by C. L. Werner
The scars on von Kessel's face were a terrible weight on him then, and Albrecht knew that they were still; although those feelings were hidden deep within the impenetrable barriers that the captain had built over the years. Three lines crossed von Kessel's face, linked by a curving line that arced from above his left eyebrow across his forehead, passing by his right eye and over his right cheekbone, and finishing on his jaw line. These lines were each half an inch thick, and pale on his suntanned face. It was a quarter of a wheel that, had it continued, would have had eight lines bisecting it. It was an evil mark, a mark of bad omen.
For this reason, the young von Kessel had been ostracized by his peers, and shunned as a bringer of misfortune. None of them, bar Albrecht himself, knew of his cursed heritage. Albrecht hounded von Kessel relentlessly, and finally the day came when the young man had stood up to the sergeant, punching him squarely in the jaw. Albrecht had of course struck back, knocking the young man unconscious. Nevertheless, from that day forth, nobody gave the young man any more grief, and he slowly came out of himself, becoming a comrade in arms with the other soldiers. Although he would always have difficulty expressing himself, and would have no close friends, von Kessel became someone that the other soldiers trusted implicitly, and someone who they came to respect greatly.
Gradually he had progressed through the ranks until he had, somewhat reluctantly, become captain. Albrecht was not upset to see von Kessel overtake him, for he recognised the brilliance within the younger man, if only he would accept it. No, he was proud to serve the captain, and he loved him like a brother.
Stefan had said that he owed Gruber for protecting him as a babe. Some protection, thought Albrecht. The fat bastard had been present when the white-hot branding wheel had been pressed to the babe's face. Stefan had been so young and small that only a quarter of the white-hot brand had marked his face. To be raised with such a mark of shame upon his face was no way to grow up. True, Gruber could have had the babe drowned if he had wished it, all because of Stefan's grandfather's treachery, but no one who burned the face of an innocent babe should be seen as a saviour in Albrecht's book.
He snorted, and took another long pull on his pipe.
'There ain't no taint in him', Stefan had heard the sergeant say as he had walked away. He prayed that the sergeant was right.
Hroth slammed his axe into the back of another of the fleeing villagers, and the man fell with a tortured scream. The piteous noise was cut short as he slammed his foot down onto the pathetic Empire man's neck. The night was alight with flames - the Khazags had begun to burn the village to the ground. Those who had cowered in their homes had soon come out when the flames began to lick at the buildings. They were cut down as they ran screaming from the burning houses. To Hroth's disgust, many had chosen to burn to death in the flames rather than face his men. There was no glory in that. Facing an enemy head-on in the heat of battle, staring death fearlessly in the face,that was the honourable way to die. The Khazags believed that there would be no rebirth for cowards who let their fears dictate their dishonourable deaths.
The streets of the village were chaotic. Terrified men, women and children ran from the Khazags, their shouts and cries filling the air all around. The flames were reaching the upper storeys of the tallest buildings, and several began to collapse in on themselves as their supporting beams burned. The Khazags had run into two isolated groups of soldiers, and had butchered them mercilessly. Hroth himself had slain a dozen of them, but his axe thirsted for more.
A growl came from a side street, and Hroth turned. A massive furry shape leapt at him, a fang-filled maw flashing towards his throat. He swung his axe into the side of the creature mid-air, and it was smashed into the side of a building, yelping piteously. Thick dark fur covered the beast, and a ridge of spikes protruded from its spine. Hroth's blow had crushed the ribs of the creature, and shards of bone protruded from the wound, blood welling around it. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth, and its eyes were dead.
The massive bald figure of Borak knelt beside the creature. Pushing aside the thick fur on its head, he saw a distinctive, coiling marking.
'This is one of Zar Slaaeth's warhounds. He must be near.'
'Good.' replied Hroth. 'That way.' he said pointing, and began to lope down the darkened side street. He passed a corpse that had been ripped apart, its guts pulled from its body. The warhound's prey, he realised.
Hroth grinned as he thought of Zar Slaaeth. He had long yearned for the day when he would cut his head from his shoulders.
