- Come on, Boyz! Let's crush'em all!
The Orcs threw themselves against the large wooden door behind which the inhabitants of Wüstengrenze took refuge. But they came up against a solid obstacle. The heavy barricade was Dwarf craft, and didn't shame its builders. Gunners continued to fire at the Greenskins, causing nine Orcs to fall under their shots.
Targhân stepped back with the others, and roared in annoyance. He raised his fist at the Human soldiers.
- Bunch of worms! I'll squish you all under my boots!
Then he wanted to think. How to force this protection, decimate everyone and make Gork and Mork happy?
Only one person could give him the answer. He yelled:
- Wozza! Drag your butt over here!
Wozza the Farsiher arrived quickly.
- Wozza, these doors have to be demolished!
- Why not build a ram or a catapult?
- Because we don't have time! The other Men behind will come to the fight! Think about it, you triple idiot!
The old shaman's gaze became colder than Kislevite snow.
- Watch your words, Targhân. Insulting Wozza is insulting the gods!
The huge leader was suddenly paralyzed. He lowered his head.
- You're right, Wozza. Without your advice, we won't get anywhere. And I need your magic.
- And you won't be disappointed, Targhân! I just got a message from Gork, he told me what to do.
- So what? So what?
- Quickly call the Boyz back! No one should stay on the bridge! And send half of your troops to deal with the incoming Men!
Without hesitating, Targhân brought the horn he kept attached to his belt to his lips, and blew it with full force.
On the rampart walk, Lady Franzseska, Captain Müller, Pol Demmler and Walter Klingmann didn't miss a thing.
- Are they retreating? fat Pol asked.
- I don't like it at all… They move back for better progress, grumbled the tall housekeeper.
- What makes you think that, my Lady?
- Take a closer look at their faces, Captain Klingmann. No fear, no panic. Orcs never do things by halves. When they run away, they scram faster than a bunch of hares in heat. They're preparing something.
- Look, some go in the opposite direction!
- They're probably just ordered to fight against the reinforcements. I'm pretty sure Kit came back with Marjan and Jochen. Those Ulric damn Orcs don't stand a chance against my children.
- I wish I would to share your optimism, my Lady!
- You would if you knew them, Captain Müller.
In the ranks of the Orcs who remained at the camp, everyone fell silent. Wozza was the oldest Orc in the whole tribe, everyone feared and respected him. He was Gork and Mork's messenger. And unlike many cult leaders accustomed to manipulation, he sincerely believed he heard the gods and obeyed their orders. So when he told his war chief he was about to strike a big blow, he really meant it. And when he called on the goblinoid gods, he put his whole heart into his prayer.
Gork would lead the way for them, for sure!
All the rage, all the thirst for carnage of the Boyz around him inebriated him. He felt the strength of the Waaagh climb from his stomach to his brain. Then he looked up, and raised his fists to the sky. Green sparks spurted out from his mouth, first a few, then a slew of, like a furious cloud of rabid horseflies. And in a few moments, the myriads of shiny particles gathered into a shape that gradually clarified. Fingers grew, then claws emerged at the tips of the knuckles.
- Smash everything, Gork!
On the ramparts, panic spread through the troops. Above the band of Greenskins, a huge, house-sized fist, was floating in the air. Suddenly it rushed at breakneck speed a few yards above the bridge.
- They're about to break down the door! Pol moaned.
- Hold on to something, it will shake! Lady Franzseska replied.
All the soldiers on the ramparts threw themselves to the ground. Pol then spotted something that made his eyes widen.
This gigantic fist was leaving behind a trail of green smoke.
The big, dark-haired Skaven took a breath. He grabbed his harquebus and focused like he had never before. This smoke turned into a narrow stream, thin but neat, and connected the apparition to a figure behind. The Skaven distinguished a wrinkled head, which did not wear an iron helmet, but a headdress made of ram skin, with horns.
The order erupted in the harquebusier's mind.
KILL IT!
The bullet went off in a detonation of powder, and plunged directly towards the shaman. The old Orc was shot in its temple as the Fist of Gork was almost reaching the double wooden door.
