Les Principautés Frontalières BC: 1532 (IC: 2510)
An oppressive heat bathed the arid lands of the Border Princes, the tall yellow grass offered little in the way of shade, unless one was counted among the small folk of either dwarfs or halflings. Clouds of dust were kicked up by the marching warband, the stench of animal dung was mixed with that of stale sweat from the human riders, creating a noxious stench which each man had to bear. Composed of more than six dozen mounted mercenaries, they all kept a watchful eye over the horizon for the lands which they travelled through were home to many greenskins.
Among the mercenary warband, Alexandre du Vallon kept a perfumed handkerchief over his nose and mouth, the smell of it had mostly faded and it was more for preventing him from inhaling the clouds of dirt. Immediately, he found himself hating this wretched land and he could understand why the civilized nations of the Old World would exile their undesirables to this place. What he did not understand though was why some people would willingly choose to live in the Border Princes for between the harshness of the land itself, the countless monsters which infested it and the never ending squabbles of petty principalities which fought amongst each other for territory, the lot of a peasant back home seemed far more preferable.
Unlike many men of his privileged status, Alexandre did not go about wearing a suit of plate armor or even chainmail; instead, he opted for a light and rather fashionable doublet of fine dark brown leather worn over a cream colored blouse and a woolen cape dyed black edged with white. A feathered wide brimmed hat of Estalian fashion was worn over his brow, shading his eyes from the intense glare of the sun. He was very much far removed from the typical image of a Bretonnian knightly noble and instead, he looked more like a Diestro of Estalia for indeed he greatly prided himself as of being a professional duelist and was appropriately equipped with a rapier and main gauche of good craftsmanship.
Having been born and raised in the cultured Dukedom of Brionne and its capital which was merely short boat ride away from Estalia itself, he had spent much his recent Errantry Years in Bretonnia's southwestern neighbor. When he had returned home, Alexandre had been a changed man for he had as some might say "gone native" over there in the sunny realms. Yet in his time away, so much had also happened to his House, changes which now led him to his current situation.
Born the third son of his family, his eldest brother, Landuin, had partaken on a Crusade against the greenskins descending from the Iranna Mountains and had been slain in honorable combat. By Aristocratic Law of Succession, the second son would take the place of the first, which normally would not be a problem but in the case of Alexandre's middle brother, Gaspar, the man had last been heard in the service of one "Duke" Waltier Belmont who rule over a fief in the Border Princes. Alexandre did not begrudge his remaining brother for he personally was glad to be a "spare" for rulership of his House held little interest to him; rather, he preferred the more carefree lifestyle of a Cavalier Errant.
After attending the Morrian funerary service held for eldest brother, it was his mother who had bid him to find Gaspar. And so he had left Brionne once more where he traveled towards Carcassone and from there he took the Montdidier Pass into the Border Princes where along the way, he had joined the company of a band of Tilean Condottiere. The Dogs of War mercenaries allowed him to travel with them for they knew well that in a land as dangerous as the Border Princes, every extra sword was a precious addition to a warband.
All Alexandre knew at the moment of Gaspar's current liege was that the Duke's fief was situated somewhere near the the borders with the Badlands, along the shores of the famous Blood River. Since he had at the least a general sense of where he must go, Alexandre was willing to put the rest of his journey in the hands of luck and to the gods themselves.
Holding up a dwarfish crossbow of wutroth and best craftsmanship quality up to eye level, Hilda Bardinsdottir had a clear shot which she took without hesitation. Pressing on the trigger of her weapon, she launched a steel-tipped bolt which flew straight and true towards the neck of her target, an Orc Boar Rider. The hideous greenskin fell off of its mount and its companions looked to their compatriot with amusement which soon then turned to surprise as their slow minds figured out that their comrade was actually dead.
Concealed by tall grass and covered by a cloak which did well to hide her presence, Hilda methodically reloaded the weapon and before long, she had another bolt ready for the orcs. She then launched another shot which struck a boar in the side of its thick skull and creature began to wildly thrash about before hurling its rider off. The remaining Orc rider looked around the plains and the beast's red eyes became fixed on the dwarf's position.
