was needed for the latter.

He had laid out his flint and steel too. Funny, he thought, how the simplest of things could prove to be the most vital. A rock, unworked, raw, ripped from the earth, and a hunk of steel crudely tempered into shape. Nothing fancy at all, and yet these would bring him warmth and light at night, both of which vital to preserve his body in the wilds.

He carefully packed his own belongings away, then turned to the little box he had been given by the Governor himself. Here were things he could not have afforded to buy or barter. Not that they were unknown to him - for he had long been studying their use - just that he himself had never possessed his own. The task ahead involved mapping the land accurately: the exact route taken and the position of all features of note or import, from settlements to mountain passes. He alone amongst the party had the skills to accomplish this in a way the scholars would appreciate. Yes, the others could no doubt recount what they had seen along the way, but he was to commit it to paper.

And so it was that he had been entrusted with a clutch of expensive navigational instruments. These, in combination, would allow precise mapping of the shape of the land and the distances that separate its landmarks.



There was a brass nocturnal, so that he could discover the exact time using the stars, which in turn was crucial to the correct employment of the brass astrolabe. If he knew the date and the time, then he could observe the heavens and measure the stars to deduce his precise latitude. Using the compass and his own estimate of how far they travelled each day, he could fairly certainly fix not only his position, but also the direction of all landmarks, then correct each day with further observations. There would be a good degree of dead reckoning involved, but these instruments would add the sort of measurements that would improve the accuracy of his mapping, and allow the scholars to compare and correct at a later date.

Finally he had been given a leather bound book in which to record his findings and mappings. Every member of the ‘Outrider’ company who could write had been given the same, but he noted with satisfaction that his was somewhat larger than their books.

When the call came to assemble, he packed everything carefully into his bag, hefted it onto his back and strode outside to prepare the horse. He was ready. An hour later and he was riding away from the camp and into the wild.



…

The first little company of ‘Outriders’ was now on its way. Governor Bertold intended several more parties to follow once he had been advised where and how best to employ them. Assembling and instructing them took time, and was ongoing, but this company was the pick of the crop, already equipped with the sort of skills they would need, and had been deemed ready.

They were escorted a little distance by the House Van Haagen army’s military scouts …



… though these were told not to stay with the party too long.

They were a motley band - not what Bertold had envisioned at all. He had imagined a liveried company trotting forth in two files, each pair neatly aligned, like soldiers on parade. His mind always worked that way, intentions forming as neat and tidy images, precise and clear. If he planned a trading factory, for example, he saw a neatly laid out defensive boundary of hornworks and bastions, while inside the ground was fashioned into tidy rows of whitewashed stones with a fine house centrally placed and surrounded by a symmetrical scattering of warehouses and workshops. But the final reality was never anything like these imaginings. Everything from the lay of the land to the scarcity of labour or materials, from the time available to the lack of skills of those employed in the construction conspired together to make something quite different. The actual factory might well work, producing all the profit expected, but it never matched what he had seen in his mind’s eye beforehand.

In like manner, this first company was hardly what one would call ‘uniform’. Their leader was a white haired adventurer who claimed some skill in the magical arts, an eccentric yet convincing fellow whose enthusiasm for the journey ahead belied his advanced years.



Following him were those who had been put under his command - or more accurately under his instruction, for these were not soldiers to be ordered, rather they were followers to be guided. There were some soldiers amongst them, an element to the company's make up that Bertold himself had suggested (for their self preservation), The rest were natives of this land and adventurers of all kinds. A willing pilot had been found, with enough skill in the art of navigation to make charts and maps of the land they explored. Others were roguish fellows and local lads who had been bought at the promise of substantial bonuses should they return with useful information. All had been warned that corroboration would be required for al that they reported, and that any attempts to mislead or fabricate would not only be easily found out but would result in the loss of any bonus.

There was a young minstrel who wanted to travel the land for the experience, and several young squires clad in furs and armour who yearned for fame and adventure, and to prove their courage by such a task. Perhaps the minstrel would record their deeds? There was even a dwarf amongst them, riding a grey pony as if it were the most natural thing for his folk to do so.

...

All had been lectured in what was expected of them. Those amongst them who could write carried maps, papers and ‘wad’ (known to scholars as graphite), so that they could record where they travelled and what they witnessed. They had been taught how to put upon paper the route they had taken, and what signs to use to signify their encounters. All had been ordered to look for anything unnatural, and to remember where it was seen: from bizarrely twisted plants and animals, to anything behaving oddly; from the stories and reports of those they met to the weather and elements around them. They were to remember the sounds they heard at night, the sights they saw in the distance, the very smell of the land. All were commanded that they must not flee from the strange and fearful, but should approach cunningly and cautiously, to learn as much as possible without risking capture or injury. They must observe everything, from birds’ flight to the hues expressed in the sky, from the trickling water in a stream to the exact nature of local shrines and temples, looking always for signs of the corruption of chaos. And they must pray morning, noon and night, for Sigmar’s protection, so that they themselves might avoid taint.

Perhaps most importantly they had been instructed how they might better pass through the lands without too much interference. Part of this was the fact that they did not look like members of an army, rather they appeared merely to be independent travellers. Those who were obviously soldiers were few, and would seem to be simply adventurers, set about their own business. They were to present themselves as such, and act as if they were merely passing through and needed only board and lodging, while showing only passing curiosity in all that was around them. Each had to fabricate their own story for why they were travelling, and some had bee supplied with false letters and passes to substantiate those stories. Others were told to travel in little groups as if they were friends looking for employ, while some were to act like refugees and outcasts, the better to elicit compassion or assistance (if such could be had). And if this failed, then they could pretend to be brigands looking for loot, which might not exactly elicit warmth and assistance from the locals, but would at least hide their true identity.

[Padre]

Another talk with the teacher

Bertold was pleased to see his teacher was waiting for him when he returned to his tent. The Cathayan, a man who seemed neither young nor old, was scrutinising Bertold’s collection of maps and charts, and although he could not possibly know what they said he seemed serene in his contemplation of their details.

“Good morrow, teacher,” said Bertold. The teacher looked up without a trace of the sort of guilt a western servant might show if discovered perusing his master’s desk. But of course, the teacher had never been that sort of servant.

Bertold gestured at the maps. “There are none which have been labelled in any Cathayan tongue, I’m afraid. But perhaps the cartographers’ little symbols make sense anyway?”

“They do, master,” replied the Cathayan. “I see mountains and hills, forests and rivers. And from what I have seen upon our journey with my own eyes, I can point to where we are right now. Considering the names of the other places are no less strange and foreign to you then I believe I see very little less than you do.”

“True enough,” grunted Bertold as he collapsed into his seat. He had been on his feet solidly, it seemed, for several days, agitated and restless in his quest to discover answers. He picked up the green glass decanter from the table and smelled the wine within - not bad. His servants must have been refreshing it even though he had been taking only water for three days. He filled two goblets, passed one to his teacher, then drank heartily from the other. The teacher merely sipped.

“So these maps do not reveal the answers to your many questions?” asked the teacher.

“No, not yet. But we have made progress.”

The teacher smiled. “Your candle is lit, then, master?”

Bertold chuckled. “I know that one, teacher. How does it go? ‘Better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.’ Are you testing me now?”

“Not testing, nor teaching - you have enough to think about. I would rather hear how the work progresses.”

Bertold nodded, then as his eyes darted about to see if the servants had left food in the tent. Of course they had - there was a platter of biscuits and dried figs, campaign food. He broke a biscuit in two, pressed a fig upon one half, stuffed it into his mouth and swallowed almost immediately. This then necessitated another mouthful of wine, for his lack of chewing had made the act of swallowing unpleasant.

“They are a funny lot, these mages and scholars,” he began. The teacher cocked his head to one side a little as if surprised.

“Yes, I suppose a strange thing for a man who has a teacher from the far side of the world to say,” explained Bertold, “but they are. Take Alnoglod of Middenheim, for example. The man doesn’t even speak in sentences. It’s as if to do so would result in his voice delivering his ideas more slowly than his mind can think them. ‘So he talks like this. Brief snippets. Ideas delivered. Lists made.’”

“There are many paths to the top of the mountain, but the view is always the same,” said the teacher.

Bertold groaned. “You said you were going to listen. But yes, I suppose see your point. If he gets answers, the answer, what does it matter how he achieves it.”

“Did he have answers for you, master?”

“Well, has lots to say, let’s put it that way. He keeps me informed of the Outriders’ reports - about where there is conflict, where our enemies are to be found, and who is allied with whom. One might suppose this sort of thing is of little consequence to our research, but for now we cannot say whether or not it is relevant, and so it must be considered. If our enemies are behind the changes, they themselves or those they serve, mortal or divine in origin, then we do need to know of our enemies’ whereabouts and activities. So far what we have learned concerning this has been of great use to our soldiers, but done little to advance our knowledge of the waxing and waning of chaos.”

“What has he to say of that?”

“Now there’s where it all gets interesting. Apparently the meeting of the realms is not simply to do with certain places but also certain people - not just a matter of geography but a matter of identity too. ‘Lots of holes’, he said. Lots of holes letting in lots of water. The overlaps might overlap, if you see what I mean?”

“Origami?”

“No, not that. I mean the overlapping of the realms, their joining and manifestation within each other, occur sometimes in a place, sometimes in a person, which means the two effects muddle and mix. An affected person might passes through an affected place, and then two effects are brought together. If there are places where the other-wordly meets the worldly, and people in which the divine meets the mortal, then when the divinely possessed people dwell in the otherworldly places then the effect is magnified.”

“Does this worry him?”

“Yes .. well, no, not really. What I said just now isn’t exactly what he said. He told me about places and people, and lots of holes, but I just thought of them coming together now.” Bertold’s eyes widened. “By the gods!” he shouted. “What would happen if many of those people gathered together in one of those places!

“What would happen?”

“I don’t know. But something big, surely? I must ask Alnoglod.”

Bertold snatched up a glass pen, dipped it in the pot, and scratched out a little note to himself in the margin of one of his charts.

