How was he supposed to be the saviour of the Empire when he couldn't even leave his tent? Valten sat on his stool, head in his armoured hands, trying to work out what was happening beyond the canvass walls imprisoning him through sound alone. It was impossible. He heard walking, but everyone walked at some point. Much the same could be said about talking. Walking and talking, these were what Luthor Huss left him to try and work out how in the name of the bloody, daemon-spawning hells what was happening.

He got to his feet, sitting just made it worse, and approached the tool of his so-called victory. Ghal Maraz, the Skull Splitter, the weapon of Sigmar himself – and aside from that one time where he had destroyed the daemon shape shifter, he had yet to wield it in battle. He was a blacksmith's boy, he had grown up around hammers of all sorts, but nothing came close to the craftsmanship, or raw power that came from the golden hammer. His smith's mind was telling him that gold was soft, useless when forged into a weapon of war, his eyes were telling him that if anything could stop the ever advancing armies of Chaos, it was this hammer.

He heard someone approaching his tent. Luthor? No, that warrior priest was never without his heavy armour, someone else, someone in lighter clothing. An assassin? It wouldn't be the first time an assassin had come for the most powerful men in the Empire. He thought back to the cackling laughter of the daemon that had nearly slain the Supreme Patriarch. Former Supreme Patriarch, he reminded himself. The head of the Cult of Sigmar couldn't well insult the orders of magic so readily. He wasn't ready for this.

But the tent pulled back and it wasn't an assassin, only Erich. "Herald," he bowed his head to hide the smirk that came to his face. His friend took great pleasure in the fact that the boy he'd run through pigsties with as children was now the Herald of Sigmar.

"Don't bow Emil," he said, feeling his face flush. "I get enough of that from the priests." In his nordland village, the priest had been the highest ranking person, now they bowed to his approaching footsteps, the world was truly on its head.

"Just tell them to stop," Erich said, sitting down without invitation. "They obey your every word."

"I wish," then he could command them to let him go, no, they still listened to Luthor's instructions above his own in the things that mattered most. Huss meant well, but Valten was growing greatly angered at him. "They barely let me see most people, they only let you in after a week of insisting."

Erich shrugged. "Well, they'll come round, smack their heads together if it comes to it."

Valten laughed, god how he missed it, but an army in retreat had little to laugh about. "Oh my dear Erich, I'd love to continue this, but if you're here, Luthor soon will be. What news is there?" He'd had Erich listen in on the war councils, Luthor brought him the news, but also brought preaching and teaching and he had trouble remembering it all, he'd found it easier if Erich delivered the news and then he could focus on his learning about the Cult of Sigmar with Luthor.

Erich nodded, his lips thinning into a line. "It's been more than a week since we heard from the Vampire's rearguard at the Folly." The new name for the Bastion did little to inspire the confidence needed in the army. He thought back to the day the Cult had abandoned the Auric Bastion. Perhaps if he'd been better, if he'd had more control, he could have convinced them to remain, and they wouldn't be in this situation. "The Emperor has given up sending scouts, the last teams lost two of every three members and barely brought any news. He says von Carstein is dead or fled and we'll discover later or not. In the meantime, we have little news from Count Aldebrand Ludenhof since he retreated back to Hergig, but soon we'll be at the Talabec, and the Emperor plans to entrench there."

Valten nodded. They'd been harried day and night by raiders, beastmen from the Drakwald and the vanguard of the enemy hordes. It was inevitable, alone, Vlad von Carstein could never have held the line for long. Sigmar above, how was he supposed to stop this all. "What about the men?" He asked.

"Barely holding it together some of them, those assigned to the rearguard in particular, they need hope and they aren't getting any, they need a victory, or something."

"And I'm supposed to bring it to them," Valten muttered.

"Not from in here you won't."

"I know."

A few moments passed before Erich got to his feet. "Come." He looked at Erich blankly. "The men will feel some relief if they can catch sight of their hero."

Valten jerked his head to the tent entrance and the warrior priests waiting just beyond. "They won't let me out of here, not before Huss arrives, and then he'll sit me down for some lecture."

"This is a tent, not a palisade," Erich said, moving over to the far side. "There is more than one way out of here." With that he bent down and pulled up the back flap just enough to poke his head under and peer out. "All's clear, be right back." With a great deal of undignified shuffling, Erich scrambled under the canvass. He sure didn't expect Valten to follow in his armour did he? "Come on, quick!" Erich hissed. Apparently he did. Valten moved to the flap and saw that it was sagging slightly, Erich must have undone one of the ropes holding it down. He was about to kneel when he paused, retrieved Ghal Maraz, he wouldn't let the heirloom of Sigmar go missing because he left it behind joyriding through the camps. He got down on hands and knees and followed Erich out of the tent.