'Ah bugrit' whispered Hilda as the orc raised a crude spear towards her and it kicked its porcine steed into a trot which immediately became a full gallop. Having enough time for one more shot, Hilda took careful aim with one eye closed and she focused her sight on the rider. Holding her breath to steady her aim, she fired another bolt which struck the greenskin's chest but orc rider still remained on its saddle.
Tossing aside her crossbow, the dwarf then reached for the handle of a heavy warhammer that was sheathed upon her back. Ancient runes flared to life as she drew the weapon which infused her limbs with arcane vigour. Holding her hammer in a readied, aggressive stance, she charged the oncoming orc boar rider with a loud dwarfish war cry upon her lips and she spun to the side, her weapon trailing after her.
Loosening her grip on her hammer just by a little, the dwarf allowed the weapon to slide between the palms of her gauntleted hands until she held on to the bottom of the shaft. The momentum of her swing was more than enough to cave in skull of the boar as the flat of the hammer struck between the eyes of the animal and it felt as if she had struck a gromril anvil. The Orc's spear nearly skewered her face, but the weapon's aim went wide as the impact upon the boar caused it to collapse and the greenskin rider was flung hard into the ground.
Not giving the orc time to recover, Hilda quickly went up to the fallen rider who looked like it had been concussed from the fall and she brought her hammer upon its head with an overhead swing. Green blood, bone and bits of brain matter exploded from the orc's skull as the hammer struck and a feeling of grim satisfaction came over the dwarf ranger.
'Just like what papa taught' she whispered to herself in amusement. A loud porcine squeal rang out from the direction of where the orcs had been and it was followed by a thunderous bellow of rage. Hefting her bloodied hammer in a readied stance again, she saw the lumbering and angry form of the last remaining orc rider, the greenskin's crude iron sword was freshly coated in the red blood of its former mount.
Just one more thought Hilda Bardinsdottir of Clan Helhein as her hands tightened around the grip of her hammer.
Later that day...
The sight of the palisade walled town was a welcoming one to Alexandre and the mercenary company which he travelled with. The Dogs of War had held up a flag which supposedly meant that they were for hire and the inhabitants allowed them to enter through the wooden gates. Muddy streets, thatched houses of poor construction and the smell of either animal dung or human waste made it all feel more at home to the Bretonnian who likened the place to a common peasant village from back home.
Their first destination would of course be the local inn or tavern for the rank and file but for the captain of the warband, they would meet whoever it was that ran the settlement and apply for employment. For Alexandre though, he was eager to quench his parched throat with whatever was on tap. It did not take them long to find the town's drinking hole which looked significantly better built compared in comparison to the rest of the structures around it for the establishment sported stone walls three stories and a tiled roof.
When they entered the establishment which was simply called "Il Duce's" it proved to be more spacious than they had expected. Dimly lit by candles and possessing many vacant tables, the large group of mercenaries were eagerly welcomed by a rather portly Tilean man wearing the trappings of a common barman.
The warband then began to break up into smaller groups, each occupying separate tables and attended to by local serving girls of varying degrees of prettiness. As much as Alexandre would have liked to get to know some of the girls, his business was with the barman who would most likely know more than a few bits of rumors and gossip going on. When he arrived at the bar, he ordered for a jug of wine along with some cheese and bread.
'You are Bretonnian aren't you?' curiously asked the barman after taking Alexandre's order.
'I am, is there a problem?' responded Alexandre without any hostility in his voice.
'Nothing milord' apologetically said the barman. 'I just noticed the accent and all'.
'No harm done' nodded Alexandre. 'I am looking for any information about one of Princes of this land, a man by the name of Duke Belmont, do you know where I can find him?'
'D-duke Belmont!?' sputtered the barman with a fearful look on his face and Alexandre knew that was not a good sign. 'Myrmidia's tits, why would you go looking for such a man?'
'My business is my own' tersely replied the Bretonnian. 'It is not the Duke who I seek, but someone who serves him.'
'Then you should probably find a priest of Morr' said the barman.
'Why would you say that?' questioned Alexandre who began to have a terrible gut feeling.
'Well the way I've been hearing things' said the barman with thick meaty arms folded, his voice taking a more conspiratorial tone. 'Dark things are going on in the lands of Duke Belmont, some travellers say that he has thrown his lot in with cults of the Ruinous Powers.'
