I've been wanting to write a story set into the fantasy world for some time now, finally got around to it. As I always put in the first chapter, Warhammer does not belong to me, I own nothing of it, just playing around in the universe, please don't sue me, I have no money. ;-; I know I always miss some spelling, so sorry for that in advance.
Cold wind swept over the peaks of frozen mountains and snow packed valleys, sapping the strength of all those that didn't hail from the hellscape. Fur clad boots stomped towards the Empires soldiers, men in cloth and steel, black hands frozen to spears and swords, an officers hoarse call echoing across the battle.
"HOLD. HOLD THE LINE!" His cries went silent as spears rained down upon his men, one impaling through his opened mouth. A different set of voices were heard coming out of the carnage, the screaming of men who sought to prove themselves to the Gods.
"For CHAOS!" With axes and shields they came crashing down on the faithful, the cries of dying men intertwining into a symphony of battle, the sounds of metal meeting flesh and bone.
Ones who had proven themselves already strode forward from the line, great axes in their hands they started their slaughter, cutting down men in great sweeping arcs, butchering their way into the ranks of the Empire.
Those in the back, with crossbows and muskets fled as knights of death rode them down, lances and swords reaping like wheat before the scythe, deaths tole never sated, always hungry for more.
The faithful broke rank, fleeing into the frozen wastes, but only to run into the jaws of giants and wolves, madmen and those who clung to such arcane faith that even those who praised the true Gods would shudder at their passing, none would survived the night.
On top a hill the leader of the warband sat on his horse, the nightmare steed with flaming eyes and hair as black as night, barbs and signs of his devotion carved into saddle and horse alike, the arcane symbols giving it strength.
His men gathered before him, this champion who would bring about the long night, the end of times, the end of the realms of men, elves and dwarves. Each would fall before his flaming sword and mighty magic. His horned helm turned to look upon those he commanded with iron fist, his chosen and champions alike, each having proved themselves many times over to earn such a place in his warband, constant challengers ensured that only the mightiest stayed in their positions.
Finally his eyes land on one who should not be there, shivering as the wind howled and picked up, a blizzard from the wastes rolling across the valley. A single armored finger rose, fire engulfing the gauntlet, flying towards the offending onlooker, casting away his presence.
Thousands of miles away, a Mage of the Celestial Order woke screaming, eyes burned from there sockets by the Everchosen. Other members of his order came rushing into his room, clad in sleepwear and slippers. The mad ramblings where scribbled down, but only two words that he kept repeating over and over, rocking himself in the middle of the room, hands clutching his head.
"He comes, he comes, he comes!"
Our story begins in the village of Albia, a small hamlet in the northern parts of Middenland territory, raiding parties from the Norscans would come every few winters, killing and pillaging wealth from the temples and homes, but Albia had been spared such a fate.
It was little more than a large farming village, not of any note on a map or even known to any but the local lord except when it came time to collect taxes. Still, they made do with what they could, sold their crops when the caravans from the city stopped by, bought trinkets and more needed supplies to last the cold winters, rinse and repeat, as they had done for dozens of years.
But if our story was only about a small village, it would be terribly short. No, this tale follows the exploits of a young man, born to the towns blacksmith, currently hammering at horseshoes on the anvil. His father's voice carrying from inside their home.
"You almost done with that order boy? The Count is coming around soon!" Sigmar, named after the god of the Imperials, a decision made by his mother who had hailed from those lands, yelled back over the strike of the hammer.
"I'm on the last one!" A pair of tongs where grasped from his apron and he dunked the shoe into cold water, steam rising from the barrel. All four shoes where taken inside to his father, an aged and weakening man, a thick beard and wrinkly face smiling in the evening light.
"You may just make a halfway smith yet, did you get the farmers hoes repaired as well?" Sigmar sighed and nodded, motioning outside.
"I did them this morning while you were sleeping, he needs to pick his field of rocks or he will be here every other week." His father just smiled.
"And we would be one of our best customers, don't be giving him any ideas now boy, that man puts meat on our table, it wouldn't do to be without sausage with super." Sigmar rolled his eyes and started out the door.