The shock unbalanced all the soldiers on the rampart.
Wozza fell to the ground, screaming in pain and frustration. Something had hurt him, something had broken his concentration. The Fist of Gork had lost most of its energy by the time it was about to smash the double door! Two Orcs grabbed him by the shoulders to get him to his feet. He pushed them away viciously. Then he looked in the direction of the bridge. The door was still standing, but the Fist of Gork had damaged one of the heavy wooden panels. There was now a gap that two or three Boyz could pass through at the same time.
It had not escaped Targhân. He raised his fist above his head, and yelled:
- To the boars, Boyz!
The Orcs all ran together to the enclosure where the boars were kept. The first to arrive jumped on their massive mounts, eager to battle. When suddenly a rain of fire fell on the herd. The warriors of Targhân all cried out in pain and horror. The smell of grilled pig rose to the chief's nose… as well as redoubled anger.
- Who did that?!
- Look up there! one of his warriors cried.
All the Orcs spotted a curious figure on the steeple of a temple. It was a tall, thin individual protected by a robe of red, copper and gold patterns. A few wisps of fire could be distinguished under its folded hood.
Targhân raised his axe at the newcomer, and ordered to a band of thirty Orcs:
- Bowboyz, nail it!
The green-skinned warriors nocked and shot their arrows. The stranger swept the air with its arm. A multitude of small explosions crackled before it, reducing the deadly projectiles to dust. Then it jumped in an impressive front somersault and fell smoothly in front of the Orcs, aided by a light magical vapour.
Three Orcs ran towards the figure brandishing their weapons, and howling like beasts. The hooded man put its hand to its belt, and made the gesture of drawing a sword. Immediately, a blade of fire several yards long shot out, and sliced the three attackers in a blink, before returning to a more normal size.
Targhân Sreefingerz hesitated on what to do. He recognized the characteristics of the Elves, those formidable fighters who used magic as well. But Wozza took the lead.
- Leave it to me, Targhân, and go shed the Men blood!
- You sure?
- Yeah. Gork and Mork will make me win!
The shaman shouted louder.
- You hear me, skinny guy? You don't scare me! I'll drink your blood in your skull!
Without saying a word, the tall, slender figure raised its hand that was not holding the sword. Half a dozen balls of fire burst from its palm. Wozza held out his staff, and lightning flashed from the eyes of the skull attached to its tip and dispelled the flames.
- Go ahead, Boyz! Let me take care of this lousy creature!
Targhân and his warriors walked again towards the bridge.
Brisingr Steadyhand was not afraid of his opponent. But something told him it shouldn't be underestimated. As a magister of the Bright College, he had studied different forms of magic, including that of Orc shamans. He had heard the spirit wizards of the Greenskin people got their energy from numbers. The more Greenskins around were numerous, the more magical energy flowed, and the more the shaman could use it to feed its magic. The enthusiasm of Targhân's fighters was no doubt a very powerful engine for the old Orc.
No time to play, let's finish it!
The Elf raised his sword, and swept the air with crackling flames. Wozza brandished his staff again, and the two magic weapons clashed. Brisingr gasped, surprised at the Orc's resistance. Despite his age, he was still a much more muscular creature than him. The Orc, on the other hand, didn't hesitate, and pushed him back brutally. He brought his staff down at the mage's head. Brisingr stepped aside and narrowly avoided the iron hoop-reinforced skull that struck the cobblestones and shattered a few. Age no longer seemed to have the slightest hold on Wozza, who multiplied strikes in an incredible speed. And Brisingr dodged, rolled on the ground, and leaped. Every time he attempted to strike an attack with his sword, the shaman's enchanted staff sent it in the opposite direction. He knew he couldn't afford to block the assaults, otherwise Wozza would wear him out. The shaman used raw force, the magister had to respond with intelligence.
