HEINRICH I

Deliverance born on the wings of fire, by the light of the Comet, by the fury of the Hammer! Sigmar's will be done this day!

Whispered words of prayer were lost in the screaming winds high above the world, where a man and his griffon floated on the beating of huge and powerful feathered wings, awaiting the agreed upon signal. Far below the fog and the mist coiled, sinuous and sinister like a snake, partially obscuring a sea of trees, a blanket of dulled greens and grey. Here, away from the creeping menace of the world below, one could almost feel at peace, bathed in the silvery glow from the white moon Mannslieb. In the high heavens beside the great moon sparkled all the shining stars, glorious to behold from such a height. In short, it was like a paradise.

Well, it may be like a paradise worthy of the God Born of Man, but it was also cold like the Wolf-God of Winter's icy breath.

Heinrich Alweis shivered violently in his armor of meteoric iron, a fine gift to him on top of a series of other gifts he didn't think he deserved at all. They had all been granted to him when he had been assigned this mission by the Emperor himself, with the Reiksmarshal Kurt Helborg right beside him. He remembered being visited in his chambers by His Imperial Majesty, in the dead of night. He was told to tell no one of his mission, and that he would serve a very important role in things to come, whatever that meant. He would absolutely do his Emperor and Sigmar proud, but when he was presented the next morning with this equipment, he was speechless.

Certainly, as a Knight of the Reiksguard, he was entitled to certain honors, but being bedecked like an Elector-Count he thought to be rather excessive. Above his brow sat Laurels of Victory, enchanted and blessed by the Arch-Lector of Nuln, and he had bound to the side of his saddle a beautifully engraved shield, crafted in Keraz-a-Kerak, and also enchanted by none other than the old Patriarch of the Gold Order, Hermann Gildenhaus. All were treasures great and famed, but still they paled in comparison to what he now held in one hand, even as his other hand kept itself busy holding the studded leather reins of his griffon. He spared a glance down upon it, as it shone brilliantly in the light of the moon. It was straight and true, the pommel hewn of old and well worn gold, the crossguard of newly pressed steel, having been repaired and replaced dozens of times over two-thousand years of usage. Its blade, however, was as fine and ferocious as the day it was forged by the fabled hands of Alaric the Mad. All down the metal, on either side of the fuller in the centre of the blade were inscribed ancient and mighty Dwarfen runes, runes of power and courage and fury. Beast Slayer was its name, a name granted by a ruler long since forgotten, lost to the tides of time.

But this blade, this blade was not forgotten, for how could it be? It was a sword of ancient legend, of great deeds in a time of great men.

In short, it was a sword of heroes. And he, a mere mortal, was holding it.

Bedecked indeed, came the thought once more, unbidden. A sudden shifting in the otherwise smooth motions of his griffon's wings brought him back to the waking world. Victory was a mighty beast, strong and fast, raised from hatching by Heinrich personally.

There was no other way to truly make a griffon yours than that. A griffon broken like a common horse merely tolerated the man on its back, and even that it did grudgingly. Sigmar help that poor fool if he try to poke the beast with his stirs, for the only thing he'd know after that ever again would be the eternal scolding of his ancestors in the realm of Morr as they mocked him for his stupidity in life.

But Victory, he was not that beast, and Heinrich was not that man.

He was the second son of a well-to-do baron with a fine estate along the river Reik, halfway between Worlitz and Kemperbad. His earliest memories were of helping his father count the barrels of grain before they were sent down the river to stock the larder of venerable Castle Reikguard, and fill the granaries of grand and glorious Altdorf a little further downriver still. His home was stately and fine, with loyal and familiar servants, green and grassy lands, and all manner of hospitalities that lent themselves towards his having a fine childhood. Fine, but not glorious.

All in all, not the sort to own a griffon. That was the irony of life, though, wasn't it?

