This story is a crossover between Warhammer Fantasy and the Emberverse. For those not familiar with the Emberverse, it is a series of books following the premise that in 1998, an event called the Change happened, causing electricity, gunpowder, combustion engines, and all our other fun toys to stop working. Most of the world dies horribly to starvation, violence, and cannibalism, but a lucky few are able to get out to the country with those they can gather, starting new nations almost by accident.
The books focus on the Willamette Valley in Oregon, and the three most powerful factions. The Bearkillers were founded by an ex-marine and feature a core of extremely skilled horse archers and cavalry. They tend to be the most practical and down-to-earth faction, and have an ex-engineer, so lots of fun gadgets to play with. The Mackenzie clan was founded by a practicing Wiccan and folk singer, so they have many Wiccan and Scottish traditions, and have the best archers. The Mackenzies also noticed that with tech gone, the magic was starting to come back… The final faction is the villain of the piece, the Portland Protectorate Association, founded by an egotistical medieval history professor who likes to play evil overlord. The PPA has lots of castles and men at arms, and were set to try and conquer the rest of the valley within a few months of our story's beginning. The Bearkillers and Mackenzies were allied against them.
Not sure what Warhammer Fantasy is? Don't worry. It will be explained…eventually. For now, sit back and enjoy the ride.
November 2007, Change Year 9
Road to Larsdalen
The setting sun cast the sky a fiery red, the colors still spectacular even without the pollutants that twisted and warped the sunset in the old world. But the lone rider did not even bother looking up, keeping focused only on the road. A pair of long banners waved lazily in the cold air overhead, one pure white with no emblem, the other rust red with a blocky sigil stamped in the center. The banners were strapped to the rider's huge black horse, which bore the weight of pole and rider without complaint.
"Halt!" A voice called, and a quartet of riders surged over a nearby hill to circle the lone figure, who obediently slowed to a stop. The group maintained a respectable distance from the figure, horses edging back and forth nervously. All of them had bows strapped to their backs and held sturdy wooden lances in their hands. A man who looked to be in his thirties edged his horse forward slightly, drawing the rider's attention. "You are on Bearkiller land, stranger. What is your business?"
"I am a Herald," the figure replied in a female voice, her tone indicating she was not used to being questioned. "I have a message for the one known as Lord Bear."
"You are well equipped for a herald," the man pointed out, glancing at the heavy war axe strapped to the woman's hip and the shield that was strapped to her back.
"More than you know," the woman stated flatly, pulling aside her light riding cloak to reveal that she wore full plate armor, painted in the same rusty red as her banner. Ignoring the other riders, she pulled a heavy helm out of her pack and placed it over her head.
It was the same color as her armor, and appeared to be a modified barbuta style, the slits in the helm so small that her face was completely obscured when she finished putting it on. With her cloak pushed aside and her helm on, the woman was an imposing figure, studier than most men and with a decidedly menacing cut to her armor and weapons.
"As it happens, we are due to return to Larsdalen tomorrow. We will escort you there," the man told her, though his lance had started to angle down threateningly when she had reached behind her. "My name is Peter, of the Bearkillers' A-listers. Who are you?"
"A Herald," the woman replied, leaving her helm on and spurring her horse forward. "If you are going to travel with me, then come. I wish to deliver my message and be done with this task."
Dun Juniper
"And then the nun says, 'Father, that's not my broomstick!'"
Samuel Aylward frowned as those gathered around their new visitor exploded into laughter. The young man in the dazzlingly purple armor had thus far shown himself to be nothing more than a perfect guest, though Sam had caught him making eyes at a few of the young ladies (and young men, he noticed with some alarm) that gathered around him.
"You seem lost in thought," Chuck Barstow announced, sliding into a chair beside Sam. "Something wrong?"
"Our new friend is what's wrong," Sam grumbled, casting another suspicious glance at their guest as the handsome man raised another mug in toast. He'd already drunk more than enough to put out a lesser man, and didn't appear to be anywhere close to stopping. "That armor of his is too well constructed to just belong to an isolated community. The Protector would literally kill to get his hands on a set like that."
"That sword of his looked pretty nasty too," Chuck agreed. "Never thought I'd see a falchion like that in this day and age. It's almost got more barbs than blade."