“He said a lot more, in that funny way of his that makes a lot sound like not very much. Something about the possibility that one realm will become ascendent over the other, making the laws of the otherworld applying here in ours. You know the sort of thing - it’s demonic inhabitants call our realm their home, its poinsonous flora takes root, its wretched fauna settle, and the very land is shaped in the vile image of the other realm. But he doesn’t think it is Malal’s doing. Whatever the true cause and consequences, and whether we ever truly understand them, he reckons the best course is probably for us to build temples and shrines, more and more of them. We need Sigmar’s blessing to spread throughout the land. We need the lawful gods, our gods, to keep our realm as it is, as they wish it to be.”

“So this is a reaction, a response, but is not the answer?” asked the Cathayan.

“No, it’s like applying medicine without really knowing the disease. Good medicine works whether it is prescribed by a lucky charlatan or by a wise old doctor. I think we need to find the right questions before we can learn the right answers.”

Bertold laid his pen down, then with his now freed hand rubbed at his temples.  “I am too tired to write,” he said. “Send for my clerk will you good friend, and I shall have him take notes.”

The teacher had only to look out of the tent and gesture and the clerk came bustling in. Bertold vacated the chair so that his clerk might sit there, all the better to work at the writing slope sitting upon the table. Once the servant had prepared, Bertold began dictating.

“A list of actions required. I must speak with the scholars and mages. I want to know who else we need advice from, who else can aid in this great task. It takes a wise man to know a great wise man. Perhaps Arturus will prove to be such a person? Perhaps the Saint might enlighten us through divine inspiration? I know not. Let’s see what Alnoglod and his committee say.”

“Put this down also - we ought to appeal to the Saint, ask her humbly to request Sigmar’s intercession, or at the least to seek his guidance and enlightenment. Not in a general way, but with a clear question in mind. And we ourselves ought to pray too, all of us, even the soldiers. Can that be done, I wonder? Still, the shrines, the temples, they can be staffed with plentiful priests and visited by flocks of worshippers, a choir to sing Sigmar’s praises and plead for his intervention and wisdom.”

“Oh, and I myself must write - put that down. I must begin correspondence in earnest. There are many folk I must write to, including those amongst the dwarfs and the Kislevites.”

“First, however - aye, put this first - I must write to Arturus if that can be done. I must speak to him of the merging of the realms through places and people. That business about the overlapping overlaps, it worries me. The very thought of it brings on a nausous dizziness. I must ask the Scribe what his opinion is.”

[Padre]

A letter sent by Bertold:

This to the good Lady Collette,

I thank you for your words of advice. You have clarified many matters, and gifted much enlighenment to a tired and addled mind. I see now how I was indeed becoming drawn by one theory alone. I will be cautious from here on in. I still intend to explore the possibilities presented by that theory, but will keep in mind the wider possibilies too, especially the fact that the truth might differ completely from that which I suspect. I will try to be less blinded by my enthusiasm and conviction. You have balanced me.

The study of the Temple of the Winds and the Saint are remarkable ideas. I had not thought at all of the first possibility, but I had secretly pondered the second option. It seemed impossible - to ‘study’ a saint - yet now that you yourself have said that perhaps should do so I feel emboldened enough to say it too. I could not see how it might be done, nor how we might even ask for the Saint’s permission to do so, but now you have suggested it too I have given it more thought.

So, here is my suggestion. I could send my own agent with some of the Outriders and (importantly) some of the wisemen to study the Temple of the Winds as you advised. There they might ascertain what they can of its past and present nature, of its role in the overlapping of realms, its part in the riddle of the north.

Meanwhile you my Lady, could send your agent with some of our wisemen to study the Saint. We must of course do this with all the proper decorum. We ought to write to her to ask her permission, explaining the urgent need we have of answers. I suggest something along the lines of:

Most Holy Saint, true servant of Sigmar and beloved of all in the Crusade

We have a request to make of you, one which might appear upon first sight to be a strange and impertinent one, but which is in truth most vital and important if we are ever to understand the true nature of the riddle of the north.

We ask of you that you allow several wise men, priests and mages to speak with you and observe you closely, so that we might ascertain the true nature of your blessed state, and of the great gifts Sigmar the Magnificent has bestowed upon you. You are divinely inspired, an avatar of Sigmar, a channel through which his blessings and guidance are poured. You are thus both mortal and immortal at one and the same time, and it is this mystery our scholars wish to explore, if we are to understand the riddle.

You are one side, the wonderfully blessed side, the lawful side, of a great dilemma. There is a darker side, for there are those who serve wicked gods, cursed beings who channel the forces of chaos through them. If we can come to comprehend the goodness in you, the holy nature of your condition, then we can perhaps thus gain an insight into their corruption - for they are like the darkness to your light, the corruption that opposes your perfect purity, the unlawfulness that scorns your obedience.

We ask this of you in all humility, and in the true service of Sigmar.

We might discuss the contents further if you wish. I want an agent involved because I want the Saint to see the importance we attach to this, as well as the fact that the agent has the authority to ensure the wisemen do not 'overstep the mark', so to speak.

Should we receive the Saint’s permission, our best and noblest scholars and mages might then undertake the task. They should be instructed to learn all they can of the true nature of the Saint’s blessing. How do the winds of magic behave around her? How does Sigmar manifest when she wakes, when she dreams? The when, where, why and what of her holy condition. Is her power influenced by the heavens? By the seasons? By prayer or devotion? By her proximity to certain places or people? And so on. She has proved herself mighty, curing an entire army of illness, as well as our brave priest Matthi of grievous wounds. If Alnoglod of Middenheim is correct, and she is an example, a blessed and wonderful example, of the overlapping of realms, and if she is willing to allow us to learn what we can, then we might learn much by this.

What say you?

Bertold van Haagen

......

Another letter

This to the honourable and learned scribe Arturus
 
Your precious words of advice, as well as the learned wisdom of the scholars and mages we have successfully gathered, already bring the truth closer. I am wary, however, and as you yourself have suggested before, I try always to avoid the errors of pride, overconfidence and stubbornness, nor do I allow myself to believe that my own perspective is the only one. I wholly recognise that my own motive concerning the bettering of the human condition, even whether this is a desirable aim, is purely personal, and may not apply to others.
 
Yet still I strive to understand the pieces of the puzzle, the true shape of the worlds, so that the wicked gods of chaos and all their minions can be defeated. I must hold onto this goal, but not to my starting point, nor to my own preconceptions and yearnings, my own predilections and beliefs. The goal is to defeat chaos, to cleanse the land of the pain and anguish and perversion it brings. That is the goal, and to do it one must be not just clever, informed, but brave, fearless and calm. One must be balanced, not yield to the whisperings of chaos, nor cower before its screams. It matters not whether defeating chaos is done in service of a lawful god, or all the lawful gods, nor if it is driven by a need for personal vengeance, or profit, or out of fear, or to see the world put right, nor even out of a love of men, or law, or family, or simply in obedience to one’s master. It does not matter if it is done for any one or all of these reasons, only that it is done. The truth is that chaos is pain and destruction, both to those who succumb to it (ultimately) and to those they harm, and it must therefore be defeated. It does not matter that there is also pain and destruction in the lawful realms and societies. It is not valid to point to that pain and argue: “See, you are no better than chaos yourselves.” Such evils are merely the weakness of mortals, a balancing of the world, the will of the gods for reasons only they can know. Yet there is good in the world we know too. Chaos, on the other hand, brings only pain and destruction. It would swallow the world and all it contains body and soul, then twist and tangle, mash and mix all together, tainting and perverting until no one thing knows itself nor even knows it has a self and all are lost. Kin, friends, neighbours - all gone. Ambition, health, happiness - gone. All that is good and proper, right and just, gone. This is chaos.
 
There is change afoot in the north, which may or may not be caused by chaos. Perhaps chaos, rather, is itself affected by the change? Perhaps the waxing and waning of chaos are not because the balance between chaos and order make it so, but because something has changed which has consequences for that balance.
 
But to my purpose, before you tire of my declarations, protestations and promises. As you know from our recent correspondence to you, the mages and scholars we have gathered have already elucidated two possible theories concerning the riddle of the north.

First they think it may be possible that the two realms are in their entirety moving, coming ‘closer together like hands in prayer’. Possible causes of this they have yet to speculate, but if this is true, then I doubt there is much we can do to prevent the development. The matter would be in the hands of the gods. Still, it is perhaps possible for our actions to make a difference, and we shall have to enquire how exactly we could do so. I know you yourself favour this theory as a more elegant solution, and we will certainly not dismiss it but treat it with equal respect as we continue our research.

The second theory is that the meeting of realms of which you yourself spoke, the overlapping of other worlds with this mortal realm, does not only occur in certain places but also through certain people. The joining and manifestation of one realm within another happen sometimes in a specific place, sometimes in an individual person. Now it occurs to me that this means the two effects could conjoin – say an affected person passes through an affected place, and then the two distinct causes of the overlap would be aligned, and perhaps no longer appear distinct. This in turn might thus give the impression that the first theory applied -  general meeting of the realms - and so we must be careful how we interpret any findings.
 
What concerns me is that if there are places where the otherworldly meets the worldly, and people in which the divine meets the mortal, then when the divinely possessed people dwell in the otherworldly places then the effect may well be magnified. And the thought that now plagues my mind day and night is in the form of a question: What would happen if many of those people gathered together in one of those places? My mind now races on with further nightmares, as I wonder whether such a gathering is even necessary. What if a certain alignment of otherworldly places and other worldly people were to prove the catalyst for world shattering change? Something akin to the workings of a demonologist, laying out arcane sigils and geotic pentangles to conjure up a portal to demonic realms?

Even if the first theory were to apply, then a similar doomsday scenario presents itself - for if the realms were finally to 'settle' one into the other, then at that moment there would be a catastrophic general change to the whole of the north, if not the world itself. Same horrendous result, different underlying cause.
 
I would much rather know the answer to these questions before such an event occurs, for if the waxing of chaos were to magnify in an exponential manner then perhaps the end of the world as we know it might result? So it is that we continue our work. Our Outriders scour the land for signs and portents, while the wisest men we could gather philosophise and debate, analyse and test. We intend to study closely one such place where we believe the worlds aligned - the Temple of the Winds, or if it is possible, to study a place where we kn ow the worlds aligned - the Temple in the Sea of Claws. We also intend to study our own holy Saint, if her permission is granted, for it seems to our scholars that she too is a manifestation of the divine, and overlapping of the realms. At the very least this might allow us to decide which if the two general theories, if either, applies. And at best it might result into an insight into the workings of the overlap.