Turning around his opponent, he whirled his fire sword in an almost hypnotic move. Every now and then he made a small, abrupt, but calculated start to faint Wozza. But the most vicious was yet to come: he concentrated on keeping the other hand behind his back, like an Estalian fencer. And as he looked the shaman straight in his eyes, he moved his lips, and let just enough air pass through his teeth to be able to whisper syllables in a mysterious language, known only by magicians. His hidden hand bent in a quick and precise gesture. A small geyser of fire materialized just behind Wozza and ignited his cloak. The Greenskin jumped in surprise. But as Brisingr stepped back to gain momentum and slash the rascal with a thrust, Wozza jumped back, and swung his shoulders back and forth, as if to give him a butthead. When he finished the movement, a green-energy head similar in size and shape to his own materialized in a heartbeat, and raced straight towards the Elf's skull.
An explosion of pain in his forehead knocked Brisingr and threw him back. He heard the shaman's sneer, he vaguely distinguished the large green shape that dropped his leather tunic, and leaned against the wall of a building to catch his breath.
By Hoeth! What an impressive musculature for an old man!
Wozza croaked angrily, and opened his eyelids wide. Red rays emerged from his eyeballs and streaked straight towards the magister. Brisingr had the reflex to place his forearm in front of his face. He made appear a shield of flame that deflected the lightning. The Orc growled, his rays focused, to get hotter and hotter. The Elf searched for an idea. Lucky for him, he found one. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something that would turn the situation around.
He gritted his teeth, pushed with all his might, and turned his shield so that Wozza's beam was directed to the sign of a shop under which the Orc was standing. The beam of light cut through the metal rod that held up the fish panel. The wooden panel fell on the shaman's head. The Orc had a solid head, but he was shaken, and involuntarily interrupted his deadly rays. Still lying on the ground, Brisingr swept the air with the arm that held the flame shield. The crackling disc raced towards its target, transformed into a swirling blade of fire, and planted itself into the shaman's thick skull. The Elf snapped his fingers, and the blade of fire exploded, and Wozza the Farsiher's head with.
While the Elf fought the shaman, another even more terrible clash unfolded at the bridge. Targhân and his Boyz, gathered in a compact mass, rushed forward, shouting the Waaagh once more at the top of their lungs.
Lady Franzseska, Müller, and Walter hurried down to face danger along with the soldiers prepared to receive the Orc horde. They had already anticipated an assault; boxes and overturned wagons formed barricades. Lady Franzseska, Captain Müller, Walter and other warriors gathered behind the makeshift shelters. Pol remained on the rampart with other harquebusiers. Everyone shuddered when they saw the green tide coming, but none gave in to panic.
Targhân wanted to impress his warriors more. Without slowing down, he hooked his big axe to his back harness, and unbuckled from his belt a hatchet light enough to be thrown with a single hand. He spotted the Human who had challenged him at the start of the siege. He swept the air with powerful reels of his arm.
The tall woman pointed her gun at the war chief. The moment Targhân threw his hatchet, she opened fire.
The huge Orc was stopped short and fell to his knees. Captain Müller had time to see his face for a quarter of an instant; his left eye and the entire side of his head had been torn off by the bullet. The warriors around him slowed down to keep up with him, and the few who didn't see their wounded leader were quickly slaughtered by the bullets of the harquebusiers.
But the old soldier had no time to savour this victory. He turned to the housekeeper, and his heart stopped. Lady Franzseska Gottlieb was frozen, her face bloodless, an expression of indescribable pain twisting her features. Targhân's hatchet was sunk deep into her chest. The iron head had cut so hard that her collarbone had burst, and the woman's left arm threatened to separate from the rest of her trunk. The prince steward slipped back, in a pool of blood.
Müller remained silent for half a dozen seconds. The source of his inspiration, his admiration, his love for the military, the embodiment of bravery and a sense of duty, was lying at his feet.
Bruised, destroyed, shattered by this dark soulless brute.
He felt his cheeks blush with fierce anger.
- NOOOOOOO! HO NOOOO!
