"The hunt never ends. There is only new prey."
-Motto of the Blackbow Order
Stromdorf, Reikland
Draga
There were three things that set the Imperial town of Stromdorf apart from the countless burgs like it. The first was its particular brand of Reik Eel. Stromdorf sat at the confluence of three River Reik tributaries; the Teufel, the Ober, and the Tranig. Abundant wetlands around this confluence meant a steady supply of peat for smoking eel. The second thing was Thunderwater Ale, produced by the Brenner family brewer, supposedly so strong and hearty that dwarfs would occasionally buy it.
The third was the weather. For most of the year, Stromdorf was the victim of almost constant rain. That day was no exception. The late autumn shower had tormented Falk and Draga for two days thus far, killing all desire for conversation, and the Blackbow was grateful for the prospect of shelter. The frigid rain was occasionally mixed with light sleet. Winter was all too near.
Stromdorf was a dismal, dour wart of a burg. Through the rain it seemed to sulk in the distance, resigned to its fate but determined to ensure everyone else was just as miserable about it. The Grey Mountains towered in the distance, home to nearby dwarf hold, Karak Azgaraz. The town's walls had not yet fallen in anywhere, but were crumbling in places. It was no wonder that few people moved here. If not for the barrels of smoked eel and kegs of Thunderwater, Stromdorf would probably never be visited by anyone. Draga wondered if anyone would care if the town simply sank into the rivers.
As they drew near, Draga noticed a series of boats that were beached on the northern bank of the Teufel. The colorful tents that were pitched nearby almost made Draga spur her horse into a gallop without a second thought, but something stayed her hand. Nearby to those that were so familiar, there were others that were shorter, blockier in shape, heavier looking.
"Dwarfs." Draga realized.
"What are dwarfs doing camped out with a Strigany clan?" Falk wondered aloud.
"A good question." Draga said. She got her horse up to a canter and headed for the camp.
Draga led the way. There weren't really any sentries standing guard, but a young Strigany man that was fletching arrows under an awning looked up as they approached. As her people tended to be, the man was short, boney from long miles and lean victuals, but not malnourished. Draga didn't recognize him. He must have married into the clan since she left.
"Welcome, cousin." He said in the Strigany language. "Who would sit before our fire?"
"Sister Dragamina Bajra, Blackbow of Taal". Draga replied. "This is my partner, Falkenwulf Daur of the Truthblades."
"If it's shelter you seek, then we offer it freely." The fletcher said.
"Not shelter, cousin. Information. We came here following rumors of trouble in Stromdorf." Draga explained.
The man nodded. "Heard a lot about you. I'm Erasumus, originally from the Zamal Clan. I married Rita last year."
"Oh. Congratulations. Is Elder Kosan around?" Draga asked.
Erasmus pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "Should be in his tent."
"Thank you." Draga said. She dismounted. Falk did the same thing. They hitched their horses outside the camp.
"Not a friend of yours, I take it." Falk said.
"New husband of my least favorite person in the clan, which is saying something." Draga replied. "New to me, anyway. Nothing to worry about."
"Consider me unworried." Falk said.
They passed Erasmus and entered the camp. The rain was keeping most of the Bajra Clanfolk inside their tents, and with her hood up, those that did see Draga did not recognize her, even as their gazes followed her and Falk through the camp. That was alright with her.
Elder Kosan's tent was in the center of camp, set up on wooden planks to keep it out of the mud. Draga approached it, the red and maroon fabric noticeably less vibrant and patched than she remembered it. She could hear a conversation within the tent between two voices; one voice wizened and soft, the other deep and rumbling.
"Elder Kosan." Draga said. "May we come in out of the rain?"
"Eh? Who's that?" The wizened voice demanded.
"A prodigal child with a lot of questions and little time." Draga answered.
A chair creaked. A walking stick thumped against the planks. The hunched man that emerged from the tent flap had been tanned nut brown by long years in the sun. His bald pate was crowned by fluffy white hair. He wore a blue vest over a thick tunic and baggy trousers.
"Dragamina?" Kosan asked. Disbelief, even doubt, crossed his face.
"In the flesh, by Taal and Rhya's grace." Draga replied, using that verbiage intentionally.
Kosan pursed his lips. He looked up at Falk.
"This the man you chose for yourself, then?" Kosan grunted.
Falk blinked, then snorted without replying.
"He's my partner. And a servant of Verena. His name is Brother Falkenwulf and you'll use it." Draga rebuked the Elder.
Kosan scowled. He turned around and went back into his tent without inviting them in.
Draga sighed. She had never really talked about her past with Falk. Neither of them had gone out of their way to broach the subject. What Draga had told Bianca about why she became a Blackbow had only been a half truth. An explanation would have to wait. Draga entered the tent.
There was nothing fancy within the tent. Strigany, be they landbound or river folk, had to travel light. Only the bare essentials were inside Kosan's tent, which was lit by several lanterns. Kosan was seated at a small table, joined by a squat individual whose width almost matched their height. The dwarf had a long, braided beard that was the color of charcoal, a broad face with large eyes, and a false nose made of gold strapped across his face. Thick, stately robes marked with blocky, interlocking patterns along their trim gave the dwarf a dignified, noble look that was at odds with the surroundings.
"This is Thane Brimboir Goldbeak of Karak Azgaraz. He and his caravan are guests of the clan while we're both shut out of the city." Kosan said as he resumed his seat before a steaming cup of tea.
"Sister Dragamina. Brother Falkenwulf." The dwarf greeted them. His voice was deep, but nasal thanks to the prosthetic.
Draga would have needed to stifle a laugh at "Goldbeak" if not for the news Kosan had just let out. "It's an honor, Thane Brimboir. Now, you said you're shut out of Stromdorf? Why?"
"That's what we'd like to krutting know." Brimboir complained. He drank from a mug on the table in front of him. "Damned umgi normally can't wait to take some of our gold. Their Reik Eel keeps for a long time, good for our siege stores. And Thunderwater ale's almost good enough to match the work of a dawi brewer's apprentice. Almost. Still a bit watery. You manlings will never match a real dwarf's brew, of course."