'The Duke is in leagues with Chaos!?' loudly spoke Alexandre and the mere mention of the Dark things of the north was more than enough to send a sense of dread into the hearts of those who heard it and many made the signs of different gods. Even in the lands as far south as Tilea and Estalia, the dread followers of Chaos were well known for along the coasts, it is not unknown for Norse Longships to sail and lay waste to entire settlements and although mutation was not as rampant in the north like the Empire or Kislev, it still did happen on occasion in the south.
'I don't know if that is true milord, it is just what I hear people saying' replied the barman with a shrug.
'I see, so why then would I need a priest of Morr?' asked Alexandre.
'Well, Duke Belmont's land is near the Badlands, along the Blood River' explained the barman. 'I have heard that there's been a lot of greenskins heading on over there, getting there jollies and whatnot from all the fighting.'
Was it possible that perhaps this Duke Belmont made has made a deal with daemons? To save his lands? thought Alexandre. It may have been a bit incredulous to think so, but it was a very popular topic among playwrights, artists and storytellers to create tragedies of those going to extreme lengths to save that which hold most dear. Although most are of course works of fiction, but there were some which contained a grain of truth in it.
'Merci, thank you for your time' nodded Alexandre as he handed the barman a silver deneirs in time and just in time for his order had arrived. A serving girl delivered a tray with a clay pitcher, a pewter goblet and a wooden platter holding a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese. The serving girl set it on the bar in front of Alexandre who discretely slipped her another denier along with a lascivious wink.
'If you're planning on heading there milord, you would probably need to hire a guide who knows the land' suggested the barman.
'And I trust that you know someone trustworthy?' asked Alexandre who said it in a way which meant that there might be something a little extra for the barman if he knew of one.
'Well we do get a couple of rangers who pass by here from time to time' said the barman. 'There is one, a dwarf who regularly rents a room here.'
'A dwarf?' asked Alexandre with some surprise for in Bretonnia, subhumans were a rare sight, save for possibly the Fey of Athel Loren but of the dwarfs though, it was said that the mountain folk had settlements along the Grey Mountains. Alexandre had of course never seen a dwarf before and he imagined that one would look much like a human-born midget but one possessing burly physique and a great beard.
'Aye a dwarf' nodded the barman. 'Most princes around these parts offer a bounty on the heads of orcs, goblins, snotlings and even trolls. The way I hear it, she's a professional at killing them greenskins.'
'She?' questioned Alexandre who, like most Bretonnians, was uncomfortable with the idea of women doing what was a man's business. In his time within Estalia, he knew of their worship towards the war goddess Myrmidia whose faithful included an entire Order of female knights known as the Sisters of Fury. He had seen a few of these warrior women during Errantry but was wise enough to watch his tongue, especially considering that he was of course, a foreigner in a different land.
'Surprising, right?' shrugged the barman. 'And I thought that there were no dwarf women, that the mountain folk just sprung from holes in the ground.
'I see, and is this dwarf currently in town?' asked the Bretonnian who realized that he may not have much of a choice in the matter. The barman then looked to the entrance of the establishment and then he looked back towards Alexandre.
'Well you are just in luck' he then said 'she is right over there...'
Gently passing by the crowds of armed humans who now patronized the Il Duce, Hilda easily made her way to the bar area. Her coin purse was slightly heavier now as the bounty on orc heads had proven to be quite profitable for the dwarf and she had a good idea on how to spend it. Finding an empty table at one corner of the establishment, she was then attended to by one of the human serving girls who of course did not bother with trying to butter up the rinn for some extra tips.
Ordering a mug of ale, a bowl of stew and some bread, Hilda rested her weapons on the wall behind her and she made herself as comfortable as possible on the human-sized furnishings. Lighting up a pipe filled with Mootland tobacco, Hilda soon felt calmed as smoke filled her lungs. She could have done better, thought the dwarf for aside from the three orc riders she had earlier slain, she had also successfully taken down a hunting party of four grobi about an hour before.