It had gone unquestioned until the only way it could be answered was snatched away from him when his father had been slaughtered along with the rest of his party as they travelled the road to Grunberg. His brother and mother knew as much as he did, which was nothing, no reason why his father had returned from his travels one day to present his second son with something that better belonged in the Imperial Zoo than a baron's estate. It had to have cost a fortune, for the egg of an Imperial griffon was worth more than its weight in gold, far more.

Rather than stay and grow old and feeble off his brothers labor he took the path so many second sons and bastards had taken before him.

He would become a knight. Well, after he served his time in the pistoliers.

And as a squire.

And a novice.

But, here he was now, as Sigmar ordained for all men, a purpose finally found.

Having a griffon for a mount certainly helped matters, too.

Low rumblings issued from Victory's throat, rumblings that threatened to erupt into a full-blown screech. He scanned below for the cause of the creature's discontent.

A red light glowed, dim but visible, rising higher and higher through the choking fog that hugged the earth. Finally, the signal!

Sigmar be praised, I was starting to get bored, a feral grin breaking out upon his handsome tanned face. Today, the vile and corrupt would taste Imperial might! Sigmar's will be done today!

With a kick and shout Victory responded, the thick sinew of his muscles straining as it contorted its great body down, towards the fight, towards prey. Just as predicted, an ear-piercing shriek came forth from its beak, past rows of razor-sharp teeth that were now exposed and glimmering in the night. Air rushed past his visor, making his eyes water even as his stomach lurched at the sudden drop. Another man might have faltered and fainted, but not a knight of the Reiksguard.

Into the mist and fog they descended, the pure light of above fading into dim eerie glow of the deep forest. Heinrich pulled hard on the reins, and Victory responded, slowing their descent until they circled low over the scene below. From here he could see his companions, already engaged in pitched combat with the vile undead.

He grunted in disgust. Few things angered a pious man than such mockeries of Morr, as vile and pathetic as these lower zombies were. As he watched, the band tore into the rising horde, his comrades battling with a gusto that did his righteous heart proud. That Carroburger with the magnificent hat and mustache, Klaus was it? He sliced two, three monsters apart with every strike of that greatsword.

There was his master for the time being, the implacable and admittedly frightening Brother Klutzer. No witch hunter was pleasant to work with, but this mission was divinely ordained, so he would give his life if that was asked of him. Down below the witch hunter made good account of himself, a whirlwind of death among the dead, slicing through the shambling corpses with his cutlass even as he blew holes in others with the master-crafted pistol he held in the other hand.

Most impressively was that Dwarf, Gorgi. Even from here, Heinrich could hear his booming laughter, carrying on the wind. His hammer shattering rotting limbs and cracking open greenish skulls to reveal disgusting maggot-ridden brains inside.

Enough scouting, he had to hurry if he wanted to slay any at all before the battle was won already. As though he read his mind, Victory dove downwards into the horde, which was now joined by ever more abominations that poured out of the trees and the brush, grasping and groaning for the warm flesh of the living.

With a thunderous crash the griffon touched down, the impact alone throwing away many of the horde like so many malformed ragdolls. With a single smooth, practiced motion Heinrich slipped out his saddle and harness and leapt from the beast, grabbing the shield as he did. It truly was a thing of beauty, coated in gilded skulls and etched sigils, passages from the Deus Sigmar proclaiming the fury and righteousness of Sigmar the God, and of course not an inch of space went without a twin-tailed comet somewhere.

It was almost a shame how quickly it became splattered with the spilled blood of the dead.

Heinrich was a wraith himself, swirling and lunging, never allowing the hands of the zombies to get a solid grasp on him, for otherwise he risked being pulled down by the sheer weight of the creatures pressing in upon him. His footing was sure and nimble even on the soggy ground, and despite the cool air that he drew into his lungs with every hurried gasp of breath he found himself covered in sweat almost instantly. He was a veteran of many years of service in the brotherhood of knights that protected the Emperor, and this was not the first time he had faced the mindless wretches in pitched combat. This experience kept him alive, as he sliced where another may have stabbed, always ensuring he did not get his weapon caught in the foul flesh of the undead, leaving him defenseless. He rested assured that his flank and rear were protected, for Victory quickly reduced any that approached him there into mere ribbons of meat with his wicked talons and razor beak. Victory he knew preferred the meat of the living, but he was gamely snapping up abominations in his maw only to snap them in two as a hound would snap a branch. He fought with a grim certainty that would have made the Knights of Morr proud indeed, for he was doing the work of the Lord of the Dead this day.