"Exactly. He came expecting trouble. And the roads still aren't exactly safe these days. He traveled all this way, alone, to give a message to Juni, but he won't tell us where he's from, what the message is, or even his name. Something is definitely wrong about all of this."
"Hard luck to him that the Lady is out then. He'll have to wait at least a day or two."
As the pair watched, the young man began teaching those around him a song that made Chuck's head perk up.
"'Hooked on a Feeling?'" Chuck asked, looking over at Sam in slight confusion. "Who the heck is this kid? He can't have been older than 10 when the Change hit. Who that age has an interest in 60s pop songs?"
"I don't know," Sam replied, still watching their guest with wary eyes. "But I aim to find out."
Portland
"It looks like a crescent moon with the top on fire. You say the guards have been finding these all over Portland?" Sandra Arminger asked, holding a blue cloth square with a yellow symbol inked into the center.
"Even in places no one should be able to get into. One of the guards even found one wedged into his damn armor," Norman agreed, glaring out at the lights of the city. "I would blame the Mackenzies, but this isn't their style. It feels more like that crazy ranger girl. My agents agree, a burning moon isn't a Wiccan symbol."
"I'm not sure you should be the one judging others for their Tolkien references," Sandra pointed out, glancing pointedly at a nearby banner featuring a red lidless eye. "Regardless, what's the point of this? An agent wouldn't announce their presence like this."
"Someone likes playing games," he theorized, turning the cloth over his hand. "They're trying to get my attention."
"I'd say so," Sandra said suddenly, walking swiftly over to the window. "Look at this!"
Norman walked beside his wife and saw what she was referring to instantly. In the street below, someone had painted the same symbol he held in his hand in paint that glowed sickly green in the darkness. Below the symbol, the mysterious vandal had painted a single sentence:
I am a Herald.
"He wants my attention? Fine. He's got it," Norman snarled, crumpling the cloth viciously in his hand. "Turn out all the guards. I want whoever did this in my dungeon by the end of the week. I have some questions for him, and I don't think he'll like how I ask them."
"I'm your wife, not your servant, dearest," Sandra replied sarcastically, but still made for the door. She agreed, this mystery herald needed to be captured. Now.
Larsdalen
"The Lord Bear is sparring right now, but I can take you to him," Eric Larson explained politely to the armored figure that stood before me "I imagine he'll be very interested in what you have to say. Are you certain you don't want to rest first? It must have been a long journey. Where did you say you were from?"
"I didn't," the woman snapped, glaring at Eric through the slits in her helm, which she had refused to remove through the entire rest of the journey. "And I need no rest. Bring me to Lord Bear."
"O…kay," Eric replied warily, before turning to lead the way. Even with three fully armed A-listers following the pair, this woman made him nervous. Her whole attitude was that of barely contained violence. Combine that with the fact that she refused to be parted from either her armor or weapons, and Eric was uncomfortable about taking her to see Mike at all.
But no one rides alone from…wherever it was she was from, without a damn good reason. Not these days, anyway. Even if you didn't run into bandits, wild dogs, tigers, and other natural predators were still very dangerous to solo travelers. That plate armor probably kept her safe from most of those, but it only took one lucky tiger or bear to hit you the just right way. All the armor in the world couldn't save you from a snapped neck. Plus from the patrol's report, she insisted on riding through the night to get here, stopping only to rest her horse.
The loud sounds of training weapons smashing against each other greeted them as they walked into the Bearkiller's training grounds. A-lister trainees ran in laps, stabbed at targets, or worked on their archery. In a nearby clearing, Mike Havel, the Lord Bear, was unleashing a barrage of blows upon a middle-aged woman, Pamela Arnstein.
The sword mistress darted about quickly, but Mike was too persistent. Pamela's foot fell wrong, and she stumbled. Mike darted forward, training weapon stabbing, and the spar was over. Both relaxed almost instantly, casting off some of their armor as a pair of trainees brought them both towel.
"Hmph," the Herald snorted scornfully, watching the pair. "I hoped for better."
"And who is this?" Mike asked, glancing up at the armored form approaching. "I didn't know we had a guest."
