The dead leaves rustled and whispered on the ground as the wind slithered amongst them, dry and cold. No birds answered this noise. No living thing stirred on Geheimnisnacht except those with unholy purpose.
The cold seeped through walls and cloth, chilling those who felt its touch, down to the marrow and soul. Fires burned low, candles guttered and went out, leaving only a ghostly trail of twisting smoke behind.
Throughout the small town people huddled together, whispering benedictions to Sigmar and clutching hammer talismans close. Families slept in the same room, fearful to stay apart lest not all of them live to see the dawn. This far south in the Empire, nothing was certain on this night.
The shadows grew deeper and darker in the graveyard, as if the presence of death seeped closer and gazed out into the world. The crumbling markers and crude stone edifices seemed to shelter unknown horrors, wraithlike presences that disappeared the moment eyes turned their way.
Through it all strode a group of men. They moved hurriedly, as if eager to conclude their business, yet there was an air of apprehension about them. They seemed to want to avoid beginning what they were doing almost as much as they wanted it to be over.
Five of them carried large bundles, straining with the awkward, long burdens, wrapped in sheets of cloth.
Two dragged a man between them, tied and gagged. Brought from the towns gaol, he was ragged and filthy, his hair long and matted. The prisoner's eyes were staring, wide and desperate. He knew not what he was needed for, but he understood that something dire was occurring.
Through the gag of dirty fabric his pleading and sobbing could be heard, plaintive and wretched. More than once the two men dragging him hissed at him to be silent, but he took no notice and his wailing continued.
Two figures stood apart from the others.
The first paced alongside those bringing the prisoner. Unlike the others his steps were quick and excited, and he kept turning to look upon the captive. While his features were gaunt and sallow, and his orbits were overshadowed, his eyes were feverishly bright.
He clutched a book to his chest as if afraid it might vanish into the night and his right hand held a shuttered lantern, carefully keeping its light contained. He constantly mumbled verses to himself. Frost began to appear on the grass as he walked past, the baleful energies of magic enshrouding him.
The final man led them.
Clad in fine steel armour painted a deep crimson, he appeared as black as the night around them under the light of the twin moons. He neither paced nor shuffled. His steps were long and confident and his bearing was regal, almost arrogant in his assurance. As they drew to the centre of the cemetery he stopped, and the others closed in behind him.
"This will do," he said coldly.
The men spread out around him, while the prisoner was dragged before the leader. Here his muffled cries reached fever pitch, straining at his gag until the figure in command looked down in irritation.
The bound man choked cries faded away to nothing, and he was silent, his gaze transfixed in horror by those feral yellow eyes. It was as he remained motionless that the sallow-faced man set his lantern down, drew a dagger and slashed it across his throat.
The captive convulsed, blood gushing out in a crimson tide, soaking the ground beneath him with his life force. Gradually, his struggles died down and became more spasmodic in nature.
"Begin."
The first man opened up his tome and, picking up the lantern once more, began to read.
In an ancient tongue rarely heard in the realms of men, he called forth forgotten powers, the words taking on a life of their own once they left his lips, swirling in the air around him and whispering in the mind.
Above them all, Morrslieb hung fat and bloated, glowing with a sickly luminescence.
"You who slumber beneath the ground, I call you."
The first man's voice spoke the words in the Khemri tongue, careful not to mispronounce a single syllable.
"You who died upon this ground, I summon you."
The temperature dropped sharply, as if winter had been but toying with them before.
"You who passed beyond the mortal veil, I command you."
The seven other men looked around uneasily as the words flowed amongst them.
"Rise up you who lived before."
The armoured man watched hungrily, his lips twitching in what threatened to become a smile.
"Rise up you who gave up this life."
Beneath the soil, the second man could feel the dark energies stirring, seeking out hosts to occupy.
They found them.
"Rise up you who will walk once more."
He could hear scratching now, as bones once wreathed in flesh moved for the first time in years. Soon even those enthralled to him would hear it.
"You who I resurrect, obey your summons and your master."
The sallow man finished the final part of his incantation and looked across at his master. The armoured figure nodded once, and the sallow man relaxed, relief oozing from his pores like a smell.
The first hand erupted from the earth, yellowed finger bones dragging the rest of the skeletal figure out of the grave. Others emerged soon afterwards, hauling themselves up and feeling the chill winds sweep through them once more, whispering between old bones.
The seven men murmured between them, the smell of fear rising as they moved closer together.
More of the skeletons clawed their way to freedom and servitude, gathering around the living bodies until there were scores of them. Most were missing bones, toes or fingers, jaws or ribs, but all stood silent and motionless, still reeking with the essence of death.
Their master smiled.
He had fed just the previous night, and his will was strong. He exerted it then, reaching each of the walking dead and the fell spirits which animated them.
You are mine, he told them. The spirits, newly awoken and confused by their material hosts, could not hope to resist his command. You will take up your weapons and do my bidding.
Here the man looked across at the living occupants of the cemetery, and the frightened men quickly tore open their burdens. Spears and swords spilled out upon the ground. Some of them were old and rusty while others were new and freshly sharpened.
Go through this place and slaughter all you come across. Leave not a single man, woman or child alive in your wake. Touch not those amongst these graves, for they are mine as well. Go now, and do my bidding.
The horde turned and approached the living, who shrank back at their proximity. But the newly risen only bent down and took up the spears and swords, dead fingers once more clutching a blade tight, then rose and turned away.
They walked unevenly, confined to limited frames once more. As they entered the town proper they began to adjust, until they were almost as fluid as they had been in true life.
Then the massacre began.
...
Doors were forced open.
Windows were shattered.
Throughout the small town the skeletons forced their way into homes and buildings, cutting down those who dared to oppose them.
