Prologue
"I looked up into the sky and there I saw my doom, lithesome yet dread. What creatures were these? How many tortures would I endure before peace was mine? A thousand wretched forms united only by a hatred that never ends. Malign and savage to the last, they brim with bitterness for the works of Man."
-Bestiarie Malificen, On the Cloven Ones
Grand Duchy of Middenland, the town of Rorsche,
10 Years before the coronation of His Imperial Majesty, Karl Franz I von Holswig-Schliestein,
Morrslieb hung in the sky, showering moonlight down on the peoples of the Old World. An ill omen.
The town watchmen warily eyed the road, his soft blue eyes glancing from one part of the darkened path to the other, making sure his torch was away from him just enough for it's flames not to scorch his flesh. Beside the pitiful dirt road that led out of the town, the dark forest extended outward, consuming most of his vision, with it's dark branches, and grim leaves. He grumbled something about "his eyes playing tricks", just as he lowered his torch and his grip on his blade's hilt relaxed, as he was sure he was in no present danger. They ain't paying me enough for this shit, he thought., For a second, he thought he was going to empty all of his bowels onto the road. Plenty of ex-state soldiers thought after their "official" military service was over, it would be smooth sailing from then on, only to realise they we're "obligated" to serve as guards in a Free Company unit, if called upon. Which you usually we're. The grumpy man loitering by the edge of the Drakwald, went from a respected member of the Duke's Own Halberds, to a town watch sergeant, stuck in his hometown after specifically joining the province's state army to escape it. That had been so long ago...
He wore a standard Middenland uniform (rather uncommon for a free company soldier to have), colored deep blue, alongside a rather old, and rusty iron breastplate, with the colors of the third Rorsche Infantry Division, proudly displayed at the front, painted on (A laughing black skeleton, playing a flute).He was thankfully able to retain the colors of his old unit, when he joined the town watch, giving him some respect in the position he served, and a showing of his veterancy to the lesser, non-veteran runts serving beside him. Unlike those pish posh boys in Reikland, Middenland soldiers wore rather simplistic uniforms. Alongside his breastplate, he wore an equally decrepit metal helmet, which was oddly in the style of a Tilean helmet. Good armor was rather scarce in these parts, meaning he was quite lucky to have what he had, alongside an unusually full pouch of gunpowder. The man's hair was mostly black, though splats of noticeable grey we're beginning to form, and alongside a large array of stress lines on his forehead, he was beginning to show visible age.
He fully sheathed his broadsword, and, while still observing the part of the woods he heard the unusually noise coming from, bent down, and quickly picked up the firearm he had just dropped by mistake, being careful to make sure his torch stayed away from his face. The watchmen was very twitchy, and was usually observant, constantly checking his surroundings for danger.
Forest Goblins we're always a constant danger in these parts. Alongside other things...
He grumbled once more, retrieving the handgun, before using the long leather strap attached to it, to hang it over his shoulder, and across his back.
Another thing he hated about this post. He was a goddamned Halberdier. Not a handgunner... Ulric damn these bureaucracies… old Nefenda would skin me alive for using such a cowardly weapon.
He was eager to return behind the safety of the town's wooden palisade, so he turned his back to the forest, having investigated the earlier disturbance, and quickly headed back. Already the man's thoughts turned to food, as he rubbed his belly, already planning to stop by that Halfling owned tavern for some delicious spiced potatoes and meat pie, before heading back to the barracks, as his shift was nearly over. Must have been a particularly loud fox. All that was left was to check in with the five other militiamen under his command, and then he could-
Clank. Clank. Clank
The watchmen violently turned around, dropping his torch into the dirt road, as he went into a kneeling position, his armor clanking from the sudden movement, and he concurrently drew forth his wooden musket, aiming it at the dark trees. That wasn't a fox. That sounds like armor rattling. His eyes, having already adjusted to the increased darkness now that his torch lay further down, scanned for anything in his cone of vision. He knew for certain something was lurking under the shadows in the woods before him. Using his left hand, as he held the musket with his right, he grabbed his pouch of gunpowder, and began the painfully long process of loading the cumbersome firearm. In his haste, he accidentally dropped the white cartridge causing him to swear. Ulric be damned. Grabbing it desperately from the ground, the watchmen tore it open with his teeth, and poured the powder inside the small hatch. A small feeling of relief filled him, as he brought the musket up, and began to observe his surroundings, his finger on the trigger. He called out to whatever lurked beyond the threshold.
"In the name of Count Boris Todbringer, I order ye to identify thyself!"
The dark forest stirred, as the wind blew the leaves across the night's sky. A quiet, yet still cold breeze touched his face, as sweat began to form on his brow. Nothing responded. A horrible feeling in his gut began to form, paining him. The veteran was just about to sound the alarm, when he heard the clanking again. His finger closed in even further, as he was an inch away from pressing down on the iron trigger. The man's eyes narrowed, as he searched for the source of the metallic noise, the dark oak trees looking especially sinister under the gibbish glow of Morrslieb.
Though his vision was clouded by the darkness, the sinister green light of the dark moon pierced through, he knew he saw a pair of goat-like horns, dancing among the trees. A cry of bestial might arose from the forest, and a beyond, a strange horn sounded.
The militiaman pulled the trigger, firing his musket, a light blazing across the shadows, as he screamed at the top of his lungs, "BEASTMEN RAID! BEASTMEN RAID! TO ARMS!"
