Chapter II

Forging the warrior.

Asmeria, also known as the Asmeria Peninsula, is a geographical location in the southeast of the ancient world with numerous geographical and historical meanings. The region is named after the Asmeria mountains that spread throughout Thrugaria. For the Asmeria peninsula is bounded by Andria's Sea in the northwest, the Ionean Sea in the southwest, the Acheronean Sea in the south, the Black Sea Straits in the east, and the Black Gulf Sea in the northeast.

Its borders with Asmeria are controversial due to several differing definitions since the peninsula is variously defined because of orc warbands occasionally raid the northern regions of the Badlands and Darklands. The term, by most definitions, fully encompasses the three principalities of Kranslyvania, Vallachia, and Toldavia, the Thrulgaria empire, the city states of Acheron, and the kingdom of Mycedonia.

After decisively defeating the kingdom of Mycedonian, the vampire count turns its undead gaze towards the kingdom of Hungarag. Although officially at peace, albeit tense, for nearly three decades, conflict had been brewing for years along the unstable Kranslyvanian-Hungarag border. Both sides keep looking for pretexts to launch frequent, sometimes large-scale raids into enemy territory.

Things finally come to a head in the summer of 2501, as war begins on July 29th.

Although the vampire counts declared war on Hungarag, both kingdoms are eager to battle for control of the trans-Danubian and Asmerian areas.

During the first year of the conflict, there were several military engagements, primarily fought over control of important Danube defenses. The vampires maintained their strategic advantage and were getting ready to attack Budakrest.

The Hungarag capital, however, was spared from the invasion because of the joint efforts of the stormcast eternals, who fought in the black woods, and an alliance between the Thrulgarians and the Mycedonians, who recaptured territories they had lost the previous year.

Another setback to the vampire count is the unstable situation in Asmeria, which is the result of the vampire masters' hard economic demands. Namly, due to the costly conflicts with Mycedonia and Hungarg, Kranslyvania's vampire counts require large quantities of money to retain their power in the ancient world and reunite with their Sylvanian cousins.

Furthermore, their armies require more bodies to keep up with their human counterparts. But because almost all the graveyards in Asmeria were almost empty, the replenishment of their undead armies had to be "recruited" from the towns and villages.

Consequently, the vampire counts imposed heavy blood taxes in many parts of the Asmerian principalities.

For much of its history, Vallachia and Toldavia, although nominally autonomous, are in reality oppressed Vampire provinces. Their voivodes serve as mere tax officials for the vampires. In the eyes of the vampire counts, such vassal states were referred to as "tax farms." However, this higher taxation isn't felt as hard in Kranslyvania.

It is the richest and most urbanized of the three principalities, with a thriving manufacturing sector. Strategically, it's in the outer regions of the vampire count that control is the strongest, protected by the Asmerian mountains, many fortified cities, and the heart of their undead kingdom.

Kranslyvanian voivodes traditionally use this strategic position to bargain for lower blood taxes (if any) and better terms overall. In contrast, Vallachia and Toldavia are less developed. Their weaker economies are mainly structured around agriculture and cattle breeding.

Furthermore, in exchange for being allowed to rule as vassels of the Vampric nobility, their voivodes agreed to tear down existing monuments to Morr and are forbidden from building new ones, leaving their countries exposed to the dreaded power of necromancy.

They occupy fortified positions along the Danube, from where they exert control over the two principalities, impose much heavier taxes, and launch frequent devastating raids.

What's worse, the populations of the two principalities were beginning to depopulated as necromancers's violent graves of their forefathers and plagues started to take hold, thereby enraging the peasantry. But powerless to resist, the Vallachia and Toldavia nobility in turn oppress their own people throughout the 25th IC as they try to appease the Midnight aristocracy, lest they be replaced by a pretender more capable of meeting the high taxation quatas.

The economies and populations of the two Asmerian principalities are strained, as they are obliged to give more corpses to the Midnight's aristocracy's armies, and even this exploitation is overextended because of long and expensive wars against the living as well as the ongoing vampric corruption that is slowly poisoning the land.

Motivated by these difficult conditions, the two princes, Aron the tyrant and Mihai the brave, revolted on the same day against their vampire rulers. The Azyrian Empire and two southern electoral provinces of the Empire of Man have promised their support for the Vallachian insurrection, which has the potential to open a second front in the battle against Negash in the realm of Shyish.