"And we need to trade in the city. Our supplies are running low." Kosan said.
"Huh. Why don't you head down the Teufel to Ubersreik? It's bigger and better stocked than Stromdorf, anyway." Draga suggested.
"Winter is drawing near, Dragamina. If we're caught out on the river during the first freeze, the clan will die." Kosan said as if it should be obvious.
"And I will not let this insult to King Zaladrin go unanswered." Brimboir growled. "The umgi of Stromdorf risk having their name in the Book of Grudges of Karak Azgaraz. For many years, trade has flourished between Azgaraz and Stromdorf. Now they would throw all our courtesy and honorable dealings back in our faces. Bah!" He took another drink of ale. "Curls my krutting beard."
"And…what exactly will happen if Stromdorf ends up in your Dammaz Kron?" Falk asked the dwarf.
"A proper dwarf never forgets a grudge, Brother Falkenwulf. It'll be paid back. Mayhap not today. Mayhap not tomorrow. But one day." Brimboir said.
By a grudge, Brimboir may have meant trade sanctions. He might have meant marching a dwarf throng on Stromdorf and burning the city to the ground. One could never know with the dwarfs. They may have borne a resemblance to humans, but their minds simply did not follow the same paths.
"Are they letting anybody in?" Draga asked.
Kosan shook his head. "Not that any of us have seen."
"Well, they'll be bound by Imperial law to let us pass." Falk put in.
"Yes. They will. Thane Brimboir, your outrage is understandable. I feel it, too, on behalf of my clan. Can I ask you to keep Stromdorf out of your books for a little longer?" Draga asked.
Brimboir rumbled deep in his throat, considering the request. "I have no desire to write it in, Sister Dragamina. But I swore to uphold the honor of Karak Azgaraz and its King." He tugged at his beard. "Three more days. If they refuse us any longer than that, I will have to consider it a deal broken and a slight against King Zaladrin. And you can tell the umgi in charge of Stromdorf I said it."
"Then there's no time to waste." Draga said, turning on her heel. She was eager to be away from the camp.
"Thank you, Dragamina." Kosan said at her back.
"I do this for Taal. And the Empire. Not for you." She replied, feeling a bitter resentment rising. Falk's thudding footsteps were close behind.
This time, more members of the clan noticed Draga on the way out. Erasmus must have spread the word. There were a few tentative greetings thrown her way, but mostly Draga received dirty looks where she wasn't outright ignored. She didn't see her parents or siblings and hoped that would remain the case.
"Glad home isn't where the heart is. You're a lot more agreeable than this place." Falk said under his breath.
"Never thought I'd yearn to be back in Starkschloss." Draga muttered back to him.
The exited the camp and mounted up, setting their horses to trot down the road towards Stromdorf's gates. Draga could feel Falk's eyes on her. He wouldn't ask. It was one of the reasons she loved him. Falk never tried to draw out what she wouldn't freely give.
"For all the people of the Empire hate us Strigany and call us thieves and philanderers and vampire worshippers, a lot of them also envy us. Did you know that?" Draga asked her partner.
"Can't say I knew it, exactly. But I can figure out why; most people never get to leave whatever square of dirt they grow up on. They see the Strigany wandering freely, or at least what looks like freely, and can't help but envy that. They simply see it as freedom, of a sort, I suppose." Falk reasoned.
"That's a big part of it, yes." Draga confirmed. "Yet, ironically enough, it's the nobility where that mixture of envy and hate is the strongest. Sure, they've got their castles and servants and power and what not, but most of the spoiled fucks have their whole lives laid out for them by other people. Especially who they have to marry. And if not by other people, then by circumstance."
"But that's not the case, I take it." Falk guessed.
Draga shook her head. "No. Most of us are promised to whoever we're going to marry before we can walk. Strigany marriages are never within one clan. So, when I was born, an agreement was made between Elder Kosan and the elder of the Lakatos Clan that I would marry their elder's son. I hated it. Never met my groom-to-be. Maybe he was going to grow up to be some handsome son of a bitch who shat silver, I don't know. When I was thirteen, my clan happened upon a group of Longshanks. I snuck away in the night and decided I'd steal something from their camp, then return it to them to show I could join them."
"They, obviously, heard me coming a mile away." Draga went on, smiling at the memory. "But one of them, Sister Annalies, said I had potential. She asked me if I wanted to be a Longshank. I said yes. So, she marched up to Elder Kosan and said I was now an acolyte of Taal. Oh, Kosan raged. Mother did, too. Father just sat and said nothing, looking vaguely sad like he usually did. It didn't matter. I started training under Sister Annalies, then under Sister Ria when I was marked out to be a Blackbow." Her smile widened, and she looked up to let the rain patter against her face. "I haven't regretted it for a day since then. So there. No more mysterious past."
"Well. Damn." Falk, mulling over his words. "Lucky me all that happened, then, if that's how we ended up eventually fighting together."
Draga nodded, her heart feeling full at those words. "Absolutely. Lucky you. And don't you fucking forget it."
Falk smiled along with her. "Now I feel kind of boring. My ma and da run a butcher shop in Wolfenburg. I just joined the State Troops to see some of the world and do my bit for Ostland. I ended up helping my mentor, Brother Thomas, uncover a cult to the Blood God in the ranks of another regiment. That's how I ended up in the Truthblades. Gods. Hard to believe that was six years ago already."
"Shallya be praised, I say. One of us needed to have a decent childhood." Draga said.
They reached the gates of Stromdorf. There were no soldiers standing at ground level. Multiple crossbows were pointed over at the two warrior-priests through the crenelations of the gatehouse.
"Already told you bloodsucking flotsams we ain't letting you in!" A man in Reikland red and white barked, which devolved into a coughing fit.
Draga rolled her eyes. Flotsams. Because the Strigany lived on boats. She hadn't heard that one in a while.
"We are ordained and sanctioned warrior-priests of the Imperial Cults." Draga informed them, holding up her seal. Falk did the same with his. "By that authority, you will open this gate, or you will face the consequences."