Ten minutes before.
"Sig-mar cam-ee and lib-erated mankind from th-e-the threat-s- of -ch-ch" The small girl struggled to pronounce the word, as the light from her bedside candle flicked, giving way to brief intervals of darkness. The girl was reading from the book out loud. Her innocent, brown eyes sparkled at the bright drawings scattered inside the heavy tome, but always felt their was too much reading involved. She liked looking at the battle scenes, with the greenskins, and marauders! All the big words we're really hard to pronounce though…
The child looked no older than seven or eight. Her bright brown eyes, shone with purity, and kindness. Her hair, dark brown was rather short, though that rather common in these parts. She wore a simple white gown as a pair of pajamas, as she was tucked snugly into her bed, with a bear hide blanket to keep her warm. Her room was small, but since she was a small girl, into suited her just fine. Besides her bed, some miscellaneous furniture, a handful of wooden toys scattered about, and a small pile of books, the room was bare otherwise. The young girl, finally finished with a, "Chaos! Right mama?" She looked for approval from the tall woman sitting on a rocking chair beside her bed, as she showed her the page she had had so much trouble on.
That woman was...lovely. Not beautiful, but definitely very striking. Unlike the little girl, he hair was auburn, and done in a tight ponytail. Her skin was pale, and covered in dirt. Her eyes were amber green, but we're rather sharp, and cunning. Instead of a dress, she wore the garb of a hunter, clothing made from thick deer hide. She spoke in a thick accent, "I told you before, Astrid, I can't read! You'll have to wait for your father to come home." A mischievous grin grew on her face, "Though let me tell you, all this this apparent talk of your father's "Sigmar" is a load of hogwash if you ask me. Man was a mighty warrior, and a great leader but that doesn't make him a god."
"Mama!" Astird Gott shot up, giggling, "Sigmar is the patron deity of the Empire! Ulric, your god, crowned him himself! That's what papa said! And I believe papa!"
Her mother, Freida, crossed her arms, and pretended to be cross with her, "Are ye saying you believe your father over your mother, young lady?"
The girl smiled, nodding her head.
Always been a daddy's girl. The older woman chuckled, as she gently removed the large tome from the girls tiny hands. You could tell by the roughness of her skin, and the countless calluses, that she was no housewife. The woman had been hunting game in these woods ever since she was Astrid's age, and she had hoped her own daughter would do the same. She said to her young daughter, "All right little wolf, it's time to rest now. You can read more of that tomorrow." The young girl sighed, as she pleaded, "Awwwww, come on mama, just five more minutes!" Freida planted a gentle kiss onto her forehead, just as she tucked her into her bed's sheets, "I'm afraid not little wolf. If you want to go hunting with me tomorrow, you need to wake up early, and for that you need plenty of sleep."
"Fine…" The little girl sighed, as she pulled her blanket closer, and plopped her head against her feathery pillow. Before she shut her eyes, she asked, "Mamma is papa coming home tonight?"
The hunter nodded her head, "Most likely. If Ulric smiles upon us, you'll see him right when you wake up in the morning. Now, little wolf, it's time to rest." She gave her a final kiss on the forehead, before she extinguished the lit candle on her nightstand with a blow. Utter darkness soon fell upon the room. The woman then left her daughter to sleep, gently closing the door behind her.
Just a minute later, as the woman began to sweep the floor, the front door of her house creaked open, revealing an armored figure.
The man in question wore full plate armor, a rather expensive looking steel set, a rather rare sight in these parts. Highly ornate, it had a blue purity seal on its left shoulderpad, and some edges of it we're gold. Khazalid runes were etched into the steel plate in several locations, giving it an even more exotic look. Despite its ornate nature, the suit was very well worn, as it was covered in dozens of scrapes, dents and other less noticeable blemishes. Underneath, he wore the standard uniform of a, oddly enough, Reiksland uniform, the white and black, the two opposed colors, mixing very nicely, though the normally crisp uniform was stained with wet splotches, and covered in dirt. For headware, upon his head sat a great, big Landsknecht hat, which sported a set of black, and white feathers. (As a Middenlander that thing never got any less ridiculous to Freida) On his back, he bore a massive, imperial Zweihänder, a greatsword so large it could cut a horse in half. As for features, he looked like an average Reiklander. Pale blue eyes, mixed with a well groomed beard, and a fabulous mustache. His hair was dark brown, though spots of it we're now greying. He was a handsome certainly, but that was marred by a jagged scar running from his left eye, all the way down to his throat. He had a kind face though, even in his extremely weathered state. Just like his daughter.
At the sight of the former Greatsword, Freida threw down her wooden broom, and rushed forward, embracing her husband in a great hug. The tired militiaman returned it with strength, even exhausted as he was. The two lovers held each other in the others arms for what seemed like an eternity, until the woman drew away…
And delivered an armor piercing slap. Her face contorted into a snarl, as the militia rubbed his face, with his leather gloves, a grin forming on his weary face, "I guess I deserved that." The man, not caring about his wife's apparent anger, took a seat on the wooden, kitchen table, eager to final rest his feet. Steam practically blew from her ears, as she screamed, "Are you daft you bloody Reiklander! Leaving me and Astrid with nary but the sound of the wind, and the howling of the wolves! For a week!" She always called him that. Reiklander or Sigmarite. Both a name of affection and extreme annoyance.