Four years later, the Vallachian principality won several battles against the Midnight Aristocracy, annexed the principality of Kranslyvania under the leadership of Mihai the Brave, and secured the realm gate leading to the realm of death. Unfortunately, the fortunes of the winds of fate are not all good. Toldavia would inevitably fall back under the vampire's control after Aron, the tyrant, died in battle and the corpses of his army added to the Counts.

Now the Coalition army is sieging the last vampiric stronghold in the region as it enters its sixth week. With still no end in sigh.

Professor Emeritus of the University of Nuln-Record of the Liberation of Asmeria.

Realm: The New World.

Asmeria borderlands

Former Principality of Toldavia

The faint sounds of song and proud boasts guided the two boys as they scampered across the earth hard of the darkened settlement towards the longhouse at its center. Their movements were furtive and cautious as they negotiated their way between high, timber-walled buildings and past the fish drying racks and the warm walls of the smithy. Neither boy wanted to be discovered, especially now that guards had been set upon the walls and night had fallen.

Despite the threat of a beating at this trespass, the excitement of their intrepid raid into the heart of Timisoara threatened to give both of them away.

"Be quiet!" Hissed Alin as Bogdan clattered against a previously unseen pile of planed timber, stacked against the woodworking stone.

"Quite yourself," he returned to his friend, catching the timber before it could fall as both boys pressed their bodies flat against the wall. "There's no stars or moon. I can't see a thing."

That at least was true, allowed Alin. The night was utterly dark, the hooded braziers on the settlement's walls casting a crackling orange light out into the forests beyond Timisoara. Sentries circled the settlement within a ring of light, their bows and spears trained on the thick forests and darkened shoreline of the river.

A war camp of 42,000 men, including the Australand and Solland state troop regiments of the Empire, the Black Army of Hungarg, the Freeguild's of Hammerhal Mallus, and the Vallachian royal army, were supplied with food, manpower, and supplies by a constant stream of hundreds of river boats from their allies in the west. Just to keep an army of this size fully stocked and its depleted units replenished after days of hard fighting.

There are five knightly orders that have come forward to help with the siege. The most prominent of these orders, the Knights of Morr, have started restoring Morr's temples around the country and establishing a new chapter house in Targovista.

The vampire lord on, the other hand, is currently dwelling in his castle which the undead abomination renovated drastically and is presently under siege by the humans a few miles from the town.

"Hey," said Bogdan," did you hear what I heard?"

"I heard," said Alin. "It's dark, yes. So use your ears. Warriors aren't quiet the night before riding to war."

Both boys stood as still as the statue of the gargoyle above Timisoara's gate and let the sounds and smells of the night wash over them, each one telling the story of the city they lived in: the groan of settling iron as Beortyn's forge cooled and creaked from a day's work, producing iron swords and axe blades; the sounds of wives speaking with low, worried voices as they wove new cloaks for their sons, who will rise up to battle at any moment; the whinny of stabled horses; the sweet smell of burning peat; and the mouth-watering aroma of cooked meat.

Over it all, Alin could hear the open wash of the river as a constant rustle of water against the mud flats, the creak of wooden fishing boats as they moved with the tide, and the low moan of wind through the hung nets. It sounded sat to him, but nigh in the land south of the mountains was often a time of sadness, a time when the monsters came from the forests to kill and devour.

Alin's parents had been killed last summer by the Greenskins, cut down as they fought to defend their farmstead from the blood-hungry raiders. The thought made him pause, and he felt his hands curl into fists as he pictured the vengeance he would one day take on the savage race that had taken his father from him and had seen him eventually brought to Timisoara, before it was taken over by the damned necromancer, to live with his uncle.

As though feelings of anger concentrated his hearing, he heard a muted sound of laughter and song that he had not heard for some time since the occupation, from behind thick timbers and heavy, fortified doors. Firelight reflected on the walls of the grain store at the settlement's heart as though a door or shutter had been opened, from which spilled raucous sounds of merriment.

For a brief moment, the marketplace at the center of Timisoara was illuminated, but no sooner had the light come that it was gone. Both boys shared a look of excitement at the thought of spying on the rebels before they rode out to do battle with the undead. Only those who were part of the resistance were permitted within the walls of the old Longhouse before battle, and the mystery of such a thing simply had to be explored.

"Did you see that?" asked Bogdan, pointing towards the center of town.

"Of course I did," replied Alin, pulling Bogdan's arm down. "I'm not blind."

Though Alin had lived in Timisoara for less than a few weeks, he knew the secrets of the city as well as any young child did, but in such complete darkness, without any visual landmarks beyond knowing where they stood, the town was suddenly unfamiliar and strange, all its geography unknown.