"I'm going to go deliver his order, you can manage if the Count comes by right?" The elder smith waved his hand dismissively at his son.
"I was overcharging that pombus oaf well before you were born, I'll be a good deal richer before the night is out!" Sigmar shook his head at his father's ways and grabbed the three hoes the farmer had ordered sharpened the day before, tucking them under an arm and heading out towards the fields.
The walk was quiet, the forest creaking ever so slightly as a soft wind blew through it, rustling the leaves that were turning and causing some to fall, winter was coming, and soon. Sigmar picked up his pace, the sounds of wagon wheels and shouting men drawing him forward. The farmers land soon came into view, a few hired hands helping with the harvest, potatoes and wheat placed into wagons and hauled off to be tucked away until the traders came. Several of the men waved and greeted Sigmar as he walked through the field, coming up to the farmers house and placing the tools on the ground before walking up to the door and knocking.
A young girl answered the door, the farmer's daughter, the towns prettiest, if what the boys said was true. She smiled at Sigmar and held out a coin purse, a small shake of her hand bringing the coins inside to cling together.
"My father isn't here right now, but he left the money for me to give you." He reached out and took it, trusting it was what was owed. A moment passed as they stood there, the girl going to close the door before Sigmar spoke up.
"Are you free for the harvest festival?" She paused, tilting her head at him and smiling coyly.
"Why would you like to know?" Sigmar swallowed, his courage flying from him faster than a pegasus to grain.
"I-I mean if you wanted to go, together. Only if you're free! I don't know if-" A finger on his lips stopped him, a smile on the girls lips.
"I'm free, it would be my pleasure to go to the festival with you." Sigmar blinked before a wide smile broke across his face.
"Great! I'll see you then?" She nodded, a smile on both of their faces as he turned and trotted down the house stairs, grin carrying with him all the way back to his home. With eager steps he took the road home, turning the corner to see the Count and a few of his men, his father smiling as a heavy coinpurse was placed into his hands.
"Always a pleasure to do business with you milord, I hope you will continue your patronage for many years to come." The Count, a younger man and still unaware he was being over charged, smiled at the blacksmith.
"As long as you keep producing such work I will continue to buy from here for all of my metal working needs, though I do wish you would take me up on my offer to come and be the castle smith, the one we have now is, lacking." Sigmar blinked in surprise at the offer as he walked to stand beside his father, a smile and nod from the noble.
"Perhaps your son would like to? He must have at least half your skill, it would be nice to have good steel in the men's hands." Sigmar's father could only shake his head.
"Deprive Tomas of his position as castle smith? I couldn't my milord, he will improve with time, he's still young yet." The noble frowned but nodded all the same.
"Well, it was worth a try nonetheless." He turned to leave before pausing and turning back.
"If you won't come to me then perhaps I could have you forge a few swords at the very least, your blades are high quality work, and my son will need one for his naming day." The eldest blacksmith bowed and nodded.
"It would be my pleasure milord, I will have three different swords for you to pick up by next week." The Count smiled and mounted his horse.
"I look forward to seeing them, good day to you both." He turned his beast and spurred it forward, riding down the road. Sigmar took this moment to hand the small coinpurse to his father.
"For the tools from the farmer." He took it and a teasing smile made its way onto his lips.
"Enjoy seeing his daughter did you? She's quite a pretty girl, brown hair and blue eyes, wide hips and-" He was cut off as Sigmar smacked him on the head.
"Enough you lecherous old man, we need to get up early to make those swords you promised." His father laughed and nodded, the two of them heading into the house to start making their supper. A fire was started, lazy black smoke rolling up the chimney as a kettle was put on for tea. The eldest blacksmith went into the cupboards and pulled out a series of plants picked from the forest, picking a few and placing the pouches back, gathering two cups and pouring combining the two, letting the leaves seap in the water while Sigmar came out of the pantry with bread, sausage and ale.