Faust Gott maintained a mask of indifference, as he muttered beneath his breath, "I left a note…"
"Oh and that makes it any better? Picking up and leaving! Without your family knowing if you we're decorating the tent of some cowman?! Besides I cant even fekking read!" Ulric damn me for falling in love with a Reiklander….
Faust's time in the military had left him with a rather relaxed personality, as he was never quick to anger and rarely raised his voice, when he wasn't issuing commands to his soldiers that is. The Reiklander remained calm and simply said, "There was no time. When I heard about the expedition into the forest, everyone else was packed and ready to march. The Capain was insistent we leave right away. Lower your voice, Freida, Astrid is no doubt sleeping."
A bloody lieutenant and he still acts like a common state soldier!
Freida's red hot cheeks became even redder, this time in embarrassment, as she shut her mouth, and muttered old curses underneath her breath. She finally gave up and took a seat across her husband, who had just closed his eyes, just enjoying the sheer relief he felt on returning home to his family. The Drakwald was a dangerous place, and greater men had vanished within its labyrinth-esque paths, and black trees. She finally spoke to him, in a much more calm, yet no less enraged voice, "So did you put those cunts to the sword?"
Faust's blue eyes filled with sorrow, as he shook his head, "Nay, we lost the raiding party's trail at the burning remains of Hindenburg…We tried to pickup the trail in Gothbag forest, but we found nothing and turned back at the Spine of Ulkir." The Reiklander had set out (with barely any notice to his family), with three dozen other Free Company militia just about a week ago, to hunt a Beastman warband that was sighted just a few miles away from the town. It seems the group was unsuccessful in it's hunt.
"Hidenburg...has been sacked?!" The Ulfrican's eyes filled with shock, and her mouth lay agape in surprise. The dark shadows clung tighter around their home, and the Dark Moon's sickly green light seemed to become more evil. Those shocked eyes soon contorted to hate, as she practically spat, her face becoming as mad as a wolf's "I had friends in Hindenburg…" She didn't even bother to ask if they found any survivors. The mutants we're thorough, if nothing else. "Those craven curs! Chaos filth! Worse than those savages to the North! Worse than animals!"
The dim candle light reflected across Faust's face, as he muttered, still not having taken off his armor, "I have seen countless displays of heroism and valor from the Northmen. Norsca breeds men, not monsters, unlike what you Middenlanders seem to think, but indeed, the Beastmen show no compassion, and expect none in turn."
She spat, the woman had a fierce temper, "Their animals Faust, nothing more!"
His blue eyes narrowed, "And this is why we're precisely losing so many villages to them. Being bestial does not equate to being stupid. Or animalistic meaning one has the brain of a beast. Their far more cunning than most people, including yourself, think. I've never seen a group more adapt at woodland warfare. Hate and reveal them, but never doubt their intelligence. Unless you want to be made a meal of."
She snickered, cruelly grinning, "I don't need to be lectured by a Reiklander on the woods! I grew up here!"
"And I served underneath Emperor Luitpold himself for over a decade in his own Greatswords." He remained stoic. It was wise to never take his wife bait. He really didn't want to argue right now, "And i've seen the Cloven Ones display more tactical brilliance then most Imperial Generals. We have the technology, the magic, the discipline and yet we still haven't eradicated them. Freida underestimating them is-"
"Pappa?" A quiet voice interrupted the duo's argument. It belonged to their seven year old daughter, Astrid. The little girl rubbed her eyes gently as her white gown, extended down, covering her small feet, and legs. Her brown hair was messy, and she looked half asleep. It had been a blessing from Ulric that Astrid slept like a lamb usually. But it seems her father's impending arrival home after a week had disturbed her sleep. In her hand, the little girl gripped tightly a stuffed white pup her father had bought for her on his trip to Middenheim. At the sight of his beloved child, Faust's eyes became teary, as he crouched down, opening his arms, "Why if it isn't my little wolf!"
A huge smile forming on her face, the little girl, ran forward, and threw herself into her father's arms, gripping his neck tightly, burying her face into his shoulder. At long last, he was home.
After a good minute or so, the two separated, as Faust kept one of his weathered hands on his young daughters shoulders. Without missing a beat, Astrid yelled, "So vater, did you bring me back any presents from your trip!"
"Astrid!" Freide yelled angrily. Her father waved it off with a laugh, "Of course, my little wolf."
The middle aged man, drew from his pack, a large tin can. He brought it before the little girl, and opened it, revealing a large helping of treats. "Candied plums from Ostland." The man said, with a grin "I've already had a...sampling on my way here. You'll love them, little wolf! Sugery and covered in honey! Perfect food for my wolf!"
The little girl began to giggle, as she began to stuff her face into the treats, still holding her little wolf pup underneath her armpits. Freida crossed her arms, looking cross, as she practically shouted, "You spoil her senseless! She'll end up like one of those Reikland brats! She shouldn't be eating candy this late anyhow!"
The Reiklander wrapped his arms around his displeased wife, saying "Come on my sweet! It's a special occasion! Her teeth won't get rotten I promise you!'" Freidae began to tap her feet impatiently, but she cracked a grin, "I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you, Sigmarite. As long as you...make it up to me, later tonight."
Faust smiled, as he pulled his wife in for a kiss, "Of course, milady."
He was home.
…
...
Ring ring ring ring.