He fixed the brief image the light had given him and took Bogdan's hand.

"I'll follow the sounds of the warriors," he said. "Hold on to me, and I'll get us there."

"But it's so dark," said Bogdan.

"It doesn't matter," said Alin. "I'll find a way around in the dark. Just don't let go."

"I won't," promised Bogdan, but Alin could hear the fear that crept into his friend's voice. He felt a little of it too, for his uncle was no slouch with a birch when punishment was to be meted out. He pushed the fear aside, for he was an Toldavian, the fiercest warrior people north of the World's Edge Mountains, and his heart was strong and true.

He took a deep breath and set off at a job towards where the light had reflected on the walls of the grain store, following a remembered path where there was nothing to trip him or make a noise. Alin's heart was in his mouth as he crossed the open marketplace, avoiding spots where the light had shown him pitfalls or broken pottery that might crunch underfoot. Though he had only the briefest glimpse of the route he had to take, the image was imprinted on his memory as firmly as the crows on one of the rebels's banners.

His father's teachings in the dark woods returned to him, and he moved like a ghost, silently weaving through the market square, counting his strides and pulling Bogdan after him. Alin pulled up and slowed his steps as he closed his eyes and let his ears gather information on his surroundings. The sound of merrymaking was louder, and the echoes of it on the walls were forming a map in his head.

Alin reached out, and he smiled as he felt his fingers brush against the stone wall of the longhouse. The stones were square-cut and carved, hewn by dwarf miners from the rock of the world's edge mountains, and brought to Timisoara as a gift to Prince Terremia Movila five hundred years ago.

He remembered watching the dwarfs with a mix of awe and trepidation, for they had been frightening, squat creatures in gleaming armor who had paid little heed to the people around them, speaking to one another in gruff voices as they rebuilt the longhouse for the king in less than a day. The dwarfs stayed no longer than necessary and refused all offers of help in their labors, all but one marching into the north as soon as the work was complete.

"Are we here?" whispered Bogdan.

Alin nodded before remembering that Bogdan wouldn't be able to see him.

"Yes," he said, his voice low, "but be quiet. It'll be a week emptying the privies if we're caught."

Alin paused to let his breathing even out, and then began edging along the length of the wall, feeling ahead of him for the corner. When it came, it was as smooth and as sharp as an axe blade, and he eased himself around it, glancing up as the clouds parted and a bright glitter of stars sparkled in the heavens above him.

The extra light glistened on the walls of the dwarf-cut stone as though they were filled with stars, and he took a moment to admire the incredible craftsmanship that had gone into their making.

Along the length of the wall of the longhouse, Alin could see a wide doorway fashioned from thick beams of timber and embellished with angular bands of dark iron and carvings of hammers and lighting bolts. Shutters above them were fastened tightly to their frames, not so much as a gap wide enough for a knife blade between the timber and the stone.

Through the shutters, Alin could hear muted sounds of carousing warriors, the clatter of ale pots, the sound of rousing war songs, and the banging of swords upon shield bosses.

"Here," he said, pointing to the shutter above him. "We'll see if we can get a look through here."

Bogdan nodded and said, "Me first."

"Why should you go first?" asked Alin. "I got us here."

"Because I'm the oldest," said Bogdan, and Alin couldn't fault his logic, so he laced his fingers together to form a stirrup like those used by the horsemen of the Kuman.

He braced his back against the stone wall and said, "Very well, climb up and see if you can work the shutter open enough to see something."

Bogdan nodded eagerly and set his foot in Alin's hands, placing his hands on his friend's shoulders. With a grunt, Alin boosted Bogdan up, turning his head to avoid a knee in the face.

He opened his stance a little to spread Bogdan's weight, and he craned his neck to see what his friend was doing. The shutter was wedged firmly within its frame, and Bogdan had his face pressed against the wood as he squinted along the joints.

"Well?" asked Alin, closing his eyes as he strained to hold Bogdan. "What do you see?"

"Nothing," replied Bogdan. "I can't see anything; the wood's too fitted closely together."

"That's dwarf craft for you," said a strong voice beside them, and both boys froze.

Alin turned his head slowly and opened his eyes to see a powerful warrior, outlined by starlight and as solid as if he were carved from the same stone as the longhouse.