These are my fears and our plans writ as plain as I can express them. You wanted to hear what our scholars discovered, and we have told you. I hope and pray that it assists in your understanding. Yet I also wanted to share my concerns and fears, not merely to alarm you or to pass the burden, but so that you have a fuller picture of our work. You have most generously supplied vast quantities of spoils which we have diligently plowed into the research. But as you travel the land, encounter what it has to offer, witness changes and developments, and ponder the riddle further, I would want you to know that if there is anything that strikes you as pertinent, please do inform us immediately. And if there is anything we can do (beyond that which we now do), you only have to say and we will do our utmost to assist.

Your servant,

Bertold van Haagen

[Padre]

Correspondence

If he had thought himself tired previously, Bertold now wondered what he ought to call his present condition. Perhaps ‘exhausted’ would suffice, though even that seemed insufficient. His head swam with ideas and intentions, a swirl of fleeting thoughts, each one supplanted by another in quick succession as jostled constantly to gain his attention.

Suddenly his cacophonous reverie was interrupted by his teacher.

“The journey is the reward,” said the Cathayan.

Bertold shook his head and focused his aching eyes on his servant. “You know, reading minds is considered to be evil magic in many places.”

The teacher laughed. “I need not read your mind to know its condition. Your face reveals all, and I presume the use of my eyes is quite acceptable?”

Bertold rubbed his hands over his face, as if washing it (though without water). “No doubt I do look somewhat haggard. I like your sentiment, however. Perseverance is indeed exactly what I need right now.”

“The letters that came this morning, master” asked the Cathayan, "did they bring good news?”

“I was glad to receive them, and although they do not give me answers, they do give me hope. It seems dwarfs think like dwarfs and elves think like elves and Kislevites think like hardened, brute warriors of the north. Who’d have thought it, eh?”

“Hope?”

“Yes, teacher,” said Bertold. “From their words I see that those who serve the lawful gods remain united in their hatred of chaos. Each sees the world through their own eyes, yet each recognises the danger of chaos. Take Admiral Drengi’s letter …” Bertold shuffled through the parchments and papers on his table, plucked out one written in a very bold hand on heavy parchment (almost leather), and let his eyes wander across the contents to find a certain part. “Yes, here it is:

‘You ask me what has caused the receding of the wastes, and to that I answer that I do not know. None of our eldest and wisest can answer that, so for the moment we advocate a cautious approach. Where the norscans perform their heathen rituals and the orcs turn to the worship of Malal, we but focus on the affairs of this world.

‘If you wish to have my opinion on what to be done, it is education. I hope that you do not take this as an insult, but mankind is an amazingly changeable race. From what I have seen myself, a man can be a paragon of virtue, as well as the most vile of monsters. The deprivations of men are easily the match of any elf or orc. To combat chaos, one must take the long view. Today and now, the champions of the dark gods must be killed. But for the future, the young of the Norse must be taught what is proper. One Mathurian Kecherbound once said to me, that with our enemies if we treat them only as such, that is all they will ever be. For all those who still own their souls, know that they can be pulled out of the darkness. But for those who have already fallen, death is the only mercy that can be offered to them. And in doing this, be wise in your justice.’

“Let us ignore the slight against mankind, mainly because it is wholly truthful. Here is a dwarf who wants to fight chaos. To him the answer is plain - for the present we must fight, kill all who have fallen irretrievably into the clutches of chaos. Yet at the same time, he has the wisdom to see that there are those who need saving, ‘educating’ as he puts it, so that the fight does not go on forever. Kill the servants of chaos, and deny the wicked gods any new recruits. Clear and forthright, no ifs and buts, comprehensive in that it solves the present and the future. That’s the thinking of a dwarf.”

The Cathayan nodded. “True. But does it solve the riddle of the north, master?”

“Does he need to?” replied Bertold. “Let’s face it, if we killed every servant of chaos in battle as this dwarf would wish, then I doubt the riddle of the north would trouble us much. Except … can it be done? Could every servant of chaos be killed? If the overlapping of the realms allowed ever more foul creatures of chaos to spill into our realm, then the killing would never stop - for all those killed would be replaced, over and over.”

“I doubt many dwarves are much troubled by the idea of a forever war. Do they not live to fight?”

“They do love their fighting, but not first and foremost. They love honour and their way of life, and thus find themselves forced to fight often simply to maintain those things. You do see, however, how the dwarf’s answer suits him? He would have us fight, while preventing mortals from embracing chaos. Well and good, but the riddle would not be solved, the realms would still be intermixed, and if the strength of chaos were to wax mightily then the world would succumb entirely.”

“Perhaps the dwarf would try to save a dead horse as if it was still alive?”

Bertold rolled his eyes. “Now that one I have not heard. Let’s see if I can work it out. A dead horse cannot be saved, yet you suggest trying anyway. Are you saying that trying is better than not trying?”

“Do the impossible, for it may truly be possible,” said the Cathayan.

“I see. Yes, that fits. Well, that might satisfy a dwarf but not me. I would much rather discover what is possible and do that. Yet I struggle to find the right question, never mind a workable answer.”

“If you keep a green bough in your heart, the singing bird will come.”

“Yes,” said Bertold, “yes, I must cling to hope. Be ever the optimist. If only my aching head would let me.”

The Cathayan pointed at the table, specifically at a beautifully scribed vellum in dark red and blue inks. “What does the elf say?”

Bertold picked up the letter in question. “Well, his thinking is a little more convoluted, complex.”

“Like my little sayings, master?”

“Oh no! Thank the gods, no. Arduval Yavandir chooses not express himself by conjuring up images of singing birds and dead horses.”

The Cathayan chuckled. “So, will you share the wisdom of an elf?”

“Let’s see,” said Bertold scrutinising the elegant hand. “He’s pleased that I can think, and says he would have me for a friend. All very nice. And he knows dwarfs as well as we do, if not better - he puts here that they are ‘resolute and implacable’.  See, no dead horses. He complains that the war has kept him busy, and that he would have liked to have prospered in this realm as we in the VMC have done.”

“You said 'complex', master,” the Cathayan interrupted, “but then tell me ‘he says this’ and 'he says that’.”

“Fine,” exclaimed Bertold. “Then I shall read his words. Now, where was I? Yes, here …

‘My goal in coming to the north was to take what advantage there was from the waning of the Realm of Chaos, to seek the key to redressing the balance and, more in hope than anything else, to try and forge the ideal of a new age of unity between the forces of Order against those of Destruction. High aims and concepts perhaps, but if one does not have lofty ideals, then surely we are destined never to rise above the ordinary, never to change our fates or fortunes.

‘It is with this aim, and in this spirit that I reply to you, not with the arrogance the Asur are well and rightly renowned for, but to speak to you as an equal partner, in the hope that by our actions, thoughts and ideals we can lay the foundations for a brave new world.

‘But I would give you council, the beliefs of my people woven deeply amongst them, and in truth the lessons learned from my own eyes. While we might strive to destroy chaos, such a thing can never be. For in all things there must be balance, all forces must pull in equal measure or we shall simply exchange one calamity for another. So while I say yes, we must strike at the Four with all our might, for they are fell and dreadful manifestations of the worst parts of all of us, in truth they are needed to balance the scales, even if it is only in the merest of pinches to the mix.’

Bertold stopped. “I like that,” he said. “‘The merest of pinches’. It makes chaos sound like something we could deal with. As if chaos were salt - to eat only salt would kill a man, but a little on one’s beef is lovely thing!”

“I know you jest, master,” said the teacher dryly. “Even a little chaos is still wicked, and always leads to more. Chaos is more akin to the plague than salt. If one child in a city succumbs to the plague, then the whole city is threatened.”

“You don’t agree with the elf, then, I take it teacher? Everything in balance?”

“No. Even a smidgen of plague is deadly. There is no yin and yang to chaos. Nor is it a flavouring for life.”

“Don’t blame the elf for the salt analogy - that was me being flippant.”

“Read on then, and we shall see if the elf redeems himself.”

Bertold ran his finger down the margin and found the spot. “‘So perhaps it is not so much chaos we must fight as the Four themselves, and their followers, and beyond that we must stand against all the forces of Destruction that we can give name to so easily. What I think is needed is that balance must be found, the horrors of the north muted in their power and scope and the world to be held in harmony.’”

“See,” exclaimed Bertold, “Yavandir says in no uncertain terms that we must fight the Four. He yearns for harmony - how can that be a bad thing? And more than this, he answers you directly, teacher, in the next part. Surely there is wisdom here if he predicts your argument and counters it?” He read on.

‘But I shall make no defense of chaos, nor shall I extol its virtues, just as I would not extol the virtues of the Cytharai. I cannot deny they exist, nor can I deny their place in the balance of things. Do they exist because mortals are weak or are mortals weak because they exist? Such questions are beyond me I confess. All I know is that they do exist and, in truth, must exist. Why must they exist I am sure you will ask, but this answer is simple. Can we measure the light without the dark, can we measure triumph without disaster, do we measure our gains with the ease with which they are made, or by what we have had to give to attain them? In all things there must be balance’

“Is there not good sense in this, teacher?” asked Bertold.

“Can one argue with the plague and so defeat it? Can a man debate his way out of death at the hands of a frenzied warrior of chaos?” came the teacher's reply.

“At least hear what else he has to say, before you mock,” said Bertold.

‘So while you are right when you say, “Chaos, on the other hand, brings only pain and destruction. It would swallow the world and all it contains body and soul, then twist and tangle, mash and mix all together, tainting and perverting until no one thing knows itself nor even knows it has a self and all are lost. Kin, friends, neighbours - all gone” I offer this caveat: “Chaos unbridled and unchecked.” Such is the state we find ourselves now, since the Gates of Heaven fell.

