His sharp nose wrinkled in disgust as the pungent odours of his quarry suffused the dense undergrowth in which he stood. Dark patches of lichen littered the remnants of Calve’s Stand; the bare skeletons of once ancient Oaks and Pines were host only to death and taint, their long deceased leaves and needles covered the floor like a rotting carpet. Twisted stands of Birch arose defiantly upwards, the slender limbs and branches pointing accusing fingers at the heavens as if Sigmar himself had damned them. And perhaps he had.

Einar shivered as an icy breeze swept through him. Behind, he heard Benedikt reciting mumbled prayers from the book he wore on a hefty length of gold chain around his neck. It took a lot to unsettle a Warrior Priest, and Einar found himself gripping the hilt of his blade so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. He checked that it was free in its scabbard, and eased his tensed hold.

Even in the middle of the day, a dense wall of fog clung to the forest like a leech. Had he the inclination, he didn’t doubt that he could reach out and grab the vapour that blinded him as if it were a woollen blindfold. As it stood, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to see his hand if he held it so far from the end of his nose, let alone ensure he clutched anything.

Chainmail rustled around him as his men stirred. They had entered the forest with their blood boiling and rage blazing in their eyes, but their veins had long ago cooled, and the fires in their eyes were now little more than smouldering ashes. Cursing the forest for the umpteenth time, Einar flicked his hand forwards and motioned to move on, the gesture made to calm his nerves more than to be followed; it was impossible for any visual orders to be given in the fog.

He started off into the mist, relying on his noisy mail to signal the advance. Everywhere looked the same. He was no woodsman, and cared little for the art of traipsing off between the trees, but circumstances dictated that he must, and he counted himself lucky that this forest was vaguely familiar to him. Something crunched beneath his heavy iron boot, and he stared down at the splintered skull beneath; shattered eye sockets returned an empty glare that told him to go back, and order that he would’ve been all too happy to follow.

Instead, the hurried whispers of Benedikt alerted him. He wheeled around and jumped when he saw the wild grey eyes of the Warrior Priest. The man’s eyeballs rolled crazily in their sockets, his thin lips contorting in perpetual prayer and his long nose twitching like a rabbit’s. As if struck by some object, he stopped, his eyes fixated on a point behind Einar’s head, pulled his Warhammer high above his head and yelled and indecipherable war cry.

Einar too shouted, partly out of shock and partly out of habit. He turned in time to see Benedikt bring his hammer crashing down onto the skull of a Gor. The Beastman’s head exploded in a shower of flesh, brain and bone, coating Einar and the Warrior Priest in hot blood and slimy lumps of grey matter. Einar tugged his longsword clear of its scabbard and prepared to repel the ambush.

Behind him, he heard several of his men cry out as they were gutted by the mutants, the ring of steel and the creaking of bows soon followed, prompting yells of pain from the attackers. A pair of Gors darted out from the fog before Einar; their vicious axes already raised by thick arms with knotted muscles, covered in rough fur and prepared to cleave him in two. He kicked up a wall of dirt into their faces, distracting them enough for him to gut one with a quick thrust, recover and behead the other with a two-handed swing. A third caught him off guard, however, and buried a hoof into the back of his right knee.

He cried out as his leg buckled, forcing him to his knees, but he kept a hold on his sword. Twisting around, he parried the death blow of the Gor and pulled himself up. His knee still throbbed painfully, but the tough leather had absorbed most of the impact. The pair exchanged a handful of blows, each one dodged or parried with millimetres to spare, before three arrows suddenly sprouted from the mutant’s side, matting its furry torso with blood. It emitted a low, bellowing cry, and Einar silenced it with a swift cut to its throat. The goat-like head bounced aside, the half-man, half-beast's features still bearing the pained snarl. Einar tested his knee and grunted his satisfaction as it held. Scoping the fog, he searched in vain for more Beastmen, but found only the grey wall of vapour wherever he gazed.

Sighing with frustration, he stalked back to where the ambush had taken place, the Beastmen having succeeded in separating his force. The red plate armour of Benedikt guided him to a small cluster of trees, where the Warrior Priest was bent over the thrashing corpse of a swordsman. The Priest put a hand to the man’s head, muttered a few words and the thrashing ceased, his body going limp like a marionette whose strings had just been cut. Einar watched Benedikt close the man’s eyelids over his lifeless eyes, and set him in repose before standing and straightening.

‘We should never have come here,’ He said, ‘We can ill afford to lead the men into another ambush.’

Einar sheathed his blade and sighed at the reprimand, ‘You know as well as I do that these mutants must be put down at all costs. Losses are to be expected.’

Benedikt turned to face him and lay an accusatory finger upon his breastplate, ‘Losses? My boy, every army in the land expects losses in a fight. But this,’ he swept his other hand across areas invisible through the fog, ‘this was a slaughter.’

Einar hung his head and stared down at his boots, ‘How many did we lose?’ He didn’t want to know the answer.

‘Half.’

‘To how many killed?’

‘Five.’

Fifteen men lost for five dead Gors. That was far from the ratio Einar had hoped for, ‘How many do we think attacked us?’

Benedikt idly scratched his chin as he thought, ‘From what I've seen, no fewer than twelve, but likely in the region of about eighteen or twenty.’

‘We must have wounded most of them at least, I heard the shouts. …’

‘Wounded is not dead. They might die later, but not before we do if we stay in this accursed forest. May Sigmar bless those who fell this day, but I wish a pox upon Calve and his offspring.’

Einar snorted at the remark, ‘We should be so lucky.’

More of his men made their way to the red beacon that was Benedikt, and they waited for as long as they dared before making their way back through the gloom; thankfully, most of Einar’s pathfinders had survived the ambush.

As the fog faded to reveal the late stages of sunset as it pierced the leafy roof of Morze Forest, a dull sound reverberated through the air. Einar tensed as it grew closer. Everyone tensed. It seemed to be coming from every angle, and yet even the lack of fog still revealed nothing. And then silence.

Einar turned and stared back into the mist. His eyes caught something in the wall of grey, he couldn’t tell whether it movement or merely a trick of the evening sunlight. A horn suddenly sounded only metres in front of him, and the thunder of hooves descended from the gloom.

