Prologue: Storm's End

The beastman lunged forwards, its crude axe raised. Curved horns crowned its brow and its red eyes gleamed with undying hate. A barbaric war cry burst from its fanged maw, and the axe descended. Sparks flew as the hammer blocked the weapon length-wise. A counter-attack knocked the creature's shield from its claws then smashed into its long snout as the blow was reversed. Black blood erupted from the damaged face and the beast staggered. The warhammer didn't allow its foe any respite and slammed into the forehead where the Blood God's mark had been carved. There followed another explosion of inky gore and the beastman slumped, the axe falling from nerveless fingers.

'Ten,' Aethur snarled,' stalking away from the ruined corpse, seeking new prey.

It didn't take long for more prey to materialise. Another beastman, its brutish shape sporting massively muscled, hairy arms that gripped the haft of a rusty halberd, rushed towards the templar. Issuing a savage howl, Aethur revealed his elongated canines and swept his warhammer upwards. The stroke devastated the beastman's chest, battering aside the halberd and throwing up a miniature fountain of blood. It resembled a cistern on the side of a tree-covered mountain as the Gor pitched backwards, its hooves kicking up dust. Two smaller monsters converged on the templar before he could apply the coup-de-grace. Turning, he let loose a terrific bellow of rage, his eyes blazing with cold fury. One of the Ungors whimpered in fear, turning tail while the other hurled its primitive spear. Catching it in one hand and breaking it on the fallen beast's horns in one fluid motion, Aethur swung out at the offending creature. The hammer connected with brute force, tearing the Ungor's head from its shoulders in a bloody spray.

'Get back here you cowardly mongrel!'

When the fleeing beast did not comply, Aethur glanced about, hungry for slaughter. The beastmen were engaged in a skirmish against weary soldiers, a last, desperate attempt to enter the city. But Aethur knew their actions were futile. The war was nearly over, the invasion halted, like a chariot whose horses had been pin cushioned full of arrows. Archaon lived, but it was rumoured that he was preparing himself for a confrontation with Valten. Aethur cared not; they were both on the other side of Middenheim. This little clash, being fought on the outskirts of the Drakwald, was all that mattered to him at the moment, and it was turning into a massacre. Countless bodies of beastmen and mutants sprawled across the battleground, inter-mingled with the occasional dead militiaman. Blood both red and black stained the earth, which was decorated with discarded and broken weapons.

'The beastmen are in retreat,' reported Captain Richter, approaching Aethur whilst breathing heavily. The man wiped his hand across his sweaty brow.

'I noticed,' the templar spat, disgusted at his enemies' low morale. 'Wait...'

'What is it? Are they regrouping?' They were joined by the unit's vexillary, his blue and white tunic spattered with the filth of war. He planted the standard in the ground, leaning on it as he scanned the fringes of the forest. A horn blast split the quietening atmosphere, an ugly, unnerving sound that chilled the spine and spoke of lost humanity. Aethur slitted his eyes as he watched the beastmen's leader stride towards him. The air grew still, the wind calm, the columns of smoke rising from burnt out wreckage wafting gently on the breeze. Instinctively, Richter pulled his pistol from its holster and aimed it at the chieftain.

'No...he's mine,' Aethur said gruffly, waving for Richter to lower the weapon. The templar began to walk forward, a wolfish grin upon his face. The Gor Chief was tall, as tall as Aethur, some six feet, and had the well-built physique of a powerful warrior. Brawny muscles rippled beneath a chainmail vest, worn amidst a combination of mis-matched metal plates. Stolen Imperial tassets hung from the beast's belt, strapped to its upper legs with lengths of cord. Greaves, also of Imperial design, protected its shins, while a deadly array of curving horns pointed skywards from a bony skull. The symbol of Khorne was stamped between the goat-thing's crimson eyes.