The two enjoyed their tea while the sausages cooked, wooden plates and forks stabbing them from the cast iron pan. They sat at the table, saying a few words of thanks to the gods they held to before starting to eat, a single candle added to the light provided by the fire.
"You should take the castle smith job." Sigmar looked up from his plate, surprise in his eyes as the seriousness in his father's.
"But then who would help you around here? I cannot leave." The elder smith shook his head.
"I won't be around much longer boy, I grow older everyday, my arms are weaker than they have ever been and I can only forge for a few hours a day before I have to rest." He spread his arms around the small house.
"Your already a better smith than I, get out of this village, I have enough money tucked away to see me though the next few winters before I pass, you should take that farmgirl and make something of your life, your to good a smith to be fixing hoes and making horseshoes forever." Sigmar could only shake his head, frowning at his father.
"Don't talk about your death so lightly, your still as spry as you where a few years ago, and your always teaching me more about metalworking, things that I wouldn't even think off. I still have to much to learn from you to leave." His father scoffed.
"I haven't taught you anything you wouldn't have figured out yourself, I'm serious Sigmar, I want you out of the village by this winter's end." The younger smith shook his head and took both plates, heading outside and washing them, locking the house door before turning back to his father.
"I will think about it if that will make you happy, but I can't promise anything." The old man smiled, turning towards his room in the house.
"I can be happy with that, goodnight boy, we start early in the morning." Sigmar put a few larger logs on the fire to keep out the chill for the night and blew out the candle, heading into his own room.
That night he would dream of the farmers daughter, her smooth skin and silky hair, how it would feel if it ran through his fingers. But the dream changed, before his eyes she crumbled into dust beside him, a death wail flinging him into a state of awakeness, aware of a heavy pounding on the house door.
He got up from the straw mattress and pulled on his breaches, hand going under his pillow to pull out the knife he stowed there. The floorboards creaked slightly as he opened the door to his room, fumbling in the dark as the pounding increased in intensity.
A mumbling alerted him that his father was waking, and Sigmar undid the lock and pulled the door open to see a man clad in furs and a bloody axe in both hands. Cracked and scarred lips pulled over broken teeth in smile
"My thanks." The door was kicked in, Sigmar being thrown back, the marauder striding into the darkened home.
"I didn't expect the house to have a lock, thankfully you dumb enough to save me the time of having to hack it down." Sigmar scrambled back as the invader advanced on him, continuing his taunting.
"We had our eyes on your plumb little village for a while now, waiting until you finished your harvest, we don't sow you see, only pillage." He raised one of his axes, Sigmars hands shaking as he eyes the knife on a few feet away, thrown when the door was busted open.
"Not that it matters to you, your a dead man." The axe started to descend, a yell from Sigmar's father breaking the silence, he hit the marauder in the side, both of them sent rolling away.
"Stay away for my son!" Sigmar scrambled towards the knife, grasping it and turning to see an axe embedded into his fathers chest. The northman had come up on top from their stumble, using his large frame and strength to end any fight before it started. He started to stand, head turning to where his next victim had been laying against the wall.
It would be his last act, Sigmar dove forward and plunged the knife into the back of his head, the marauder falling forward with the weapon embedded into his skull. Sigmar pulled it out, stabbing into the man's broad back again and again until his breath came in ragged gasps and his arms shook. A pool of blood was under them, his father below them all.
Sigmar stood, throwing the knife and pulling the dead man off his mentor, a low caugh signalling he still had some life in him. Sigmar rushed toward one of the cabinets, pulling down ointments and cloth for bandages when a raspy sound came from behind him.
"No." He turned, his father coughing up a bit of blood from attempting to speak.
"M-my time is over Sigmar," Another cough, more blood dribbling down his face as his son rushed to his side, holding his head as tears came down his face, a sob building in his throat.
"My boy, you must live." The blacksmith swallowed hard and moved his hands to grip his sons arms.
"You must, you must warn the Count, he must, he must-" His eyes glazed over, the last rattle of breath left him as he slumped back into the floorboards. Sigmar was silent, entire body shaking the shock come crashing down upon him, a dry sob coming from his throat. But he had his father's with to honor. He crawled toward where the knife was on the far side of the room, grasping it as a lifeline before standing and making his way out of the door, looking around frantically for anymore of the northmen.