A dark shape exploded outwards from the fog and bounded towards Einar. It struck the ground hard with every leap, tearing up chunks of earth and sending them skywards. Four heavily muscled, hoofed legs powered the beast forwards, the bare torso of a human male, almost unrecognisable beneath a thick carpet of tangled fur, sat atop the body of a horse, melding with it at the waist. From a distance it could've easily been a seperate horse and rider, but up close, it was more than clear that this was a Centigor; and unholy fusion of rider and beast that combined the crushing strength and the intelligence of a human with the speed and power of a horse.

Like their Gor cousins, their heads were vile amalgmation of man of goat, and sported menacing horns, beastial, cruel golden eyes, and menacing fangs. They wore token patches of armour around their middle that seemed more for decoration than purpose.

Time seemed to slow as the Centigor approached. Einar watched as strings of saliva sailed from its open maw as it loosed a savage howl. The evening sunlight glinted off the rusted greataxe it swung high above its head. Dried blood caked each side of the weapon, a testament to the many who died to its bite. Its hairy torso rippled as each hair was flattened by the speed at which it ran. Einar was almost positive he could've counted each individual hair before the beast reached him.

Around him, Benedikt hefted his warhammer high, but he wouldn't be quick enough to parry or block the Centigor. Einar would be cut down before the warrior priest's hammer had even started its decent towards the beastman. Alarums were being shouted, arrows nocked, swords drawn and shields raised, but they would all be in vain.

Einar gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, his fingers finding marks and scuffs in the leather that he hadn't noticed before. He felt the warm breeze across his face, the sunlight across the back of his head and neck, and the sticks and stones beneath his boot. The fragances of the forest met his nostrils, and the sounds of nature filled his ears. In death, he had found clarity in life. He calmly let his last breath go and watched the world return to normal speed with a visual thump. At least he would not die in ignorance.

With a jubilant cry, the Centigor pulled his axe around and took a mighty swing at Einar. It missed. Einar flinched as the sharp blade of the axe flashed before his face and was swept aside by the momentum behind it. The Centigor had seemed similarly perplexed until it crumpled to the floor, its legs flailing as it tumbled under its own weight. The shaft of an arrow, fletched with feathers Einar couldn't recognise, snapped in two in the tangled mess of legs, its other half embedded deep within on of the back legs.

Benedikt wasted no time in ending the Centigor's deep, distressed bleating as he crushed its head beneath the flat of his hammer. Other Centigors penetrated the wall of mist, a good handful suddenly sprouting arrows from their chests. Those that fell took the ones immediately behind them down too, as others jumped the chaotic tangle of limbs and bodies to fall upon Einar and his men.

Einar couldn't remember drawing his sword as he pulled it across the chest of an approaching Centigor, but he didn't stop to think about it. With the time that the mysterious arrow volleys had bought, the Centigor ambush had turned into a desperate attack against a ready defence. Benedikt muttered prayers of defence and empowerment amongst the men, occasionally lashing out with a vitriolic curse that felled a foe just out of reach of his warhammer or that seemed to be capable of breaking through the defence, as if the words themselves had cut into the beast's flesh.

With the tables turned, and their momentum lost, the broken Centigors fled back into the mist as swiftly as they had left it. Those with spears heaved them at the men as they retreated, hoping to perhaps claim a casualty or two, and perhaps allow for a renewed assault. None of the spears managed to draw blood. A deep warhorn sounded in the fog, summoning the herd back into formation, and perhaps calling others to their aid. The beastmen would not rest for long.

Einar had his supsicions about the aid they'd received, and they were confirmed as his eyes met several strange pairs as he turned back to his men. Loosely surrounding Einar and the other soldiers were about a dozen bowmen, each dressed in the brown leather attire of seasoned hunters, with green, hooded cloaks flapping at their backs in the light breeze. All their bows were unique, no doubt handcrafted by their family members or even themselves, as were their arrows, of which no two of even one of the men was the same. At their waists they wore simply belts with a variety of pouches, some filled with salt for cooking or preserving their catch, herbs for seasoning or for tending injuries, thread and needles for repairs, flint and steel for fires, and grinding stones to hone edges on dulled blades or arrowheads.

Several knives hung from the belts too, but Einar could only guess at the need for so many of different shapes and sizes. To him, a military man through and through, a knife was a knife. The man closest to Einar pulled his hood back and stepped forward, hanging his bow over his shoulder. He had a rugged, outdoorsman look to his face, a look that spoke of hard work in the forests, and probably even harder living during some of the winters. Two brown eyes poked out from beneath thick black eyebrows, seemingly looking in every direction at once without ever taking their gaze of Einar. A mane of matted black hair hung around his head and down to his shoulders. It looked to have never even heard of a comb, nevermind seen one, but lent the man a wild look that seemed to suit him well enough.

The man approached Einar and gave a slight bow, 'Excuse me, m'lord, but we heard sounds of fightin' a while back, an' a few of us-' he gestured behind him at the other huntsmen, 'gathered our gear and came to watch the border of Calve's Stand. When you came clatterin' out of that place like a stack of tin buckets fallin' from a cupboard, we thought we'd offer you an escort, you know, a bit of a local tour an' that.' He ran a cautious tongue across his lips and spread his arms, 'But then we heard them beasts an', well, I'll wager you can guess the rest.'

'It seems that we all owe you and your men a debt of gratitude.' Einar watched the man's lips pull into a tight smile as Einar mentioned owing a “debt”, 'I'll be sure to mention your actions to Lord Dedrick when we arrive back and see if we can arrange something.' Lord Dedrick was as frugal as Lords came, and Einar thoroughly enjoyed that he'd owe a debt - of any kind – to a commoner, 'Who shot the first Centigor?'

The man grinned toothily, 'That'd be me, m'lord, as fine a shot as I ever made.' Several of the men behind him nodded in agreement.

Einar, too, smiled. Dedrick wouldn't know what had hit him, 'In that case, Mr. … ?'

'Barrett, m'lord.'

'Well, in that case, Mr Barrett, the way I see it, you personally saved my own life, and I'm sure that Lord Dedrick will be only too happy to reward you personally for this deed. Yes, I shall mention it to him as soon as we return.'