The sheer physical presence of the warrior took Alin's breath away, and he released his grip on Bogdan's foot. His friend scrabbled for a handhold at the edge of the shutter, but there was none to be had, and he fell, knocking the pair of them to the ground in a pile of acute embarrassment. Alin shook free of his cursing friend, knowing he was to be punished but determined to face the warrior without fear.

He rolled quickly to his feet and stood before their discovery, his defiance turning into awe as he stared into the open, handsome face. Black hair blends in with the night, kept from the warrior's face by a headband of twisted copper wire, and his thick arms are bound by iron torques. A long bearskin cloak flowed from his shoulders, and Alin saw that beneath it the warrior was clad in shimmering mail, bound at the waist by a great belt of thick leather.

A sword and boltstorm pistol were sheathed under his belt, but it was the weapon beside it that captured Alin's full attention.

The warrior bore a mighty one handed hammer, and Alin's eyes were drawn to the wide, flat head of the weapon, it's surface etched in strange carvings that shimmered in the starlight.

The warhammer was a magnificent weapon, its haft forged from some unknown metal and worked by hands older than imagining. Other than Ghal Maraz. No man had ever forged such a perfect weapon of destruction, nor had any smith ever born such a fearsome weapon.

Alin sprang to his feet, ready to flee from their discovery, but he too was held rooted to the spot at the sight of the awesome warrior.

The warrior leaned down, and Alin saw that he was still young, perhaps as young as fourteen summers, and had a look of amusement glittering in the depths of his cold eyes, one of which was a pale blue, the other a deep brown.

"You did well getting across that market square in the dark, boy," said the warrior.

"My name is Alin," he said. "I'm nearly twelve, almost a man."

"Almost," said the warrior, "but not yet, Alin. This place is for warriors who may soon face death in battle. This night is for them and them alone. Do not be in too much of a rush to be part of such things. Enjoy your childhood while you can. Now go; be off with you."

"You're not going to punish us?" asked Bogdan, and Alin dug an elbow into his ribs.

The warrior smiled and said, "I should, but it took great skill to get this far without being seen, and I like that."

Despite himself, Alin felt inordinately pleased to have earned the warrior's praise and said, "My father taught me how to move without being seen."

"Then he taught you well. What is his name?"

"He was called Anghel," said Alin. "The greenskins killed him."

"I am sorry for that, Alin," said the warrior. "We ride to do battle with the undead, and many of them will die by our hand. Now, do not tarry, or others with less mercy than I will discover you, and you'll be in for a beating or worse."

Alin needed no second telling and turned from the warrior, sprinting back across the market place with his arms pumping at his side. The stars were out, and he followed a direct route from the Longhouse towards the storehouse at the edge of the market square. He heard running steps behind him and risked a glance over his shoulder to see Bogdan swiftly following. The older boy quickly overtook him, a look of frantic relief plastered across his face as they rounded the corner of a timber-framed storehouse.

The boys pressed their bodies against the building, lungs heaving, and wild laughter bursting from their throats as they relived the thrill of capture and the relief of escape.

Alin darted his head around the storehouse, remembering the fierce strength of the warrior who had sent them on their way. There was a man who feared nothing—a man who would stand up to any threat and meet it with his sword held high.

"When I am a man, I want to be like him," said Alin when he got his breath back.

Bogdan doubled up, his breath heaving in his chest. "Don't you know who that was?"

"No," Alin said "who was it?"

Bogdan said," That was the son of Azyr. That was Heron."

Heron watched the boys run off as though the Ofhendnar themselves were at their heels, smiling as Heron remembered the stories his father used to tell him about his own younger days when he attempted to sneak up to the old Longhouse the night before his grandfather, King Bjor, had led the Unberogen warriors into battle against the Thuringians. He had not been as stealthy as the young lad he had just sent on his way, and he vividly remembered the thrashing his grandfather had administered.

He heard steady footfalls behind him. Without turning, he knew that Anatoly, his closest friend and sword brother, was approaching.

"You were too soft on them, Heron," said Anatoly. "I remember the punishment we got. Why should they not learn the hard way that you don't try to spy on a warrior's Blood Night? Other than that,"

"We were caught because you couldn't hold me for long enough," Heron pointed out, turning to see a heavily muscled young man clad in scale armor and swathed in a great cotton cloak. A long-handled sword was sheathed over his shoulders, and unkempt braids of brown hair spilled around his face.

Anatoly was three years older than Heron; his features were handsome, and his skin was flushed with heart, rich food, and plentiful drink.

"Only because you broke my arm the year before with a smelting hammer."