"The Burghermeister said we ain't to open the gate for nobody that ain't him. And since you ain't him, we ain't opening the gate." The soldier replied.
"Sergeant, shut your fucking mouth before I toss you into the godsdamned Teufel. Or, better yet, I'll pitch you off the fucking wall into the hands of them priests, 'cept your legs will be too busted to run away." A new soldier cut in. He was probably in his middle thirties, wearing an eyepatch over his left eye, which also covered a huge scar. It was at odds with the uncharacteristic boyishness of his countenance. "I'd say you'll have to forgive the Sergeant, but he's a fuckwit who'd whip his cock out for two watermelons and an apple streusel stuck to a lamp post. Name's Lundt. Lieutenant in the Stromdorf Regulars, current officer of the watch over this here gate. There's a plague hereabouts, Miss Priestess."
"Plague?" Draga repeated. "We haven't heard any news of a plague. Just that something was wrong here."
"Because Burghermeister Dunrich is a few halflings short of a Mootland and doesn't want word getting out about it until he can fix it himself. We're under orders not to tell anyone. But, you're warrior-priests. And I'm also tired of guarding this fucking wall as all the folks I grew up with cough their lungs out and die." Lundt said.
"How can we help?" Draga asked.
"There's a doctor in the city, Gerhalt, that came up with a cure. Problem is, the main ingredient in it is apparently a flower only found in the foothills of the Grey Mountains, which he ran out of quick. 'Stone's Crown', he called it", Lundt pointed over his shoulder at the Grey Mountains. "Dwarfs might know where it is. If they'll help. Burghermeister didn't want them to find out, neither."
Fear, anxiety, and anger formed a volatile concoction in Draga's gut.
"If we bring you a load of this Stone's Crown, will you open the gate for us?" Draga asked.
"I'd open it for you right now, iffin' you commanded it. But I'd rather not let what's going 'round in Stromdorf spread, savy?" Lundt replied.
Draga nodded. At least one person in Stromdorf had half a head on their shoulders.
"He telling the truth?" Draga asked her partner.
"Looks that way to me." Falk said.
"Then we'll be back, then." Draga told Lundt.
"Best of luck. Sigmar watch over you." Lundt said.
The two warrior-priests returned to the camp. It was too late to set out for the mountains that day. They would leave just before dawn.
My dear Dragamina,
It gladdens my heart to hear of your victory in the north. I have no doubt you acquitted yourself valorously. If any of the dark elves survived, I am certain they shall frighten their friends back in Naggaroth with tales of your skill.
I hope you are healed of your injuries by the time this reaches you. If not, imbibe the tincture enclosed. It will encourage regrowth of bone and tissue. I have mixed and infused it myself, and tested it many times on my own person. Rest assured it works, and quite safely, merely takes a while to make any. It will only hold its potency for about a month, sadly. I'm still perfecting the formula.
My work is as it usually goes. I completed the monthly inspection of my work yesterday and I am quite certain the auditor is still holding a grudge for a bit if a joke I made about a stain on his doublet last year.
My family is well, and give me no end of grief (playfully, of course) about our correspondence…"
The letter went on. The glimmering, golden hawk that had delivered it sat waiting to return to Rikter, who had conjured it back in Altdorf. A new spell to remove the uncertainties of Imperial post.
Draga smiled as she read the letter. The way it seemed compartmentalized, like Rikter was checking off things he had to talk about, would have been off-putting had Draga not met him in person. She knew, just like everything else, Rikter viewed the letters as equations, or perhaps alchemical mixtures, each paragraph a variable or ingredient to be added together to create the solution. It was how Draga knew he was not attempting to put on a persona or mask some part of himself to try to impress her. Where others might see a clinical obligation being fulfilled, Draga knew better.
It was odd, looking forward to these letters, but also exciting. Draga caught herself scanning the skies for the hawk's appearance a lot, something Falk loved to tease her about. Did Rikter do the same, she wondered?
Draga borrowed Falk's portable writing kit, prepared some ink, and replied.
Goldy,
I'm all healed up, but Falk and I get banged up enough that this potion will still come in handy. I know it probably took more work than you're letting on. Thank you for putting that time and effort in on my behalf. We need all the help we can get.
Speaking of which, I'm sorry to put more business into this, but there's a plague in Stromdorf. A bloody flux of some kind. The Burghermeister's actively trying to suppress knowledge of it. Don't worry, Falk and I haven't gone in or been exposed yet. Still, I need you to spread the word, if you can, while we try to fix it.
She paused, considering something. It was only for a moment.
On a much brighter note, after we're done here in Stromdorf, Falk and I are going to pass through Altdorf. I'd like to see you again. We'll go someplace where we don't have to think about the rest of the world for a little bit and I'll have you all to myself.
Draga smirked as she wrote that last sentence, knowing it would make Rikter blush red as an apple.
Stay safe, Goldy. I'll be thinking about you until then.
Taal and Rhya be with you,
Dragamina
She folded and sealed the letter, stuffing it into the small satchel the conjured hawk had across its back, then spoke the command word Rikter had given her in the first letter brought by the golden bird. Upon hearing it, the hawk left her tent and took to wing.
Draga watched the hawk vanish into the darkness from her little tent's opening. Hopefully if she and Falk failed here, Rikter could set things in motion for containing the threat here in Stromdorf. And a threat it was, but what sort was impossible to know. It could be the work of the plague monks of the skaven Clan Pestilens, or the disease-ridden cultists of Nurgle the Great Corruptor, or just some mad alchemist that poisoned a water supply. The main question was whether or not the Bughermeister was involved. Did Lundt have reliable information? Maybe Dunrich was actually trying to contain this disease to just his town. Except, if that was the case, why wouldn't he want his soldiers informing travelers that could send for help?
Draga cursed as she lay down on her bedroll. Figuring all that out with hardly information was Falk's specialty. Draga knew her objective; find as much of this Stone's Crown as she could, bring it back down the mountain, save whoever might be left alive in Stromdorf, and kill whoever was responsible for it.