Barrett looked positively ecstastic, and bowed several more times, 'You honour me, m'lord, you honour us all.'

'Nay, it is you that honour me, Mr Barrett.' It was all Einar could do to stop himself grinning like a madman, 'In fact, if you were to be present at Murstvig when I arrive, with your men, of course, I could see to it that your rewards are given to you there and then.'

'We'd only be too happy to escort you, m'lord.' Barrett bowed once more, and ran back to organise his huntsmen.

Benedikt strode up to Einar and pulled him aside, 'As humbling an experience this might be for Lord Dedrick, and as much as I have to agree that these men are worthy of being rewarded, I fear that you'll only anger him.'

Einar chuckled as the small group started off towards Murstvig, 'Only angry, Benedikt? Shame. I hoped to at least make him apoplectic.'

'No, absolutely not.' said Dedrick. He had repeated those words enough times since he became the Lord of Murstvig, and they had become a chore to say, but such was life as a ruler, if only locally. He watched through his emotionless dark eyes-a ceremonial stare he wore that betrayed no feelings, a stare born out of the need to see and understand all, but let nobody know that you did so, the stare of a ruler who could ill afford to lend credence to accusations of weakness or unwillingness to act-as the armoured form, on bended knee before him, struggled to absorb his answer.

Dedrick had known this man for years, and he had served the Empire as one of her finest knights of the realm, but even requests from his closest friends could not be accepted outright. What he had asked for was outside of Dedrick's power to even consider granting, nevermind accept. Had it been something material, a new sword, a new suit of armour, perhaps even a new warhorse, he would have granted it in a heartbeat. But this was far too complex of a matter to put in a simple request.

Inside, Dedrick knew of the consequences, and how it would affect his reputation, but few outside the stresses of power understood just how little was possible. To a common citizen, everything was simple. They made demands that they, outside the rules and regulations of rulership, saw as easily fulfilled, but were, in actual fact, impossible or actively detrimental. No doubt the public would see it differently if they were asked, but then again, since when did the public ever think of rulers as doing anything less than harm them and their ways of living? They were, of course, only too happy for the shelter of Murstvig's wall during times of war, though.

Although this time, Murstvig's walls had no space left for shelter.

'My lord, I plead for you to reconsider. They have nowhere to go, and with the increasing disappearances. …' The armoured man openly wept. Although he kept his head low, his short brown hair masking his face from view, Dedrick heard the sorrow in his voice, and saw the damp patch in the deep green carpet, where the man's tears threw themselves from his face and plummeted to the floor below.

Dedrick kept his composure. Seeing a knight openly weep only made it harder to deny him. Dedrick wished that what he knew as true, was false. He prayed silently to Sigmar that what he knew as true, was false. But Sigmar seemed deaf to his pleas. Deaf, or unwilling to help. He sighed inwardly. The weight of the land that rested upon his shoulders only got heavier with each passing day, but his body got older and weaker.

'You know I can't grant you this, Rieger. I am truly sorry, believe me, I am.'

Dedrick watched Rieger stand. His face was young, rugged and clean-shaven, yet belied the man's age. His brown eyes were now puffy and bloodshot, but the gaze he fixed upon Dedrick was all the more powerful for it. Tears still glistened upon his skin. The emotion this man felt was real, and he would not be easily appeased, if at all. Dedrick only hoped that he would not harbour a grudge. His ascension to lord of Murstvig had cost him a great many friends-or those he thought of as friends. Rieger was one of the few who still stood by him. He could not lose him too.

'My lord, I implore you, please listen to reason in this. The raids have been taking their toll on Hadza. The people there refuse to step out of their homes for fear of being caught up in the assaults of the beastmen. The fields have been burned and salted. The river has been poisoned. It is only a matter of time before the houses are burned and the people are slaughtered. You must offer them shelter behind our walls. They can fit. They will hold.'

They can fit. They will hold. Dedrick knew that Rieger hoped, rather than knew, that this was the case. He could see the pain in the eyes of his friend. The silent agony that racked his being, pained his soul and sapped his spirit. Dedrick knew the walls could contain no more. It was likely that Rieger knew it, too. But Rieger was not listening to reason right now. He was blind to the truth of the situation. It was only to be expected, but it made it harder. Much harder.

'Why do you care, Rieger?' It was not asked of callousness. Dedrick hoped that Rieger would hear that.

'Why do I care.' Rieger muttered to nobody in particular. 'My lord, you are familiar with the emotion of love, are you not?' Dedrick finally understood, but it was the answer that he had least wanted to hear. At least he had not caused offence with the question. He nodded and gestured for Rieger to continue, 'I am originally from Hadza, my lord, but of course, you already know that.' He did not. A pit was slowly forming in Dedrick's stomach. Had he truly forgotten so much about his friend in so little time? 'Well, a woman there-I mean, she was a girl when we were growing up-has held my heart for years, and I hers. But again, you know that, too.' No. Please, Rieger, Dedrick thought; don't do this.

'I courted her when I came of age, when I was still a member of the local militia, and continued until I was called to war against the dark forces of Calve. When I returned, we were to finally be wed, but time was not on my side, and she eventually found someone else in my stead.' It all came back to Dedrick. Rieger fought to see her again, and for nothing more, unbeknownst to him was that it was all in vain.

'Do you remember her name, Dedrick?'

'Malianna.' He surprised himself when he spoke her name on command. Rieger looked almost as shocked that he had remembered.

'So you do remember.'

That was it. The condemnation of Dedrick's actions by his closest friend. A friend he had neglected. What good had it done?

'If not as her husband, then as a Preceptor of the Murstvig Guard of Ostermark, I will not see her taken by these vile beasts.' Rage had replaced the sorrow in his eyes. They burned with a fiery passion, and that heat was directed at Dedrick, 'Whether by your orders, or against them, I will lead my knights in defence of Hadza, and I will bring her citizens to your doorstep, here, at Murstvig, where you can look them each in the eye and reject them, as you have done me.' Rieger turned and stormed out of the room, his armour clanking with footfalls so heavy that even the thick carpet beneath them struggled to muffle the sound. The solid stone walls caused it to reverberate endlessly around the keep, like a bell tolling to signal the fall of Dedrick, lord of Murstvig.