The heavy, metallic ringing of the warning bells, and a sudden outcry of loud screaming from outside wrenched the free company soldier from his euphoric bliss, causing him to roughly push his wife away. His wife's sharp eyes became alert for danger, as she angrily spat, "Ulric be damned, I think we're under attack!" The man rushed to the window, taking a peek outside to asses the situation. A crowd of people we're running through the streets, pushing each other aside like madmen, like if they were a group of flagellants rushing towards a battle. People we're collectively yelling, "Beastmen! Beastmen! The End Times are upon us!" Many, "Ulric's teeth, we're doomed!" Even a few "Sigmar have mercy!" Besides the large crowd of fleeing villagers (which he assumed were running to the protection of the Freiherr's Castle), Faust spotted several armed guardsmen rushing forward through the raving crowds, and towards the town square.
Without thinking, Faust clenched his leather bound fists, as he strode forward, running towards the door, with his cleaving sword on his back. He yelled, "Freide get Astrid to the cellar, hide, and wait for me there!"
The Middenland woman yelled in response, ignoring the sweet covered Astrid who had just asked what was happening, "But the castle-"
"Will be their next target once the gate falls. It will be their center of focus if we fail to hold the town square. And if their committing their warbands to besiege a town like ours, trust me, they'll find a way to breach it, whether it be from Cultist infiltrators, or some other way. Stay in the cellar, and be as silent as stalking wolves. Don't let anyone inside, even people you know.. Protect Astrid at any cost." And without wasting another word the Greatsword opened the wooden door, and entered the panic filled streets.
Despite the overwhelming wave of terrified townsfolk, Faust didn't let any of them hinder him, as he rushed through the crowd, sprinting towards the village square, his heavy plate armor feeling like a feather, which he attributed to hundreds of hours wearing it. A sense of...fear hung in their air. The road's gravel creaked underneath his steel boots, which thumped as he ran. Guards wielding spears stood on either side, shouting orders, trying their hardest to direct the villagers to the safety of Castle Wolfsmund, but Faust knew different. That those people would find their tombs instead of safety if he and his men couldn't beat back the ravenous hordes of Chaos. On his way to the square, he rallied a few dozen guardsmen, which followed behind him in a tight formation as they rushed to reinforce whatever meagre force had gathered by the gate in it's defense.
Thankfully, he knew from the furious terror around that the gate hadn't fallen yet, or else it would have been desperate pandemonium in it's place.
After about five minutes, his group of ragtag militia reached the gate, which was deserted of civilians, save for the fifty or so free company soldiers that had arrived there before them, alongside the twenty or so town guard that had been stationed there before the warning bells rung songs of Chaos filth. The total group in question consisted of about ninety bodies, not counting the fifteen or so archers mounted on the wooden battlements behind the actual spiky wall.
Armored in various degrees, and bearing radically different weapons. A few had weathered blue Middenland uniforms underneath steel breastplates, others wore leather huntsmen jackets, and still, many didn't have any form of protection save their bare clothing. Alas, none had any sort of platemail like the ex-greatsword. For weapons, a handful wielded pointy halberds, a few bore spears, Faust spotted several using a sword alongside a rusty pistol in unison, and even a group, to the veteran's dismay, carried Billhooks as weapons. His immense worry was soon replaced by relief when he noticed about a dozen or so of the gathered militia wielded, Nulhn Handguns, remembering that a particularly wealthy patron of the townguard had donated a brace of the fine weapons to the Free Company here. They all had mixed heads of brown, black, grey, and white hair, and had weathered faces that had seen much sorrow.
The assembled soldiers we're shivering in fear, and most looked like they were considering desertion, when Faust came on scene. The minute he arrived, the assembled soldiers hardened, and their morale shot up, many of them saluting that very second, relief at the presence of a renowned warrior such as himself.
A middle aged militiaman, wearing a leather hunters long jacket, carrying a sword and dagger, approached Faust, and his men, whom had already taken up position alongside the others. The handgunners had made a small firing line, behind in the gaps of the other soldiers loose formation. He sharply saluted, as he yelled, "Lieutenant! Thank Ulric you're here-"
Horrible roaring emerged just beyond the wooden wall, alongside savage warcries, and the blowing of strange, bestial horns. Some of the assembled men became to quiver, losing heart, but we're steadied by Faust's reassuring voice, "Steady lads!" He turned again to the huntsmen, saying, "Your name soldier?" He looked around, "By the way, we're is Captain Gors and Commander Weiks?"
"It's Sergeant Hutten, sir. I've been helping the commander coordinate the defenses. Captain Gors headed to the castle alongside the garrisoned State Troops, leaving Commander Weiks in charge. The Commander, in turn, left me in charge of the defense so he could gather some additional men from the Freihe-
"Sergeant-Ah, Lieutenant Gott. You're back from you're little trip to Hindusburg." A grim looking man arrived, interrupting the sergeant, with a dozen or so soldiers following behind him, all clad in Middenland State Army Uniforms. He himself wore a set of full platemail, pale and white, with silvery interlocked chainmail woven into the lower half of his suit, and he carried a massive hammer, forged by meteorite ore, for a weapon. Though the top half of his face was hidden by a savage white wolf cloak, you could tell he had a massive, brown scraggly beard underneath. This was Ser Volrock Von Weilks, a semi-retired Knight of the White Wolf.
Faust gave him a curt nod of his head, as he asked, " Hail to you Ser Weilks. What news do you bring from the Freihe?"