Heron's gaze fell upon Anatoly's elbow, where five years previously, his rage had overcome him after the older boy had bested him in a practice bout and he had swung his weapon at the unsuspecting Anatoly. Though long forgiven, Heron had never forgotten the unworthy deed, nor had he quickly forgotten the lesson of control his father had taught him in the aftermath of the bout. Like his father taught him when he was his age, while at the same time avoiding a diplomatic incident.

"True enough," admitted Heron, slapping a hand on his friend's shoulder and turning him back towards the longhouse. "You have never let me forget it."

"Damn right!" roared Anatoly, his cheeks red with ale flavored with hops and bog myrtle. "I won fair and squire, and you hit me from behind!"

"I know, I know," said Heron, leading him back towards the door.

"What are you doing outside anyway? There's more drinking to be done!"

"I just wanted some fresh air," said Heron, "and haven't you had enough to drink?"

"Fresh air?" slurred Anatoly, ignoring the latter part of Sigmar's comment. "There is plenty of fresh air to be had on the morn. Tonight is a night for feasting, drinking, and giving praise to Ursun. It's bad luck not to feast on the gods before battle."

"I know that, Anatoly. My dad taught me that."

"Then come back in," said Anatoly. "The god king be wondering where you are the longer we stay in this realm. It's bad luck to be apart from your sword brothers on a blood night."

"Everything is bad luck to you," said Heron.

"It's true. Look at the world we live in," said Anatoly, leaning against the side of the longhouse to vomit down the dwarf stonework. Glistening ropes of matter drooled from his chin, and he wiped them clear with the back of his hand. "I mean, think about it. Everywhere a man looks, there's something trying to kill him: green skins from the mountains, the beast men and mutants in the forests, undead and Skaven coming up from the ground, chaos marauders coming out of the chaos wastes, or the other kingdoms: Acheron, Hungarag, Bretonnia, the Empire, Carthagenia, Tilea, Estalia, the Dawi mountain realms, Asrai, my homeland of Kislev, or not to mention the other nine realms that your father is trying to retake. Plagues, starvation, and sorcery—you name it, it's bad luck. Proves that everything is bad luck, doesn't it?"

"Someone had too much to drink again?" said an amused voice from the doorway to the longhouse.

"Ranald, shrivel your scaly staff, Zhou!" roared Anatoly, sinking to his haunches and resting his forehead against the cool stone of the longhouse.

Heron looked up from Anatoly and saw two soldiers emerge from the warmth and light of the longhouse. Both were of his age; one was dressed in Cathayan fish scale armor, while the other wore a leather cuirass and dark red tunic. The taller of the two had hair the color of the setting sun and wore a thick cloak of shimmering green scales that reflected the starlight with an iridescent shine. His partner had a long wolfskin cloak wrapped snugly around her slender body and had a disgusted expression on her face.

The tall warrior with the flame-red hair, addressed by Anatoly, ignored the insult to his manhood and said, "Is he going to be well enough to ride tomorrow?"

Heron nodded and said, "Aye, Zhou, it's nothing a brew of valerian root won't cure."

Zhou Cao looked doubtful but shrugged and turned to his companion in the wolfskin cloak. "Elodie here thinks you should come inside, Heron."

"Afraid I'll catch a cold, my friend?" asked Heron.

"She claims she's seen an omen," said Zhou.

"An omen?" asked Heron. "What kind of an omen?"

"A bad one," spat Anatoly. "What other kind is there? No one speaks of good omens now."

"They did anticipate Heron's coming," said Elodie.

"Aye, and look how well that went," groaned Anatoly. "He was born into the blood of a god, and his mother left him with his father. Good omens, my arse."

Heron felt a stab of anger and sadness at the mention of his mother abandoning him, but he had never known her and had nothing but his father's words to connect her to him. Anatoly was right. Whatever omens had been spoken of his birth had come to naught but blood and death.

He leaned down, hooked an arm under Anatoly's shoulders, and hauled him to his feet. Anatoly was heavy and his limbs were loose, and Heron grunted under the weight. Elodi took Anatoly's other arm, and between them they half carried and half dragged their drunken friend towards the warmth of the Longhouse.

Heron looked over at Elodi, the young woman's face earnest and aged before its time.

"Tell me," said Heron. "What omen did you see?"

Elodi shook her head. "It was nothing, Heron."

"Go on, tell him," said Zhou. "You can't see an omen and then not tell him."