Dedrick slowly turned and staggered lifelessly to his throne. The guards on either side had been dismissed for Rieger's request, and Dedrick craved the luxury of slouching. Craved the time where he could pretend he was not who he was. Craved the time where he could imagine that he had got it all right. But even the soft green velvet, bordered in brown with gold tassels, of his throne could not offer him a comfortable seat. Nothing could remove the thorn in his heart. Had he actually earned his reputation? Was he, in fact, the one blind to the needs of his people? He could not be sure anymore. He could not be sure the world was real. He could be sure of nothing, save the pain of losing his closest friend, and the fact that it had been avoidable.

In the rare silence and solitude of his majestic throne room he removed his emotionless stare, threw himself against the arm of his seat, and wept.

Isolda swept down the stone hallway like a specter. She blended right in with the stark white walls and floor, and the light from the windows lining the corridor almost seemed to reflect off her pale flesh. People who saw her often related their experience to seeing Shallya walk amongst them. A floor-length white corset dress, the hem trimmed and patterned with golden thread, clung to her form, accentuating every feature to the best of its ability. It was a deadly simple item, the patterning along the hem warned all who knew of its origin, but the woman encased within ensured that even the uneducated knew that she was far from somebody to mess with.

A long, flowing white hooded cape was tied around her neck. This cape, like the dress, was trimmed with the same gold patterns, but the icon emblazoned in the centre rendered the tiny warnings somewhat obsolete. A 'V' lay at a 45 degree angle, with a line bridging the letter in the middle. A simple circle hovered above this line, the top of it aligned perfectly with the tops of the lines that made up the 'V'. It, like the other patterns, was created from gold thread, but silver thread weaved through it like lightning bolts.

Her long, silvery blonde hair was tied in a high ponytail, showing off her décolletage and neck. Despite the temptation, those who stared quickly averted their gazes upon sighting the many warnings about her person. Sky blue eyes punctuated her face, which seemed to carry a perpetual dreamy, yet serious quality. She seemed as if she stared off into the distance, but it was a fool who assumed that she missed even the soundless falling of a single blossom from a tree amongst a forest in full bloom.

She walked tall, and emitted a noticeable air of power and authority. The four guards, clad in polished platemail with tabards of Murstvig's colours-a field of emerald green bordered with a dark, wooden brown-and carrying long halberds, stood two abreast of a grand pair of doors with panels of dark, stained ashwood and frames of lighter, varnished sycamore, finished with copious amounts of gold leaf upon the finely crafted designs.

The soldiers watched Isolda through unblinking eyes, never wavering for even a second as she approached. There was a reason that Dedrick used elite guards such as these for his own personal protection. Isolda inwardly smiled at the fact that if she, one of the most beautiful and powerful women in Ostermark, could not tempt these men away from their stations, then what chance did any old succubus have of getting past them?

As she reached the door, the guards pounded the stone beneath them with their halberds, and a man poked his head around the door, withdrawing quickly at the sight of Isolda. A second later, the doors swung silently inwards on oiled hinges and Isolda glided into the room beyond. It was smaller than someone would expect for the quarters of a lord, but then, Dedrick was a reasonably small man, and he was not yet used to grandeur that accompanied his ascension to the seat of Lord of Murstvig.

The walls were as everywhere else in the keep, a gleaming white. Tapestries from ages past hung on each wall, each one depicting a unique scene of heroism from the Empire. Against the far wall, a roaring fireplace suffused the air with the smell of various oils no doubt used to scent the firewood. Above it hung the largest tapestry: that of Otsermark. As independent as some towns acted, they were still under the jurisdiction of Wolfram Hertwig, the Elector Count of Ostermark. The grand item above the fireplace served to remind the residing lord that he was still answerable to the Elector Count, and the crowned red manticore, rampant upon a field of purple and yellow, stared down at all in the room, almost as if it were about to leap off the tapestry and attack any who threatened the Empire.

Before the fireplace was a long polished mahogany table, along with a number of chairs backed with the same rare wood and finished with plush green velvet, bordered with brown, upon the backs and arms. Where the house of Murstvig had been able to acquire mahogany of the quality used eluded Isolda; as far as she knew such wood was restricted to the warmer-and thoroughly more dangerous and myserious-climates of the new world.

'My lord Dedrick of Murstvig, Lady Isolda, sorceress of the Celestial Order, has arrived as you requested.' Shouted the man who had opened the doors. Isolda nearly jumped, but such things no longer affected her. What she had been seeing of late rendered all else insignificant.

Dedrick emerged from one of the rooms off to the side, dressed in a brown doublet, over which he wore an emerald green jerkin, brown trousers, and black jackboots. At his waist he wore a tight black leather belt, from which hung an empty scabbard, and a holster which, like the scabbard, was devoid of a weapon.

He looked as if he hadn't slept in a week. His cropped black hair was sticking out in tufts, his black eyes were like voids that had sunken into his skull, and stubble coated his chin. Isolda pulled her lips into a small smile, usually it took people a much longer time to crack under the weight of governance.

Dedrick gave her an impatient look of 'yes, what do you want?', before sweeping around the room like a madman, looking in the drawers and cupboards lined against the walls,

'Dedrick, what in the name of all that is holy is going on?' Isolda's patience and calmness felt out of place in a question regarding a frenzy.

Dedrick stilled, 'What is going on? What is going on?!' He threw up his arms, 'I shall tell you, little miss sunshine, just what is going on.' He stormed up to her and stopped close enough for her to smell his breath. She didn't flinch, but instead gazed down at the man, and blinked, 'Rieger has taken a detachment of our best knights out to some Morr-forsaken village in order to save a woman he likes, this town is close to exploding from all the refugees, the food is running out, the fields in the outlying areas have either been abandoned, or looted and salted, I only just received word back from Wolfram that he cannot aid us about a situation that I reported on two weeks ago and has since become a hundred times worse, another messenger is still at least a week away from Middenheim with word of the same outdated plight, Einar returned not two days ago with half his detachment slain, and a bunch of foresters looking for payment and recognition for some half-arsed effort...'