"Now isn't this better?" Erich asked as they wandered towards the rear of the column. They'd moved fast, not stopping for a breather until they were well out of sight of Valten's tent and the priests who would seek to haul him back as soon as they noticed that he was gone. Now they were closer to the rearguard, Valten allowed himself to relax a little.

"Much," he replied, breathing deeply, barely feeling the weight of Ghal Maraz, slung across his back. The smell of roasting flesh over fires met his nostrils. Soldiers cooking sausage and pork and flesh stripped from fallen steeds. "These must be men of Talabheim," he mused as they passed a detachment of crossbowmen around a fire. He had difficulty with the flags, but he could tell their accents apart, and recognised their story as a local legend amongst those who lived along the Talabec. "General Otto was watching the rearguard wasn't he?" He asked Erich.

"If you say so," Erich shrugged. He'd slipped his hands into his pockets as they walked together, more enjoying the act of walking itself than the surroundings they found themselves in.

They continued to walk, the sounds of the Talabeclanders and their stories reaching them from cookfires. General Otto ran a tight unit of the army of Talabheim, and his men were either resting or on patrol at the edges of the camp. No one accosted him on his way, a few took notice and hurried to get out of his way. He was sure to send each one as easy a smile as he could. The smile and attention of a hero could be as tender and soothing as the kiss and caress of a lover.

Eventually the smell of cooking flesh took on a darker scent, and they reached the rear of the camp to see them lit by three great funeral pyres for the soldiers who'd fallen that day. The tang of spent gunpowder mingled with the burning flesh and scent of spilt blood, there had been a skirmish here, recently. Several units of hardened soldiers stood to attention, looking out as far as the light of the fires illuminated towards the trees. Behind them, others were stripping the bodies of anything useful and depositing them on the pyres. There was no time for proper burials on a retreat. "Stay ready men," General Otto said from not too far away, watching out over the tree line, hand on the hilt of his sword. "I expect the beasts to try again before the night is done."

As he stepped up to the barricade, acknowledging the mutters and gasps of surprise from the men, he saw scattered corpses of gors of the forest as well as barbarian raiders between the camp and the tree line, littered with quarrels and ragged with holes. "Beastmen." He muttered.

General Otto glanced at him for a moment, then nodded. "Quite right herald, "and their barbaric scum friends."

"I see you saw them off," Valten replied.

"I did, and I will again."

Valten nodded. The general couldn't be much older than he was, but his diligence in his duty was commendable. "You think they will come?"

Otto nodded. "Indeed, this was pitiful, there will be others nearby, drawn by the slaughter." He glanced at him. "Will you stand with us, Herald?"

Valten nodded. "I'm tired of huddling in a tent, I will bring fury crashing down on these monsters."

The men grinned and chuckled at his words. Gods how he missed fighting, life had been so much easier back then, none of this herald stuff or talking of destiny, just fighting, fighting to protect, fighting to hurt, fighting to win, nothing was quite like it.

"Guess I'm staying too," Erich said, smiling and drawing his sword.

Otto was right, not so long later, the twisted malformed goat head of a gor poked around the treeline. "Has to be gors," Otto muttered with utter disgust in his voice. "Ready arms!" Crossbowmen and handgunners levelled their weapons at the tree line.

"Not so fast General," Erich said. Otto balked that a commoner would speak to him, a general of the von Brumderhack family line, that way. But Erich was Valten's friend. Erich slapped Valten's shoulder. "There aren't so many of them, let's let our herald stretch his muscles a bit."

Valten grinned, the warmth of battle-heat rising in him. Otto considered him, then nodded. Valten stepped beyond the reaches of the camp towards the tree line.

When he'd put about ten metres between him and the camp he stood still, Ghal Maraz still on his back. "Come on savages!" He called. "Come fight me!"

Three gors armed with crooked spears answered him first, breaking from the tree line, slobber flying from their twisted mouths as they raced towards him.

He grinned as he raised his fists, no need to sully his hammer. He didn't bother avoiding the spears of the beasts. The first splintered on his breastplate without leaving a scratch. He slammed his fist into the beast's stomach, crumpling it. He hefted it like a doll and used the body as a shield against the next spear. The gor howled with pain as the twisted barb punched through his belly. Valten pushed, sending the two of them scattering to the floor. The next charged heedless, Valten caught it's arm, folded his arms around its neck and twisted in one deft movement. He stepped over to the two sprawling gors, the second one having pushed the impaled one off him. But before he could get up, Valten brought his armoured boot down on its face. The sickening crunch of cartilage and bone made him smile. He stepped to the side. "Anyone else?" He called calmly.