‘Our task then, is to redress that balance, to put that bridle in place so that we may reign back the predations of the Dark Gods and here, in this time and place we have that time as you rightly point out. Perhaps it is that the power of the Four is diminished and so one side of the scales is lighter, it matters not in truth. What we need to do is find any way to make sure the side of Order and Law is weighed more heavily.

‘If you seek such answers, then I welcome you, and I gladly add my council to yours and your other allies and so I will give my answers plain and clear to your questions:

‘"What do you think is the cause of the waxing and waning of chaos in the north?" For some reason the power of the Four has been weakened. Some say this is the renegade Chaos god Malal, and perhaps this is true. But perhaps there is a reason instead why Malal was allowed to awaken, perhaps elsewhere, somewhere deeper another thing has changed. This I would know more of.

‘"What do you believe could be done to drive it from this realm?" My hope is to create a new realm, in which the forces of Order hold sway, united as once we were in the ancient days, Elf, Dwarf and Man standing for the highest ideals before the whisperings of chaos sundered the ancient alliances and friendships

‘Perhaps too there are other, forgotten powers that might be brought to our aid. The Dragon, Ceomas is one that might be brought to our aid, with careful words and right actions – but I am sure there is also the legend of the Goddess Arianka, imprisoned by the Changer of Ways and while we talk of why the Realm of Chaos shrinks now, perhaps her imprisonment was why it grew in the first place?

“Now there’s an idea,” said Bertold in a conspiratorial tone. “Arduval has it right when he suggests that an ancient dragon might have answers for us. What is there that such a creature has not seen? The waxing and waning of chaos must seem as the seasons to a being so old.”

“It is no easy thing to speak to a dragon,” countered the teacher.

“Listen to yourself, teacher! Only a little while agao you were instructing me to tend to a dead horse. Talking to a living dragon seems a much more likely possibility. Now, listen the end - I have come so far I may as well finish it. Oh, and I hope you notice the note of humility.”

‘These are just thoughts I have, and I think will take those more clever than I to discern. But they are things I would bend my will to discovering, especially in the knowledge that I did not act alone.

‘I hope that soon we might meet, and greet each other as brothers in arms and together work towards a better end.’

“There you have it,” said Bertold. “No vanity nor arrogance. He even writes that this is just thoughts he has, and declares himself not as clever as some. He has the same yearning for an answer that I have.”

“And he wants to meet,” said the Cathayan.

“As I do too,” Bertold declared. “Perhaps then I shall meet someone wiser than you?”

The Cathayan gestured towards another paper, as yet unread. “That letter, master – it is from the Kislevites?”

“Yes, from one of their factions at least. The commander of the Mala Armia, one Mikolaj Kozlowski”

“You said they think like warriors?”

“Oh yes. Their answer to the riddle of the north is not unlike admiral Svengi’s, though his way of putting it is somewhat more graphic. Listen …

‘You wish for my opinion on the spread of chaos? Burn it. Burn its worshippers and destroy their gods’ influences. Build temples to Dazh's glory and purify the land. Chaos cannot exist if all its followers lack heads.’ ”

“Are they head hunters, master?”

Bertold grinned. “Perhaps not these men, but I am sure their grandfathers might have been! Still, they do have ideas beyond simple war, even if they want us to pay for all…

‘You speak of all the money that the VMC has invested, yet we have seen none of it. You wish to build to the glory of all "lawful" gods. Well, we worship one. Provide us with the funds and we will build a temple. Show that you are not simply talk and truly mean to help Kislev. Otherwise this is all just words, shadows and fallacy. You wish to know how to defeat chaos? Praise those gods who would fight it.’

“So you see, they do recognise that swords and spears alone will not win their war.”

“They have some wisdom, then?” asked the Cathayan.

“Funny you should say that, for yes they do, yet they apparently would not admit it themselves.” He read on …

“ ‘I fear you may be looking in the wrong place for wise men, we have no wizards for they are agents of false hope. Our scholars hold spears. We at Omutsninsk are simple soldiers. We rely on other Kislevites to act as traders, builders and we do not even truly bother with priests. Our gods are best served on the battlefield than in the churches. The only laws I serve are those of Dazh and Tzarina Katarin.’ ”

“Simple soldiers,” said Bertold. Maybe that is the real wisdom here? Maybe all we can do is fight. What use is a lifetime’s book learning and dialectic when a minotaur is charging at you?”

The Cathayan pondered a moment. “Unless that book learning was from books of magic. In which case one’s knowledge could tear the beast apart.”

Note: Thank you to Grumbaki and Arduval Yavandir (Uryens de Crux on this forum) and Mogsam for their letters. The sections in bold italics are all their words.

[Padre]

On Top of the World

It had not proven easy to reach the ruins of the Temple of the Wind, not because the route was hard to find, but rather because the path was difficult. Not for the gaurds, particularly, nor for the mules - they were used to such marches. Rather it was the mages and scholars who struggled, especially the old hag Saartje of the Woods and Gellbrug Hornytoe the gnome. In his youth the latter would have leapt across the rocks like a frog on the lilies of a pond, for gnomes (like dwarfs) were at home in the mountains. But alas, his youth was many, many decades past - the best part of a century - and now his bent back and bow legs were hardly suited for the path itself, never mind the ragged rocks upon either side.

Still, they got there in the end, just as night was falling. It did not matter that it was growing dark, for they had always intended to make camp there. They were to stay several days if necessary, until they had done everything they could to discover answers in the great riddle.

The temple sat at the very summit of a mountain, in a clearing surrounded by a ring of rocks. It was as if the mountain had a teeth-lined maw, upturned to the sky, and the temple was about to be swallowed. On this night the air was still, the temple eerily quiet, though it was obvious that at this altitude, in this part of Afdrifa-Rikur, on most nights it would indeed earn its name. The ruins were of stone, tall and built in the old manner - a wall of painted arches and an open space within. Few of the trappings and images of chaos remained within the temple, having perhaps been robbed by wild and superstitious tribesmen or ‘cleansed’ by the Crusade’s soldiers when they last came here, but the rocks flanking the path on the way here had sported horrible engravings, bespattered with dark stains that could only be ancient blood soaked into the very stone itself.

The little column stopped a short distance from the temple. The guards, mercenaries from one of the regiments in the Compagnia del Sole, in the service of the VMC, did not take their ease. Something about the place kept them wary (for now), and so instead  they simply stood and watched, quietly talking amongst themselves, as Bertold van Haagen’s agent, Captain Willibrord, led the scholars right up to the ruins.



“So how long we got to stay in this gods-forsaken place?” asked Fulvio, still clutching his drawn sword as he had done nearly the entire journey up the twisting path.

“As long as the captain tells us to,” answered Eliogoro.

“And that is how long?”

Eliogoro snorted. “As long as the scholars tell him to.”

“Myrmidia’s wrath!” cursed Fulvio. “Gods’ damn this place, it’s cold.”

Eliogoro turned to him. “You ever going to stop complaining of the cold? Because if you intend to continue, I shan’t be looking to pass the time with you while we are here!”

Fulvio scowled. “Why in all the gods’ names have we come here anyway? And don’t say because the captain told us to.”

Eliogoro had grown tired of Fulvio’s complaints, so it was Gregario who answered. “The mages, that witch and the gnome, they want to find something here. Something we can use in the fight against chaos.”

“Find something?” said Fulvio, his complaining tone absent for a moment. “What, like treasure?”

All three soldiers turned to look up at the temple.



“I doubt that,” answered Gregario. “Look at the place - nothing left but bare stones, and them all cracked and broken.”

“So what are they looking for?”

“Don’t tell him, Grega’ said Eliogoro. “It’ll just give him something more to complain about.

“Ha!” mocked Fulvio. “You don’t know, that’s why you won’t say. ”

…

Willibrord decided you did not need to be a wizard to know that this place was cursed. He could feel it. Not the trepidation one felt when enemies might be close, or when a footfall was heard ahead in the night; more like the dread that news of sickness spreading through the camp would bring, or the way one felt just as you fell from a nightmare into the waking world. Many had died here in ages past, at least that’s what the captain had heard. Crowds had gathered to shriek and wail hellish hymns to wicked gods while men, women and children were butchered in bloodthirsty sacrificial rituals. Maybe the last vestiges of their tortured souls still haunted this place? That would explain the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Yet to his surprise the scholars seemed entirely unaffected. Young Jolanda, the fey yet jolly apprentice mage from Marienburg, who appeared both old and young at one and the same time, dashed between an arch straight into the temple. Her yellow lined robes swished as if she were doing nothing more than merrily skipping across the stepping stones of a woodland stream. Once she had crossed the threshold she came to standstill, gave rest to her wooden staff. Even then, however, she seemed merely to be pondering some puzzle, not experiencing awful dread.

The others, however, did not rush in. Instead they halted by a black stone lying against the temple steps. Saartje of the Woods, the black haired wise woman from Scarpa Bay, reached out a hand. Suddenly her muttering transformed into a hoarse voice.

“There’s something here, some stirring of the ether,” she said. “Feel it.”

Astrid Pottinga of the Middenheim College of Magic, and the gnome Gellbrug Hornytoe, scholar in the employ of House van Haagen, reached out in a like manner.



Even though garbed in a fur lined orange coat that fell to the ground, Astrid shivered.

“Yes, I feel it,” she agreed. “This rock must have been part of an altar, and the power it once channelled lingers.”

Hornytoe’s voice, normally somewhat squeaky and comical, was somehow transformed by the situation. “It was fed by the deaths of thousands, and lies sated with cruelty for all eternity.”

“Oh,” exclaimed young Jolanda. “And I just stepped on it. I suppose there was a tingling in my toes as I did so.”

The others all looked at her.

“But it’s gone now. Come on, let us look all around before it gets too dark to see anything.”

Saartje laughed hoarsely, almost a wheeze. “Aye, girl. Let’s me and you take a proper look.”

[Padre]

Instructions for the Inspection of a Saint!

These are the instructions given by the Mage Alnoglod of the Middenheim College of Magic to those who are to study Her Holiness the First Saint of Sigmar

First, that half of those despatched upon this business be female, for it is more seemly that they are so, and all the better to make the Saint comfortable with their attentions.