There was another reason for her desire to see this done. Proximity to a disaster was bad for Strigany. When crops failed, when a flock of chickens took sick and died, when a storm knocks over a few huts, the quickest place the average puke stupid Imperial peasant did was point a finger at the caravan of funny-talking vampire worshippers that have most definitely been casting suspicious glances about since they arrived. Draga didn't like her clan, but they were still her people. There was already a dearth of individuals in the Empire who would stand up for the Strigany. They couldn't afford to have their own people stand aside and do nothing, as well.
"Mother Rhya, please hold them all close and watch over them. Stromdorf. My people. Falk. Rikter. Bianca." Draga prayed. "Father Taal, give me the strength to protect them and the will to destroy those that would harm them. And when the prey is in my sight, grant that my aim is steady and my arrow finds its heart."
Thane Brimboir had the wisdom to extend his arbitrary point of declaring a grudge once the circumstances within Stromdorf became known to him. He even sent four members of his entourage with Draga and Falk. Two of them were mail clad warriors armed with shields and axes, Galdrig and Zedam. The third was Khaldrir, a cloaked ranger in mail the dwarfs would call light but Draga probably would barely be able to move in. Finally, and most surprisingly, was Vedwi. She was one of the vaunted hammerers that served as personal guards to high ranking dwarfs. Dwarf women were rarely seen outside the mountain holds, but the dwarfs of the Grey Mountains did have a reputation for pragmatism.
"Aye, Stone's Crown. I know it. I know every plant in those mountains, rin. Grows in the foothills, poking out of rockfalls. We'll be bringing the stuff back by the bale in a couple of days, sure as Grungi is wise." Khaldrir had replied when Draga asked about the plant. Of the four dwarfs, he was the bluntest; in appearance, in speech, in action. Draga had to assume he wasn't like that when it came to sneaking around or they could be in trouble.
Draga and Falk set out with their dwarfen companions before the sun rose. Clan Bajra contributed no people, but they did allow the party to take a small skiff from one of their boats. The Stone's Crown flower primarily grew in the Blitzfelsen Hills, which stood between the Grey Mountains and the marshland known as the Oberschlect that spread out south of Stromdorf in the delta of the three rivers. Falk pushed the skiff along, following Khaldrir's directions. The rain had blessedly stopped.
"Not natural, dawi on water. Makes me feel like I'm from Barak Var." Galdrig mused.
"Quite a place, though, Barak Var. Prettiest rins in the Karaz Ankor." Zedam said.
"Nah. Karak Kadrin's are prettier." Galdrig retorted.
"You just have a thing for Slayers. Valaya knows why." Zedam grunted.
Galdrig's mail clinked as he shrugged. "What can I say? It's how Grungi shaped me. Tattoos, no clothes, and a death wish? Gets the blood up."
"Maybe one of 'em will cleave your skull and knock some sense into you." Zedam said hopefully.
"What? You'll be a one man shieldwall then? Doubt it. I've seen grobi with a better shield arm." Galdrig said.
"Spending time with grobi? It shows every time you open your mouth." Zedam said.
"Will you two shut the krut up for two godsdamned minutes?" Khaldrir complained.
The two warriors laughed.
"Should be happy, Khal. We're under sun and sky." Zedam chuckled.
"Not natural, that. Not good for a dawi. Rock and stone, that's where we belong." Galdrig added.
"Don't hear any of you complaining when we rangers drop a rockfall on a grobi warband or poison their water before the beasts can even so much as look at our home." Khaldrir growled, and his angry voice was far from the playful jibes of Zedam and Galdrig.
The two warriors seemed to hear the anger. Though they let the joke go, they shared looks that said, rangers, am I right? Then immediately returned to quipping back and forth at each other.
Draga didn't get involved. She did, however, look over at Vedwi. She stood stock still, imposing in her heavy dwarf plate. The head of her hammer rested on the deck of the skiff. It was the grey-blue of gromril, the star metal valued more than gold by not just the dwarfs, but almost everyone in the Old World.
"Those two act like an old married couple." Draga snorted, pointing a thumb at Galdrig and Zedam.
Vedwi's grey eyes flicked up to Draga, then forward, then back up.
"Oh. Uhm." The hammerer's voice was surprisingly meek. "I think they would be. If they could."
"Really?" Draga asked, tilting her head to one side.
"Well, uh, o-only one or two dwarfs out of every ten is born a girl. So it's…I dunno if 'common' is the right word, but…well, you know. It happens." Vedwi said, eyes on the deck.
"Huh. Well. It must get tiring hearing this back and forth every day." Draga said to her in a low voice.
"I-It's not so bad." Vedwi assured her.
"Are you alright?" Draga asked.
Vedwi nodded with slight, minimal movements, still looking down. "I'm fine."
Draga tilted her head to one side. She doubted it was fear that had Vedwi like this.
"Shy?" Draga asked.
"I'm not…good with people." Vedwi confessed. "B-But I don't mind talking."
"Served Thane Brimboir for long?" Draga asked.
"Oh. Uhm. Yeah. Well, not as long as most. But long for a human maybe." Vedwi said. "N-Not that I'm bragging. I'm not nearly as good as the others who protect our lord. That's probably why he sent me away."
"Or maybe it means he has a lot of trust in you?" Draga suggested. What could have happened, she wondered, to make a young dwarf in such an honored position so lacking in confidence?
"N-No, that couldn't be it. I'm not worthy of such an honor." Vedwi shook her helmeted head.
Draga frowned.
"Well, whatever the case, I'm glad for your company, Vedwi. I hope we can be friends. If you don't mind being friends with an umgi, anyway." Draga said, giving her a wink.
Vedwi's smile was slight, but it was there. "Dawi and umgi have been friends since the time of Sigmar. Even though we've had our differences along the way."
"Aye! Unlike those flighty elgi." Zedam spat.
"Damn knife-ears. Oathbreakers and cowards, the lot. One day we'll muster a grand throng and land on Ulthuan's shores. Grudges beyond counting will be struck from the books that day, mark my words." Galdrig predicted.