"Very well," said Elodi, taking a deep breath. "I saw a raven land on the roof of the king's longhouse this morning. Followed by a howl of a wolf that lasted a full hour as a night butterfly flew by."

"And?" asked Heron, when Elodi did not go on.

"And nothing," said Elodi. "That was it. A single raven is an ill omen of sorrow. Remember when one landed on Beithar's home last year? He was dead within the week."

"Beither was nearly forty," said Heron. "By Asmerian standards, he was an old man."

"You see," laughed Zhou. "Aren't you glad we warned you, Heron? You must stay home and let us do the fighting. It's clearly too dangerous for you to either venture beyond the confines of Azyrheim or Terra."

"You can laugh," said Elodie," but don't say I didn't warn you when you've got a black knight's lance through your heart!"

"A black knight couldn't skewer my heart if I stood right in front of it and let it take a free pull on its tip," cried Zhou. "In any case, if it's heaven's will that I die at the hands of a vampire, then it will be with its axe buried in my chest and a ring of its dead friends around me. I won't be slain by some proxy skeleton!"

"Enough talk of death!" roared Anatoly, finding new strength and throwing off the supporting arms of his friends. "It's bad luck to talk of death before a battle! I need a drink."

Heron smiled as Anatoly ran his hand through his unruly hair and spat a glistening mouthful of earth. No one could go from drunken stupor to demanding more ale as quickly as Anatoly, and despite Elodi's worries, Heron knew that Anatoly would fight as hard and skillfully as ever on the merrow.

"What are we all doing out here?" demanded Anatoly. "Come on, there's drinking yet to be done."

Before any of them could answer, the howling of wolves split the night, a soaring chorus from the depths of the darkened forest that carried the primal joy of wild and ancient days as it echoed through Timisoara. Yet more howls rose in answer, as though every pack of wolves within the Great Forest had united in a great cry of challenge.

"You want an omen, my brothers and sisters," said Anatoly. "There's your omen. Ulric is with us. Now is our blood knight after all, and we've got blood yet to offer him."

Sparks flew from the cooking fire like a thousand fireflies as another hunk of wood was hurled into the deep pit at the center of the great longhouse of the city of Timisoara. Heat from the fire and the hundreds of warriors gathered in the great hall filled the longhouse, and laughter and song rose to the heavy beams that laced together overhead in complex patterns and dependency.

Dwarfs had built this longhouse for the prince of Toldavia in recognition of his son's courage and the great service he had done to their own king by helping the dwarves hold and retake several Dwarven Holds from the orcs many years ago. Sturdy stone walls that would endure beyond the lives of many kings enclosed the warriors as they gathered to offer praise and blood to Ulric and carouse on what, for many, would be their last night alive in Timisoara.

Heron threaded his way through the crowded hall towards the raised podium at the far end of the longhouse, where Mihai Vladislav, the leader of the rebellion, sat on a carved oak throne, two men standing at his sides. To the leader's right was Niculae, the Protector of the North and Prince's champion, while on his left was Matei, his trusted counselor and oldest friend.

The sights, sounds, and smells of the great hall overwhelmed Heron's every sense: sweat, songs, blood, meat, ale, and smoke. Three enormous boars turned on spits before a tall wooden statue of Taal, the hunter god, their flesh crackling and spitting fat into the fire. Though he had eaten enough to fill his belly for a week, the scent of roasting meat made his mouth water, and his water, and he smiled as a mug of Dwarven beer was thrust into his hand.

Anatoly immediately found more drinks and began an arm wrestling contest amongst his fellow warriors. Elodi's fetched a plate of food and some water, watching Anatoly with studied worry, while Zhou sought out a squat, bearded dwarf dwarf sitting in the corner of the hall, who watched the revelries with unabashed relish.

The dwarf was known as Alaric Ranulfsson and had come down from the mountains with a throng of warriors in early spring with the carloads of Bolgan's Finest for the army. When the construction of the siege works was complete, the dwarfs had started tunneling under the walls, but Alaric had remained, teaching the Toldavia smiths the secrets of metalworking that had provided them with the finest weapons and armor of the southern kingdoms.

Heron left his friends to their diversions, knowing that each man must face his Blood Night in his own way. Hands slapped him on his shoulders as he passed, and roaring warriors wished him well on the journey into battle or boasted of how many zombies they would slay in his name.

He participated in their boasts, but his heart felt heavy as he pondered how many people would survive to see another day like this. These were rugged, sinewy warriors with wolf-like hunger, men who had fought for years under their lords' and his father's banners but would now fight under his. As he passed, he glanced at their faces, listening but not understanding their words.