Second, that the mages and scholars sent will be under the guidance and rule of Lady Collette’s assigned agent, the noble Sir Henri, in all matters appertaining to the journey, lodging, defence, and behaviour before the Saint, and will accept his guidance in all else.

Third that they studiously observe and question the Saint in order to discover all they can of the true nature of her blessing and condition, whether it be by divine possession or obsession or otherwise. They should ascertain how the glorious god Sigmar manifests to her: whether it be when she wakes, when she dreams; by her own volition or when the great god pleases; in a manner only discernible by her or visible to others; and so on and so forth? They must enquire into the when, where, why and what of her holy state. Are her powers influenced by the heavens? By the seasons? By prayer or devotion? By her proximity to certain places or people? By her own moods or desires?

Finally in all things they must respect the Saint, obey her commands, and in no way inconvenience her if she expresses such.

[Padre]

The Widest of Eyes

The recently elected Magister Arcanum Jodocus van Tol was waiting impatiently for the frantic activity around him to cease. He was attired as ever in his red and yellow professor’s cap, billowing sleeves and red stockings, as well as the fur waistcoat he had taken to wearing ever since arriving in the north.



In one hand he clutched a rolled parchment, in the other a quill pen. The former was necessary for what he intended to say, the latter he had entirely forgotten he had, for his mind was so filled with complexities and figures that there was little space left to pay attention to such little things.

Finally he realised that his mere presence was not enough to draw the scholars’ attentions away from their multifarious activities, studies and conversations. So it was he began in a loud voice, only allowing the volume to drop once he was sure that the gathered company were all listening.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, hush! I crave your attention, if you please. I would have you all listen, for I have instructions to impart to you of considerable importance.”

It was enough. Not only did they stop their labours, but most took to their feet in a show of good manners, while others scuttled around behind him so that they might better see his face and hear his words.



Amongst the learned company were a mage from Middenland, several gnomish professors of history and mathematics, a teacher of the art of navigation, an acolyte of the Church of Verena and a jovial, barrel shaped fellow called Brobbel whose skill in the art of cartography was unsurpassed.

Magister Arcanum Van Tol allowed his voice to settle to its usual level. “Well and good. Sigmar, Manaan, Ulric and all the lawful gods guide us.”

A muttered, “If it please them, may it be so,” went around the room, though several simply uttered, ‘Be so’.

Van Tol now began his intended announcement. “I have here, thanks to our good friend Master Brobbel,” (the cartographer nodded to acknowledge the reference) “the chart with which we can commence upon the next stage of our studies. This is to be no easy task, for it asks each and every one of us to leave our comfortable lodgings and undertake what may well prove to be hazardous journeys across these wild lands of the north.”

There was some muttering at this, as well as a just audible curse: “Blood of the gods!” Van Tol allowed the revelation to sink in, and then set about reassuring the company.

“Of course, you will not be alone, for not only will each of you be assigned a partner to share your burden and act as witness to your actions and and moderator of your decisions, but also guards will accompany you throughout your travels - men who have recently come to know the land. You would do well to heed their advice concerning if you wish not only to survive, but also to accomplish your tasks.”

The navigator, a rather brash, outspoken fellow on all occasions, interrupted. “What task?" he aid loudly. "Come to the point, will you? Why do you wish to send us scuttling around the realm like errand boys and post riders?”

Van Tol smiled, though everyone could see he was simply going through the motions - his lips shaping themselves whilst his eyes showed no sign of good humour.“Yes, yes. Patience. I fully intend to come to the point,” he said. “And…” he hesitated, mentally ticking a list of intentions “… furthermore, I have indeed now this present moment come to it.”

“Hah!” cried the navigator, but when no-one else seemed to share his mocking attitude, he fell silent.

Reminding himself once again that these men were nothing like students or apprentices, servants or soldiers, the Magister Arcanum unrolled the parchment he was carrying and laid it out upon the table, weighting the corners with inkpots and pewter goblets so that it would not roll shut.



“This is to be copied for each and everyone of you. I suggest you study it well, and also the copious notes we have compiled for all of you concerning the task in hand. The riddle of the north remains unanswered, gentlemen, but I believe that this new operation may well bring us to the truth.”

He now began pointing at the markings on the map. “You will see that there are several circles marked, as well as lines of convergence and radial extension bearing nodes along their routes. These are your destinations, some of you to go to the nodes, others to the midst of the circles, so that at these assigned locations we might, at certain hours upon particular days, perform a multitude of measurements, specific observations and carefully considered experiments. Once this is completed and the results are collated and compiled, we should be able to take the measure of this land in a way never done before.”

Here he snapped his fingers, and the clue clad gnome lingering in deftly removed bundled sheafs of paper out and began handing them to the gathered scholars. They had barely enough time to flick through a few pages when van Tol recommenced his lecture.

“If I might direct you gentlemen to page four, the second and third columns. There you will find in tabulated form, directions concerning the proper order in which to conduct your observations and examinations, as well as the diverse kinds of divinations required to be at your disposal. Keep always in mind that we seek not your opinions or beliefs but rather the perceptible qualities of the land itself and the inhabitants therein - this is the key most necessary for true knowledge. From the judgements whereof, together with conjectures of similitudes and signs, we hope to produce true opinions of the signifators.”

The navigator could not help himself, and let forth a snort. When the Magister Arcanum fell silent and glanced at him, he simply apologised, adding: “Don’t mind me. Do please carry on. Most enlightening. Yes. Very much so. Eh?”

And so van Tol continued.

“If the realms are indeed blended as many of you have speculated, then a priority must of course be to consider the flow and fluxture of the magical winds, be they tangible to the physical senses or recognisable only upon the conjuring of petty magics. But be aware, or perhaps I ought to say ‘beware’, that all such observations might well be contaminated and thus made contrary to their usual natural or supernatural essences by the operation of chaotic influences. This is no bad thing in terms of our study, for in such skewing of what would normally be expected thus we can deduce the degree of separation, or if you like, proximity, between the realms, from which - in no particular order - the beginnings, enthronisations, foundations and, if you will forgive me the colloquial, revolutions …” (several of the company laughed at this) “… as well as all perfections and imperfections …”

The lecture went on, and on, and on. For the best part of an hour.

What surprised the navigator most was not that the magister Arcanum seemed to believe he would understand any part of this, but that the rest of the company did indeed seem to be hanging upon every word. All he could do was hope he got paired with someone who did know what they were doing, then bluff it out as best he could.

[Padre]

A new, new way forward

It had not been the best of nights, for Bertold had tossed and turned in his cot as if in a fever. If it were not for the wooden sides he would surely have tumbled out onto the hard earthed ground beneath. What afflicted him was a question. It had entirely riddled his mind, so much so that whatever he tried to think the question sprang up in place of that thought: ‘How can we learn what the Old Ones have done?’

It did not take this exact form every time, rather it travelled back and forth the full range between ‘Can anyone truly know anything about the Old Ones?’ and ‘What could they have done to cause this effect?’ But in truth all these questions were simply different aspects of the same problem.

The Old Ones. So far back in time. So outwith the ken of mere mortal men, dwarfs and elves. So beyond being myths and legends even, that their stories seem to be set in a time before the gods, before the world was formed as one. And even if someone spoke the answer to the question, would they themselves or any of those listening truly comprehend any part of it? Could such arcane and ancient wisdom, such powerful knowledge and potent magical manipulations, be expressed in the words of men?

For Bertold it was like throwing himself into a bottomless pit to seek out its depths - falling tantalisingly closer to something he could never reach. His wisemen had told him that even the most ancient of races possessed only fragments of forgotten truths concerning these beings, passed down through so many generations that they must surely have altered in form drastically, completely, so as to become mere shadows of the truth. Alnoglod had said (in his own strange manner) that it was as if the Old Ones were being watched by a pre-speech infant through many leagues of mist.

And yet what was happening was happening here and now. How could it all be so impossible to comprehend if what the old Ones had done was manifesting here in the present day? If this was the effect of their manipulations then who needed ancient stories and forgotten truths? Did it matter that the engineer who fashioned a steampump was long since dead, if the steampump was still around, still functioning, and so open to study and inspection.

Rather than agonise over the impossibility of knowing a race that was ancient to the ancients, why not comprehend what they had done by studying the manifestation of their actions here and now?

So it was, as so many times before, that Bertold arose with some sort of answer - at least a direction to take. He had hardly slept and could barely keep a mouthful of bread and a gulp of beer down, but he had something to say to his scholars and mages.

……

Nearly all the researchers gathered that morning to hear the new instructions from their employer. Alnoglod of Middenheim had already held a lecture of sorts in which he summarised succinctly the ‘state of play’ as he called it; then Saartje of the Woods had most of the gathering rapt listening to her doom laden warnings concerning her visions and the fate of the north should chaos wax any stronger. It fell to the gnome Gellbrug Hornytoe to draw everyone’s attention to the fact that the Governor-General had already arrived and now craved their attention.

Bertold himself had not thought to interrupt the old wise woman. She had been in full flow when he entered the great hall and he had fallen under her spell as willingly as if the situation were merely a dream and he was the dreamer forced to experience it. She conjured images of monstrous beings and giant demons, of spells that could fold the earth upon itself or tear holes in the air. These were the dreadful apparitions in his mind’s eye just as he realised that all had fallen quiet and were now looking at him.

He took to the little dias, gave the company a moment or two to settle themselves - gesturing to them that they might sit if they wished (there were some very old folk amongst them). Then he began.

“Your tireless work, your travels, your studies, your careful measurements and observations, have brought us this far. We have dismissed so many possibilities, revealed the flaws in many theories, and discovered truths of which we now have no doubt. The riddle of the north is perhaps half solved. Perhaps more?

“Yet now we face a hurdle more difficult perhaps than all that have come before. It seems the final answer could well lie with the Old Ones, of which we possess a knowledge so limited it is but the echo of an echo, of a nature so distorted and faint it is utterly strange to our ears. I know many of you have these last four days been attempting to collate all that we know of the Old Ones. Books have been scrutinised, letters dispatched to scholars far and wide, stories compared to find common truths. But it seems to me that here in this place at this time we cannot expect to make much headway at all. Here we have no great library, nor the legions of scholars a University might possess.