Most of the inhabitants staggered out of their bedrooms, dressed only in undergarments. Few were armed and those who were had only clubs or fire pokers. One man avoided a skeletons clumsy swing and brought his club crashing down on its skull.
The skeleton collapsed, the animating spirit swiftly dissipating, the bones coming apart and scattering on the floor. The townsman's victory was short-lived however, as the next skeleton drove its spear into his throat.
The club slipped from nerveless fingers as he tried desperately to stem the flow of blood down his chest. The skeleton withdrew the spear and the man sank to the ground.
The last thing he ever saw was the skeleton stepping over him to his bedroom. The last thing he ever heard was the screaming of his wife and children, cut short one at a time as the undead creation did its master's bidding.
Eric Varholt staggered out of the barracks, tightening the last strap of his armour and raising his sword defensively. Behind emerged the dozen members of the town's active guard.
All of them were panicked and confused, woken by the screams of the slaughtered townsfolk. They hefted spears and shields, looking around for the invading foe. When they saw the swarms of walking skeletons the blood drained from their faces, and when the skeletons saw them the guard took several steps backwards.
"Hold your ground!" Varholt bellowed, gesturing with his sword at the nearing creatures.
The guard got into formation, trepidation slowing their movements and lending weight to their limbs. Someone moaned with fear as the first necrotic warrior closed.
It swung its sword in a crude downwards blow, aiming for the side of Varholt's neck. He parried, knocking the blade to the ground before counterattacking. His backhanded blow shattered the skeleton's jaw and vertebrae, taking off its head and sending it rolling across the frost-hardened ground.
On either side of him spears fell into position, two ranks of steel heads pointing towards the gathering foe.
"No quarter!" Varholt cried out. "Do not let these foul creatures pass."
He had no time for further words, as the two forces clashed in the middle of the dying town.
Spears lunged forwards, sliding between ribs and puncturing sternums, while the skeletons grinned with yellowed teeth and pressed onwards.
Blades slashed down, some scraping off armour plating, others puncturing flesh and drawing gouts of blood. Here and there a spear struck one down, but for every skeleton that fell another soon took its place.
Varholt hacked through the spine of one of them, then as it dropped he raised his boot and brought it down as hard as he could on its head. For a moment he saw a brief flare of green light in the eye sockets before his foot crushed it forever.
A spear caught him in the thigh, and he sank to one knee with a curse. The spear drew back and stabbed once more, but he caught the blow on his shield and, bringing his sword down in a vicious blow, cut the spear in half.
Slowly, the guard was being forced back to the garrison building. They struggled, raining desperate strikes down upon their monstrous foe, focused so completely on survival that they did not notice those behind them until it was too late.
The skeletons who had broken through the barracks rear windows now emerged from the gloomy interior, and the first the towns defenders knew about it was when a sword erupted from the chest of a man in the back row.
The soldiers turned, trying to bring their spears to bear on this new threat, but they had no room to manoeuvre. Some of them dropped their weapons and turned to run, but they got no more than three steps before being gutted.
Varholt knew it was over then. He'd known it was over since the beginning. A dozen men could not hold back so many foes, even if the rest of the town had not been killed already.
Overwhelmed by the hopelessness of it all, he charged, his wounded thigh turning the movement into a lopsided hobbling run.
Screaming his rage at the senseless brutality, he attacked the skeleton still holding the broken spear. His first cut chopped off the fleshless hand, his return strike tore open the hollow chest cavity, and as the cursed thing staggered back, he struck its head from its shoulders.
He turned, snarling in impotent fury as he sought another opponent, and saw a pale, armoured man walking towards him.
The skeletons ignored the man, walking right past him as he strode through their midst. Varholt stared in horror as he realised what had happened.
"You did this!" he screamed. "You brought this down upon us!"
"Yes," the pale man said calmly, a faint upturning of his mouth denoting his amusement at the carnage. "Yes I did."
Varholt howled and ran towards the man, slashing with no thought to finesse or self-preservation.
The pale man sighed with disappointment, and brought his own sword to bear. Varholt rained down blow after blow, and the pale man blocked every one. His sword shimmered from position to position without seeming to occupy the space in between, moving as fast as thought.
Varholt's momentum halted, unable to make the pale man take a single step back. He glared into the man's eyes, then faltered, as that awful gaze transfixed him. His sword blows slowed, until the pale man struck his sword from his hands with contemptuous ease.
Varholt realised what he was looking at then, but when he turned to run the pale man was upon him. A cold hand seized his neck in a grip of iron, and no matter how much he beat against it, it would not relax its hold.
The pale man raised his sword and ran it through Varholt's chest.
"I will need more than shambling corpses in my army," the pale man said conversationally to Varholt's prone form. "I will need those who know how to swing a blade."
The town's pitiful defenders had fought with spears, but they would have to do. At least this one knew how to use a sword. So to speak.
He surveyed the blood-drenched town, the last pockets of fighting dying down, and the dying rising up.
Here, three men lay about with wood axes, spears lunging forwards, the axes tumbling to the ground, silence falling like raindrops, sparse and irregular, spreading like a cancer as the fighting died away.
There, a man desperately swung a reaping scythe in wide arcs, bisecting two of the newly risen in a dry clatter of bones.
The pale man frowned, and turned his head back towards the scythe wielder. Instead of looking at him, the pale man saw. He saw the faintest gust of the Winds, a twirling eddy. It was crude and untrained, but it would suffice for his needs.
He pulled the skeletons back and, smiling slightly, strode over to what was now the last beating heart in the town of ghosts.
Blood ran down his blade and trickled down his armour, and the pale man began to laugh.
For the first time in over a century of exile, he was finally returning.