"Herald, I present Lord Bear, Lord of the Bearkillers and Leader of the A-listers," Eric announced formally, before turning to Mike. "Lord Bear, I present a Herald. She claims to have a message for you. She would not reveal her message, nor where she came from. She also refused to part with her weapons, and insisted on meeting you immediately."
"I hail from the North," the Herald stated, and Eric frowned at her sudden change of heart. "Beyond the land you call the Protectorate."
"That's a long way to ride," Mike pointed out, rising to his full 5'11", which still left him several inches shorter than the armored woman. He extended a hand and smiled. "On behalf of the Bearkillers, welcome to Larsdalen."
The woman took Mike's hand, and he had to try hard not to wince. She had a grip like iron, and it felt like she was actively trying to crush all the bones in his hand. He returned her crushing handshake with all the strength he could muster, though he knew that she probably didn't feel much through those heavy gauntlets. It was a test, he knew, and he'd be damned if he'd show weakness before this stranger.
With a satisfied nod, she released his hand, and Mike resisted the urge to cradle his aching hand. The Herald glanced around the training area, and Mike could almost see the eyes behind the helm taking in the exercises the trainees were doing. She was probably trying to put together a good idea of what their skill level would be when they finished, and what combat roles they would specialize in.
"I'm surprised you made it through the Protectorate without bumping into any of their patrols," Mike remarked, trying to draw the woman's attention back to him. No point in giving her any more information than he had to. With her predatory attitude, he highly doubted she was here to make friends. "The Lord Protector doesn't usually let travelers as heavily armed as you are pass through his territory unchallenged."
"They tried," the woman said calmly, turning back to Mike and casually drawing her axe. The A-listers behind her stiffened and started to draw their own weapons, and he didn't bother to stop them. Whoever she was, it felt like she might be missing some cards from her deck. The Herald simply ignored them, turning the axe over to show several red stains where the blade met the haft. "It did not end well for them. My companions and I did not want to be delayed."
"Companions?" Mike asked, glancing at Eric, who shook his head. "I'm sorry. I did not realize you had lost friends on your journey."
"Ha!" The woman actually laughed, a booming mirth laced with dark humor. "They are pathetic, but not so weak that a simple journey would end them. They had their own messages to deliver. We only traveled together as far as Portland."
"How many did you travel with?" Mike asked casually, but his keen tactical mind was working overtime. Her companions were probably just as well equipped, and you didn't waste gear that good on someone who didn't know how to use it. Judging from the armor's design, it was made by a master armor-smith, but someone else had gotten involved too. It looked like something one of the villains from Astrid's fantasy novels would wear. Based on what the Protector had done with that knowledge and theme, Mike's bad feeling kept getting worse and worse.
"Only four others," the woman answered, pulling her axe back, but not belting it back to her waist. "But they are not our concern. Your training program is impressive, Lord Bear."
"Thank you," he answered, heart sinking further. She may not have had a good attitude for a spy, but she certainly took notice of military matters quickly enough. Well, if she could not be diverted, then go for a display of strength. "Many can't make it through our program, and even more don't even qualify for entry. We have high standards for our military."
Mike quietly left out that the A-listers were not the Bearkiller's only military force, but better to let her think otherwise.
"Not high enough," the woman stated flatly, walking up to a trainee who was hacking at one of the moving practice targets. "You. Hit me."
She tossed him her heavy axe, which he franticly caught after hastily dropping his sword to free up both hands. He looked in confusion from her, to Mike, to the axe, and then back again.
"That pathetic sword wouldn't even dent my armor," the woman explained, annoyance obvious in her tone. "Now, if you aren't too craven to fight an unarmed woman, come at me!"
The boy looked franticly to Mike, who shrugged and gestured to proceed. The boy was obviously out matched, but seeing how this woman fought would be worth the bruises the trainee would receive. He'd make sure to explain it to him after she left.
The boy hefted the axe and charged, fainting at her unshielded side to try and draw her out of position. But the Herald didn't fall for it. In fact, instead of settling into a defensive stance, she roared and charged. The trainee had just enough time for his eyes to widen in shock before she smashed her shield into his torso, sending him flying.