Mad with rage, he grabbed a halberd from the ground, leaped through the doorway, and rushed towards Targhân Sreefingerz. The huge Orc, one knee on the ground, struggled to his feet, leaning on the hand that wasn't covering his face. Müller whirled around and slammed the halberd down with all his might on the chieftain. The forged metal head sank into the Orc's left leg to the bone. Targhân howled in pain, as a violent stream of green blood sprayed the surroundings.
The old captain chuckled, and pulled on the handle of his weapon. But the halberd was well stuck, and didn't move. Targhân reached out, and grabbed Müller's elbow. He twitched at it, forcing the Human to the ground. So he grabbed him by his ankles, lifted him up, and sent him crashing onto the cobblestones without letting him go. Once, twice, three times, four times. Then he raised his arm, so that his head was facing Müller's. Satisfied with the sight of the bloody squash, he chuckled loudly, and whirled the old captain over his head before throwing him in the direction of the door. Rudy Müller rolled over the bridge like a disjointed puppet.
Targhân was about to assault again, when a shower of fire fell before him. Once again perched on a roof, Brisingr Steadyhand sculpted the wind of Aqshy. The heat was so high all the Greenskins instinctively recoiled. On the other side, at the door, Walter saw an opportunity. Without hesitating, he leapt through the hole, ran as fast as he could towards Captain Müller, grabbed him by the armpits, threw him on his back, turned on his heels, and rushed for cover.
When the Elf judged the Skaven and the injured man were out of danger, he loosened his focus, and the glowing cyclone shrunk, and vanished in a small plume of white smoke.
The Orcs saw the way to their prey was clear again. It was then that a clamour arose behind them. The Humans and Skaven had defeated the Boyz sent by Targhân to contain them, and seemed eager to spill green blood, Schmetterling and the two Gottliebs in the lead. When the reinforcements found themselves facing the Greenskins, the weapons clashed again.
- For Gork and Mork! Let's fight, my Boyz!
Enraged like ever, Targhân twirled his huge axe, and knocked down three Humans in a sweep. His wounds had not dented his ferocity, nor his warriors'. Brisingr saw that Schmetterling's fighters were falling in clusters. On the other hand, on the other side, a few Greenskins were about to pass through the damaged door. He decided it was time to implement his action plan. He spotted a retaining arch on the lower part of the bridge. He locked his pupils on a single stone, bigger than the others, brought his hands together, palms vertical as if to join them. A small ball of flaming energy wriggled between his fingers. It got bigger, bigger, and when it was the size and consistency of a cannonball, the magister yanked it towards the support stone. The enchanted projectile shot straight at the support brick, and crashed into it. Instead of exploding in a single deflagration, the fiery sphere spun around so fast that it carved into matter like a Dwarf hammer drill. Dust, rubble, wood debris fell, and the whole structure began to shake.
- Back! Back! ordered Marjan.
Deprived of one of its supports, the bridge could no longer support its own weight, and collapsed with a terrible crunch. The Orcs desperately tried to break free, but the warriors of Steinerburg and Wüstengrenze pushed them back individually. Finally, all the Greenskins fell into the abyss. Some were crushed between debris in the air, others found themselves smashed by impact with the river, on protruding rocks, and a few ended up trapped under the rubble of the bridge at the bottom of the water. Targhân Sreefingerz fell, head first, into the torrent. The swirling water carried him away, and he disappeared.
A huge cloud of dust blocked the view between the two sides of the now destroyed bridge. The Rat Kingdom fighters coughed, wiped their eyes. It lasted a minute which seemed endless to everyone. Finally, calm returned, accompanied by a sorry sight.
There was nothing left. Where the Dwarf-designed bridge had stood for hundreds of years moments earlier, it was now a ravine a couple of hundred feet long.
Soldiers on both sides grunted, cursed the Orcs, some residents cried over the loss of their heritage.
The advantage was that there was no longer a single Orc alive in the perimeter.
Walter Klingmann rushed into the tent set up for the wounded, where Sister Carolina continued to provide care as best she could. The young girl felt her heart twitch in pain when she recognized the old captain.
- Lay him down here, quickly! she ordered, pointing to an unoccupied cot.