CHAPTER FIVE
Stefan awoke instantly and had a blade at the throat of the figure that knelt above him. He let out a breath as he recognised the man, and moved the blade away from Albrecht's throat.
'Thanks.' said the sergeant. 'I damn near shat myself.'
'What is it?' asked Stefan, pushing himself from his cot and sheathing his dagger.
'Sorry to wake you, captain. You're needed at Gruber's tent.'
'What? Has something happened to the count?'
'No, nothing like that, but they need you up there all the same. Some general has arrived, or something.'
'A general?'
'Yeah. Dunno who he is, but he's arrived with a great number of knights, apparently. Must be someone important. Rode in from Nuln. Rode straight up to the counts tent and demanded a council of war.'
Stefan frowned. 'Demanded? Not many people can demand a council in the middle of the night with an elector count. What time is it, anyway?'
'Just before dawn.'
Stefan rubbed a hand over his face, wiping the last remnants of sleep away. Albrecht could smell alcohol on the captain. He noted the empty bottle of spirits next to the captain's bed. 'I'll wait outside for you,' he said, and left the tent.
The captain emerged a few minutes later, wearing his battered breastplate, greaves and gauntlets, and a slashed jerkin bearing the purple and yellow of Ostermark. He held his sallet helmet under his arm. A pair of pistols hung at his side, along with his sword. As ever, a pendant of the twin-tailed comet, the symbol of the warrior-god Sigmar, hung around his neck. 'Let's go,' he said.
The two men were silent as they moved through the camp, climbing the hill towards Gruber's tent. Torches shone around the command tent, and they could see two fully barded warhorses. A knight sat in the saddle of one of the horses, a tall banner held aloft in his hands, while a pair of stable boys held the other. The horses were massive creatures, standing some eighteen hands tall. Stefan could not see the design on the banner, for it was hanging loosely and no wind was blowing, nor could he make out the filigree designs on the horses' barding, but if they were truly from Nuln, the seat of the Emperor Magnus, then he believed that he knew who these knights were, and he was awed.
As the pair drew closer, a slight wind touched the banner, and it fluttered in the breeze. In that moment, Stefan saw the design on the heavy banner. It depicted a skull with a wreath wrapped around its crown, surrounded with scrollwork and intricate designs picked out in gold. These were the newly formed, yet already renowned, Reiklandguard. They had ridden at the Emperor Magnus's side during the Great War. These knights had turned the great battle in Kislev and routed the forces of Chaos. Stefan and Albrecht traded a glance, eyebrows raised. Stefan was waved into the tent. Stamping his feet against the cold, Albrecht stayed outside, keeping a wary eye on the massive horses of the Reiklandguard.
The inside of the tent was lit with lanterns and large candles. Gruber and some of his courtiers were there. The count himself had obviously dressed hastily, for his shirt was half unbuttoned, exposing flabby white skin. He was not wearing his wig, and his white hair was thin and patchy. His eyes looked heavy and red, and his deep frown expressed his displeasure at being woken at such an hour.
A large man in full plate armour dominated the room. He turned as Stefan entered, and the captain saw that the knight was of middling age, his long, tied back hair and sweeping moustache touched with silver. His face was angular and stern, and his fierce e
yes commanded respect.
'Is this the one?' The knight spoke in a voice that, although not loud, carried absolute authority.
'It is. Reiksmarshal Wolfgange Trenkenhoff, I present to you Captain Stefan von Kessel,' said Gruber. Stefan's eyebrows raised ever so slightly, the only indication of his surprise. The man standing before him was a living hero of the Empire, a man counted as a close friend and supporter of the Emperor himself. He was the man who had personally formed the Reiklandguard knights, and was the one who had commanded the armies that had defeated the forces of Chaos the year before. His word was second only to the Emperors in matters of war. Stefan's eyes locked on the reiksmarshal's, and he held them there for a moment before bowing his head to the older man.
'It is an honour,' said Stefan, truthfully.
'The Elector Count of Ostermark tells me that you did not hold your post when ordered to,' said the knight sombrely. Stefan felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach, and his anger began to rise; yet he refused to let his emotions show on his face. Without even looking at him, he could feel the pleasure of the count's great-nephew, Johann.