The savage knight spat, "Ulric curse him. He's taken most of the garrison and is refusing to send us aid, like a rat. He's hold up inside, with his family. A coward to the end! That bastard Gors is hiding with him!"
Lieutenant Gott's eyebrows raised, as he asked, "Surely he's let the townsfolk take shelter inside?'
The Knight sadly nodded his head, "Nay. Hundreds of folk are pounding on the stone walls as we speak, begging for deliverance from Ulric and Sigmar. He won't let a single soul in…."
Faust's leather bound hands contorted into a fist, as he gripped them tightly with pure rage. His face melted with hate, Sigmar damn him. Resolutely, the veteran Greatsword, in response, drew his Zweihander from it's leather sheaf on his back, shouting, "Then we'll have to hold them here. Our flesh will be the people's wall!"
The White Wolf, raised his great hammer in salute, "Aye, may your Sigmar grant you strength on the battlefield, Reiklander!"
"And Ulfric bring death upon thy enemies, Middenlander!"
The two officers turned to face the gate, and went to the front of their soldiers square formation. Above them, on the wooden ramparts, one of the archers yelled, "By Morr, they approach-"
The lad didn't have a chance to finish his sentence, as a great spear came roaring from the forest, impaling the young archer, and showering the area in fresh blood. The weapon had been thrown with such bestial strength it's force propelled the imperial soldier backwards, causing him to fall to the ground. If the spear hadn't severed his spine, killing him instantly, the fall surely had. As the other soldiers watched in horror, nightmarish laughter arose from beyond, inside the black woods. The Knight's teeth clenched, as he once more raised his hammer, shouting, "Archers let loose! Send these Chaos Filth back to the void!"
One of the archers, who was missing most of his teeth, nodded, yelling, "Fire!"
In response, a hail of arrows emerged behind the safety of the wooden wall. Though it was dark, you wouldn't go far as a Huntsmen in these parts if you couldn't see decently in the darkness of the surrounding Drakwalk, as such, most of the archers we're able to find barely visible targets among the overgrowth.
An asounding chorus of bestial cries confirmed most of the arrows had hit their mark. The Free Company Archers began to pepper the Beastmen swarming in the woods, trying to thin the hordes ranks before they fell on the town. In response, the Cloven Ones exchanged projectiles of their own, large, barbed javelins. Their skirmishers kept to the darkness of the woods.
More war horns sounded, and even more primal cries of rage emerged from beyond the gate. The terrified archers could only watch as a massive, tide of furry bodies, swarmed out of the woods, intent on burning everything in it's path. A bloodcurdling shriek, louder then all the other dark voices combined resonated, followed soon after by a terrified archers voice, "Nine hells! The fiends have a bloody Minotaur!" Fear soon twisted into terror, as massive force began to collide against the reinforced, but still wooden gate. Drums began to play in the background, a steady rhyme of doom, as crude iron smashed and splintered wood. The savage horrors had no use for siege weapons, as a living battering ram fought beside them. One more more mobile, and infinitely more dangerous to living soldiers too.
At the imminent,, and to be honest, unfairly sudden breach, of their fortification, the assembled company of militia collectively broke down, one, a brown haired farmer, screamed, "Ulric take us, it's hopeless, we can't fight a monster like that! Maybe-maybe we can surrender!" Another, a gun totting marksmen yelled, "No we need to fight! Have you seen what they do with prisoners! Death is kinder!"Another man, with a fabulous mustache screamed, "Then we flee! We can't stay here, we'll be butchered to the last!"
At the likely prospect of a mass rout, Weiks slammed his great hammers butt into the earth, adopting an angry scowl, yelling, "Wolves of Ulric, hear me!" He punched his armored chest. The assembled soldiers stopped their bickering, and looked to their leader in the front of the line. The White Wolf, clenched his fist, shouting, his thick, Middenheim accent spiced with venomous rage, "I dislike winded speeches, so I will keep this brief." He pointed his hammer towards the battered gate, which was still being hammered by giant axe blows, "You do not face human bandits. You do not fight Orcs. You do not face Norscans. You oppose Beastmen. There is no surrender. There is no mercy. They will take your wives, your children. And if they are lucky, they will bash their brains out with stones, or cut their throats with jagged knives before they tear open and devour their corpses. If not, days of unending torture await. Rape. Enslavement. They will suffer agony if they get past us."
A cry of "Aye!" emerged, as the group of irregulars nodded their heads in agreement, morale returning. They would fight or die. The White Wolf turned to face the gate, calming saying, "We have to hold. And we will!" The Halberders slammed their weapons into the ground, the swordsmen lifted their swords with a battle cry, and the gunners chanted. Faust lifted his greatblade, and prepared for the onslaught, as he ordered, in a strict, regimental voice, "Gunners to the front, infantry form a battle-line!' Remembering the countless drills they performed, the irregulars shifted to the back, with ease, as the various gunners approached, taking up firing positions. Some knelt, others stood, as they prepared to fire their muskets. The pistol wielding men followed suit, standing beside their more formidable handgunners with swords draw, the village buildings to their sides.
The gate splintered, and at long last, a horrible crack formed in the middle.
The gunners collectively ripped open with their stained teeth the white cartridges of gunpowder, funnelling it into their ranged weapons. Several archers from the wall had retreated to the main defensive line, notching their arrows, aiming for the gate.