He knew and loved these warriors as men, as husbands, and as fathers, and every one of them would ride into battle at his command.

To lead such men was an honor—an honor he did not know if he was worthy to bear.

Heron put aside such melancholy thoughts as he emerged from the throng of armored warriors to stand before the leader of the rebellion. Raised up on the old throne, King Mircea sat between two carved statues of snarling wolves and was as intimidating a figure as ever, despite his advancing years.

A crown of bronze sat upon his brow, and hair the color of iron was bound in numerous braids that hung about his face and neck. Eyes of flint that had resolutely faced the many horrors' of the world stared out with paternal affection at the warriors gathered before him as they offered praise to Ulric that he might grant them courage in the coming battles.

Though this man would not be riding to war with them, he wore a mail and leather armor shirt fashioned by dwarvensmiths. The quality of the shirt was beyond the skill of any human smith, but it had taken the dwarf less than a day to make. Across the man's lap was his feared axe, its twin blades red in the firelight.

As Heron approached the throne, Niculae gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement, his iron armor gleaming red and his unsmiling face apparently carved from granite. Matei bowed to Heron and took a step back, his long robes singular in a room full of armored warriors, his sharp intellect making him one of the leaders most trusted advisors. His counsel was both noble and fair, and the Toldavians had many times benefited from his foresight and wisdom.

"My boy," said Mihai, waving Heron to stand beside him. "Is everything well? You look troubled."

"I am well," said Heron, taking his place at the man's right hand. "I'm simply impatient for dawn. I hunger to put Khaled Von Munstasir to the sword and drive his army back into the grave."

"Curse his name," said Mihai. "That damn vampire warlord has been the scourge of our people for years. The sooner his skull is on the spike above my town's gatehouse, the better."

Heron followed the man's gaze, feeling the weight of expectation upon him as he saw the many trophies mounted on the wall above the throne. Orcs, beasts, and foul horrors' with great fangs, curling horns, and loathsome scaled skin were rammed onto iron spikes, the wall below stained with the blood of their deaths.

Here was the head of Grotslik Koor-Lobber, the orc that had threatened to drive the Thracians from their homelands, until Mircea had ridden to the aid of King Kotus. There was the flayed hide of the great nameless beast lord of the blood pine forests that had terrified the city state of Domulexor for years, until the king of Vallachia tracked it to its hideous lair and took its head with one mighty blow of his axe.

A score of other trophies surrounded them, each one with an accompanying tale of heroism that had thrilled Heron as a youth, crouched at his father's feet, and stirred mighty, heroic longings in his breast.

"Any word from the scouts you sent into the castle?" asked Mihai, and Heron put aside the thought of trying to equal his father's deeds one day.

"Some," said Heron, "and none of it good. More vampires with their armies are slowly coming down from Sylvania in great numbers, but it seems they're planning to bleed us. Normally only a few of these blood suckers would come, and they would raid the war camps but Khaled Von Munstasir keep them back, and with every slaughter means more soldiers for his army every day."

"Then there is no time to waste," said Mihai. "You will do my kingdom a great service as you earn your shield. It is no small thing to reach manhood, boy, and as far as tests of courage go, this is a big one. It is only right that you should feel fear. And that I don't send you back to your father in Azyrheim despite of his numerous requests to do so. "

Heron groaned as he squared his shoulders before the king's stern gaze and said, "I am not afraid, m'lord. I have killed greenskins before in the realm of Ghur and fought the dreaded Nighthaunt in Shyish, so death holds no fear for me. As for the requests for my return to Azyrheim... I'll write a letter tonight saying that I'll return as soon as possible after Timisoara's castle has been taken."

King Mihai leaned close and lowered his voice so that only Heron could hear him. "It is not fear of death or your father's wrath that I speak. I already know that you have faced great peril and lived to tell of it. Any fool can swing a sword, but to lead men in battle, to hold their lives in your hands, to put yourself in a position to be judged by your fellow warriors and your king, it is right you should fear these things."

"The serpent of fear gnaws at your belly, my boy. I know this, for it twisted in my gut when Radu Alexandre, my grandfather, sent me out to earn my blade. "

Heron looked into the king's eyes, both a misty gray, and saw true understanding and empathy for what he felt. The knowledge that a warrior king as mighty as Mihai of Vallachia had once felt the same thing made him smile in relief.

"You always did know what I was thinking," said Heron.