He ran his fingers through his hair, 'I have beastmen pouring out of every orifice for miles around, and the people out there-' he gestured wildly through a window at the back of the room, 'want me to do something about it all.' He poked Isolda in the stomach, 'THAT, my dear, is what is going on, and unless you have a nice shiny rainbow to pull out of that bosom of yours that you put on display like fresh meat in a butcher's shop, then I suggest you make this quick and get out of my hair-or what will be left of it after this ordeal.' He tugged on his tufts of hair and went back to combing the room, 'Where in Sigmar's name did I put my damn sword?'

Isolda smoothed her dress, 'It's in your bathroom, leaning against the bath.' She calmly stated every word. She had to be sure that Dedrick knew the consequences, and it wouldn't do to launch into a tirade of her own, no matter how much she wished to, 'Your pistol is being cleaned by the gunsmith, as you requested not an hour ago.'

Dedrick gave her a critical look, stormed into the bathroom, and with a cry of 'aha!' returned with a jubilant look on his face, 'I found it.' He waggled the sword before him and then slid it back into its scabbard. He looked to have calmed significantly, 'Now, what did you want again?'

'My lord, the stars have spoken to me.'

Dedrick stared up at her, 'Really? How fascinating.' If he tried to hide the sarcasm, then it wasn't a very good attempt, 'What did they say? I can't imagine they're a talkative lot.'

'My lord, your troubles have only just begun.' Isolda watched Dedrick's cheerful expression melt away as quickly as it had formed, 'I have much to tell you, and I doubt that you will like it anymore than I did.'

Dedrick lowered his gaze and fell into one of the seats across from the fireplace. He bridged his fingers before his face and stared into the embers. A coal burst, sending bright sparks shooing upwards, but his gaze never wavered, 'Tell me, Isolda, what did you see?'

Isolda gulped past the lump that had formed in her throat, 'My lord, I saw nothing but Chaos.'

 Trondheim wrote:
Well done, you present characters that I like and Beastmen. Those things makes me a happy reader! Well done

Dedrick sat stone still, his gaze transfixed upon the fireplace as he absorbed Isolda's words like a sponge. For the stars to speak so directly was worrying in the extreme, but that they chose to do so at such a time in the history of the Empire was beyond worrying. Was he indeed one of the first to witness the beginning of the end of the Empire? Had Sigmar somehow found it within himself to warn him above others of the coming tide? Or was it less a warning, and more of a prompt? In any case, Isolda seemed itching to continue,
'Go on.' Dedrick said, mentally preparing himself for what was to come.

Isolda took a few deep breaths before she finally restarted, 'My lord, the stars cannot speak to us in terms that we would speak to on another. What they say, and how they say it, might be more complex than if it were a human or elf speaking. The langauge of stars is more to do with images and emblems than-'

'Yes, yes, emblems.' Dedrick interrupted, waving a hand dismissively through the air, 'What did they tell you, Isolda? Surely you can interpret what they say and relay it to me in a way I can understand?'

'I was just trying to tell you how understanding the stars is no simple task, even for those of the Celestial Order. What I understand them to say might only be a half-truth since I may have missed bits off. …' She trailed off as Dedrick gave her a hard glare. Clearing her throat, she went on, 'They told of a great warhost, the likes of which this world has rarely seen, and they will sweep down upon us like a fell storm, crushing all in their path.'

Rieger's gauntleted hand firmly gripped his lance as he led the knights through the streets. Hadza was no more. Thick ropes of smoke spiralled upwards from the myriad fires that had taken root in the ruins of houses. Corpses lay strewn around the village as if they had been no more than ragdolls thrown by a child. There was no pattern to their deaths save that of mindless chaos and brutality, a disordered slaughter that could only be the product of a massacre.

Some sat slumped against ruined walls, chips of plaster and splinters of wood surrounding them. Others had fallen clutching loved ones; lovers held each other in tight embraces as they were cut down; mothers perished with babies and young children held protectively against their bosom, trying to shield them from harm-sharp spears or javelins had been utilised against them in order to spear both the mother and her child. None had been spared. Scattered amongst the burning buildings and charred ruins lay the burnt, desiccated remnants of men who tried to fight, or families who had become trapped in their homes.

Blood ran freely through the churned, hoof-printed dirt, settling in crevices or pooling in depressions in the ground. With the blood came the harsh, cloying scent of death and decay. It was thick, almost tangible, and hung in the still air. The fires cast everything in a flickering orange light, throwing ominous shadows against walls that still stood, and warming the stone-cold faces of the dead that longingly stared into them.

Rieger knew that he had every right to vomit at the sight, to fall ill and collapse in his saddle from the smell alone, but he fought the urges. He had seen death and destruction before, but he never witnessed cold-blooded slaughter. It was only now that he discovered how different it felt, how harrowing it was to walk by people who never stood a chance. At least in wars, soldiers fought soldiers, and villages like this had organised militia.

What had ripped through Hadza was nothing more than a juggernaut, crushing all in it's path.

'This warhost, once it has tasted blood, will stop at nothing to taste it again, and again, and again; there is no sating its desire. All who stand against them will be cut down, their flesh used for food, their bones for meal, and their blood shall be as wine for the warhost. It is a fool who stands before them and does not immediately cast his weapons aside and runs for the hills.'

From all sides they flowed, axes flashing in the flickering firelight, eyes focussed intently upon the knights, and bestial howls ripping through the thin veil of silence that had fallen upon Hadza. Rieger grimly lowered his visor, levelled his lance and dug his heels into the ribs of his warhorse. Armour and weapons clattered as his unit followed suit, aiming to spear the heart of the horde dashing out to meet them.

The small-horned Ungors at the fore of the beastmen charge wavered at the sight of the charging knights. Warhorses pulled up the earth as they ran, sending chunks of sod arcing through the sky behind them and looking as if they meant to ride into the ground itself. Behind the Ungors, their larger Gor cousins herded them onwards, eager to spill more human blood. Bestigors, colossal greataxes and warhammers held high above their heads, uttered blood-curdling warcries as they ran, careful not to outpace the cannon-fodder they drove before them.