“Yet I say that even if we did possess these things, we would still stumble and falter, becoming entangled in contradictory and convoluted theories, in allusions and illusions, histories and mysteries, and so forth. We could build, I have no doubt, a dozen descriptions of the Old Ones, each supported by references and authorities, while each is entirely different from the rest.

“This is not the way to proceed. If the truth could be found in this manner then it would have been found long ago. No, we must try another approach. We must find our own way to understand.

“There is before us now a great and magnificent, terrifying and dangerous, event - the folding together of two realms. It has been revealed to us, and we are all inclined to agree, that the Old Ones may well be ultimately responsible in some way. We know virtually nothing certain concerning the Old Ones, we have none of their records or writings. They are like unto gods, of a time so distant that they may as well dwell in a heavenly realm far removed from our mortal existence. We know not one single word of their tongue, never mind their language. And their understanding of powerful magics surely surpassed all that which man and elf have ever achieved.

“Yet all this does not mean we are defeated. Let me explain.

“A giant could build a tower of boulders, and a child might find that tower. The child has nothing like the giant’s strength, nor can he know why the giant built it. But he could still chip away at the bottom-most boulder and carve out his name. Or he might dig a trench from a nearby stream so that water flows by the tower and slowly but surely wears away its foundations. Or he might ask his father (who also know nothing of giants) for some powder and in one explosive moment bring the whole tower down.

“A wizard might set a spell down in a book, written in the classical tongue with words of magick wended in. An apprentice lad finds that spell and is entirely unable to read it; certainly he could not cast it. So he tears the book up and burns it.

“A man might build a fence to hold in his kine. A bull arrives, with no language, no hands, no tools, and no understanding of  fences - not what they are nor what they are for. Yet the bull, in his keenness, bursts through.

“A goblin might roll a barrel of wine away from a cart, plunder claimed after his tribe’s butchery. The goblin does not know how wine is made, nor who made it; he does not know if it is good wine, nor even that it is fashioned from grapes. But he uses it to get the tribe drunk while he himself stays sober, then he murders the brutish chieftain and by this action claims the tribe as his own.

“None of these may exactly describe our situation, but I am sure you understand my gist. We can see what the Old Ones have done. We know not why or how they did this, nor even who they really were. Yet that does not mean we cannot find a way to affect it, manipulate it, bend it to our will. Even the tiniest of influences might be enough: a punctured pinhole in a mighty damn might lead to its collapse.

“Let us now begin our work anew. Let us look at what we know, what there is before us, what parts of it we can feel, see, hear and smell, what parts we can manipulate and bend, conceal or reveal, dampen or fan. Let us see if we can’t conjoin all our skills and wisdom to create a mind at least part as intelligent as an Old One, and certainly bright enough to illuminate some small part of this great event that we ourselves can use.”

[Padre]

They went by in three companies of a dozen riders. On the field of battle such numbers would be insignificant, a meagre band to be swallowed up in the turmoil of battle. But not these riders - what they aimed to do would be very significant. Yes it would almost certainly see every one of them dead, but if they were successful then they would strike a blow at the very heart of the Crusade’s foul and corrupt enemies.

Which was why as they left the camp the Middenlanders and Tileans lined their route to see them off.



“Huzzah!” went the cheer.

The regiments of the Compagnia del Sole stood in two great long ranks, their officers before them, their own colours and those of the VMC flying.

“Huzzah!” again.

Amongst their ordered cheers was a true pantheon of other cries: “Sigmar protect you,” and “Myrmidia Blessings,” and “Death to the wicked!” Some made the old Tilean signs, Myrmidian in nature, but many more made Sigmarite gestures, such as touching the pommel of their sword three times, or marking an imaginary ‘S’ on their breastplates with their finger.

The Outriders were pleased to see this. The cheers were strange to them - that these mercenary soldiers might so sing their praises came as a surprise - but the Sigmarite gestures gave them true hope. More and more of the VMC army of House van Haagen had begun to focus their worship on Sigmar; above all the gods it was he, embodied here and now in the form of his First Saint, who they prayed to and worshipped. ‘The Saint and Sigmar are One’ was the word of the day, and variations upon this same theme had been the word every day for the last two weeks.

Here the blessing of Sigmar was being evoked by massed ranks of fervent converts - and the power it gave was almost tangible.

So it was that the Outriders rode forth on their last mission.



Some were already disguised as warriors of the Unbowed, as nomads or norse. Others were nomads and so no disguise was needed. Others heralded from across the Old World - the Empire, Bretonnia, even Araby. Wherever they originated they were all bound by a common purpose. All had served for six months, riding this land, learning its ways, becoming more and more convinced of the righteousness and necessity of the Crusade’s cause. They had witnessed curiosities and horrors, cruelties and sadnesses. Now they were committed to this last, desperate and brave quest.

They were to burn a temple of chaos surrounded by armies of Unbowed.

“Huzzah!”

[Padre]

Ars Moriendi

“Steady lads, steady!” the captain commanded for the second time.

Clutching the haft of his halberd tightly, and staring straight ahead, Bernt spoke to his friend Ernust, his voice pitched just loud enough to be heard over the rolling drum beat eminating from the centre of the packed mass of men behind him.

“I don’t know why he bothers. It’s not as if any of us can move. One step forwards and we’d likely just roll down the hill to almost certain death.”

Ernust tutted. “How many times have I told you, don’t go talking about death when death is a distinct possibility.”

Bernt frowned. “I can’t think of any sort of death that isn’t distinct. You’re alive, then you’re dead. Pretty clear to me.”

“There you go again, and immediately after I asked you not to!”

“What’s wrong? “ complained Bernt. “Where in the Ars Moriendi does it say one cannot talk about death when facing death?”

“It doesn’t say that. Lying peacefully in bed with my family gathered around me I would happily talk about death, sing songs about it, say prayers, the lot. Nice to have a bit of conversation at the end. But here on this hill, with vicious beasts and crazed tribesmen all around, death isn’t something I want to dwell on. Can’t we just get on with the job in hand and then have a natter about death afterwards?”

“If you like,” agreed Bernt. “Provided we’re both still around to have a conversation afterwards.”

Ernust simply rolled his eyes and wondered if his friend even realised he was still talking about death.

The ‘job in hand’, as Ernust had put it, was not going to be easy. The regiment of Middenlanders in the service of the VMC had been guarding a caravan of supplies when the enemy suddenly appeared all around them. The scouts had failed to forewarn them, and it was all the soldiers could do to abandon the wagons and form up in a schiltron upon a small hill.



The handgunners formed the perimeter, whilst the halberdiers formed the ranks behind. At the centre flew the regimental flags of the VMC and Middenland, and by these stood the major - in full plate armour - and the musicians. The major raised his bastard sword aloft and the drum beat ceased. Then he addressed the men.



“We shall stand together, steadfast, and none shall flee. If you do this, and do it well, the enemy cannot win. They will eat bullets as they come up the slopes, and those unfortunates who reach us will be cut down with cold steel. They would show us no mercy if we broke, so we cannot do so. Stand fast, step forwards to fill the spot of any who fall, and we shall be victorious. Today the regiment does not die, we merely earn our pay and prove our mettle. You shall all make me proud.”

“See,” said Bernt, “now he’s at it as well.”

“At what?” enquired Ernust.

“Talking about that thing that we’re not supposed to talk about.”

Suddenly someone screamed nearby, the horrible sound caught up in the ‘thunk, thunk, thunk’ of arrows piercing the ground. The scream transformed into a gurgling sound, then stopped abruptly as a blue and white clad soldier tumbled forwards and trolled down the little slope.

Ernust looked at his friend sternly, but Bernt spoke before he could.

“Don’t go blaming me for that! I was talking about not talking about death, not talking about it. There’s a difference.”

Ernust simply moaned.

“Give …” came the captain’s drawn out command, “… fire!”



A thunderous roll of handgun blasts followed - a little ragged compared to the practise field, but what could one expect when arrayed so unusually and with the captain’s command not easily heard by all?

The two old veterans did not even flinch.

“But if you insist on bringing it up,” said Bernt mischeviously, “I have to ask what the Ars Moriendi has to say about violent deaths.”

Ernust couldn’t help himself. He always loved sharing his wisdom, and even here and now his nature compelled him to speak. “Ah, now one might presume, my friend, that a violent death bodes ill for the afterlife. But not so, for if death comes through honourable action, no matter how it occurs, even if foolish or incompetent, accidental or wasteful, it is the good intent that counts and sets one's soul upon the right path.”

Bernt coughed as the sound died away leaving a ringing in the soldiers' ears and curling, sulphurous smoke wreathing the hill.



Clearing his throat decisively, he nodded. “They say in these parts you won’t arrive in the feasting halls unless you die with your sword in your hand.” He slapped the haft of his halberd. “What do you reckon? Will this do instead?”

“It’ll have to,” suggested Ernust. “Unless you'd rather tickle them with your sword .”

“No,” said Bernt, as if weighing up the options, as well as his halberd. “No, not my sword. I reckon I’d rather bring this down on to them.”

“Well you had better get ready to do just that, Bernt,” said Ernust. “Because here they come.”

[Padre]

This to the learned Scribe Arturus

I have happy news for you concerning the grand project: as my scholars put it, a ‘breakthrough’ has occurred. Directly guided by your own suggestions regarding the Old Ones’ involvement in the Riddle of the North, I instructed the scholars and mages to study this possibility in great detail. Each and every one of them set about this work with diligence, and I ensured that they lacked for nothing they might need. They then reported: “all that has resulted in the North stems from the motion of the realms, propelled by a complex machinery.”

Using the analogy of magnets, they described to me how events in one realm can cause an attraction for another, rather like the mysterious force of magnetism as present when the iron pin beneath the fly of a compass is fed with a lodestone and thus becomes more eager to point northwards. The attractive forces between realms can be similarly fed by events and actions in those realms. Simply put, if we build temples to Sigmar, and/or our realm contains avatars of Sigmar, the realm in which he dwells draws closer to ours, pulled by the attractive force thus created.

This much we already (almost) understood, but it is the machinery behind it that has been revealed by our studies. What we now understand much more clearly is that there are all the other potential forces of attraction simultaneously vying for dominance. This makes the true and full picture rather complicated, so that to witness an observable and truly tangible effect one would have to create a massive level of attraction that overwhelmed the other forces and so tipped the scales very much in favour of Sigmar.