He saw none, forgoing the road and sprinting into the forest, the sounds of screams from the other houses nearby spurring him forward, blood pounding in his ears as the wind howled around him, the creak and rustle of the forest now ominous and fearful, every shadow had eyes and each crunch of the underbrush making him wince.
He continued running, making it to an open field and dashing across it, the moon coming out from a number of clouds, lighting his path. He was halfway across when he heard it, the thudding of hooves on dirt, a look back showing two horsemen pounding across the open field after him. Another sob make its way up from his chest, gasping for air as they grew ever closer, their howls reminding him of his fate should he be caught.
Thirty feet from the treeline they caught him, the back of an axe hitting him on the head and darkness descended. The two northmen pulled their horses around, the one who has hit him sliding off his horse.
"This one will make a fine slave, did you see how he ran? Like the hounds of Khorne were nipping at his heels." The still mounted raider laughed, motioning to the body as his fellow threw it over the back of his saddle.
"One-Eye is going to be getting impatient soon, best head back before we are missed." The other northman nodded and climbed back into his horse after finishing securing his prize.
"A good raid will have surely put him in a pleased mood."
Sigmar didn't expect to wake, he wasn't sure what he expected in death, but being splashed by cold water was not one of them. He was bound hand and foot, placed in the middle of a longship with a few other prisoners. He looked around, seeing mostly boys and a few women, many who had tears still streaming down their faces and ripped clothing.
"I see Dykak's slave has woken, tell me boy, you know where you are?" Sigmar had to take a moment to find his voice, it coming out raspy.
"Raiders, your raiders from the north." Said raider patted his cheek.
"What do you know, one with a bit of brains, a rare find indeed. I might have to see how much your master would sell you for." From the front of the boat a voice answered over the crash of the sea.
"You already got another bitch since you killed the last one, you have need of boys now as well to sate your lusts?" The crew laughed as Dykak walked towards the middle of the boat, large of frame and a muscular, a thick beard and face heavy with scars of battle.
"I have need of a new slave since I killed my last one, dumb as a bag of rocks he was, couldn't fetch meat, couldn't fill a goblet with ale," He spat over the side of the boat. "Worthless, but I have high hopes for this one." Sigmar took it all in, despair once again claiming his heart as his head sunk into his chest, a few tears sliding down his checks. Above him, the two marauders continued their conversation.
"It shouldn't be long before we make it home, you know I heard that there was a troll trying to lead an army someplace? Called himself Throgg or some lunacy." Dykak shook his head.
"A troll leading raiders? When the Gods declare peace with the southerners and the ice melts." Both laughed, a call from the front bringing there attention back to the moment.
"LAND!" A few hours later and they were heading into the port of Ice Pack Bay, the large settlement a staging grounds for a great many warbands. The ship was tied off, men on the docks helping haul plunder away towards the longhouse where the lord of the settlement stayed, part of the spoils from all raids being his by law.
Dykak pulled Sigmar by a rope around his neck, cutting the bindings on his feet before throwing a box of metal and other valuables in his arms. Pulling him along, a great mob forming to welcome the victors home. The marauders made their way across the frozen ground, Sigmar shivering as a wind picked up, cutting his skin and making it redden. The hall of the lord of the Bay was opened and the raiders welcomed inside, leaving the bitter cold as a great fire burned in the center of the room.
At the back, a stairs rising to another level above the floor, a large chair made with wood and bones sat, in it a larger man than any Sigmar had ever seen. The raiders took their time setting the plunder in front of their lord, Dykak pulling him forward to drop his own crate of goods. Sigmar felt the eyes of the lord on him for just a moment, weighing his worth as one would a animal before slaughter.
One-Eye walked forward, spreading his arms before the presented hoard.