The spotted Skaven put Müller down on the simple mattress. The priestess of Shallya hurriedly prepared linens. The soldier was in a bad condition, the blood soaked in his clothes, and his face was studded with purple bruises.
- What happened to him?
- This Targhân demon beat him severely, my sister! But seeing what the captain did to him in turn, he couldn't get away in time!
Müller tried to lift his head.
- Captain Klingmann...
- Stay down! Don't move!
- I heard a noise. That was the bridge, wasn't it?
- It collapsed, and so did the Orcs, Walter explained. We're stuck, but at least the danger had passed now.
- Well… They will come to save you, don't worry. Go… help others.
Walter nodded and quickly left the tent.
The young girl's lungs were compressed with despair. The old captain had no chance of making it, he was living his last moments. She felt tears coming to her eyes.
- Oh, you must not cry, my child. You've seen a lot, haven't you?
- I did, and I'll see more... But I can... never get used to it.
- That is good. You are a priestess of Shallya. Compassion is your greatest strength. It makes you shine.
The poor priestess felt herself blush when she found herself enjoying the compliment from a dying man. She squeezed his gloved hand between her fingers, and rested it on her heart.
- You are a hero… Rudy.
- I'm just an old fogy who's lived too long. You are a good person. Much better than I am.
- No. Only Nurgle's servants do not deserve the consideration due to all living things. Everyone else has the same value in Shallya's eyes, from the greatest of emperors… to the poorest of beggars.
Tears flowed frankly. Müller whispered again:
- Please… my child… could you do me one last favour?
- What?
- I saw you always smile. Don't stop. I'm lucky… to end my life… with a dove bending over me. I would like to leave… with her smile.
The young girl didn't know whether she should feel embarrassed or flattered. She decided to grant the captain's wish. Her lips lifted, and she felt a ray of sunlight pierce the dark cloud that gripped her tender heart when the old man smiled back at her.
- You see, you are so pretty. Stay like this...
Captain Müller gave a final jerk, and froze. Sister Carolina leaned over him, ran her fingers gently over his eyes to close them, and whispered in his ear:
- May Morr grant your soul the ecstasy of his gardens.
The sound of the battle had died down. She decided to go and see the situation with her own eyes.
Commander Schmetterling put his hands before his mouth in order to speak to Walter on the other side of the chasm.
- Hey, Captain Klingmann, can you hear me?
- I hear you, Commander Schmetterling!
- Report, Captain!
The spotted Skaven glanced quickly over his shoulder, and replied:
- A few injured on our side, but nothing serious... Well, we still have a loss.
- What about our mother? How is she? Jochen asked furiously.
Marjan, at his side, said nothing, but her anguish was palpable. Walter's heart sank as he spotted that apprehension that was already on the Twins' face. All he could find to say was:
- I'm sorry, my friends.
The young man felt his spinal cord ignite.
- No! It can't be!
- She did everything to prevent Targhân from passing.
- Where's our mother? cried Marjan. I want to see her!
- Sorry, Captain, you can't.
- Bring her immediately, Captain Klingmann! We must see her!
- Please listen to him! then moaned a youthful voice.
The Twins distinguished a figure in a white dress smeared with red coming to Walter's side. They had never met the priestess, but they guessed it was Sister Carolina, Kristofferson's friend. She was in tears, and had to try several times to articulate:
- Remember Lady Franzseska Gottlieb as a woman as strong as honourable! The Orc chieftain reduced her to an unworthy state!
- She remains the only loss, otherwise we only have injuries! Walter added.
- No, Captain Klingmann! Two losses! Captain Rudy Müller didn't survive his wounds either! the priestess sobbed.
The spotted Skaven gritted his teeth, and kicked an Orc arm that was lying on the ground. The severed limb fell into the hole. On the other side, Marjan and Jochen were in turmoil.
- We should have arrived faster! Marjan muttered, finding it harder and harder to contain her anger.
- We did what we could, as fast as we could, Captain! Schmetterling retorted.
- Why didn't we give the assault directly?
- Because we didn't know their strength, and they would have had the advantage in numbers and terrain, I told you before! We had to divide their ranks and gradually undermine them.