Not many greenskins wandering about these parts she thought, probably should pack up and head elsewhere, to "greener pastures" as some humans would put it. Karak Eight Peaks might be a good idea for there were lots of things which needed killing and King Belegar Ironhammer of the Clan Angrund paid well for anyone who could help reclaim the hold, not to mention that there were also those among her own clan that now served him. She also thought about heading towards Karak Azgal which like Eight Peaks, had active throngs which sought to reclaim the once famed City of Jewels which had also been infested with all manner of monstrous things.
Deciding to just sleep on it the dwarf then noticed the approach of one human man dressed in light leathers. Judging by the way the manling was garbed; he was probably one of those professional sword fighters with the flashy fighting styles were quite popular in the lands of Estalia and Tilea. This manling himself did not have the tanned skin which was common among the southern humans; rather, he had the fairer skin of someone from the Empire, Bretonnia or the Gospodar of Kislev.
'Excuse me but are you by chance mademoiselle Bardinsdottir' politely asked the human whose voice had a distinct Bretonnian accent with it.
'Yes, that is me, and you are?' replied Hilda.
'Alexandre du Vallon of Brionne' greeted the manling with a flourish of his feathered hat as he gave an extravagant bow to the dwarf. 'I would like to hire your services madam, for I am in need of a guide who can take me to the lands of Duke Belmont.'
'Those lands are thick with greenskins' warned Hilda who was keenly aware of just how dangerous the Badlands could be, especially at this time of the year.
'So I have been told, but it is of utmost importance that I go there' said this Alexandre human as he then reached for a coin pouch tied to his belt and he gently planted it upon Hilda's table.
The intense longing of Goldlust came over the dwarf who stared at it and she slowly reached for the container. Undoing the cord which sealed the pouch, her eyes widened as she saw the gleam of gorl, gold! Each coin featured a bust depicting Bretonnia's first king and it took all of her willpower to resist the urge to just snatch up the coin pouch and she gave the human a nod of acknowledgement.
'Will you do it then?' calmly asked the human.
'Do you know how to fight?' seriously asked Hilda.
'I know may not look it but I am, first and foremost a Knight of Bretonnia' proudly announced Alexandre. 'I have bested Iron Orcs from the mountains of the Iranna, slain beastmen in the forest of Chalons, I have fought off arab slavers and pirates along the coasts of Estalia. To answer your question, yes I know how to fight!'
Having studied the manling as he made his little boast, Hilda was confident that the human was indeed speaking true.
'I will take the job then' nodded the dwarf. 'We leave mid morrow, meet me at the gates...'
The next day...
When morning came, Alexandre ate a hearty breakfast of honeyed porridge and goat's milk after making sure that his horse had received its fill as well of fresh grain. He then headed towards the nearest market, purchased provisions which both he and his horse would need. At the appointed time, he found the dwarf woman was at the gates, along with a bizarre contraption which looked some heavy metallic pack which sported a trio of long metal blades and a pair of arms like that of a chair.
Dressed in heavy armor of lacquered plate and chain mail that was intricately etched with golden filigree, the dwarf wore her grey cloak over her shoulders and a winged helmet that rested atop her head. On the sides of the contraption, there were also a number of bags and other objects hanging around it such as a heavy looking warhammer and a crossbow. Around the belt of the dwarf woman, she also had a pair of those handheld blackpowder, pistols he believed they were called along with some metallic egg-shaped objects.
'It is called a Gyro Harness' explained Hilda as she knelt by the machine and she poured a small keg full of what smelled like very strong beer into a funnel attached to the device. 'We dwarfs sometimes use it when we need to travel about over long distances.'
'What does it do?' questioned Alexandre foe he had heard stories about the cleverness of the Mountain Folk and how they built great machines to aid them both in day to day life and on the field of battle.
'This' answered the dwarf as she pulled a cord attached to the strange machine and it began to sputter smoke and steam from a pipe at the bottom of it. The three blades began to slowly rotate before picking up speed and the dwarf carried it like a back pack. Faster and faster it went, the sight of it drew a mix of fearful and curious looks from the locals as wind was blown around them from the dwarf's machine. Much to the surprise of Alexandre and every other human observer, the dwarf's feet lifted off of the ground by a foot and she nodded towards Alexandre as her hands were tightly held on to arms of the machine.
'Try to keep up manling' slyly announced the dwarf as she then flew out the gates and moving as fast as a horse at full gallop. Kicking his steed, the Bretonnian was soon following after his guide.