"Bygri The Bloody, I bring you riches from the lands of the soft southerners, metal to forge new weapons, silver and gold from the small church to their pathetic gods!" A roar of approval was met with the decree, the noise allowed to continue for a moment before Bygri raised a hand, silence almost instant.
"As always, you prove your worth Rokan, in celebration of your many successful pillages, you may keep your entire spoils of this raid." Silence rained for a moment before those who had partaken raised their voices in great celebration. Bygri raised his hand once again.
"Tell me, this boy, this noble who told you of the village, will he tell you more in the future?" Rokan smiled.
"He thinks that we will help him usserp his father in a few years time, during which we will have free rain to plunder across the coaste!" Another roar of approval.
"Of course, when the land is weakened and soft, we will descend upon their city and rape it of its riches." The lord of the Bay thought for a moment before grabbing his axe and stepping down from his chair.
"You will descend upon their city? With what men Rokan? I command here, do you think to usurp me and take my marauders?" Rokan pailed and shook his head, backing up in the face of the larger man.
"Never Bygri, I would only move with the blessings of the Gods, who speak through you!" The giant of a man stopped his advance, looking down at the raider before nodding.
"I approve of this plan of yours, when the time right, we will move to sack their port city." Bygri's men, those who were fitted with heavy armor and weapons, took a step back from where they had stepped forward, always ready for violence. The lord snapped his fingers and a girl rushed forward, bringing him a huge horn of ale, carved from the tusk of a mammoth.
"Tonight, we celebrate this victory and the path the Gods have laid before us, let us drink, eat and fuck for their pleasure!" The roar was deafening, Sigmar falling to his knees as the information finally sunk in.
The Count had betrayed them, was betraying the entire of Middenland. He was selling out his people for an earlier chance at the throne. His eyes rose to where Dykak stood beside him, a crooked smile on the marauders face.
"Surprise." Sigmar was drug from the hall and back into the cold, wind blowing enough that it howled through the streets. The two of them continued until the reached a house, thick timbers stacked and cut to size formed the walls, ensuring to keep out all but the worst of any winds. The heavy door was thrown open and Sigmar pulled inside.
Warmth was the first thing he felt, the floor wasn't made from frozen dirt, but thick cut slabs of wood smoothed down by a lifetime of use, a number of small tables and chairs around a large hearth cut into the floor, the leg of a deer roasting over the flames. A woman's voice carried out from a second room.
"Have you returned Dykak?" The man left Sigmar alone and walked into the room, speaking to his wife.
"And victorious, I brought a slave to help around the house, he's smarter than the last one." A head of black hair looked around the doorway, a fair looking woman with wide hips and large breasts walking towards the warming Sigmar. His mouth was watering at the smell of the roasting meat, but he enjoyed the warmth even more. Dykak's wife raised an eyebrow.
"Smart? Are you sure he's not stupid?" Sigmar was snapped out of his hunger filled thoughts as the woman gripped his face and turned it towards her, looking at his teeth and and arms.
"He's healthy, and strong, but I'm still not sure about the smart part." Dykak muttered something about ungrateful women and she smacked him across his chest before turning her attention back to Sigmar.
"Boy, fetch me two cups and some ale." Sigmar rose shaky from the ground, a question on his lips.
"Where is it?" She pointed toward a far table and the blacksmith obeyed, grabbing the cups and pitcher before bringing them to her and filling them. He offered them to her with shaking hands, a contemplative look on her face.
"Well this one can follow orders at least." She frowned as her slave looked back towards the roasting meat. She looked to her husband.
"Let's eat and then make Slaanesh proud, I have an ache that needs to be satisfied." She took the spit off the fire and cut away chucks of food, Sigmar ordered fetching bread from a pantry. They eat and talked of the raid, his wife filled with questions about the southlands, Sigmar retreated to corner, head between his knees as his life as a slave finally sunk in. He eyed a nearby knife left sitting on a table nearby, wondering how hard it would be to slit his own throat.
Moments before he risked grabbing it, a shadow was above him, looking up into the darkened face of his owner. A plate with scraps of meat and bread tossed at his feet.