- This is not the way our father taught us to fight the enemy! Jochen protested.
- Your father was not there, he's been dead and buried for years, and I'm in charge of our regiment now!
However, young Gottlieb was not satisfied or calmed down. He faced the commander, and spat:
- If we'd attacked right away, the Orcs wouldn't have been able to break down the door, we wouldn't have had to smash that bridge, and our mother would still be alive! You are responsible for her death, anyway!
Schmetterling was fed up. He lost his calm and temperance. He took a step forward, and said in an increasingly aggressive voice:
- Listen to me, brat: your mother was still wiping your ass I was already commander for Count Elector Boris Todbringer! I have survived over thirty years of battles, I know strategy better than you do! So, now, you shut up, or I'll lock you in a dungeon for insubordination! Understood?
Jochen didn't answer. He continued to star the commander straight in the eye, but did not add a syllable. The two men stayed like that for a few long seconds, the commander was expecting a violent reaction from the captain… but nothing happened.
Jochen finally looked away, preferring to find comfort in his older sister's face. The two young people walked away arm in arm. Schmetterling hailed them:
- Wait, children!
The Gottliebs halted, without looking back.
- She won't have fallen for nothing. The Orcs have been stopped, they won't be a threat for a while. Their war chief is dead, there should only be a few scattered survivors left… without her, they would have entered the city and caused carnage. I can promise you her heroism will be recognized for a long time!
The tall, red-haired man realized there was no answer to be expected from them. He decided to sort out another story that was bothering him. He looked around for the magister, and found him a little further away, sitting on a bench, meditating. The Human moved towards him. Brisingr Steadyhand opened his eyes as he approached.
- Must have made you happy, right?
- You should know it better than I do, Commander: only brainless brutes enjoy war.
- I wasn't talking about that, I was talking about the bridge. Destroying a centuries-old Dwarf-crafted bridge is something you don't have the occasion to do every day. It can be enjoyable, especially for an Elf!
At this affirmation, the magister stood up.
- Oh, what a naughty prejudice! Commander, you must know Elves do not have grudge as hard as Dwarves'! The Dwarves are still mad at the Elves for a war that took place hundreds of years ago, but we Elves would like to see them let it go. I personally don't have anything to reproach to any Dwarf so much that I rejoice in destroying a bridge that will undoubtedly be very long and expensive to rebuild in a city belonging to a land ruled by my friends.
- Still, you've done a lot of damage!
- I followed the plan we agreed upon, and which you approved, Commander.
- The situation had changed! Those pesky Greenskins were stuck, we would have finally exterminated them!
- At the cost of how many lives, Commander? They would have fought to the end. As long as an Orc is by its chief's side, it will fight tirelessly. As long as an Orc chief is in the midst of its troops, only death can stop it. A few even made it through the door, I saw them. They had to be wiped all out at once.
- Couldn't you just make a whirlwind of flames on them?
The magister gave an annoyed pout.
- Commander, do not think I can do everything on order without limit. Magicians also have their resources, and these can run out. A fight like this becomes as exhausting for one of your soldiers as it is for me. And just a few moments in the sun is not enough to fully recover. I still had enough power to hit the bridge, but if I had done what you suggest, it wouldn't have been sufficient. Or worse, I would have found it hard to contain the blast, and maybe our men would have been hit. And the bridge would have suffered from such use of Aqshy anyway. Believe it or not, but I have limited the damage which is already considerable.
As the Elf spoke, the survivors lined up a few yards away the corpses of soldiers who had not survived the terrible battle. He tried to stay focused when he saw Baldur Gottwald's lifeless body pass on stretchers.
- And if you're bothered by the material question, remember we won. Wüstengrenze remains in good shape despite the Orcs attack, and civilian casualties are limited, according to Captain Klingmann. I have contacts in Karl Franz's Empire, they will gladly help us fund the rebuilding of this bridge to thank us for containing an Orc invasion that could have traced back to them. The Empire is an officially allied nation, Commander, hence my presence. In the meantime, we'll manage to evacuate the people with ropes, pulleys and nets.