Gradually the horde thinned, their attacks abating as the dead broke on the living like an angry sea breaking on the rocks. Roared battlecries and screaming shrieks overcame mournful moans and hungry growls, and he caught sight of his erstwhile allies again, surrounded by a mountain of the once-more dead.

He trotted over, occasionally stopping to bash in the brains of a limbless or crippled zombie with his armored boot. As he approached, he saw Klaus seated upon a gnarled tree trunk, wiping the blood and viscera off his monstrous blade with the bottom of his boot. He pulled out a flask from his satchel without looking at it as though the task were subconscious, before a look of realization appeared on his face. He cursed and returned the flask to its place in the satchel, muttering a quiet curse as he went back to his work. Klutzer was looking rather nonchalant, wiping some imagined dust off of his longcoat sleeve, and lighting some tobacco in his finely carved pipe. In all, he had the appearance of a man who battled the vile undead every week. Considering his occupation, that might not actually be all that far from the mark. Klutzer zeroed in on Heinrich with those scary blue eyes of his.

"Ah, Sir Heinrich, I am glad you could have joined us. You have done Sigmar's work today," Klutzer took a long pull from his pipe, exhaling a billow of smoke that was tinged with a hint of blue. "It would seem the recommendation they gave me about you was well placed."

A statement like that from any other man would be begging a Who is they? From a witch hunter…

"I am the metal, and Sigmar is the hammer, sir!" A finely patriotic answer that revealed nothing.

Klutzer raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. In any case, all of you have been quite a help. I was having my doubts about our chances of surviving this ambush yesterday, but it seems I was mistaken."

Gorgi had been quiet now, chatting with Klaus, but he spoke up now, his face carved into a grimace. It was frightening to behold, but hardly frightening enough to unnerve a Reiksguard knight, nor a witch hunter it seemed.

"Wait a Gazul-damned moment, Umgi! Are ya' tellin' me that ya' knew we would be fightin' the Uzkuli here?" Now Gorgi turned red in the face, his fists clenching hard enough to crush bone, like two small boulders.

"Obviously," Klutzer spoke as though he were talking to an incompetent, "or do you think I just go about with a griffon-riding Reiksguard knight everywhere I go? Besides, you agreed to our deal despite knowing full well the way was fraught with danger. Perhaps you wish to go back on the deal? I had always thought the Sons of Grungni had more integrity than that."

Gorgi's beady dark eyes flashed murderously, and a low rumble like a landslide grinded out of his throat, but otherwise he kept his silence.

A shadow of a smile appeared on the witch hunter's face. "That's what I thought."

He turned back towards the tower, and strode towards it purposefully. Klaus rose and followed him, careful not to step in anything too putrid, Heinrich right behind. With one last angry huff Golgi was off too, his stubby legs pumping to keep up. Victory stretched and curled, coming to rest in a small patch of grass amongst the shattered bodies, but keeping his sharp eagle-eyes trained upon the treeline in case any other monstrosities thought to surprise them, if these creatures could think at all.

There was but one door to the tower, though it was wide enough for two people to stand in the doorway side by side. Strangely, the door seemed relatively new, its hinges shiny and well oiled. At that, Klutzer gave a curious noise, but said nothing. Instead, he glanced at Klaus and nodded, stepping aside. Klaus stepped in front of the door, and gave it a mighty kick, the shiny hinge groaning in protest. One more kick and the door flung open, revealing only a dark opening inside. Klaus turned towards the group, his brown eyes glinting humorously, and a grin on his gruff face.

"After you, sir knight!"

With an uncharitable rolling of the eyes Heinrich stepped forward, his blade drawn and his shield raised as he waded into the inky black of the tower's interior.