He sprawled out on the ground, moaning, and the woman lifted her helm for the first time since her arrival to spit derisively on the ground next to him. She had harsh features, and a very manish look about her. Her hair was cropped short in a boy's haircut, and her nose was a crooked mess for where it had obviously been broken many times.
"As I said, your standards aren't high enough," she stated flatly, bending down to retrieve her axe. "I'd almost feel guilty collecting the skulls of these pups."
"You must have quite the military then," Mike stated diplomatically, channeling as much of his wife as he possibly could. All he really wanted to do was pull on his own armor and show her how a fully trained A-lister fought, but better she underestimate them. Control the rage.
"We are favored by Khorne," the woman replied, her tone indicated the verbal equivalent of a shrug. "None can match our warriors in battle."
"Then I hope it doesn't come to that," he said diplomatically, though his sword arm had begun to itch with the urge to teach this arrogant woman some humility the Marine way. "Is Khorne your leader then?"
The woman laughed again, the same deep mocking laugh that carried all the way across the training field.
"You might say that," she answered after her mirth had subsided, leaving Mike feeling like the butt of some inside joke. "But I also answer to another lord. It is on his behalf that I have come to you today."
"Ah yes, your message."
"Indeed." The Herald squared her shoulders and stood up formally, addressing Mike with a booming voice that easily carried to everyone present.
"Lord Bear, on behalf of my Lord, I am bid to present you with news. The Everchosen has arisen in the North, Uniter of the tribes, and Beloved of the Ruinous Powers. At their bidding, the tribes of the North march south, and all those who resist will be put to the sword."
Mike's stomach fell. This was exactly what he had been fearing. The woman was mad, that much was obvious now. He could even hear the capital letters when she spoke. But her skills and armor were real, and if five men could slip through the PPA without significant trouble, how long had this Everchosen been planning, and what did he already know? Normally, he would be all for someone teaching the Lord Protector a lesson, but something told him this was not a war he wanted the PPA to lose.
"You have drawn the eye of the North, Lord Bear. Your warriors are famed in story, and your land is prosperous. The Powers now call on you to prove your worthiness by strength of arms, or your land and people shall be given to one more deserving. Sharpen your lances, saddle your fine horses, and pray to whatever gods you think can save you. The Northmen are coming, and we are as nothing you have ever seen before."
The Herald then slammed her axe against her shield, metal crashing against metal with a sound like thunder. Mike saw several of the trainees jump at the sudden noise.
"I have delivered the message, my task is complete," she stated, turning abruptly back the way she had come. "I will collect my horse and leave you now."
Eric glanced over at Mike and whispered quickly,
"Are we just going to let her walk out of here? After what she just said?"
"Look at her, Eric," Mike replied quietly as the Herald shoved between two the A-lister guards to walk briskly toward the stables. "She's spoiling for a fight. She wants us to try and stop her."
"She can't possibly out-fight all of us," Eric argued, brow furrowed in anger. "It'd be suicide."
"Exactly," the Bearkiller leader answered. "She's crazy, Eric. All she wants is to fight. She doesn't care who, she doesn't care why, and she doesn't care if she lives or dies. I think the only reason she hasn't tried to kill us yet is because someone told her she couldn't."
"Who the hell can tell a psycho like that what to do?" Eric wondered and the A-list trainees began to return to their regular routines. "This 'everchosen' guy."
"I have no idea, but I get the feeling we're going to find out."
Dun Juniper
"Is that the 'Immigrant Song'?" Juniper Mackenzie asked, straitening her kilt as she walked with Sam toward the dining hall.
"It is," Sam answered, frowning. "Our nameless guest has been teaching it to them for the past day or so."
"I didn't think it would sound quite as good with just acoustic, but he makes it work, our strange friend," Juniper said generously. "He still won't say where he's from?"
"He's never actually rude about it, but every time we ask, he just deflects it. Oh, and judging from the way the girls have been hanging off him, we may see a few new Mackenzies with that blonde hair of his before next harvest."
"Well, I can hardly judge them for that," Juniper pointed out, remembering her own teen pregnancy. "Let's go see what our friend wants, shall we?"
"No!" little Rudi Mackenzie shouted, baring her way with his tiny arms spread. "You can't go near him!"