The tall red-haired Human thought for a few moments, and his features relaxed, he finally looked convinced.
A few hours later, it was dusk. The Steinerburg soldiers had finished counting the total number of fallen soldiers and enlisted citizens, as well as the identity of each one of them. They had loaded the bodies of people with relatives to whom to return it to the still intact carts of the new town of Wüstengrenze. As for the others, they would be buried there the next morning, before the troops left for Steinerburg. The old town had enough food to allow its inhabitants to hold out for a few weeks, time for the construction of a temporary footbridge.
One last task remained to be accomplished.
The villagers had built a pyre in front of the main door, facing the chasm. And all the Vereinbarung Skaven and Humans were now gathered around. Schmetterling, Jochen and Marjan, still on the other side, were in the lead. Walter and Pol carefully brought the body carefully prepared by Sister Carolina, wrapped in heavy cloth, and laid it on the wood. Then they began to empty jars of oil on.
Despite her young age, Sister Carolina Kuhlmann was the most qualified priestess to deliver the eulogy. Perched on a barrel, she addressed the whole audience:
- My friends, we have lived a terrible day. It was the climax of an assault that weighed on us for over a week. A week in which Orcs were at our gates, waiting to see us wither, or lay down our arms. Two outcomes that a brave and wilful person stubbornly refused. During this terrible ordeal, we were afraid, we saw the end coming, but Lady Franzseska Gottlieb was there. She reminded us that a person with principles dictated by our gods can overcome anything. I've only had the honour of knowing her since she came to rebuild Klapperschlänge, but that was enough for me to see what an exceptional person she was. A friend explained to me she was the first woman of the people of Humans to speak amicably to a Skaven... in those instances, Lady Heike, the wife of Master Mage Prospero Steiner, who had become her friend. She knew how to open her heart despite prejudices, and allowed her children to see the Skaven as friends. And it is... it is to protect this friendship she fought to the end.
Sister Carolina had to pause to catch her breath. She saw, a few tens of yards in front of her, Jochen and Marjan who listened to her without ceasing to look at her. She swallowed, and continued:
- And so, I hope that the memory of her sacrifice will remain etched in the memory of the Rat Kingdom, forever.
- It will, said an imperious voice from across the chasm.
Everyone turned to Commander Schmetterling.
- I know it is not very suitable to interrupt a priestess in full office, but the moment seems to me judiciously chosen to make this announcement to you: I will personally make with Prince Ludwig the First the necessary arrangements to honour the name of this courageous Human woman. Lady Franzseska will henceforth be consecrated as the "Heroine of Wüstengrenze", and I engage to do what to do to make a statue crafted for her above the entrance gate where she made the supreme sacrifice, as soon as we can. Thus, her protective spirit will always be there for this city!
The tall red-haired man turned to the Twins.
- Today we have lost a lot of men, but above all we have lost a great woman.
- Captain Müller should not be neglected either, Marjan reminded. Nor all the men and women who gave their lives to defend Wüstengrenze.
- You are right, Captain. In this case, we will do otherwise: we will put the statue of Lady Franzseska on the right of the portal, there will also be a statue for Captain Müller, on the left of the portal. And a headstone with the names of the honourable citizens who fell for Wüstengrenze will be erected in the public square of the old town!
Jochen and Marjan both grabbed a bow and an arrow. Brisingr Steadyhand approached them, stretched out his palm to the sky, wiggled his fingers, and a small flame burst in the palm of his hand.
- Do it, my friends.
The brother and sister notched an arrow, passed it through the magic torch, aimed, and fired simultaneously. The two shooting stars of fire fell right on the pyre. Within seconds, a huge fire rose towards the stars. The bell of the nearest temple rang. Everyone prayed.
Close to each other, Marjan and Jochen could not take their eyes off the crackling pyre. The young woman whispered:
- Farewell, Mother...
It was under these both tragic and unusual circumstances that Lady Franzseska Gottlieb definitively left the Renegade Crowns.