'Blood for the Blood God!' The double-handed axe the monster wielded came scything at Aethur, who parried with the warhammer. Angered, and filled with berserk bloodlust, the Gor Chief struck again, its heavy build belying the uncanny speed it possessed. The axe blade sliced across the templar's face as Aethur threw himself backward, landing with a crunch. Red blood spilled from the newly opened gash, a scar that ran diagonally from his forehead to below his left eye. He howled in pain then rolled aside as the axe buried its head in the dirt where he had been. Gritting his teeth, agony coursing through his veins, he sent out a prayer to Ulric, dodging the blade a second time. Finally on his feet, he sent the warhammer crashing into the beastman's face, pulverising its right eye and knocking the creature sideways. In the second that it righted itself, Aethur span his hammer, ignoring the blood streaming down his cheek, and lashed out. The blow cracked teeth and broke the jawbone. He delivered a crippling impact to his foe's knee, bringing it to the ground with a yelp of outrage. The beast's back was next under the hammer, as Aethur roared his praise to Ulric, lifting the warhammer with both hands above his head. The Gor's spine shattered and a further blow to its neck crushed the life from it. Aethur kicked the carcass and spat on it. He sighed. It was only then that he realised his wound had stopped bleeding.

'You hurt me, chaos scum,' he growled, clasping the wolf's head pendant as he trudged away towards the Western Causeway.

The Wolf Templar strode into the Hall of the White Wolves' Grand Master. His boots echoed on the square flagstones and his gaze flicked about the impressive chamber. Huge pillars carved into the likeness of giant wolves standing on their hind legs and holding up the roof stood like titans on the edges of the room. The marble walls curved high up to form an arched ceiling from which hung a massive chandelier. The walls themselves were bedecked with life-size portraits of the Order's previous masters, often depicting them battling against various forces of darkness. Braziers were also mounted upon the walls, their dancing flames casting eerie shadows even in the bright light.

Two red-armoured knights flanked a dais at the head of the room, carrying their warhammers lengthways across their bodies. They wore the typical wolf skin cloaks of the White Wolves, and nodded in respect as he approached. In return he slammed his right fist against his breastplate before casting his eyes towards his chief superior.

Seated on his throne, a high-backed chair of polished wood and gleaming brass, the old man had the build and look of a veteran. Hundreds of battles he had fought, thousands of enemies he had slain. His haggard face sported an impressive white beard that stretched to his broad belt. He wore a vermilion tunic trimmed in gold edging and the silvery, full plate armour of a knight, over which hung a scarlet cloak adorned with snowy wolf fur. Twinkling, blue eyes gazed at Aethur with respect and consideration.

'So, you have acquired a new battle scar?' The voice was deep and resonated with the tones of ancient nobility.

'I have, Grand Master Barathor,' Aethur replied huskily. He rubbed his forehead. He knew it would distinguish him for the rest of his life. It was his divine tattoo, his mark of Ulric's favour. 'You summoned me?'

'I did. I did indeed.' Barathor proceeded to inform Aethur about the recent attacks on the Merchants' Guild. He spoke slowly, in his own time, and Aethur stood tall, trying not to let his mind wander.

'The chaos invasion has allowed cultists to run riot and cause all manner of mayhem and destruction during the siege of Middenheim. It is rumoured that they belong to the 'Brethren of the Golden Eagle.'

'Who does this cult worship?' Aethur feigned interest as best as he could.

'They follow one of the fell, Ruinous Powers, the Lord of Sorcery: Tzeentch.'

'And what would...'

'You will embark on a journey into the heart of the Ulricsberg,' Barathor continued. 'In the bowels of the deep, you will locate the base of this branch of the cult, and assassinate their Magister. This, Ulric willing, will halt the attacks and prevent the Brethren continuing with their vile plans in Middenheim.'

'When do I set out?'

'I suggest you select a chosen few, to assist you in this mission. I do not advise your brother knights...the company will have to be flexible in order for you to succeed. The Wild Wolf is plentiful with mercenaries. Perhaps you should try there.'

'Hmmm...I understand,' Aethur rumbled. 'Very well...'

'You will set out in two days' time. Remember, there are things older and fouler than Gors in the deep places of the world...'