"Why ever not, little one?" Juniper asked, bending down to get closer to her son's level.
"His spirit's wrong," Rudi said, causing Juniper to frown in confusion. Rudi was usually so polite, so having him react this violently was very odd. "He's pretty, but only on the outside."
"I think he's perfectly charming," Matilda Arminger stated haughtily, trailing after Rudi as she usually did. "A true knight, handsome and strong. He's sweet!"
"So is a poison berry, but it'll kill you all the same." Sam glanced into the hall, frowning. "Just be careful, Juni."
"I will," she told him, before turning back to the children. "Don't worry for me, my heart. The Lady will watch over me. But until I have a chance to talk to our guest, maybe you two should scoot off somewhere safe. I think the Rangers will be getting in soon."
Rudi's face brightened at the thought of seeing his sister, and he dashed forward to give his mother a quick huge before running off, Matilda in tow. Was it her imagination, Juniper thought, or did that hug seem a little longer and tighter than normal?
Steeling herself for anything, Juniper walked into the room, her eyes instantly seeking out the stranger in their midst. He was handsome, she thought, eyes drinking in his golden hair and powerful form. It was like someone brought a statue of a Greek god to life.
She could not focus on him for long, however, as her Clan immediately erupted at her entrance, friends and neighbors all clamoring and applauding her safe return. When she had finished making her way to her seat and quieting the crowd, she turned to find her guest standing right next to her, already close enough that she could smell him.
And what a smell… It was primal and masculine, but also somehow feminine. It was like someone had found a way to bottle sex and then had accidentally dumped a gallon of it on this stranger. No wonder the girls seemed to obsess over him.
"The Makenzie herself," the man said, bowing gracefully and somehow sweeping her hand up to kiss it gently. At the touch of his lips, Juniper felt a shiver race up her spine. This one really was dangerous, though maybe not for the reasons Sam had suggested… "I am honored to finally meet you. I have travelled a long way with a message for you."
"Thank you for your diligence, Herald," she replied formally, pulling her hand back as quickly as she could without being rude. "Please, feel welcome in my hall. Your presence honors us as well."
"Before I relay my message to you, Lady Juniper, I have a gift to present to you," the man said, walking gracefully away from her to seize up his sword from where it rested by his armor. "A dance, popular among my people in the North. May I?"
"By all means." Juniper sank back into her seat and gestured for him to proceed. Several tables were moved aside, and he stood alone in the empty space before her. To her surprise, no one struck up a tune or beat a drum. The man simply began dancing.
His movements were graceful, almost impossibly so for a man as well muscled as he. His sword looped and curved, flashing in the light as he weaved in and around it, his back arching. His eyes never left Juniper, and even seemed to burrow into hers as he danced his flowing blade dance, swishing blade and stamping feet the only sound in the hall.
Suddenly, he paused, writhing in on himself to drag the blade across one pectoral in a straight line, red blood shining from the cut. But if the pain bothered him, he felt no sign. He almost seemed to enjoy it, shuddering in ecstasy as he brought the blade across his skin.
The dance resumed, and just as it reached a fever pitch, he writhed and slashed himself again. The dance then began anew as the slashed moved like clockwork in a circle on his chest. It was like sex, Juniper thought as the man slashed himself for the fifth time. A slow building to a frantic, explosive climax. Only this climax was pain and blood, not pleasure, she reflected. Not that he seems to be minding.
Finally, after the eighth slash, the man built up the dance again, but this time as it climaxed he twisted inwardly. The blade cut only his shirt and with a flick he cast off the ruined garment, standing bare-chested before Juniper. The eight slashes of blood radiated out from the center of his chest like rays from the sun, and there in the center of his chest was a symbol, tattooed directly into his flesh.
It was a circle, Juniper thought, with a bar coming out at an angle from the top. At the end of the bar was a small crescent, and in the middle of the bar lay another, much larger crescent. That was all she had time to think before a massive, sickening wave washed over her, the symbol on his chest almost pulsing with foulness.
Rudi was right, Juniper realized as she saw the rest of the gathering staring, enraptured by the erotic dance and the strange symbol. This man's beauty was just a mask. Inside, he is the worst sort of demon imaginable. And Lady help me, I almost don't care.