For several hours they would travel across the dry plains of the Border Princes and when night fell, they had made camp in the weathered ruins of an old farmstead. Much of the place had been left in shambles, the thatch roof of the farmhouse had long collapsed and the only part of it which was not in complete shambles was a barnyard of rotted wood, a few missing planks and overgrown grass. Of its original inhabitants, they had found no trace, save for the sharpened stone heads of arrows which his guide quickly identified as of being goblin made.
Having had firsthand experience on knowing the cruel acts of which the cowardly little greenskins tended to perform on their victims, he decided it was best not to think on it and they both deposited their packs on one corner of the barn. In silence they had eaten a cold dinner of dried meats and hardtack around a campfire, Alexandre's horse was divested of its saddle and the loyal steed rested on its side near the warm flames. His guide had only spoken a few words since their journey had begun and she now stood outside of the barn, smoking a pipe and looking towards the southwest.
Alexandre was rather curious at what the small woman was thinking, partly because he had never met one of the mountain folk before, nor any member of the other civilized races for that matter. Rising up from his seated position, he slowly walked towards the opened entrance of the barn; his horse looked up to him in curiosity before resting its head on the hard ground. The dwarf woman then looked over her shoulder towards him and she gave a slight nod before returning to her watch.
'What is it that you are looking at?' asked Alexandre towards his guide.
'Ever hear of the Dragonback Mountains, manling?' replied the dwarf woman who still gazed towards the horizon.
'Can't say I have' answered Alexandre who looked to the distance and he saw nothing but more plains and darkness beneath the clear starlit sky.
'My clan used to live in a Hold there; gone now like many others' continued Hilda who offered him a puff of her pipe but Alexandre politely declined.
'I have heard many stories about the lost cities of the dwarfs' spoke the Bretonnian who remembered many a tale he had been told as a child and others he had picked up during his travels, of great wealth that would make all of the kingdoms of Men look like beggars in comparison. 'That they are places of wonder, filled with treasure and all manners of dangerous creatures.'
'They are also tombs' Hilda then said as she let out a stream of smoke from her lips, a hint of quiet anger could be heard in her voice. 'Many of the old holds are filled with the bones of our ancestors; some are even haunted by the spirits of those unable to enter the Ancestors Halls.'
'Like much of Mousillon' said Alexandre who gained a curious look from the dwarf and the Bretonnian told her of the cursed duchy, a place he once had the misfortune of ever setting foot upon. 'To the north of my homeland of Brionne, beyond Aquitane and Bordeleaux, the Dukedom of Mousillon is inhabited by the undead from hordes of skeletons and zombies that wander the swamps and there are many restless spirits which haunt it at night.'
'Sounds like a cheery place' sarcastically commented the dwarf. 'Is it as bad as Sylvania?'
'If you count peasants so deformed that they might as well be mutants of the Chaos Wastes or lords and ladies who may or not be vampires, I would say it is just as bad' replied Alexandre who had heard stories of the undead haunted lands up in the Empire and he remembered that one incident where he and a number of other Knight Errants had tried to clear out a graveyard filled with zombies, sufficed to say, it did not end well for many of them. 'Quite appropriately, people also call the capital city of Mousillon itself "The City of the Damned".'
'That seems about right' then said the dwarf with grim amusement. 'You should get some rest manling, we still have a long journey ahead.'
'What about you? asked Alexandre who was not very keen with the idea of allowing a woman to watch over him for the night. 'Shouldn't we take shifts in keeping an eye out for greenskins?'
'I will be fine manling' replied the dwarf more assertively. 'Just go to sleep and I will wake you when we need to leave.'
Nodding with resignation, the Bretonnian reluctantly obeyed the hired guide and he went back towards the campfire. Glancing back one last time, he saw that the dwarf was again looking towards the direction of this Dragonback Mountains. He heard that the dwarfs were also a people prone to looking ever towards the past, that their deeds and actions were always in the shadows of those who came before them.
A very morose folk by the sound of things he thought.