Still the knights raced on. Rieger spotted a Bestigor nearing the head of the herd, and veered towards it, his lance aimed at the sweaty slab of pure muscle that made up the beasts' chest. He leaned forward over his warhose, bracing the butt of the lance beneath his shoulder, and threw all caution to the wind. To the Bestigor's credit, it held its ground, never wavering. Rieger jumped the cowering Ungor line that served as the Bestigor's only protection, and set upon the towering beast.

'All defences and attacks will be swept aside as if they were nothing more than cobwebs. None can hope to stand in the path of the warhost and live. They are indiscriminate in killing, but their goal is clear. They mean to tear out the beating heart of the Empire, and feast upon it. Her defenders; her soldiers; her knights; her spellcasters; her people; may stand against it, but they shall not succeed.

Pain. That was all Rieger felt. Intense, throbbing pain. His platemail carried a large dent in the side, and he could barely draw a breath. Dried blood coated his lips and chin, from where he'd bitten off a chunk of his tongue and torn into his lips. It had come from nowhere; stepped right out of the shadows and clubbed him off his warhorse with a casual strike of its mace-if a weapon the size of a small man could still be classed as a mace. How did he not see the Minotaur before?

His head swam as he tried to sit up. Quickly realising he was about to vomit, he tore off his helmet and retched a few times before it finally spewed forth. Wiping his mouth with the back of his gauntlet, he took in his surroundings. Bits of horse were scattered everywhere-the beastmen had obviously taken them apart before moving on-and in places lay shattered swords and long needles of splintered lance. Most of his knights were now broken bodies in the dirt, their armour rent and their flesh torn, quickly looted for their innards.

One or two picked their way through the mess, trying desperately not to look at their dead comrades, but it was a nigh impossible task. They saw Rieger sitting up, and offered him only blank stares as they crossed over to him. Here and there, a fallen knight moaned for water, or clutched at a passing ankle, asking only to be put out of their misery. Rieger's eyes were watery as he watched. So many of his men, good men, with lives and families, had died needlessly. Others lay on the cusp of death, feeling great pain throughout. Responsibility for it all hung around his neck like an iron noose, ready to string him up at a moment's notice.

What had he done? He should've turned back as soon as he saw the smoke and the fires. He knew it was likely an ambush, and yet he led his unit to their deaths in order to find her, and find her he did. She was staring up at the sky, her mouth contorted in a scream of pain and fright, her chest ripped open and her guts removed. Her remaining ribs struck out at all angles, as if trying to escape her. Rieger had numbed at that point. Revenge was all that was on his mind, and it had cost him. Maybe if he willed it hard enough, he could die there and then, and suffer not the guilt of living.

'There are but two options. The first, is to make a stand here, in Murstvig, and let the tide of Chaos crash against her walls. Exhaust the warhost, and stand firm, and it may disband or fall in upon itself. The second, is to acquire the Aegis, for no pure creature of Chaos-a daemon- can lay eyes upon it and live, and those touched by Chaos-like the beastmen of the barbarians of the north-are repulsed and weakened by its very presence. One who wields the Aegis, wields a weapon of the Old Ones themselves. He may not stand alone and slay the horde, but he might fight them off.' Isolda finished. She trembled and shook as she sat down in front of the fire, her face was ashen and her posture not nearly as regal as it was.

Dedrick watched her, taking her in. He had never seen her like this before, so vulnerable and afraid. For that matter, he himself had never felt so vulnerable or afraid. He stood and sat next to her, pulling her close to him. She offered him a weak smile of thanks, but nothing more. After a minute, she withdrew from him, and stared down at the floor, 'My lord, I must confess that the stars told me one more thing, but I fear that you will not like it.'

Dedrick appraised her once again, 'Then why are you telling me about it?'

'Have I ever lied to you, Dedrick?' She rarely used his first name, so he could tell this meant something important.

'No, no you have not.'

'Do you want me to start now?'

Dedrick chewed his lower lip, 'No, I'm sorry, Isolda, I'm... on edge. What did they say?'

'Dedrick,' she turned and locked her eyes with his, 'I'm sorry, but Rieger isn't coming back.'

'Oh.' Dedrick felt as if he'd taken a hammer-blow to his chest. His lungs screamed for air, but he was in no mood to breathe. His only true friend, one whom he had wronged and had left before they could reconcile, was gone.

'I know how you felt about him, and I am truly sorry … I wish I didn't have to be the one to tell you.'

It was Isolda's turn, now, to pull Dedrick close to her, and she reached out for him, but he shrugged her hand away. The grief she had expected to see in his eyes was nonexistent. Anger lent his features a dark, powerful look that she found strangely alluring, but he had not the eyes for her. His hands formed fists at his sides, and he stared hard into the crackling fire, 'I need you to find Einar. Now.'

'My lord?'

'Einar Hertze, Captain of Murstvig, the one who brought me the hunters who are currently staying at The Monarch Oak inn at my expense. I want him here now.'

'Yes my lord.' Isolda curtsied and turned to leave.

'One more thing.'

'My lord?'

'Send a message to Balthasar, tell him what you told me. We need all the help we can get.'

'My lord, why do you think I came in the middle of the afternoon to tell you of something I saw in the middle of the night? He has dispatched two wizards of great ability, and has given them the fastest steeds he could find. They should arrive here shortly.'

Dedrick nodded his response, 'Thank you, Isolda. That will be all.'

'You wanted to see me, my lord?' Dedrick stood in deadly repose, his back facing Einar and hands clasped firmly in the small.

'Indeed I did, captain.' Einar's stomach knotted when he was addressed by rank. Perhaps Dedrick had seen his joke with the huntsmen in a rather darker light than he'd hoped. Dedrick's calm tone did little to ease Einar, in fact, he felt far more on edge for it. 'It has been brought to my attention, that the beastmen are becoming far more of a problem than we anticipated, have you heard the same, captain?'

'Not exactly, my lord, but I have had suspicions'

'Suspicions?' Dedrick roared as he wheeled around to face Einar, 'Did you suspect that we might be facing a blight unlike anything the Empire has seen before? Did you suspect that the beastmen sightings we've been having increasingly far away from Calve's Stand, could be anything more than the 'minor incursions' reported? Did you suspect that we are the only ones standing between them and the free lands of the Empire?' Dedrick's face was crimson with rage as he spat each word. Einar fully expected the words to fly at him and cut him apart. 'Did you? Did you suspect anything on this, this scale?'