'Is this true?' asked the knight grimly. Stefan licked his lips before he answered, phrasing he words carefully.
'I would not wish to contradict my count, lord knight. I am a loyal soldier of Ostermark and the Empire.'
'Captain von Kessel and the regiments under his command were sent to Deep Pass, were they not?' asked the knight.
'That is correct, Lord Reiksmarshal.' It was the golden-skinned Tilean advisor Andros who smoothly answered. 'The captain was sent to prevent Chaos forces that had manoeuvred around our position from moving into the mountains.' 'What troops does he command?'
The Tilean advisor looked to his count, who indicated impatiently that he should continue.
'Captain von Kessel has under his charge some... two and a half thousand halberd infantry.'
'Two thousand and thirty-seven, after yesterday,' interjected Stefan, 'and thirty-four more may die during the night from their injuries.'
'As well asroughly a thousand arquebusiers, eight hundred crossbowmen, and eight cannon from Nuln,' continued Andros. 'Added to this, there are a number of auxiliary irregulars, including scouts, outriders and militia. They're common riff-raff for the most part.' Stefan was irritated by this remark, but kept quiet.
'That should do. Why was von Kessel chosen for this duty?'
'Because he was available, and because the duty was an important one. Captain von Kessel has one of the best military records in all the armies of Ostermark,' the advisor coolly answered.
'So, von Kessel is one of your most commended captains, yes?'
'He is that, yes, amongst other things,' snapped Gruber, growing tired of the conversation.
'So, he disobeyed an order that would have seen his forces slaughtered, and yet returned victorious.'
Gruber's eyes widened in shock, and he began to splutter and cough, the sores on his neck reddening dramatically. Recovering from his coughing fit, he snarled, 'Is this conversation going somewhere? Otherwise I will retire to my bed.'
'My apologies, Grand Count Gruber. I shall endeavour not to keep you long from your rest. As you know, the north is in ruins, count. You also know that the mage-prince of the elf kind, Teclis, is in Altdorf with our good Emperor as we speak.'
'Yes, yes, I do know that.' said Gruber, 'setting up some colleges or some such thing.'
'The Grand Colleges of Magic, yes. Well, as you may not know, the fleets of Teclis's kin have patrolled the Sea of Claws during these last four years of warfare. They have done us a great service by harrying the Norse longships that plague our northern shores, and by lending their aid where they can. They have also, I am informed, been attacking up and down the coast of Norsca. This has had the effect that many of the Norse have been occupied with their own defence, and many longships did not even set to sea this past year to raid. Without the elves, I fear that all of Nordland and Ostland may have been lost. Indeed, elf land forces even now guard our northern coastline. Our alliance with the high elves is vital.'
'Heightened aggression from the Norse has forced the elf patrols further out to sea, leaving an important elf noble stranded on our northern coast.'
'Now to the real reason I am here tonight. I am here to requisition an army from you, Count Gruber, and I want Captain von Kessel to lead it.'
CHAPTER SIX
Hroth the Blooded and his Khazags moved warily towards the town square. The open area was lit with flickering orange light, the buildings lining it were ablaze. A grand fountain sat in the middle of the square, pale stone sculptures sitting in the circular dais in the middle of the water. Hroth wasn't sure if it was a trick of the firelight, but the water seemed to be blood-red. The statue in the centre of the fountain depicted the hated, weakling Empire god Sigmar, standing with his hammer raised. Eleven statues of warlords stood around him. As Hroth watched, a helmeted warrior perched atop the shoulders of Sigmar swung a heavy, double-handed hammer and knocked the head from the statue. A great cheer rang out.
His arms and hands caked in blood and gore, Olaf snarled as he saw the banners that were held aloft by the warriors on the other side of the square. Made from silky black cloth, they bore the markings of the champion of this warband.
'Zar Slaaeth,' hissed Hroth, and began to stalk across the open courtyard. His Khazags fanned out behind him, almost four hundred all told. The cobbles were strewn with corpses, both of commoners and soldiers. Evidently, many of the townsfolk had fled here, and the few remaining soldiers had chosen this place to make their last stand. Hroth felt his anger begin to grow. These should have been slain by him and his Khazags, offerings to great Khorne. They should not have been slain by Zar Slaaeth.