Khaldrir snorted skeptically, but said nothing.
Draga looked to the back of the skiff at Falk, who just shrugged at her.
The skiff landed at the foot of the Blitzfelsen Hills. They were covered in grass tall grass turned beige and trees with leaves turned brown with the failing for autumn. The moment the skiff was beached, Khaldrir hopped off.
"Try to keep up, umgi." The ranger said.
Draga, making sure the dwarf saw her unimpressed expression, followed after him. She didn't bother instructing Falk on how far back to follow. They had a system by then. Instead, she kept up with Khaldrir. She could admit the dwarf was skilled at the craft, but a prideful part of her noted a few minor mistakes. Draga suspected that if they were up in the mountains where dwarf rangers normally roamed, she would be the less experienced one.
The journey through the Blitzfelsen was a fairly easy one. The trees were sparse, but there were plenty of rockfalls to hide behind, as well as thick gorse and bracken. They went with care, stopping for only a brief rest at midday for water and a few bites of rations before moving on.
Finding the Stone's Crown was so easy that Draga almost missed it at first. It was a curious flower that grew on on vines. They earned their name from the fact that they only grew in the shade of large rocks and boulders, slowly spreading around where the given stone met the ground, while also creeping up to eventually cover their shelter.
They set Falk and the other three dwarfs to gathering the flowers into sacks. Draga and Khaldrir, meanwhile, found vantage points to keep watch. Even if Lieutenant Lundt had been telling the truth and was on their side, it had been a shouted conversation. Someone without Stromdorf's best interests in mind might have heard and decided to take steps to stop the attempt at a cure.
And sure enough, eventually, that was precisely what happened.
The smell preceded them; rot, sickness, corruption. They walked with lilting, uneven strides. Their pallid, ruined bodies might have given the impression of being zombies, but they lacked the jerking shamble of the undead. Intestines, eyes, and tongues hung from their places. Rusting weapons were clutched by black-nailed fingers. Fetid clouds of flies and gnats followed after them.
Rotkin. Draga realized. Servants of the Plague Lord. Father Taal, preserve me. They were lesser mortal servants of Nurgle, carrying only the smallest of the Great Corruptor's "blessings", but even so, shots to the head or vitals were the only things that would kill these abominations with any speed.
Draga cupped a hand to her mouth and made a bird call. It was the signal to Khaldrir, who would warn the others, that danger was on approach. She then slid down from the rock she was perched on, putting an arrow on her bowstring as she moved through the brush in a low run.
"I walk through the temple of Father Taal, with sky above and root below." Draga said softly. She sprang up from the grass, feeling the holy power of her blackened bow come to life as she sighted down a servant of Chaos.
She fired, switching her bow to her other hand as her projectile was in flight.. The arrow cut through the air and struck one of the rotkin in the head. Its skull was burned out by divine flame and it fell. The rotkin turned and began shambling after her. Draga held her ground for long enough to ready another shot, continuing to pray quietly as she did.
"And in return for his bounty I take up my blessed task." Draga said.
Twang. A rotkin fell back with an arrow in the heart. Bow to the other hand.
"I will cast out the servants of evil that would defile my Father's house."
Twang. A servant of Nurgle spun to the ground, its leg almost severed at the knee by a broadhead. Bow to the other hand.
There were more of them then Draga could take on alone, but that wasn't her purpose here. She only needed to thin the rotkin out and slow them down. So Draga set off perpendicular to her pursuers. Devotion to Nurgle did not a swift moving individual make.
"Like weeds in Mother Rhya's garden I will pull them by the root and cleanse them." Draga went on, her voice rising as she nocked and fired. A rotkin took the arrow in the throat, its already phlegm-laced, wet breathing becoming even more ragged. The thing managed ten more steps before it finally sank to its knees, and even then, it gave no sign of being in pain.
Draga stopped again, planting her leading foot upon a fallen log.
"In the name of the Lord of Horn and Hunt, I name you my prey, servants of Chaos. Now charge or flee; it will not change your fate!" Draga intoned, and though she was tempted to will a battle prayer into the shot, she held off. The greater threat, she suspected, would be within the walls of Stromdorf.
Her arrow lodged in the eye of another rotkin.
"Take cover, rin!" Khaldrir shouted.
Draga dove behind the log as she saw a spherical bomb with a lit fuse come soaring out of the brush from the side of the mob of rotkin. It detonated with air shattering force, and Draga could hear the sounds of rotten flesh and bone raining down even over the ringing in her ears. She pushed herself off the ground, ready to continue the fight, expecting to see Falk leading the charge with his long strides. While Draga did see the Truthblade with his blessed greatsword in hand, it was Vedwi who was eating up ground, and the fury in the hammerer's face would have put the most bellicose Ulrican warrior-priest to shame.
"GRIMNIIIIIR!" Vedwi screamed as her hammer struck a rotkin in the chest. The blow landed with such force that the collapsing sternum caused the ribs to rise like the clutching legs of a spider. She whirled about and crushed the skull of another. "KHAZUK! KHAZUK!"
"Khazukan khazakit-HA!" Zedam and Galdrig added their voices to the war cry as they crashed into the mob with axe and shield. And, of course, there was Falk, his blessed blade reaving a great arc that felled three rotkin at once. Clotted blood and writhing maggots were thrown about as the four of them tore into the servants of the Plague God.
Draga vaulted over the log and struck down a rotkin about to attack Falk from behind. As she advanced she saw Khaldrir slide down a boulder, trading his crossbow for a pair of axes. The ranger hewed the legs out from the first rotkin coming to intercept him, then struck down to chop off the thing's head. The Falk and the dwarfs stood in a slowly retreating wedge, the Truthblade at the tip of the formation, and their weapons churned through the mob.
The six adventurers were holding back the rotkin, but there were dozens of them slowly shuffling to join the fray. They had likely been hiding in the swamp, mostly submerged. Their delayed response told Draga that this wasn't what they were stationed out there for.
Stromdorf. Draga realized, then bellowed. "Falk! Have we got the Stone's Crown?!"