Einar lowered his eyes under the withering gaze of Lord Dedrick, 'No, my lord, I did not.'

'Rieger is dead.'

Einar quickly looked back up, 'My lord?'

'Rieger is dead, Einar. He rode to the defence of Hadza, against my wishes. Isolda has told me that he will not return.' What fury and spite had previously coated Dedrick's tongue was now expended. Tears of rage now flowed as tears of sorrow and guilt, but he remained standing, resisting the pain.

'I am sorry, my lord, truly I am.' Rieger was close to Dedrick, Einar knew that much, but he didn't know just how close. It seemed that Dedrick had a human side after all.

'They took him from me, from all of us. I refuse to suffer the existence of those beasts-those tainted abominations-any longer.' Dedrick stared Einar hard in the eye, 'They came looking for a war, I intend to show them a massacre.'

'My lord, you cannot take the fight to these creatures.' Isolda swept out from behind Einar, he hadn't even known she was there. She quickly inspected Einar, taking him in before continuing, 'You know what the stars said, that our only chance to win was to weather the storm here, at Murstvig, or to locate the Aegis.'

'It is not the only way.' Dedrick spoke with utter confidence. He truly believed that he had another way, 'If we behead their leader, be it shaman or otherwise, the herds will fall to infighting. It is what has happened with every other warhost of theirs in the past. They have only ever come together under the banners of the ruinous powers held aloft by the warriors of the north, never of their own accord, not in these numbers.'

'My lord, the stars offered no other path, we cannot waste our time and effort to chasing a phantom solution. You said it yourself, the beastmen have not come together like this before, so how can you be sure that they can be dealt with in the same fashion?' To Einar, Isolda seemed on the verge of a breakdown. She alone knew what the stars showed her, and they had not shown her Dedrick's plan ending well.

'I know. The shadows told me.' A twinkle briefly appeared in Dedrick's eyes, a speck of knowledge that he'd hidden away for just this moment, perhaps? Einar could not be sure. Whatever it was, it swiftly turned Isolda's face ashen.

'You cannot converse with the shadows, you are not capable of using magic, nevermind attuned to them. Such skill takes years upon years of study with the Grey Order, nevermind the inherent risks taken along the way. You have been deceived if you think that you are truly capable of this.'

Dedrick's mouth split in a wide grin, 'Oh, but it is not I who speaks with them.' The flames in the fireplace spluttered for a second and abruptly went out, as if a giant had blown upon it. Einar rubbed his arms as the room gained an icy chill. In the corners of the room, he swore he could see the shadows coalesce, drawing upon those from under things or cast by the meagre light let in through the curtained windows.
Suddenly, they flew together, swirling and writhing like a living storm cloud on a spot beside Dedrick. Isolda covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide-open. Dedrick simply grinned, his face taking on a dark look that suited the situation perfectly. With a slight 'thump', the shadows collided, and a slim man wearing deep purple robes and a black hooded cloak stepped out from the darkness. A brief breeze swept across the room, blowing the shadows back to where they belonged. The fireplace flickered back to life, looking as if it had never gone out. Einar watched his own shadow leap back behind him, and turned to check it was there. He shuddered as a cold feeling swept down his spine.
The man wore a black mask over his mouth and nose, so that only his steely grey eyes could really be seen. They appraised Isolda quickly, as if reacquainting themselves with an old friend, but they spent time on Einar. He felt as if he were a beetle beneath a magnifying glass, and a voice at the back of his mind told him to run, but it felt as if his legs were not his own. When the man's eyes left him, Einar released the tension he hadn't realised had built up. Something trickled down the side of his nose, and he wiped away the cold sweat that had beaded on his forehead. Warmth seeped back into his bones, but he was convinced that it was still significantly colder since the man had appeared.

'May I introduce to you Coenor, of the Grey Order,' Dedrick motioned to the man beside him, 'Here by order of Balthasar Gelt, and the first of two wizards sent to aid us in crushing the beastmen.'

'I know Coenor,' Isolda said. Her eyes hadn't left the man since he'd appeared, 'I think Balthasar also knows him, and I highly doubt he'd even speak his name, nevermind send him to help us. Why are you here, Coenor?'

Coenor uttered a throaty laugh, 'It is nice to see you too, Isolda.'

'I mean it.' Isolda's voice had taken on an authoritative tone. She was no longer speaking as just Isolda, she was speaking as Isolda of the Celestial Order.

'Balthasar requested my presence here, it is as simple as that. Do you wish to read his request yourself?' Coenor flicked his palm upwards and a shadow swept across it, depositing a neatly folded square of parchment in Coenor's hand. He proffered it to Isolda, and she snatched it up. Carefully, she unfolded it and read it over several times. Coenor kept both his hands clasped before him, looking almost casual as he waited. With a sigh, Isolda returned the parchment, and Coenor recalled a shadow to remove it from him, 'Happy?'

Isolda huffed and folded her arms beneath her breasts, 'Well, I'm not unhappy.'

'Debateable.'

Dedrick raised a hand to halt any further clash of words, 'Enough, we have much work to get done. We still await the arrival of the second wizard, but Coenor assures me that his services will not be required for the preliminary preparations.' His gaze fell to Einar, 'Captain, assemble a good-sized force and march to Ahlderlen, Coenor tells me that the beastmen intend to use its location to stage further assaults into the Empire. I want the place cleared and under our control two days from now, am I understood?'

Einar knew that two days was barely enough to reach Ahlderlen, even with good marching conditions, 'Yes my lord.'

'Good. Once Ahlderlen is firmly in our grasp, you will return here; we will need your expertise in deciding our next moves.'

Einar's eye twitched, 'My lord, my expertise tells me that two days will not be enough to even reach Ahlderlen, nevermind secure it.'

'I know, that is why Isolda will accompany you. She can ensure that the heavens give you no trouble weather-wise, and she can locate the quickest path using the stars.'
Isolda stepped forward, 'My lord, surely my talents are much more useful in aiding our army as a whole, and not pathfinding?'