"I have a message for you, Juni," the Herald said, walking forward seductively to stand but a foot from where she sat.
"The Everchosen has risen in the North," he whispered seductively, making her spine shiver again in equal parts desire and repulsion. "He has united the Tribes, and now they move south, following the path set by the Ruinous Powers."
"You have drawn the eye of the North," he continued, tracing a finger seductively through the air millimeters from her face, but not quite touching her skin. "Your skill and cunning is famed, even in the North, and your people and land are fertile. The Powers now invite you to prove yourself worthy, or you and yours will face the ravishment of the North. Lace up your armor, polish your swords, and sing your war song, Juniper Mackenzie. Those of the North are coming, and I promise you: we are like nothing you have ever experienced."
His voice was a seductive murmur, but it carried easily to the rest of the hall. For a single moment, she wanted it. She wanted them to come, to burn down all these useless trappings, to seize her and her people and do what they would with them. And then her eyes spotted a single raven's feather drifting down from the ceiling, spiraling lazily through the air on an unfelt breeze.
Juniper's mind crystalized into something as hard as diamond, and she surged to her feet, delivering a vicious backhand to the Herald that sent him sprawling to the ground despite his bulk.
"You dare?!" she roared, snapping everyone out of their trance instantly. "You come into my house a guest, you eat my food, share my table, and then you dare threaten my people with death and violation? You are banished, Herald! Leave my hall this very moment, and never blight Mackenzie land with your foul presence ever again!"
The man licked the blood from his split lip with every indication of enjoyment before sliding back to his feet, walking over to his armor and beginning to pull it on in silence. It can't have been comfortable without a shirt underneath, but he didn't seem bothered by it.
The gathered clan began slowly drifting out of their confused stupor, and by the time the visitor had finished the lengthy and complicated process of putting on his full armor they seemed to have recovered their full wits. They were glaring at the man in hatred, and several even looked about ready to attack him with their bare hands as he pulled on the last part of his armor and strapped it down.
"Begone from this place, Follower of the Left Hand Path!" Juniper snarled, an almost inhuman fury bubbling up from somewhere deep within her. "Go and tell your dark masters that neither they nor their servants shall ever set foot in this land while I still draw breath. So I do swear!"
"You should be careful with your oaths," the Herald returned, placing his narrow-slitted helm over his head and turning to face her one last time. "For I swear to you, now. I shall return to this place again. And when I do, no matter how much you struggle and squirm and bleed, you will know that some part of you, deep inside, wanted it to end that way."
The man then whirled on his heel and walked out the door confidently, letting it slam shut behind him with a noise like the lid of a coffin.
"Sam, send out some messengers," Juniper ordered, sinking bonelessly back into her chair, exhausted from the confrontation. "Gather all our allies. We need a council of war. I fear things are about to get very unpleasant."
Portland
"You've found him?"
"Yes. Our guards have him cornered in an alley not far from here. He is asking to speak to you," Tiphaine d'Ath answered calmly.
"Oh, I'll speak to him," Norman growled darkly. "Three days of cat and mouse games and glowing messages? I have quite a few things to say to this man. Arrest him immediately!"
"I don't think that would be wise," Tiphaine replied, and when Norman's eyes blazed up in fury, she continued. "He claims to have planted a firebomb somewhere in our grain stores. He says if anyone comes within ten yards of him he will not reveal where he placed it."
"Damn him!" Norman roared, and swept out of the room, Tiphaine following calmly behind. "Firebombs may not explode anymore, but they still burn well enough. And our grain stores are already a fire hazard. Could he really have done it?"
"After these past few days, I would put nothing past him," Tiphaine stated flatly. "I have men searching the grain stores as we speak, but in this dark it will be almost impossible to conduct a complete search without risking setting off the stores ourselves."
"That Herald is too clever by half," Norman frowned as they made their way down to the street. "Though he may have just outsmarted himself here. Where is my wife?"
"Collecting several marksmen with crossbows and scopes. They will be waiting for us when we arrive."
"Always three steps ahead," he remarked with pride. "Alright, take me there. If our Herald wants an audience so badly, we should reward him."