"You can eat now." Sigmar's eyes widened he grasped at the plate of food, stuffing it in face and chewing. Dykak's wife took her husband by the hand and lead him away to the bedroom, by the time Sigmar was full the moaning and slap of flesh was to in full swing, pulling a fur blanket over him and swiftly asleep, too exhausted to be kept awake by vigorous lovemaking. While he may have been oblivious to the world, his dreams where anything but pleasant.
Darkness was all that he could see when he opened his eyes, an all consuming blackness that swallowed the light. Something brushed his leg, wet and sticky, Sigmar stumbled away from it, feet splashing in ankle deep liquid. A sob came from him, fear making his heart race inside his chest. Another went across his back, spurring him forward and turning, but nothing was there.
"Show yourself!" He screamed into the darkness, cold laughter meeting his words. Something grabbed his feet, locking them in place as heavy footsteps came forward, unseen, only heard. Splashes as it came closer, Sigmar desperately trying to move his feet, to run, but he couldn't gripped by something far stronger than he. A voice came out of the darkness, cold and uncaring.
"Your gods cannot help you here boy, they have abandoned you, left you." Eyes of ever changing color appeared in front of him, each larger that his head.
"Now, lets begin." A great mouth opened, rows upon rows of bloody teeth staring him in the face, the heads of those in his village stuck on some of them. His father's smiled.
"Join us Sigmar." He screamed when the jaws coming down on top of him. A swift kick to his side brought him back to the world of the living, a scowling Dykak above him.
"If your going to scream like that at night I will cut out your tongue now and be done with it." Sigmar could only sob, breathing in ragged gasps of air.
"It, it ate me." Dykak raised a single eyebrow before a realization dawned on his face.
"Nightmares of a demon I take it? You'll get used to it boy, different forces control these lands." The raider grasped Sigmar by his arm and hoisted him up.
"Come on now, we have a days work ahead of us." A thick shirt was thrown to him and leftovers from last night were eaten in silence. Dykak giving him a large pack to carry before they left the house. The sun was just starting to peak over the mountains farther north, daggers that cut into the sky. The light did nothing to warm Sigmar, only bitter cold on his skin. The settlement was still waking, others where coming out of homes and gathering wood or throwing scraps to hounds. Dykak lead him towards a group of men gathered at the cities end. Motioning to Sigmar as they drew close, speaking to his companions.
"This is the slave I brought back from the southlands, he will be joining us for today's hunt." More than one of them groaned. A smaller man then the rest of them spoke up, face narrow and nose hooked.
"If he falls behind then he is getting left for the wolves Dykak." The raider rolled his eyes and tugged on the cord around Sigmars neck.
"He will suffocate before he gets left behind," He turned to look at his slave. "I would keep up." Sigmar nodded, pulling his shirt a little higher around his neck to help with the wind. They started out then, bows strung and arrows knocked, on guard the moment they left the safety of the walls.
They traveled north for half a day, seeking elusive game that stayed in the forests and hills. Sigmar was grateful for his thick boots that were never taken from him, his feet kept from turning black. Over endless snow they traveled, up and up farther into the pines. Every now and then Sigmar would see idols raised to their Gods, pointed stars and old bodies draped over alters, those who had proved unworthy of service.
"Admiring our ancestors handywork boy?" Sigmar looked left to where a massive marauder walked next to him, a two handed axe slung over one shoulder. Thick muscles where covered by a wolfs hide, wrapped around him to keep out the cold.
"My great grandfather carved some of those, back when the northmen would form true armies and march south in greater numbers than you have ever seen, we raped and pillaged our way across your weak lands." Sigmar said nothing, focusing only on keeping himself walking through the ankle deep snow.
"What a time to be alive that would have been, to walk with a true hoard and put fear into the hearts of the southern dogs." A large hand landed on Sigmar's shoulder, the eyes of the head taller raider staring into his own.
"Well boy? Wouldn't it have been a marvelous thing? To see your women raped and men slaughtered before you? Your towns burn and cities crumble before the true Gods?" He was saved from a response when Dykak's head turned from where he marched in front of them.