'Coenor has things well in hand here, your services in your current capacity are no longer required. You will accompany Einar to Ahlderlen and return with me once it has been secured, or you will be branded a traitor to our cause and hung for treason, do I make myself clear?'

'Quite clear, my lord.'

Dedrick flashed her an insincere smile, 'Excellent.' He turned and handed Einar a bound piece of parchment, 'Here are your formal orders, in writing. Carry them out to the letter, or suffer the consequences. Dismissed.'

Night had swiftly closed in around Einar and his company by the time they'd reached the outskirts of Ahlderlen. Isolda held a small glowing orb of starlight in her palm to guide the way, but even it was proving insufficient against the claustrophobic darkness. Luckily, Ahlderlen was first established as a logging camp, and steadily grew into a small village when the workmen took local women as wives and started families in the camp. When the timber began to run out and loggers went off in search of more, a number of them stayed behind, and Ahlderlen flourished thanks to space and farmland cleared by logging.

It also meant that Einar's approach was unhindered by trees or brush, a double-edged sword in most cases because of the lack of cover to hide behind to to utilise for a stealthy approach, but the bright lights of the village ahead had put Einar's mind at ease. Somehow they had made it in only one-and-a-half days of marching. Enough, Einar hoped, to repel the impending beastmen assault. They wouldn't be expecting a hardened company of soldiers, not to mention a Warrior Priest and a Celestial mage.

What he certainly wasn't expecting, however, was to glance down before Isolda and see a large hoofprint firmly cut into the ground. He called a halt to the march with a raised hand, and bent low to inspect it, tracing its shape in the starlight. Isolda and Benedikt knelt beside him, the starlight casting sharp shadows across their faces,

'Can you tell what made it?' Isolda asked, her features hardening as she prepared to call upon the winds of magic.

'Yes.' Einar said.

'And?'

'If it was a beastman, would I still be playing around in the dirt?' Einar admonished.

'I suppose not.' Isolda kept her eyes on Einar as he continued to probe the print, 'So why are you still 'playing in the dirt'?'

Einar grunted, deep in thought, 'Want to figure out its weight. The deeper the print, the heavier the load. A light print could be anything, especially one made by a shoed horse like this. A deeper print could really only be a select few things. Worst case scenario, a mounted deserter passed through here, at best it could easily be a knight or even part of a patrol.'

'We could use the extra information if it's a patrol, not to mention the manpower.' Benedikt added.

Einar nodded his agreement, 'It would certainly help, but I don't think it's a patrol; there's only one horse from what I can see.'

Isolda shrugged, 'Perhaps there are more on foot?'

'I don't think so,' Einar said, shaking his head, 'The ground here is soft, and even a leather boot print would show up, a plate boot would easily be visible.'

Benedikt's eyebrows drew together, 'So what about our company's prints? Who's to say we aren't being tracked right now?'

'Nobody, but even the beastmen wouldn't throw themselves at a company this large. A patrol or even just a reinforcement company, perhaps, but a main occupational force? Not unless they had the manpower then and there, especially without cover.'

'What if they had a shaman?' Isolda suggested.

'If they had a shaman, then perhaps. …' Einar bit his sentence off, it was no use creating trouble where none yet existed, 'Let's get moving, we've wasted enough time here and we might as well use the lead we've built.'

Pink-tinted clouds floated in the brightening sky when Einar's company marched into Ahlderlen. One or two people were already up and about, either leaving to tend nearby fields or to ready a shop or stall. They looked frightened and relieved in equal measure when they heard the steady thump of heavy footfalls, and saw the gleaming steel breastplates, oiled leather jerkins and chainmail of the Empire's military. Open mouths were quickly shut when people saw Isolda's deadly resplendence at the fore of the company, and they swiftly hurried along with their work.

There was no sign of any beastmen activity in the area whatsoever. In fact, the village looked surprisingly normal.

Einar leaned in towards Isolda, 'You and Coenor don't exactly see eye to eye, do you?'

Isolda grimaced, 'He's a foul, evil man, unworthy of even serving the cause of the Empire.'

'And yet you didn't challenge the claim that we'd be marching into beastmen territory.' It was more of a statement than a question.

'No, I didn't, did I.' Isolda looked down slightly, 'As much as it pains me to admit it, Coenor is one of the most proficient Grey Wizards the Empire has ever produced. He can utilise the shadows in ways that most could never dream of, and in ways that give others nightmares. I've never known his information to be anything but correct.'

'I see.' Einar's thoughts had been confirmed, there was no time to lose. He called to a man off by the side of the dusty dirt road, 'Have any horsemen stopped by here recently?'

The man paled and his legs looked as though they could barely support him. It was rare for a common person to be able to stare the leader of a company in the eye and give him a straight answer. He seemed to only be in his mid-twenties, but he 'ummed' and 'erred' like an old man trying desperately to recall the names of his grandchildren. In the end, he just pointed to a large stone building deeper into the village that rose up at least a storey taller than the simple plastered houses surrounding it. Einar dipped his head in thanks, half expecting the man to clutch his heart and drop dead, and told his company to take up defensive positions around the village before starting towards the building with Benedikt and Isolda in tow.

When he was closer, Einar could tell the building was the village barracks, housing the local militia and providing passing patrols, messengers and soldiers with a place to rest. What sent his hand to the hilt of his blade, however, was what stood in front of it. Several vertical pikes were haphazardly buried in the ground, and each carried atop it the head of a mighty bestgior. The wooden shafts of the pikes were still slighty damp with blood that couldn't be more than a few days old.

Einar weaved between the pikes towards the door of the barracks, when it was flung open by a plated arm. A tall armoured man wearing a tabard in the green and brown colours of Murstvig, stood in the doorway. Short brown hair topped his head, and his face was rugged and clean-shaven. He appraised the small group with brown eyes that looked as if they'd seen enough recent hardship to last them several lifetimes. He kept a hand on the hilt of a well-made longsword with a stylised crossguard, one Einar, to his amazement, recognised.

'Rieger.' Einar said. It took all he had to maintain his composure at meeting a man he had long assumed dead. Benedikt, and Isolda especially, looked equally stunned.

Rieger stared at them all for a minute, and then beckoned them inside, 'You're late.'