It is not absolutely certain that the Old Ones built this mechanism, but the mechanism is definitely there. Other god-like beings may well have been responsible. The truth will perhaps never be known. Our scholars are convinced, however, that the whole mechanism functions as a defence against Malal - a way to counter his awful power should he escape his bonds. If he defeated the Four and then turned his attention on our realm, then even with the gods on our side we would be more than hard pushed to stop him. A god who can defeat the Four, something all our lawful gods together have yet failed to do, would surely overwhelm our gods. Thus the Old One's plan. As our scholars phrased it: “A way for mortals … non-Gods … to both raise up a power capable of destroying Malal …[while] … simultaneously weakening him enough for him to be destroyed.” As such, it could also be employed to defeat the Four.

Now here I come to the heart of the matter - an actual and practical way in which manipulate this vast, ancient and unimaginably powerful machinery in our favour, in Sigmar's favour.  Our scholars believe we might at least be able to work on a small part of the system, a particular aspect of the whole, specifically to ensure the separation between our Realm and the Realm of Chaos, and in this way lessen the power of the Four whilst magnifying great Sigmar’s power to the point at which he can drive the Four away.

But how to do this, you will surely ask? I believe you may already have an inclination, if not a full and clear answer. The scholars claim that if our holy Saint were indeed to ascend fully, embodying Sigmar (as he once was) as both human and divine at one and the same time, it would create a powerful focus. Indeed this already seems to have begun. But we must also simultaneously bolster holy Sigmar’s power further by the construction of temples and shrines, by the conversion of peoples and tribes. Even if the Saint’s full ascension is indeed all that is truly necessary to bring about a separation of the realms, it can do no harm to apply all other means also to worship and raise Sigmar. To do so would show, at least, all proper and due respect.

Then, when the connection to Sigmar’s realm is established, we must deliver the final, fatal blow.

But here is where our scholars falter, and they have asked me to seek out your advice and instruction concerning how exactly we might proceed.

1. What exact form of ritual would best bring about the full ascension of the Saint?
2. In what way would that ritual then allow the saint to strike at the Four and cast them and their corrupted realm away from ours?

We are willing to commit all resources at our disposal: gold, supplies, wits, courage, faith and the lives of our soldiers for this purpose. All necessary efforts and actions. But we must know what exactly to do.

Your servant, Bertold van Haagen

[Padre]

The ‘Dignification’

A harsh light streamed through the cathedral windows, illuminating every bright, red, sigil of the two-tailed comet as if they were indeed ablaze. The windows pierced the walls of black, volcanic stone like portals joining the earthly to an airy realm. It was an effect intended deliberately by the architect - though the solid iron bars outside the windows made it appear that each portal was solidly sealed to prevent passage.

A ponderous voice, much accustomed to delivering long lectures upon obscure yet mysteriously serious topics, echoed throughout the great cavernous interior.

“ … which indeed brings us back to the need for ‘Dignification’. Now you may well ask what the word signifies, and on the face of it one might presume that it is a matter of mere title, status and reputation.”



As ever, the Magister Arcanum, Jodocus van Tol had taken some time to arrive at the purpose of his lecture. Several of those listening failed to realise this fact, but one or two perked up. In fact, it was more the change in the demeanour of these few more conscientious listeners than the Magister Arcanum’s speech that drew the attention of all the others present. Here, finally, he was asking the question they had all come to hear an answer to.

“But important as these qualities are, they are not the most important factors. Whomsoever conducts the grand ritual - or ‘ceremony’ as some have taken to calling it - not only he who leads it but also all those serving him close at hand, must indeed be dignified, by which I mean they must be suitably purified and exalted in a mystical manner. Such dignification is the key to both the beginning, perfection and conclusion of this great magical and religious operation. They must embody sublime virtue and power, employing the highest faculty of the soul in order to work the wonders we wish to perform; to achieve that which we all yearn to accomplish - the final banishment of the Four from our mortal realm.”

There was not a man or woman in the cathedral who was so proud as to think of themselves as ‘pure’, certainly not ‘exalted’. Of course, they were all dedicated to the cause, each and every one faithful to Sigmar and fervently loyal to his First Saint, but they were wise enough to recognise their own faults, flaws and limitations. So  much so, in fact, that some few amongst them began to worry concerning what exactly might be involved in the proposed purification and exaltation, what hardships and torments they might have to endure. Was the Magister Arcanum expecting something akin to the flagellation practised by the maniacally faithful Sigmarites of the Empire?



“As to the means by which said purification might be achieved, I think it clear that first we should leave off all carnal affections, frail sense and material passions, and that secondly we must discover a way and means to ascend to an intellect pure and conjoined with the powers of the gods, and to the power of wonderful workings and miracles. Natural dignity is the disposition we must seek, not obscuring the soul with any grossness, and being without all distemper. Great must our care be in choosing those sufficient for this task, that they be not polluted by a dead carcass, that they be free from leprosy, flux of blood, burstness, and be perfect in all their members, not blind, nor lame, nor crook backed or with an ill-favoured nose, but sound and without sickness. They must be ingenious, comely, of a quick spirit, eloquent in speech, and of a meritorious dignity perfected by learning and practise.”

Several of the listeners breathed an inward sigh of relief. It seemed self-mutilation would not be required of them. It was with an easier spirit that they listened to the Magister Arcanum wax lyrical concerning the character and disposition required of those to take part in the ritual. Finally, he set about instructing them upon what exactly must be done.

“And so we come to the details concerning what must be done, in what order. Having spoken at length with the learned Scribe Arturus, I have set down on paper a set of instructions concerning the procedures we must follow. Here I shall summarise, but I do suggest that each one of you studies the particulars so that you might be best prepared either to perform the preparations or assist in them.

“First we must convene a council of elders, whose purpose will be to create a list of suitable candidates. I should think three dozen would be a satisfactory number. These will have one day to pray and dedicate themselves to the service of Sigmar, and then shall draw lots to reduce their number down to an holy dozen, thus allowing the great god Sigmar himself to influence the outcome through the mystical manipulation of chance. These twelve shall then apply themselves to constant contemplation, avoiding all vain imaginations and immoderate affections, but offering themselves to Sigmar body and soul so that his divine knowledge and power might make itself manifest in and through them. The Saint herself is the true epitome of such deifying virtue, and these twelve shall look to her words and teachings, her actions and reactions for inspiration and guidance.

“Furthermore, they shall bathe in blessed waters, and garb themselves in robes made fit for the purpose ahead, adorned with sigils and geotica of power. The great priest Father Matthi shall instruct them in the faith, whilst the learned Scribe aforementioned shall instruct them in a multitude of particulars concerning ecclesiastical mysteries. They will become companions of the Saint, and thus of Sigmar embodied.

“They shall thus both outwardly and inwardly, through choice and chance, by words and deeds, perfect themselves in readiness for their holy duties.

“And then, finally, they shall be made ready for the Grand Ritual.”

..................................................................................
Note: This is heavily inspired by Henry Cornelius Aggrippa's 'Three Books of Occult Philosophy', specifically Book III, Chapter III 'What dignifation is required, that one may be a true magician and a worker of miracles.'

[Padre]

The Gathering

Even as darkness fell, the steady stream of pilgrims continued along the mountain path. Scattered amongst them were soldiers of the Crusade, and posted at regular intervals along the route were the VMC’s mercenaries, but the pilgrims themselves were a vastly varied assortment. Most were from the Empire, having travelled northwards in the wake of the Crusade, or Marienburgers, but many were northerners themselves. All shared one common trait - they wanted to be part of the Grand Ritual, even if simply to watch it; to be present when the world changed for the better, perhaps the chance to play a part in it. So it was that fascination and hope drove them onwards, as much as faith, even though the way was hard and the path winding and steep.



Some sang hymns as they set out, though the exhausting nature of the climb along the path to Sigmar’s Cathedral at the Temple of the Winds soon brought an end to their singing. All were watchful, for the Afdrifa-Ríkur mountains were no longer wholly controlled by the Crusade’s forces, and the wild warriors and raiders of the Unbowed were rumoured to be on the prowl. Thus the great number of soldiers present along the route, made even greater by the soldiers who had come here in the same spirit as the pilgrims, some captains volunteering their entire company to join in the worship.

Not everyone was climbing the path in hope of defeating chaos or for the lawful gods and Sigmar, some came for other reasons. Take Arnold Allabeck and his brother Jurgen, for example, they had rather different motives.

“Thank the gods the singing has stopped, eh?” said Arnold. “The echoing sound of three different hymns sung at the same time is not what I would call pleasant.”

Jurgen nodded, hefting his heavy blunderbuss with its lion-mouth muzzle to one side as he looked for a safe way to cross from rock to rock. “A cacophony is what it was. I doubt great Sigmar found it pleasant, even if he was pleased at the faith of those who sung.”



Glancing back at the brown robed monk clambering up the path behind them, to ensure he was suitably distracted, Arnold spoke in a low voice.

“You reckon we've brought enough?”

His brother grinned and patted the mule on the back. “We brought what the mules could carry, no less.”

“But is that enough?”

“At the profits we will sell it at, yes. Do you see many pilgrims overloaded with salt-beef, fortified-wine and strong liquors?”

“No,” said Arnold thoughtfully, “they have other things on their mind.”

“Well, soon they will be upon a windswept summit, living on cold, hard rock, and they will discover that whatever they have on their mind, they need something in their bellies too. From what I hear we’re going to be up there for some while, weeks maybe. So when we run out of what we have brought, we’ll slaughter the mules and profit some more.”

Arnold pulled his leather jerkin a little tighter at his chest at the thought of the cold, then glanced back to see where Boldig was with the other two mules. Not too far behind and apparently managing quite well with the brace of beasts of burden.



‘Must have the knack' he thought. Then he let his mind turn back to profits, and in his mind’s eye the cargo and the mules upon which it was loaded turned into gold.

[Padre]

Posted with Mathi's permission - his words merely my picture...