"Packs aren't full, but we got a lot!" Falk replied.
"Then we need to head back! If we beat these things back to Stromdorf, we'll have a better chance to end this!" Draga said.
"Dawi don't retreat!" Galdrig grumped as he chopped off an arm swinging for him.
Vedwi wrenched her hammer from a fallen rotkin's skull. "But we do serve our lords, and Thane Brimboir demanded we help open Stromdorf. That takes priority. We move. Now!"
"I'm with the hammerer." Khaldrir said, disengaging.
The others broke off from the fight. Falk drew his pistol, aiming it at the mob as he ran.
"Good thing I anticipated servants of the Plague God." Falk said, then pulled the trigger.
An orb of alchemical fire globbed onto a handful of the rotkin. They caught fire like dry brush.
"Save those, Falk. We don't know what we'll face in the town." Draga advised.
Falk hesitated, then nodded and holstered his grudge-raker. "Good thinking. Only got two more."
The half-dozen adventurers easily outpaced the rotkin, circling around them to reach their skiff. Vedwi picked up the pole and moved the boat into the Oberschlect toward the River Teufel and the current that would take them back to the fork of the three rivers.
Draga took a knee, gulping for air. She would have to see if she could take some arrows from her clan.
"Watch…the water…" The Blackbow gasped. In spite of the cool weather she was sheened with sweat.
Everyone else on the skiff took an uncomfortable glance toward the swamp around them. Luckily, nothing broke the surface to pull them under and the journey back toward Stromdorf's gate went off without a hitch.
They went straight to Thane Brimboir, who had traded his robes for gromril plate, and was sharpening a runed battleaxe that was practically bursting with bound magic. The dwarf leader was seated on a throne in the center of the Karak Azgaraz tents. All around him, every last dwarf was preparing for a fight. Mugs of beer were being quickly quaffed by the dwarfs, and the dinner prepared by the Strigany was being wolfed down.
"What's going on?" Falk asked as they approached the Thane, who was wiping his mouth with his beard after slurping a wooden bowl of stew.
After a belch, Brimboir said, "I know what a dwarf explosive sounds like, manling. Something happened out there, didn't it?"
"Yes, my lord." Vedwi said, and quickly explained the situation to the Thane.
After the hammerer finished, Brimboir said, "not long after that there was fighting in Stromdorf. Small scale. On and off. Not letting a town this close to our hold fall to Old Night. We'll fight with or against the garrison, but we will march."
Draga grimaced. "I'd appreciate you letting Falk and I go first. We'll talk to the garrison."
"Makes no difference to me, rin." Brimboir said. "But we'd best go quick. Would rather not fight through that place in the dark. Vedwi. Your already hammer-deep in this, join them with my blessing."
"My lord." The hammerer confirmed.
Draga nodded. There was a chance it was already too late and they'd get buried by a volley from the walls. Only one way to find out.
"Falk. We've got work to do." Draga said, motioning for the Truthblade to follow after her.
"Ah, ah, not without us!" Galdrig grunted. He polished off a tankard of beer then tossed it through the opening of a tent.
"Ach! Damn it, Gal, check the damn tent before you start tossing things, wazzock!" Zedam complained, emerging from the tent.
Khaldrir said nothing, but he also moved to join the group.
"Khal? Didn't know you cared." Galbrig said.
"He doesn't. Just doesn't want us to take all the honor." Zedam mused.
"We fought with them. Makes us drengbarazi. Joke all you want." Khaldrir grunted. "Besides. The rin's almost good enough to match one of us." He tapped the cloak pin that marked him as a ranger.
About as high of praise as a dwarf could offer a human.
With a deep breath in and out, Draga led the way out of the dwarf camp, cutting through that of the Strigany, stopping only for more arrows. She wasn't sure how she'd come to take the lead on this one. She and Falk never really planned who would. It usually ended up being him purely because he was more inclined to do so and Draga didn't particularly care.
"Dragamina…", someone said.
The Blackbow stopped. She closed her eyes, knowing what she'd see if she turned around. Draga didn't want to. Unfortunately, there were times when the brain and the body weren't on speaking terms.
Two Strigany, a man and a woman, were watching her from a stone's throw away. They were middle-aged, the woman having familiar coppery hair. In the man, Draga saw her own hazel eyes.
"Be safe, Dragamina. Please." The woman said.
Draga frowned, thinking up a thousand venomous retorts, only to discard them just as quickly.
"Taal walks with me. As he always has. I have nothing to fear." Draga told her mother, then continued on her way. Years of anger and hurt uncoiled within her. Draga directed them forward, toward Stromdorf, toward the enemy.
They left the camp behind and approached the gate in short order. The dwarfs were mustering their forces and would be following shortly. There were still soldiers on the walls, but they didn't point crossbows this time, at least.
"Lieutenant Lundt!" Draga called out.
One of the soldiers left her view. A few minutes later, Lundt was gazing down over the parapet, looking exhausted and dirty.
"Captain Lundt now. Field promotion. Been a busy day." Lundt said.
"We've brought the Stone's Crown. What's been happening?" Draga asked.
"There's been a bit of…disagreement in the ranks. Bughermeister Dunrich sent men to arrest Doctor Gerhalt. My captain refused to let it happen and led men to stop it. Lines were drawn, followed by steel." Lundt shrugged. "We've secured the wall and outer neighborhoods of the town, including the Doctor's laboratory. He's ready to start working on a cure as soon as he has more Stone's Crown. Dunrich's rebels have the center of town and they won't let us start helping people while they're still a cohesive force. We've got them outnumbered by a bit, but they're dug in. Storming the Burghermeister's manor's going to be a bloodbath."
"Help with that is on the way." Draga indicated the Azgaraz throng that was marching in a column towards the gate.
"I see." Lundt said. He sniffed. "Well, needs must. Long as they don't burn the place down I won't say no." He breathed out. "Hold on. We'll open the gates."
I don't think you ever had much choice. Draga thought.