The pair walked briskly out into the street, where a squad of heavily armed bodyguards fell automatically into formation around them. Norman walked swiftly, though not too swiftly. It wouldn't do for people to see the Lord Protector looking worried. After only a few minutes, Tiphaine led him around a corner to a dead-end ally, where a heavily armored man waited.
A thin line had been drawn across the mouth of the alley in blue chalk, and a lit lantern flickered on the wall above it. Its light illuminated his blue and gold-painted armor strangely, shadows dancing around and giving it the illusion of constant motion and an almost unreal quality, as if he were lit be a different light source entirely. A heavy shield was held in one hand, and a bastard sword was belted to his hip.
The alley was ringed off by armsmen with long spears, but none of them dared cross the blue line the man had drawn. Behind the armsmen, three more guards stood with crossbows pointed at the armored Herald. As thick as that plate armor looked, at this close range, the crossbow bolts would almost certainly be lethal. Norman noticed a tiny amount of movement in a window behind him, and knew his wife had already arrived. He strode forward confidently, knowing that if the stranger tried anything, the armored man would be dead before he could take even one step.
"I understand you wanted to speak to me?" Norman asked casually, stopping pointedly just over the chalk line on the pavement.
"I did," the man replied, and his voice had a strange echo to it, as if it wasn't coming from the right direction. "Did you enjoy our little game, Lord Protector?"
"I admit, some of your tricks were quite clever," Norman answered smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back so the armored figure wouldn't see them ball into fists at the memories. "You will have to share with me how you pulled them off."
"A magician never reveals his secrets," the Herald stated with a smug chuckle. "You've settled in quite nicely here, Lord Protector. Ordered castles, disciplined formations…I'd imagine even trains even run on time."
He could hear the smile behind the man's helmet, and see that this Herald person was obviously enjoying every second of this. Manipulations, plots… He got off on them, and was very good at them. But, as a manipulator himself, Norman knew the best way to unravel this web of lies. The direct approach.
"You," he said, turning to face the nearest crossbowman. "Shoot him in the leg."
"Ah, but if you do that, you'll never find my bomb in time," the man warned, seemingly unconcerned. Norman knew better. The fact that the man had responded at all meant that he found the Herald's weak spot.
"I can get that information out of you in the traditional manner." The Lord Protector shot the Herald a casual glance. "Torture is a very effective tongue loosener, I've found."
"I imagine you have," the man replied without any trace of fear in his voice. "But you hardly have time for that, Lord Protector. No one lasts forever, but I'd imagine I can hold out for at least an hour or so."
That gives us the fuse time on the bomb, Norman thought to himself, carefully keeping the grin off his face. Let's see what else we can get…
"You'd be surprised. I can work quite quickly if I need to, even with improvised tools," Norman stated calmly, turning back to his archers. "The knee joint, I think. Please aim carefully, it's quite dark here."
"Then I suppose you are uninterested in hearing my message?" the Herald asked, voice just a little too quick to be completely casual. Norman smiled thinly. Got him.
"If you wish to claim immunity as a messenger, you may do so," he answered silkily. "But you will first have to give up the location of the bomb, naturally."
"But of course," the Herald replied with a bow. "As you no doubt suspected, there never was a bomb. I realized swiftly that if I merely walked into your hall without any guarantee of safety, I would be unlikely to ever walk back out again. Now that I have been given your oath, however, I may freely deliver my message to you."
"Then do so, Herald," Norman growled darkly. No wonder he was chosen as a herald, the man seemed to love the sound of his own voice.
""The Everchosen has risen in the North," the Herald began calmly, his tone still as smug as ever. "The Tribes have united under his leadership. As the Ruinous Powers demand, the tribes will soon march south."
"You have drawn the eye of the North," he continued, confidence radiating from his smooth voice, each word careful and measured. "Your skill at manipulation and strategy is famed, and even we in the North have heard of it. Your people are subservient and obedient, your lands are vast and fortified. The Powers now invite you to prove yourself worthy of the blessings you have been given, lest you and your people perish in chaos and flame. Light your torches, call out your knights, and devise your most brilliant stratagems, Lord Protector. The Warriors of the North are coming, and you have never seen anything like us."