More came, a dozen or more, all charging at him, snarling and panting. He smiled and charged to meet them, he lay into them with his gromril covered fists, smashing faces and limbs with powerful blows, crushing throats beneath his fingers and powdering ribs beneath his boots. None of this mass of filth was truly worth it, but by Sigmar it made him feel good. If only the priests were more ready to let him off the leash, then he could bring his strength against all the enemies of the Empire, completing Sigmar's work.

Still they came and still they died when a loud crack split the air. He looked around, it seemed the gors were choosing the easier target of the camp rather than him and were charging it in great numbers, General Otto's men were already fighting to repel them. He spun, punching a leaping gor in the middle of the face with such force that it's neck snapped backwards.

Trees splintered as a trio of minotaurs emerged, snorting and wielding great crude axes. Finally a challenge! He charged, disregarding the feeble strikes of the gors, one tried to stop him and died. He leapt up at the first minotaur, slamming it in the face with one of his gauntlets. He reached up and caught it by the horn, dragging the beast to its hands and knees. It stared at him with malice and hatred. That wouldn't do. He raised his fists and smashed those cursed eyes to pulp with two punches. He released the horn and let it stagger to its feet, spinning wildly, roaring against the pain and sudden darkness. The next minotaur shoved it's useless friend aside and came at him, swinging his axe at Valten's side, clearly looking to cut him in half. Valten dug his feet in and took the blow. The force behind it was enough to push him to the side, his feet dragging through the ground, but it never even worried his armour. When he came to a halt, he seized the haft of the hammer, smashing the fingers holding it. The minotaur let go with a howl. He stepped forward, adjusting his grip on the great axe, using the momentum of his spin to bring it up and smash it into the beast's twisted skull, felling it in a single blow.

No more games, he grunted from the effort and reached to his back, pulling Ghal Maraz into his hand. He charged the last minotaur, ducking low and slamming his shoulder into its stomach, falling on top of it. He pushed himself up on its disgusting chest of twisted black hair, raised Ghal Maraz and brought it down, splashing the ground with blood, brains and bone.

"Herald!" Someone called. He turned his head back to the camp. They had driven off the beastmen as easily as he had, but one of the men was pointing to a group of the escaping beastmen, who were dragging soldiers with them into the forest, including...

"Erich!" He roared. His friend was in the grip of a hefty gor as it was disappearing into the darkness of the treeline. "General Otto!" Valten called back. "Hold the camp, I'm going after them!"

He vaguely heard Otto's call, but didn't listen as he charged towards the trees. But before he got there, two trees were pushed aside by a giant Cygor. The huge beast carried a great boulder under one arm and stared down at him with the hate of four gods in its eyes.

"Get out of my way," Valten roared.

In response the beast hefted its boulder and sent it spinning through the air towards him. He brought Ghal Maraz up in a great arc. It connected with the boulder in a flash of blue light, shattering it into a hundred pebbles that scattered across the ground. He set himself and charged. He dodged a great fist that shook the ground itself as it slammed into him. He swung Ghal Maraz at the beast's knee, the highest vulnerable point he could reach. The kneecap shattered and the beast fell, catching itself on twisted hands. He snarled and brought his hammer around again, taking an elbow this time. He continued his motion, bringing his hammer up in a great uppercut that took the beast in the middle of the face. As it rolled to the ground, roaring in pain, he smashed it, and smashed it and smashed it until it lay silent and still. Puffing for a second, he turned and raced into the woods to rescue the men the beasts had taken.

He tore through the trees, swatting aside the gors who decided to try their luck in the branches. He saw the beasts dragging one soldier who had caught a bolder to hold them back. He charged over, in three strikes he had killed the beasts dragging the soldier. "Back to the camp, now!" He hissed, dragging him to his feet. "Go!" He turned and ran on.

In the forest he was slowed, the Drakwald was the home of the beasts, and they were suited to it far better, they could scramble over rocks and fallen trees while he had to clamber in his heavy plate. The only thing slowing the beasts were the prisoners they carried.

He managed to reach another two prisoners and free them, sending them back to the camp, before he reached the encampment of the gorherd and had to pause and take stock of his foes.

He crouched on the outskirts, his fingers curling into fists as he saw what was happening in the middle of the camp. The last three prisoners, including Erich, were being dragged to an altar, an altar covered in dried blood and surrounded by scattered bones. At least a hundred gors surrounded it, in thrall to the blood god, swaying and braying to the night sky. A shaman of some kind stood before the altar, arms raised in praise to their god. Then it gave a gesture and Erich was dragged to the altar.

"No!" He roared, and charged.