"Enough Otto, you don't get to rile up my slave just because you want to kill something." the northman laughed and slapped Sigmar on the back good naturedly.
"I'm just messing with the boy is all, he needs to learn to have thicker skin if he wants to live through the winter," His eyes were upon him again. "We eat the slaves first when the food runs out, they always taste so good when they are from summer raids. Still have some fat on them." Sigmar said nothing, the northman giving a disinterested grunt before walking away.
They stopped in a small cave when night descended, the wind picking up and starting to howl. A few men went outside, returning with wood to burn for the night. Sigmar huddled into the back of the cave, away from the others who took out rations and warmed them over the fire. Nobody bothered to speak to him, and Sigmar wasn't hungry enough to ask. He pulled his heavy pack to the side and rested against it but refused to sleep, memories of his last dreams kept him awake.
The raiders drank and ate for a time before they fell asleep, a single one given guard duty by a drawing of sticks. He sneered at Sigmar in the back before heading toward the front of the cave, wrapping his cloak around him. An hour later and Sigmar was still awake, shivering as the air inside the cave became ever colder, his teeth starting to chatter. He did his best to keep himself from it, but it was impossible, the clacking of teeth soon bouncing off the walls. The raider at the front of the cave stood up with squared shoulders, turning to where Sigmar sat and walked towards him, axe held in one hand.
"Your going to walk out of this cave boy, out into the snow where you can clack your teeth until you die. Dykak wouldn't forgive somebody killing his slave, but if the slave ran away in the night, who would chase him into a blizzard?" Sigmar looked up at the northman with pleading eyes.
"Please, I-I can stop, I can be-" The blunt side of an axe across his skull silenced him, blood dripping down his face and into his eyes.
"Move, or I will kill you here and drag you outside." With shaking legs Sigmar stood, slowly walked forward towards his death. A kick in the back sent him sprawling, hands cut on the loose rocks as he caught himself.
"Faster, I don't have all night." Sigmar did as he was told, walked out of the mouth of the cave and into the darkness, wind ripping at his shirt and hair, cutting at his flesh like small blades. He stumbled forward, soon losing sight of the cave and the light it had, only darkness and pain for companions.
He cried, tears freezing to his face as his hands went numb, blacked by the cold. He couldn't feel his feet, but still he went forward, driven by hope that he could find a place to get out of the wind, but as time continued, he only wished to find something to end him. He collapsed soon enough, face down in the snow as it piled around him, covering him as he died.
Sigmar, in the moments of his death, thought about the farmer's daughter, how her hair would feel in his fingers, how smooth her skin was, how bright a smile. Darkness closed in on him, and he greeted it with a smile.
Unknown to him, a figure had watches his struggle, chucking at his cries and suffering, it descended from the treeline,dragging the frozen body from its resting place, towards a cave only a few hundred feet away. Unconscious, Sigmar offered no resistance, pulled inside where a massive rock was pushed in front of the opening, closing off the world to the wind and snow.
The figure hefted the boy into a bed of thick furs, seeing clearly in the darkness, starting a fire beside the bed. Ointments and plants of arcane origin were pulled from shelving and thrown into a large pot, set to simmer before being applied to his hands and feet, each blacked and dead.
It was then that the figure started its true ritual, a massive set of runes and symbols covered every inch of the cave, branching out from below where Sigmar layed. He invoked the Gods, demons and all powers to his ritual, muttering in a language long dead to mankind.
His chanting continued, rising in volume until he screamed out for powers best unknown to answer his call, then, at the final verse, plunged a hooked dagger deep into his chest, pulling out his own heart and squeezing the blood over the boy. The runes flared to life, coming alive and rushing into his body, covering his chest and arms in symbols that would burn the eyes of lesser men. The sorcerer smiled as his life fled him, his greatest work, soon loose upon the world.
Next chapter is going to be fun, because I doubt any of you will guess what I'm making here, I have yet to see a story like it yet for warhammer, both 40k or fantasy. Anyways, tell me what you think, good, bad?