Almost immediately after he had finished speaking, a muffled WHUMPH sounded from off in the distance, and the night was lit by a burning beacon. One of the grain stores had suddenly caught fire, flames licking high into the night sky and casting burning debris out at nearby structures.
"Oh, and I may have lied about that bomb," the man said calmly, the smugness returning with interest before he suddenly vanished from sight.
"Shoot him!" Norman roared, and a dozen bolts shot through the abruptly empty alley. Most ticked harmlessly off the far wall, but three sliced through the air were the man had been standing and hit something with the sound of shattering glass.
"A mirror," the Lord Protector realized as he and his bodyguards charged into the alley. "We've been had by a fucking stage magician?!"
The Herald's mocking laughter rang through the streets, fading off into the distance. Norman snarled in rage and was about to order his men to give chase when his wife cut him off.
"Get to that fire!" she snapped authoritatively. "Rouse everyone you can find, before it burns down the whole city!"
Walking closer to him, she placed a calming hand on his arm and shot him a piercing look.
"There is a time for rage, and this is not it," she hissed into his ear while the guards raced off to do her bidding. "He planned all of this. His escape was no doubt planned far in advance, and is probably studded with traps and false leads. Besides, we have bigger problems."
When the Lord Protector shot her a questioning look, she continued, leading him out of the alley and back toward the safety of the castle.
"There is no way one man could have done all this by himself. There is a conspiracy in Portland, and there can be only one reason for this attack." Sandra Arminger's face assumed a mask of dark concentration as she turned her considerable intellect toward this new threat. "Make no mistake, my husband. This is only the beginning."
Two Weeks Later
Chehalis River, Five Miles North of Barony of Chehalis
"You're late," the woman in rusty red armor snapped at the approaching pair of riders, one in sickly green armor, the other in darkest black.
"Sorry," replied the green armored rider in a friendly female voice, that almost instantly dissolved into a series of racking coughs. "I just-cough-couldn't leave those nice monks at Mount Angel without-cough-a few gifts. They were so very-cough-hospitable. I do hope-cough-they like them."
"Dear lady, it is my very great privilege to tell you that you are utterly disgusting," stated the handsome young man in his silver and purple armor. "What did you even give those old prudes?"
"Just a special blend of my favorite little fleas, full of Grandpa's blessings and spread around the abbey," the green rider replied, her coughs subsiding as her friendly voice took on a tone so sweet it was practically rotten. "Wouldn't want anyone getting left out now, would we?"
"And how did Corvallis go?" asked the tall man in blue, his voice hinting at some wry amusement.
"As well as can be expected," answered the man in black. "Their foolish Senate was too busy to see me for almost a week. So I kicked in their door. Somehow, they were able to make time for me then."
"Hmph," the woman in red snorted, head nodding in grudging approval. "I bet their guards weren't very happy."
"They weren't in a position to object at the time," the man in black replied, smashing one armored fist into his open palm suggestively. "Once I finished, they were so stunned it never occurred to anyone to send an organized force after me until I was already out of the city."
"Democracy in action," the purple rider scoffed, before spreading his hands mollifying. "No offense."
"None taken," the man in black replied. "Union does not require a vote, just an iron hand. The Everchosen is right to say they have become too soft. It is time to show them the error of their ways."
A silence fell over the group as all five watched six longships, prows decorated with snarling demons and roaring dragons, round a bend in the river. Their sails easily caught the wind, revealing proudly the eight-pointed star in the center, and their oars flashed steadily in the river, dragging them inexorably toward the unsuspecting south.
What did you think? I chose which Herald went where with some care. While it might make more sense to send the Tzeentch warrior to Dun Juniper for Tzeentch's love of sorcery, the books do so love to go into Juni's rituals. So I figured the pagan-friendly Slaanesh would be more appropriate. Tzeentch tends more toward "fire and frogs" kind of magic. I also put some thought into the songs our Slaanesh friend sings, that's not just me with my iPod on shuffle. You may have to wait a bit for the next chapter, this story is quite a bit heftier on the word count than my other one, and I'm trying to do some beta-ing as well.
Did I screw up somewhere with the details? Is someone acting out of character? Just don't like my stuff? Leave a review! I do try to go back through and edit my work to fix mistakes/plot holes, and have a standing cookie reward for any typos found.