When dawn came the second day, they headed out once more, just as they had on the first. They traveled further down towards the south, nearing the Blood River where about nine decades ago, the Bretonnians had fought many wars against the greenskins. On the third night, they had made camp on the open plain and Alexandre proudly told Hilda of tales about Bretonnian knights slaughtering greenskins in these lands while the dwarf was busy pouring more beer into her flying machine.
'I was there when you Bretonnian came around these parts' said the dwarf woman. 'A lot of knights wanted to hire guides who knew these lands; well the smart ones did at least.'
'Really?' questioned Alexandre with much skepticism as he gave a studious look to the dwarf.
'We dwarfs live a lot longer than you manlings do' reminded Hilda.
'Were you by chance hired by an Earl Laurent du Vallon?' he curiously then asked.
'Never met him' shrugged Hilda. 'Some other rangers and I were employed by a Baron Florin d' Arteles, ever heard of him.'
'I do not think I have' admitted Alexandre with some embarrassment.
'Well there were a lot of you manlings coming about from all over your lands' said Hilda who didn't seem bothered. 'He was a manling of his word who didn't try to swindle us, so that was good of him at least.'
'And some were not?' asked Alexandre.
'I have heard' nonchalantly replied Hilda. 'Didn't happen to me or others I knew, but in lands like this, finding a trustworthy guide can be a gamble.'
'I see' quietly said the human whose voice was again skeptical. 'And I hope that my choice of hiring you was not a poor one?'
'Are you doubting the word of a dawi?' accused Hilda who suddenly had a serious look on her.
'I mean no disrespect mademoiselle Bardisdottir' replied Alexandre with hands held up in a placating manner. 'I simply want to be sure that by hiring you, I have not made a grave mistake.'
'You best keep such opinions to yourself manling' growled Hilda. 'You paid me for a job and I will get it done but others may be more inclined to leave you to the grobi and their wolves.'
'I will be sure to remember that' said Alexandre and the dwarf nodded, the mood for chatting had been replaced with a grim silence.
Again they would travel southwards and the closer they came to the Blood River, the more traces of greenskin activity they had found. On the fourth day, a little before noon, they had both smelled and seen the disgusting dung effigies which the greenskins erected in honor of their barbarous gods, each was a marker denoting the borders of a tribe. Ever since entering these lands, Alexandre's horse had become more cautious and the Bretonnian knight himself kept both hands close to his weapons for in the distance, he had heard the faint howls of wolves.
'They will probably try to have a go at us during the night!' called Hilda over the sputtering of her flying machine and the whirring sound it made as the blades constantly rotated.
'Should we give chase? Take the fight to them?' suggested Alexandre.
'No, the damn grobi will want that, we need to find a good spot to hole up and wait out till morning' replied Hilda.
'I don't see any of those about' commented Alexandre as he surveyed the flat plains around them and he saw only more grassland.
'Just keep moving!' shouted the dwarf woman and indeed they stayed on course.
By the time the sun began to set over the west, they were able to find a spot which may offer at least some defense against the greenskin wolf riders. A ruined watchtower lay upon a hill ahead of them; its stones were as weathered as that of the farmstead from a few days earlier. The doorway was large enough for him to herd his horse inside but of the door itself, it had been broken down with rotted wooden splinters all over the interior.
Dust, cobwebs and broken furniture lay all about inside of the ruined tower; the place truly looked like it had been abandoned for years. Getting his horse through was a simple enough for Alexandre who was soon followed by his dwarf guide, her own machine took a moment for its engine to stop sputtering and its rotating blades to come to a halt. Once they were all inside, they went about trying to barricade the front with whatever they could find and after searching the tower for a bit, all they had were some old bed posts, a few chairs and some other pieces of furniture, all of which were old and rotted.
'Do you think it will hold?' questioned Alexandre with some worry as he later guided his horse by pulling its reins up a wide, winding flight of stone stairs towards the upper levels of the tower with his guide behind them.
'Not for long' dryly replied the dwarf woman as she drew both of her pistols and it was immediately followed by the howls of wolves from outside which were accompanied by high pitched war cries of "Waaaghh!"
'Ready manling? Because here they come!' the dwarf then shouted.
Drawing his rapier and main gauche in readiness, Alexandre offered a quite whisper to the gods, to Lady for courage and strength, to Morr in case he died this night and most importantly of all, to Ranald for good fortune.