"What the krutt would the man have to gain by letting his people take sick and die?" Khaldrir cursed while they waited.
"We fought rotkin. The Plague God's involved. Killing people with disease is the entire point." Falk said.
Sneaking into Strand had been one thing. Making a full-frontal assault against a dug in force was something else entirely. Draga was determined to show no fear. They were going to liberate Stromdorf or die trying.
The gates of Stromdorf, thick wood reinforced with bands of iron, were pushed open from the other side, revealing Captain Lundt and a few squads of his loyalist soldiers. They looked halfway to corpses themselves; gaunt, pale, more than one with dried blood in the corners of their mouth or on their breastplates. To a man, the soldiers had the thousand-yard stare of people pushed to the brink. Yet, they continued to hold on for their home.
"I've passed the order. We'll be attacking soon." Lundt said. "Way I figure it, we'll hit the rebels along the line and keep them pinned. The dwarfs can push up the main avenue where they'll have enough room to hold a shieldwall that'll smash right through."
"Be glad our part of your plan was already what I was going to do anyway, manling. No dawi will be taking orders from you." Thane Brimboir said, smiling with tombstone-like teeth as his throng reached the gates.
"Oh, I think you can understand wanting to defend your home, Lord. Maybe you don't give a goblin's shit about this place, but I'm ready to die for it. So keep the collateral damage to a minimum, or you'll be having a second fight to contend with once we deal with the Burghermeister." Lundt said, bravado dripping from every word.
Brimboir's scoff was a resonant sound, yet Draga didn't miss the grudging respect in his voice when he said, "I've no intent of burning the place to the ground, much as I might want to given what we're fighting. Do your part, umgal, and we'll do ours."
"Fine by me." Lundt said. He issued a series of orders to his troops and they started moving out, the Captain concluding with, "and everyone cover your fucking faces!"
"Shieldwall! Form up!" Brimboir commanded, waving his axe in the air. He looked to Vedwi. "Lass, your umgi friends'll be easy targets among the throng. Go with the manling captain and make sure he does what he swore. Mayhap we'll be able to break through in more than one place this way."
"As you command, my lord." Vedwi said, thumping her fist against her breastplate. "This way, drengbarazi."
Draga and Falk nodded, tying cloth masks around their mouths and noses. They and the dwarves handed the Stone's Crown off to some soldiers, then followed Captain Lundt and two squads of Stromdorf Regulars onto a sidestreet. Lundt only spared them a single backward glance.
Draga suspected Stromdorf's muddy streets were already dismal on an average day. Like every Imperial settlement of significant size, most streets were bordering on claustrophobic. There were marked piles of refuse in gutters. Large red X's were slashed across doors and boarded up windows. The pathetic few souls they saw in the streets quickly scampered out of view. All around them were the sounds of coughing, sobbing, praying, dying. They passed a wagon that was full of bodies blackened with the corruption of death. Fat, black flies blanketed them, broken up only by writhing white maggots. The flies were everywhere. Draga stopped bothering to wave them away. It did not good.
And the smell. Merciful Shallya, the fucking smell. Draga had seen the aftermath of battlefields, but even through the mask, Draga found herself fighting the urge to gag.
"Gods above, you and your men deserve a handshake from the Emperor himself for holding on here." Falk said as they walked.
"Yeah. Don't think he should come within coughing distance of any of us, though." Lundt said. He cleared his throat, raised his mask, and spat out a glob of bloody phlegm.
Stromdorf was not a huge town, and it didn't take long to reach their section of the rebel blockade. Lundt had the advance pause out of sight around a corner, motioning for Draga to come up and look. About twenty of rebels were situated behind a makeshift barricade of wagons, furniture, and barrels. It was spread across an area where the street widened somewhat, accommodating a spot for a wagon to park in front of a wholesaler's shop. There were five dead soldiers in the street leading up to the barricade.
At first, Draga was going to wonder how to tell the rebels apart from the loyalists, but it quickly became evident that wouldn't be difficult. The Burghermeister's men didn't just look sick. They were halfway to becoming rotkin, their uniforms soiled with old blood and pus. One had an eye hanging from its socket. The ears and nose had rotted off another. All were missing teeth, all had patches of gangrenous flesh slowly sloughing from their bodies. Yet they were alert, apparently unaware of their horrid conditions, and worst of all, they had an artillery piece pointed down the street.
"Fuck. An old falconet. They took that antique from the Dunrich's collection." Lundt cursed.
"Does it even work?" Draga asked.
Lundt looked at the dead soldiers in the street, one of which had his torso detonated by some great force, then flicked his eyes to Draga. "You want to find out?"
"No." Draga said. She peered more closely. Perhaps they could trick the cannon into firing? They'd still have to overcome an enemy behind a barricade. It would be a bloody slog they may or may not win.
"We don't need to worry about some umgak thrund." Galdrig said.
"Probably going to explode in their faces." Agreed Zedam.
Khaldrir muttered something about making the two of them go first, then.
An idea struck Draga. She looked at the building they were covering behind. It was likely the home of a burgher of middling wealth, two stories tall and narrow. Like many homes, the windows were boarded, the front door marked with a huge, painted X.
"Falk. Give me your gun." Draga said.
It spoke to their friendship that Falk had the weapon out and offered grip first to her only a second later.
"What's the plan?" He asked.
"To give our friends some fireworks." Draga said, tucking the grudge-raker into her waistband. "Charge on my signal."
"Stay safe. I like that gun." Falk said. "And watch the recoil. Those Zharr shells kick like a mule."
"Do my best." Draga said.
The Blackbow began scaling the boards over the windows, which creaked ominously, shifting under her weight. She called upon years of climbing trees and rock faces to maintain her balance and keep her cool even when falling seemed inevitable. Before she knew it, Draga was on her hands and knees atop the roof, feeling the waterlogged structure sag a little beneath her. The Blackbow heard fighting erupt elsewhere in the city as she moved. This plan needed to work.