A large chunk of the wooden gate tore off. A frenzied cry of rage emerged from the other side, as the torch light inside shone a revealing pair of massive horns. Blackened words of the Dark Tongue sounded, bastardised by the harsh vocal cords of the savage mutants. The soldiers we're about to let loose at first sight, when a loud, "HOLD!" came from the ex-greatsword, who had lifted his hand into the air. They stopped themselves from firing.
With a loud thud, the battered gates twin doors we're ripped off their hinges, and fell to the ground, revealing the gargantuan perpetrator. It roared, a ear-splitting scream of savagery. Ten feet tall, and covered in thick, midnight black fur, the Minotaur entered the torch light. It was twice the size of a man, and three times as muscular, with pulsating, ginormous bulges of sinewy, muscular flesh, which could catch a battleaxe. It's skull-plated head, protected by its thick skull, and a large plate of iron, alongside its red, glowing, blood crazed eyes, was notable for the massive, and equally sharp pair of bull horns sprouting from it's top. It's mouth was filled with dagger sized teeth, which could easily rip apart castle-forged steel plate, and it salivated at the prospect of devouring raw flesh, and drinking hot blood. Dark iron plate armor was fastened to it's stomach, shoulders, and bits of it's leg, though it cloven-hoofed hindquarters remained visible. It carried, inside it's blood soaked claws, a massive, tree-sized battleaxe, whose blade was adorned in Beastmen runes, which could easily cleave an entire squad of imperial soldiers asunder. The beast reared its hind legs, lifting its gargantuan weapon into the air, as it screamed gibberish in the Dark Tongue, just as dozens of Gors sprinted passed it, finally entering the town, the Mintotaur following quickly behind, roaring.
The savage frontline fighters of the Beastmen we're about seven feet tall, a good deal taller then the Imperial Soldiers, and far more muscular, their hides a wide assortment of earthly colors, most wearing nothing but vests of leather, though a lucky few had scavenged mail. For arms, many duel-wielded savage, primitive, hand axes, though the Greatsword spotted a few great axes in the crowd. The horde ran at lighting fast speeds, helped by their mutations, which included their bestial legs in the shape of goats, and the large horns on their foreheads. A line of Gor Warriors would always hit hard, and fast. Many of them wore primitive tattoos of primal design, and black warpoint, which they drew skulls over their faces. They all screamed bloodthirsty warcries of pure hatred in their dark tongue. At the sight of them, a dark pit in the Greatswords stomach grew, as Gors, instead of the physically inferior Ungor, leading a charge (which, according to their combat doctire, equated inferiority and expendablility) was never a good sign.
"FIRE!" The greatsword let his hand fall. Though pure terror gripped them, they we're not lost enough to not hear their officers order, and every gunner, no matter if they wielded a musket or pistol, pulled their weapons triggers. Sparks lite up the night sky, smoke clogged vision, and the boom of muskets firing echoed across the darkness, temporarily drowning the savage battlecries from the encroaching horde of mutants. The archers let their arrows fly at the same time. The wall of projectiles rushed forward, a lighting fast wall of iron bullets, and steel-tipped arrow, which shattered the first line of Gors. The iron bullets, and steel arrows, pierced through their unarmored targets like how a scythe cuts wheat, causing over a dozen to fall during their charge. Afterwords, the ranged fighters melted behind the imperial line, to the relative protection of being behind the infantry, already preparing a second volley.
As they did, the Commander lifted his hammer high into the air, shouting "To me Wolves of Ulric, for the Empire!" A battlecry from the assembled imperial irregulars shouted, as they all collectively charged forward, led by the White Wolf Knight. Faust brought up his Greatsword, and charged alongside them, shouting a cry of his own, "For Sigmar!" Perhaps if they we're a regimental, and highly trained force of State Troopers, bracing and waiting for the enemy would be a preferable tactic, but that bonus was lost to the militia.
With bullets and arrows whistling past them, the Imperial force counter charged the Beastmen, both sides screaming at each other. It didn't take long for the two lines to collide, which started with a clash of iron. The various warriors, both human and Beastmen, brought down their initial strikes with all the force they could muster, killing something sure, but leaving them open to be killed by the murdered warriors comrades. Whilst the formation held for the first few minutes, with the imperial line turning into a square of flesh to block the Beastmen's advance, it soon devolved into a chaotic melee. Free Company soldiers fired their pistols at point blank range, blowing open the skulls of Gors. Farmers rammed their billhooks into the flesh of Beastmen. Swordsmen clashed with the axe-wielding Gors, trying to get a lucky thrust or slash it, all the while blocking the inhumanly strong axe blows coming from their foe. Gor Warriors danced around the far less mobile humans, and brought their iron axes down, splinting skulls in half. A Gor warrior smashed a humans head in with a large rock. Beastmen wielding Greataxes, grimly decimated downed militiamen, gurgling in delight as they saw their victims wiggle like worms in their death throes. The black Minotaur had joined the fray with a charge, horns first, causing dozens of combatants, both humans and Gors, to go flying in all directions in a display of gore, before it swung it's greataxe in reckless abandonment, as it roared, tearing apart friend and foe alike with it's savage blows. The Mintotaur finally gave in to it's bloodgreed, screaming a guttural cry of rage, before it began to tear everying it saw apart. The backline of gunners, fired at anything that moved, not bothering to prevent friendly fire in a desperate situation like this. The few remaining archers on the wall, fired at the Beastmen inside the town, dangerously ignoring the Ungor javelin men that we're tossing their weapons at them from outside
"Hold lads, hold!" Sigmar grant me strength. Faust brought his Zwielhander up into the air, and with great strength, mixed with surprising speed, brought it down upon an unsuspecting Gor, as he roared in hate, slicing his skull in half, and digging into his neck, from the scalp down. With a heave, he ripped it back out, showering himself in blood. Sigmar grant me courage. Spitting out the foul amount that entered his mouth, Faust, moved to the right, letting an axe strike fall down upon his armored shoulder (which hurt like hell), just as delivered a sideways blow with his Zwielhander, catching the larger then usual Gor in the stomach. The monster roared in pain, as it tried to strike against the Imperial officer, as the blade bit into his guts. Sigmar grant me faith. Before it could, Faust gripped his Zwielhander, firmly on the blunt side of his with his left hand and the handle with his right and with all the strength he could muster, pushed, causing the blade to be rippied out, disemboweling the Gor. With a great cry, Faust pushed through it's gorey remains, and heaved his sword into the air, and with a mighty stroke, cleaved three Gors in a single slash.