His hammer became a blur of gold and flashing blue as he lay into the horde with abandon. Every blow was coming to him in instinct, shattering limbs, joints and heads with great force. He placed every blow, every strike disciplined and focussed and deadly. At first the horde reeled back, but then they scrambled at him, desperate to get to grips with the one daring to interrupt their ritual. But there was no tactic or finesse to their attacks. Valten forced thoughts of Erich out of his head for now and focussed only on the battle. Thought beat brute strength, in the height of the moment he could turn his body perfectly to allow his armour to take blows from one side while he dealt out a torrent of death on the other. Whenever a head was exposed he shattered it, a spear overextended, he made a bloody ruin of the hands holding it. He fought his way to the camp, the gors carpeting the ground around him as he smashed his way towards the altar. Ghal Maraz spun as a whirl of death and defiance, felling foes on all sides, he lashed out with fists and feet, driving beasts onto the campfires to burn and roast to the screams of the mad and the dying.

By now the shaman was gesturing at Valten, but the gors, so eager to attack a camp of the faceless were not so determined to get to grips with the being making his way so easily through their camp, indeed, many of the lesser gors were fleeing into the trees. When raiding a village, the little ones fed of the blood spilled by the greater champions, but by now, the better warriors had already charged and died to the great warrior. Soon they broke, the desire to spill blood overcome by the desire, even held as it was by such twisted beasts, to live another day. Alone among the fleeing stood the shaman, and Valten charged, leaping on to the altar. Ghal Maraz fell and the shaman fell with it. He turned to the camp as the last gors scattered into the trees.

"I did it Erich I-" He cut himself short as he turned to Erich. "No, Erich!" Erich and the other prisoners lay in small heap on the ground. "NO!" He fell to his knees beside them, Erich's eyes open, glassy and full of defiance. The beasts had cut their throats when they knew he was going to stop their ceremony, damn them, damn them all! He cradled Erich's head gently. "Damn you bastards, damn you all to your hellspawn dominions!"

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, but he knew he couldn't stay forever, nor could he take the bodies back to the camp, and asking men to come to pick them up was too much to ask of them. The remnants of the herd were still out there along with who knew what else. He walked to the mass of hide, canvas and wooden prongs that made up the camp and piled them in the middle of the camp. One after another, he dragged the five bodies to the mass, carefully laying them side by side. Taking up Ghal Maraz he approached a nearby tree. A single blow splintered a branch and sent it crashing to the ground in pieces. He gathered the pieces and added them to the growing pyre.

He wanted to say something, but what were the right words? The priests had been teaching him all about the nature of chaos and why it must be destroyed, how to spot signs of it's corruption, but had neglected to tell him the right words to say over a funeral pyre. Some teaching.

"Rest well, undefiled by the horrors of the enemy," he ended up saying. Using flint and stone he sparked the pyre alight.

He closed his eyes, wishing their souls to Morr's garden.

"Spread out, find him!"

He turned at the shouts. A squad of templar knights burst into the camp, led by two Warrior Priests and guided by a Witch Hunter, no the Witch Hunter, Emil Grussner. Witch Hunters often developed reputations, but this was the man who had guided both Crusades into Sylvania, and who had tracked down and nearly slain the Changeling. Had he only been a little better, all that the Changeling sought to wrought could have been prevented.

"Herald," the leading priest said in relief. "By Sigmar's grace, you're alive."

Valten didn't reply.

"Was this your work?"

"Obviously," he replied after a pause. "But I wasn't fast enough to save them," he gestured to the pyre, twisted limbs still visible in the dancing flames.

"Herald I-" he cut himself off, or someone cut him off.

It turned out to be Emil. The Witch Hunter had stepped up beside him, holstering his pistol and removing his wide brimmed hat in respect. The man seemed... old. Valten knew he was past forty, but even so, the lines in his face spoke of more experience than those years suggested. "You will always be too slow," he said softly. "It is something I learnt early on. You can hunt down a traitor, a witch, a daemon or a heretic, but no matter how fast you get there, they will always have done harm. Every time you watch someone you know or love die because you weren't fast enough it will hurt, the knife of it will twist in your heart and gut. But you must never stop, because if you stop, then that loss means nothing. You must keep fighting, because when we stop fighting, that is when the dark forces of this world win."

"Not everyone can do that," Valten replied. "Otherwise there would be a thousand Sigmars."

"And the world would be at utter peace," Emil added, resting a hand on his shoulder, not unkindly. "But it isn't, this is the world we live in. The enemy will never stop, never cease, never cast aside their desires for the destruction and desecration of all we hold dear. The people look to us for guidance and protection, they always have, they look to me as a Witch Hunter, and you as the Herald of Sigmar to protect them. We must fight, we must continue to struggle every time, because if we do not, then no one else will. Remember that."

Valten nodded. "I will."

"We should head back, now," one of the templars said.

"No," Emil replied. "It is too dark now and the enemy is routed. We wait for dawn, when we can see our own feet again. Then we'll head back."

They started talking about watches and rotations as he dropped to one knee. "I'm sorry Erich," he whispered. Whatever Emil said, his friend was dead and wasn't coming back.