The Sermon

Mathi felt the eyes that followed him as he walked up the aisle and climbed the steps to the pulpit. He could almost hear the hushed whispers and did not feel all that comfortable with them. The looks of admiration, awe and worship. Idolatry. He remember what the Saint had told him in one of their first conversation, about how he would feel about having a statue erected in his memory, reiksguard uniform and several honours and so on.

"I do not want this! I do not want to be the cause for others stumble in the path. What is it with people? Why cannot they see it is not I that is worthy of such actions, but Sigmar! Sigmar. I am but a man. A blessed man but a man nontheless. Esmerelda have arisen from the dead through Sigmars power, them worshipping her I can at least understand. But me, just because I am so close to her, why? I am just a human like them, no big deal."

His mind strayed away, back home to Stirland, his familys small estate, the meadows and the meandring brook. The hymn of the lark in the summer mornings. He sighed to himself as he realized the truth in the Saints words. To make a change you may have to give up the simple life. There is always sacrifice involved. Others would look forward to fame and fortune but Mathi felt otherwise. But now was not the time. In the future maybe, but now it there were still battles to be fought.



"I greet you all, friends and comrades, to Sigmars lofty hall. We have gathered here to do what have not been tried before, not been contemplated before. The scholars and wizards all theorize and plan but in the end, we are stepping into uncharted territory. Some would say I should not speak like this. Some would say I will scare you all. Well, so be it then! I prefer you to be scared knowing the hazards rather than sending you like unwitting lambs to the slaughter! You are here to do battle today, not with your swordarms but with your very souls! You have all volunteered, clergy and laymen alike, to lend Sigmar the strength of your souls. For that is the idea. That each of you will become a vessel of Sigmars will and might, and thereby magnify it! I have no idea of what journey your souls will have to take or what you will encounter. HEROES, I salute you all!"

"Now listen carefully and heed my advice, warriors of the souls, because what I will tell you might be of utmost importance. I sensed your gazes as I walked up here. Yes, I did and I tell you I will not tolerate such HERESY AGAIN! I am but a man, a human like the rest of you. I may be blessed by Sigmar beyond what many have ever been, I may walk in the presence of Holy Esmerelda but still I am a man. Now, when you go to do Sigmars Will that you remove all images of mortals like me, no matter what deeds we have done or accomplished. At this time, do not focus on great Saints like Magnus the Pious. No, you MUST focus on SIGMAR! Your minds must be focused inward and outward at the same time, focused on one thing. Sigmar Heldenhammer. And if you find yourself alone and beset, remember what you are out to achieve, whose errand you do. There is one very appropriate verse in the Canticles of Sigmar. Helmanarik 25:17:

The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who in the name of charity and goodwill shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is Heldenhammer when I lay my vengeance upon thee.

As you will now be a vessel for Sigmars will and a focus for his vengeance wrought upon those gods that have tormented man and the world for millennia. Now that if you stay focused and pure of heart with your minds on Sigmar, your souls will be safe and should the worst come to pass, will find their seats under Morrs roof. My children, I bring down Sigmars blessing on all of you, on your brow, on your mouth on your heart! Now let us all sing:

"A mighty fortess is our god, a bullwark never failing....

[Padre]

Fortification

This report to be delivered to His Excellency Bertold van Haagen, General and Governor in Chief in over all Vereenigde Marienburg Compagnie expeditionary forces, business and possessions in the northern realms of Kislev and the Wastes, dictated by Colonel Vincenzo Martelli, regarding the current disposition of the Compagnia del Sole in the service of House van Haagen and the Crusade of the First Saint of Sigmar.

Your Excellency, I hereby inform you that can rest easy regarding your orders concerning the defence of the passes leading to the great Cathedral. Each pass now possesses a fortified gateway of earthen bastions and stone filled gabions, utilising the lie of the rocky terrain so as to maximise their security, and garrisoned by the brave and loyal soldiers of the Compagnia del Sole.



All pilgrims and messengers are searched and questioned before accessing the paths, whilst all other forces of the Crusade of the First Saint of Sigmar are allowed free access to go about their business. It might please you further to know that several tens of pilgrims, those of the most able bodies, were pressed to labour upon the construction of the works, and all did so willingly, seeing their efforts as another service for the god Sigmar in defence of his most holy Temple. A good half of these labourers have remained at the defences, offering their services as both irregular troops, scouts and to ensure maintenance of the works.

Artillery has been emplaced on each of the three main passes with carefully calculated fields of fire and satisfactory supplies of good powder and iron shot, including perriers, bases and larger pieces, as well as the organ gun that so amused you during the salute given in Marienburg. Two of the fortified gateways sport cunningly carved channels which allow water from nearby streams to flood the ground before them should this prove necessary; whilst the third has pitfalls concealed by the path so that any who attempt to leave the path in the face of withering artillery fire will suffer injury and considerable inconvenience.



Lanterns, torches and fires are lit at night to ensure constant vigilance, whilst the soldiers guard in shifts.

Furthermore, your surviving mercenary Middenlanders are deployed in the valley leading to the two largest passes in readiness for battle and to march to the relief of any of the defensive gateways that are assaulted.

I hope this report pleases you, and that you are making all the progress you yearn for in the preparations for the Grand Ritual.

Your servant, Col. V. Martelli

[Padre]

The Grand Ritual Begins

The Saint was to arrive in less than half of an hour, at the time appointed, but the Grand Ritual had already begun. In truth, there was no definite point at which it commenced, for hymns, prayers and invocations had been going on solidly for days and days as pilgrims flocked through and around the cathedral. Now the twelve acolytes were gathered, a collection of wildly varied individuals of vastly different skills - wizards, priests, mystics, clerics, and the holiest of the Crusade’s leaders, including (to name but four) the noble Lady Collette, Bertold van Haagen’s mysterious Cathayan teacher, Alnoglod of Middenheim and Astrid Pottinga of the Middenheim College of Magic.

These twelve, however, were just one component part of the Grand ritual. They were there to channel and focus the energies and powers about to be called forth. Father Mathi, the inspired leading priest of the Crusade, was the master of ceremonies - he would intone the power-laden words of the ritual. The Saint, Sigmar made flesh, would be brought forth to become the very heart of the ritual, the focus for all involved at the centre of the geotic, through which the Sigmar’s divine power would swell and surge. And to oversee all, to guide and prompt, and watch for any potential flaws or hindrances, was the learned Scribe Arturus.

Every one of the faithful, high and low, had contributed a drop of their blood, pricked with a silver needle, into a large iron vessel. This was then used in the creation of the large geotic circle upon the stone ground of the cathedral, the living rock upon which it stood. A sacred stone from the site of the Sigmar’s defeat of Morkar, the Everchosen of Chaos, was used to etch the design into the rock, then the collected blood of the faithful used to mark its sacred Sigmarite sigils, its centre and twelve equidistant points around its perimeter. The sigils were those of Sigmar Heldenhammer, Ghal-Maraz, the twin tailed comet, the Empire and the ‘sword made cross’.



The acolytes had taken their places, and a guard of chosen heroes formed an outer circle. Each had a symbolic offering to give, something precious to them and to the world to sacrifice. Alnoglod of Middenheim held up an unbound scroll upon which the most powerful conjurations he had never before dared to draw up were inscribed, to concentrate the winds of magic into a very vortex for the god to feed upon. Astrid Pottinga held forth a magical ring forged at the time of Sigmar’s emperorship, a mystical artefact of unaccountable value. 



Them, accompanied by the sound of the great chorus of faithful chanting outside the cathedral, the priest Mathi began to read from the tome so carefully crafted to contain the words of the Ritual.

“Great and mighty Sigmar, we invoke you. You are king of kings: cause, foundation, father and original beginning of the Empire, the supreme slayer of chaos, preserver of mankind, Sigmar Athanaton (never dying), author and promoter of all that is good and proper, most bountiful and wise, the absolute perfection of humanity and divinity combined.



“We here adore you, give you all due reverence and thus perform all the holy rites conformable to your worship. All honour is yours. Your sword arm is wielded in the heavens and upon the earth, your eyes are the light of the glorious sun that shines upon our Empire and the whole of the north. In your breast earth, water, fire and air to take their rest. Both night and day true wisdom is yours. Your majestic and lawful will is obeyed by nobles and commons, the mighty and the humble.

“Purge and expiate us of all sin, ignorance and frailty. We, your faithful followers, are every one imprinted by your divine character, by the virtue of which, combined with the correct prayers and preparations, we can perform miracles on your behalf. We are yours to command, do with us you will. Channel you divine authority through us, over us, around us. Bathe us in your heavenly power that we may become your right arm, hammer and sword in the fight against chaos and destruction. Let our enemies quake before us, for they are inferior beings, denied your blessing. Our enemies may excel in physical greatness, force and swiftness, but they shall witness in each of us your divine will, and know us to be superior in every way.

“Here in these huge mountains, your feet are the rocks and stone, the burning lava your angry blood. Even under the earth into the depths, you bring your light. Let all things here in this northern land, be they material and immaterial, quick and dead, flesh, plant and mineral, have your character pressed upon them, that you may govern not merely your priests, your people, your nation, but the very land itself, and the sky above it. Rule us, judge us, and terrify our foes. More than this, bring your harmony to each and everything, manifest your occult power throughout this realm, infuse your will into the heart of this land. Become the ruling Spirit of this world, imprint your seal upon all of us and all others who dwell in this place, unto the very borders of the north, that all may acknowledge you as superior.

“We sing hymns invocating your wrath, so that all wicked servants of chaos shall know your revenge, shall fear you and witness your fortitude. We say prayers venerating you and telling of your past and present glory. We your servants here have been consecrated according to the holy rites. All necessary enchantments invoking your name are completed. Let the Four know that you are come and that their time is at an end.”

Behind the priest, the great doors swung open and the Saint strode in. Yet such was the fervour and earnestness of the prayers and chanting that there was no interruption, no break, even though the sight of her, Sigmar present bodily in the here and now of the mortal realm, was awe-inspiring. She intended first to speak of her mighty duel against the Plague Daughter, to let all know how the time truly was at hand, and then to allow the Ritual to proceed and the power of Sigmar to flow.

The Grand Ritual was about to come to its climax.