Ungors had, surprisingly, climbed up the walls, holding small stone daggers in their teeth, while they scaled the palisade. They were degenerates, having no bulk or muscles as well as hunch backs, and unlike their proud cousins, had no horns, just pathetic, dark stumps growing from their heads. The cannon fodder. Unlike the distinctness of the superior Gor Warrior, Ungors all came in tan. The few remaining archers guarding the palisade we're so busy firing on the Beastmen's rear, they didn't notice the disheveled mutants sneaking up behind them. A few quick stab to the back, or a knife to the throat was all it took to silence the remaining soldiers on the wall. Soon they had taken up position on the wall themselves, and began to throw their javelins at the defenders below.
"The Ungors! Fire on the Ungors!" Knight Weiks pointed his great hammer at the skirmishers, just after having broken a Gors skeleton with several hammer blows. He quickly left the broken Ungor, dodging several axe strikes from a grey furred Gor, who attempted to skewer him with its horns, only to get a knee to the face, alongside a fatal hammer blow to the jaw, right as Weiks roared a bestial battlecry of his own. The Musketmen and Archers on the ground, aimed, and began to shoot the Ungors Skimishers occupying the Palisade. They managed to pick out several targets, filling them with arrows and bullets, silencing their rain of javelins forever. But for every Ungor they shot down, two took his place, as even more scrambled up on the wall.
Faust decapitated a charging Gor, who wielded two iron battle axes, just as he turned around to face the battle. His men we're holding, but it wasn't looking good. Swearing underneath his breath, he screamed, "WEIKS!"
The Knight had just slammed his hammer into the face of an unlucky Ungor, shattering the skull, causing brain matter to pour out. Spitting, and looking impossibly weary, the Knight responded, just as he brought his weapon up in another swing, shattering the spine of an advancing grey Gor, "What is it, Reiklander?!"
The former Greatsword buried his massive blade into the downed body of a Gor, as he struggled to respond, almost completely out of breath, "At this rate, I don't think we'll last much longer. Without reinforcements, anyway. You need to bring forth the State Trooper garrison!"
The Ulrican spat, his wolf-hide cloak drenched in black blood, "What part of "their hold up in their castle and refuse to come out like a bunch of nancies" don't you get?!"
"You need to convince them! We won't last another ten minutes!" The Reiklander spat. Weiks grimly nodded his head, saying "Aye I see your point, but why dont you do it? You Reiklanders are sharp with ye tongues!"
"I'm just an ex state trooper. You are an anointed Knight of the White Wolf, blessed by the wolf-priests of Ulric. If they'll listen to anyone its you."
Cursing the White Wolf delivered a sideways hammer strike, as he crushed a brown Gor that was attempting to sneak up on him from behind. Without another word, the Knight sprinted forward, behind the line, and into the dark streets beyond the melee, deeper into the town, his wolf cloak trailing behind giving him the appearance of a stalking wolf-hound. The Reiklander brought up his greatsword, as he shouted, "Wolves of Ulric hold-"
"GREEEE-DOKUA-GRAAAA GRAAAAAA-KHORNEEEEEE! VERDASHU, BRRAAAAA!
A guttural voice drowned out the lieutenant's voice, as a massive bestaal warcry of rage arose from the Beastmen war party. The Greatswords eyes narrowed, as the pit of his stomach filled with complete despair.
Sigmar save us...Bestigors...
The tall, thickly muscular, and especially heavily armoured Bestigors ran through the dark horde of Beastmen, pushing their brothers aside, sprinting towards the imperial line, just as fast as their more lightly armored kin. The best, and most veteran warriors in the tribe, the sight of them sent several imperial soldiers running away in pure fright. They all had fur dark as the night, mighty thick horns, and dark glowing eyes of dark red. Their sets of full heavy armour, very rare for a Beastmen, was a mix of Imperial, and Norscan made plate, most likely scavenged from their previous owners corpses, and was painted black, with an occasional red stripe going down, with jagged spikes sprouting from the shoulders, like metal wings. For weapons, they all carried (uniformly, another very rare sight) massive halberds-like weapons, made from dark steel, some adorned with full skulls, others small spikes of iron.