"You are Sigmar's son," said Mihai simply.

"I am his only son. What if I should fail?"

"You will not, for the blood of your ancestors is strong. You will go on to do great things as Lord-Celestants when the grass grows tall on my tomb. Fear is not something to turn away from; it comes from a man's willingness to take the easy course of action—to run away, to hide—and you will defeat it. A true hero never runs when he can fight and never takes the easy course over what he knows is right. Remember that, and you will not falter."

Heron nodded at the man's words, staring out over the warriors, who filled the longhouse with song and racous merrymaking.

As if seeing his scrutiny, Anatoly leapt onto a trestle table, groaning with mugs of beer and heaped with plates of meat and fruit. The table bent dangerously under his weight as he swept his mighty sword from its sheath and raised it high in one hand. The sword was aimed straight and unwavering towards the roof, an incredible feat of strength, for the weight of the weapon was enormous.

"Heron! Heron! Heron!" roared Anatoly, and the chant was taken up by every warrior in the longhouse. The walls seemed to shake with the power of their voices, and Heron knew he would not let them down. Zhou joined Anatoly on the table, and even the normally quiet Elodi was caught up in the mood of adulation that swept the hall.

"You see," said Mihai, "these men will be your battle-thanes on the morrow, and they are ready to fight and die at your command. They believe in you, so draw strength from that belief and recognize your own worth."

As the chant of his name continued around the hall, Heron watched as Anatoly lowered his sword and drew the blade across his palm. Blood welled from the cut, and Anatoly smeared it on his cheeks.

"Ulric, god of battle, Ursun, god of bears, on this blood night, give me strength to fight in your names!" he shouted.

Every warrior in the hall followed Anatoly's example, drawing blades across their skin and offering blood to the harsh, unforgiving god of the winter wolves. And the bear god. Heron stepped forward to honor the blood of his warriors, drawing the long-bladed hunting knife from his belt and slicing the blade across his bare forearm.

His warriors roared in approval, banging the handles of their swords and axes on their chests. As the cheering continued, the table Anatoly and Zhou stood upon finally collapsed under their combined weight, and they were buried in splintered timbers and plates of boar meat and drenched in beer. Roars of laughter pealed from the walls, and yet more mugs of beer were emptied over the fallen warriors, who took Elodi's outstretched hands and struggled to their feet with bellows of mirth.

Heron laughed along with his warriors as king Mihai said," With such stout-hearted companions beside you, how can you fail?"

"Anatoly is a scoundrel," said Heron, "but he has the strength of Ursun in his blood, and Zhou has a scholar's brain and strategist's wit in that thick skull of his. And Elodi may be a woman of Bretonnian birth, but she is trained by both the Daughters of Artemis and the Deepwood Scouts of Athel Loren."

"I know both men's virtues and vices," said Mihai, "just as you must learn the hearts of those who will seek to counsel you. Draw worthy men to you and learn their strengths and weaknesses. Keep only those who make you stronger, and cut away those who weaken you, for they will drag you down with them. When you find good men, honor them, value them, and love them as your dearest brothers and sisters, for they will stand shoulder to shoulder with you and hear the cry of the wolf in battle."

"I will," promised Heron.

"Together, men are strong, but divided, we are weak. Draw your sword brothers close and stand together in all things. Swear this to me, Heron."

"I swear it, my king."

"Now go and join them," said King Mihai, "and I will tell your father that you will come back to you after the fighting is done, either with your shield or upon it."

Okay, tell me, what do you think?

Before you ask, this Mallus is different than the old one; however, it had both familiar and unfamiliar landscapes of the old world and our world.

Asmeria is a southern Balkan region minus Slovenia and the northern part of Croatia, and the southern sea is more like the Mediterranean Sea but bigger, while the black gulf is not the Black Gulf sea, same as the black sea today. Asmeria is right above the badlands, under the black mountains, and the border princes.

Hungarg is basically the kingdom of Hungary's but its in mix of 16th century Hungary and the Hunic empire.

Acheron is Greece, but with the aesthetics of Mycenaen and Hellenistic, from the ancient Athenians to the Macedonian campaigns with a bit of 1000 AD Byzantium.

Thrugaria is basically Thrace and Bulgaria.

And lastly you don't need the explanation of what Kranslyvania, Vallachia, and Toldavia, are based on.

The games workshop should've put more thought into Araby and the southlands, including the kingdoms of Ind, Kuresh, and Nippon.

Leave any reviews and have a nice day.