Hroth had hated him ever since they had first met three years before. At the gates of Praag, Hroth and Slaaeth had fought side by side, but that was only because of the power and authority of the High Zar Warlord, Asavar Kul. Hroth had never met the high zar, but just the fear that his name created was enough to hold the champions that fought under his banner from their own disputes. Hroth and Slaaeth had fought ferociously at Praag, slaughtering the Kislev defenders that stood against them. Slaaeth, with his fine voice and charismatic persona, had been the one made zar at the battle's end. There had been no such honour for Hroth, and the fact that Slaaeth was also a Khazag rankled. On that day, Hroth had vowed to great Khorne that the skull of Slaaeth would be his.
The rival warbands eyed each other warily. To an outsider, the two warbands would have looked almost identical. Both tribes being Khazags, they bore similar arms and armour. Only in the choice of ritual tattoos and piercings were the differences apparent. While the warriors of Hroth the Blooded favoured crisscrossing scars cut into the flesh of their arms and cheeks, and many were adorned with blood-red tattoos that displayed their dedication to the Blood God, Khorne, the warriors of Zar Slaaeth tended towards spikes piercing their brows, ears and noses, and they had spidery, coiling tattoos on their flesh. In terms of numbers, the warbands were equally balanced.
A tall figure in black armour rose from where he sat, trailing his fingers through the golden hair of a motionless woman. The naked corpses of at least a dozen men and women were strewn around him. No doubt, they had sated Slaaeth's desires, but briefly.
Slender for a Khazag, Zar Slaaeth stood half a head shorter than Hroth, although his slightness made him look much smaller than the massive Khornate champion. His face was handsome, and his hair was perfectly white and straight, trailing down his black armoured back. He bore a small coiling, purple tattoo on his left cheek - a mark of the god of decadence, Slaanesh. His eyes were completely black, the pupils having long since dilated completely.
'Your power is past, Slaaeth.' snarled Hroth as the enemy champion walked towards him. The two warbands had formed semi-circles around their champions. They knew what was to come. Both warbands had seen their champions face countless rivals.
The champion of Sla
anesh threw Hroth a disarming smile, and flicked his pale hair. 'So, you think that your time has come, Hroth the Blooded.' He opened his mouth, and ran his long, pointed purple-pink tongue over his teeth. 'I will feast upon your innards once this is over. I shall keep you alive for the sensation - you may enjoy it. I know that I shall, dear Hroth.'
'I'm going to hack you to pieces. Khorne likes the blood of Slaanesh's champions.' growled Hroth.
Slaaeth chuckled in response, flexing his hands before drawing a long, single-bladed, curving sword with his left hand and a black, barbed whip in his right. The coiling whip seemed to thrash around with a life of its own, as if it longed to inflict pain. Hroth crouched low, gripping his axe in his hands, and began to stalk towards his foe.
Hroth saw that the zar's shaman stood amongst his warriors, his mouth moving soundlessly. He was a massive bare-chested man, who wore a heavy fur over his shoulders. Every exposed inch of his flesh was covered with intricate black markings. They coiled and writhed across his skin, forming into new and varied forms with every passing second. In his hands, he held a tall staff that looked as if it had been made out of a number of ancient tree roots twisted together. At its top, the roots twisted into the shape of an eight-pointed star, blackened by fire. Hroth realised that the shaman did not really hold the staff. The staff seemed to be holding onto him. Its twisted branches had encircled the hand and forearm of the man, embedding deep into his flesh. Slaaeth saw Hroth's eyes narrow, and turned to see what the Khorne champion was looking at.
'I see you like the staff, eh? Is that why you are here? Come to fetch it, like a hound for your master?' Slaaeth smiled again. 'Yes, I see that that is it. You have been sent like a dog to come and get it for your dear master, Sudobaal.'
'I know what it is that your master seeks, but I think that I shall keep this staff for myself.'
'I call no one master.' said Hroth dangerously.
'Of course not, dog.' taunted the zar.