As soon as the first wave clashed with the imperial line, it nearly fractured right there. Running on their black hooves, the Bestigors ripped through the defenders, some even goring the hapless millennia on their horns. Others we're impaled on their wicked halberds.
Swearing, Faust charged forward, heaving his cleaving sword into the air, yelling a battlecry, "FOR SIGMAR!" As he charged to assist the soldiers being slaughtered, he was stopped by a blur of fur entering his vision. Clenching his teeth, he brought up his blade in a block (placing his leather bound hands behind the sword), catching a sinister looking axe.
And...a grin. "Manflayers, greik fau ngarek rorr!"
The Gor was clad head to toe in plate armor, but unlike the other Bestigors, it was crudely painted in black, and splotches of red. He wore a full face helmet, whose faceplate was painted over with a cruel looking, grinning, white wolf skull, though you could tell from unarmored bits, his fur was pitch black. He was also very tall, at least seven and a half feet, and heavily built. being practically a giant compared to the rest of his brothers. On his back, he carried a primitive banner of some kind, made from wolf hide on his back, identifying him as actually a Wargor, not a Bestigor. The heavy axe he hefted around in two hands was similarly dark, two headed, and covered in glowing red runes, the sinister glow wrapping itself around the dark metallic surface like a snake. Which the soldier could instantly recognize as being from Chaos...
Faust only snarled, pushing forward, and brought down his blade, but the Bestigor jumped backwards, propelled by his dark hooves, and got out of Faust's reach. The two eyed each other. The Gor lifted the obsidian great-axe into the air...and saluted, as he brought his clawed hands into a symbol of respect his dark eyes hidden underneath his full helmet. Dumbfounded, Faust just hauntingly glared at the Wargor, who without saying a world gazed back, his dark red armor looking particularly sinister underneath the unwholesome glow of Morslieb. Faust wearily returned the salute, as he brought up his greatsword into a fighting stance. The slaughter around them was seemingly consumed by the night, they saw only each other.
All around the battle raged. Guns went off. Free Company soldiers slashed at Gors. Gors trampled over disemboweled Empire millitia. Up in the sky, the dark moon laughed at the pathetic insects waging their wargames below, casting it's unwholesome rays of light. Behind them, fires we're starting to rage, seemingly some Beastmen raiders had gotten past the feeble force. But both fighters ignored everything.
The only thing that mattered was the now.
Advancing, Faust made the first move, wordlessly charging towards the Wargor. Even with his heavy plate, the ex-state soldier was still lighting fast, and strong as a bull. Faust brought his Zweilhander from side, as the first strike was a diagonal cut. Sigmar guide my blade!
The Wargor, brought up his own weapon, and blocked the strike, just as he, almost a blur, delivered a sideways ways blow to Faust's face with it's armored elbow. The soldier, surprised, was thrown backwards, as the wind suddenly left him, and pain erupted around his temple. Cursing himself for not wearing a proper helmet, Faust recovered almost instantly, and managed to deftly guard against the Wargors sudden counter attack, who had rushed forward intent on shattering the man's skull, blocking it's axe, the dwarfen made Greatsword staying strong against it's dark magic. Faust did his best to push back against the Wargor, but it's strength was on another level completely. The two warriors struggled against each other for a good minute, but Faust was slowly beginning to loose strength, as the pure muscle mass and bestial might of the Wargor was overwhelming. The lock was beginning to eb, and the Greatsword needed to think fast-
"Enough...Dur Da Magrul." A dark voice resounded around the battlefield, and a dark presence manifested itself.
Faust entire body suddenly became wracked with immense, excoriating agony, as he collapsed onto his knee, and onto the hooves of his adversary. With shock in his dark eyes, the Wargor stepped back, lifting up his axe. The imperials body contorted, as his bones creaked under the pain, and his inhuman screams of pain. His armor was bent and broken, his limbs in impossible angles, being torn up by some unknown force Fleshy sinew colored red, erupted around his body, and...metallic claws ripped through his flesh, causing a burst of such horrible agony Faust wanted to curl up and die quickly. All around him, the other imperial soldiers we're facing similar fates, rolling on the ground, as the surrounding Beastmen laughed guttural cries of cruel joy, as they pointed and jeered. All but the Wargor who Faust had dueled, who wordlessly looked on, gripping his axe in anger.
Before them, was something of nightmare. Nameless. Unknowable. Indescribable.
He wish he could say his final thoughts we're to his daughter, but it was simply too difficult to think of anything but pain. Which consumed him, as the fire raged around. The Beastmen advanced, moving onto the now defenseless townsfolk, leaving behind the transforming imperial soldiers to their fate worse then death.
All around him, inhuman cries of agony erupted. Beyond them, he could already hear the massacre taking place, the fate of any Imperial town that fell into the hands of the cloven ones. Faust struggled, dragging his rapidly transforming body across the ground. He couldn't think at all, but his instincts as a soldier told him to keep moving. a tentacle ripped out of his abdomen, showering his crumpled plate in green bile. More pain wracked him, just as another slimy, red tentacle burst out from inside his mouth, causing him to spit out a river of his own blood, alongside black bile. The pain was now beyond understand. His body shaked uncontrollably, as his spine ripped in two, a massive horn sprouting from his back, more blood flowing from his mouth like a tidal wave.
With nothing but the sickly green light of the Dark Moon, who mockingly shone down upon him, Faust...or at least, Faust as he was, saw no more.
Truly, Sigmar had forsaken him. And what was left had a new master...