Crawling to the edge of the roof, Draga peeked over the edge. The rebels were on edge now that they heard fighting. One man held a lit match on the end of a stick just beside the cannon. Draga was sure there was a technical term for it, but regardless. There was a powder barrel a short distance away, far enough that no rogue sparks from handgun shots or falconet blasts might set it off, but still close enough.
Falk had taught Draga how to shoot the sawn-off grudge-raker for precisely these sorts of situations, but she'd never fired one of his special shells before. With a deep breath in, Draga took the gun from her waistband and stood up. One of the plague-ridden defenders pointed up at her just as Draga aimed with both hands, let the breath out, and fired.
Suddenly, Draga was on her back, thrown off her feet by the unexpected recoil. A mule? More like a fucking demi-gryph!
But Draga's thoughts were lost an instant later as an explosion shook the air, almost deafening her. Clashing steel followed, sounding distant to her ringing ears. Shaking out the cobwebs, Draga stood up, switching to her bow, prepared to support the attack from on high.
She need not have bothered. What few rebels were still standing after the blast were already being put to the sword. The barrier was mostly intact, but it was aflame in places.
Draga clambered down from the roof, vaulting over the barrier and offering Falk his gun.
"A good shot." Falk said with a smirk as he took the weapon, loaded a standard shell in the empty breech, and holstered it. "Knocked you on your ass, didn't it?"
"Even if it did, I'd say it was worth it." Draga said with a laugh.
Falk chortled, clapping her on the shoulder. "Captain Lundt! We best keep moving."
"Agreed." Lundt said. He and his mean were already breathing heavily and covered in sweat. Draga realized that without the dwarfs, these men never would have had the strength to overcome the rebel defenses. Not one of them complained, and all took up their weapons once again when Lundt gave the order to move out.
A horn was blown, not sounding distant, but the acoustics of the town made it hard to tell.
"They're pulling back. The dwarfs must've punched through the center." Lundt said.
"'Course they did. Only thing that can stop a dawi charge is another dawi." Zedam declared.
"Dunno. That troll stopped you pretty good a couple years ago." Galdrig pointed out.
Lundt ignored them. "Move it, lads. Let's take our fucking home back." He spat more red-tinged mucus.
There was no war cry, just a series of resolute agreements and stifled coughs.
They advanced through the city into the neighborhood of upper class houses that surrounded the Burghermeister's manor in the center of town. Draga could hear gunshots and a dwarfen war chant. Khazuk! Khazuk! Khazuk!
"You ready, Vedwi?" Draga asked the hammerer.
"I, uh, I think so." She replied. "I just hope I d-don't embarrass myself in front of Lord Brimboir. I'd have to take the S-Slayer's oath."
"You won't. Now. Let's get these heretics ready for the pyre." Draga said, getting her bow ready.
"In Grungi's sight, drengbarazal." Vedwi agreed.
Dunrich's manor was an uninspired rectangle of a building with peaked turrets at either end of its three story roof. Fighting was concentrated in the street below, where the heretic rebels had erected another, larger barrier at the foot of the broad stairs leading up into the house itself. With handguns, crossbows, and a pair of what looked like the swivel guns used by the Empire's Riverine Navy, the rebels were trying to hold back the combined loyalist and dwarf assault. Corpses of human and dwarf lay in the street, but the Azgaraz advance was inexorable. The swivel guns fired not cannonballs, but blasts of scrap metal and even cutlery. As Draga watched, one of the rebels operating a swivel gun took two crossbow quarrels in the midsection and barely even flinched, touching off the small cannon and sending a scattering of shrapnel into the dwarf ranks. Stout dwarfen shields and armor weathered the worst of it, but two dwarfs fell all the same.
"I think the time for strategy's about over." Draga said, aiming and firing her bow, putting the arrow through one of the swivel gunner's temples and out the other.
"Regulars! For Stromdorf! For Sigmar!" Lundt cried, raising his flanged mace and leading the charge. More of the Stromdorf Regulars were filtering in from other streets, the way clear now that the rebels had pulled back.
"Sword of justice!" Falk intoned at the same moment Vedwi shouted, "GRIMNIIIIIR!" Truthblade and hammerer outpaced Lundt, Falk firing his grudge-raker on the run, which blew the arm off a rebel crossbowman that was drawing a bead on them. The two of them vaulted the barricade and whipped their two-handed weapons around, clearing space for those behind them.
Draga advanced slowly, sending her arrows into the back ranks of the rebels, especially the handgunners that were standing on the manor's front steps. As the bulk of the dwarfs and the human loyalists reached the barricade and began getting in among the defenders, Draga allowed relief to take root within her. With the inevitable defeat of Dunrich's rebels, they'd deal with the Burghermeister and Stromdorf could…
"Fuck!" Draga yelped, thinking she'd been shot in the face for a mad moment. A fat, black fly flitting away from her cheek revealed that was not the case. However, an itchy welt was already swelling up from the bite the fly left behind. Another bite nicked the back of her neck, which she slapped and crushed the fly. The air filled with buzzing. Flies swarmed, thick in the air, but they were nothing compared to the horror that stepped out from the front door of Dunrich's mansion.
Judging by the ruined silk doublet that had once been indigo and red, the thing had once been Bughermeister Dunrich. Now, it was a creature of bony limbs, its distended innards hanging out from the hem of the ragged doublet. It appeared two eyes had dragged themselves like fetid glaciers transforming a landscape to merge into one, jaundiced orb, just above which was a single yellow-brown horn. A lolling, maggot-like tongue slavered past jagged, broken teeth. The thing's brown-green flesh was a map of weeping sores and suppurating weals.
Draga felt her eyes bulge as primordial fear turned her veins to ice. Some warrior-priests went their entire careers without such an encounter.
"Daemon!" The cry went up as the remaining rebels found new resolve and pushed back. A loyalist shot the daemon with a crossbow. A dwarf shot it with a handgun. A Regular's halberd crunched into the thing's skull. These attacks did little more than leave small marks in ruined flesh.
The thing that had been Dunrich lashed out with a sword-sized cleaver of pitted, rusted metal that dripped with foul liquid. Two Regulars were slashed, their breastplates rusting along the path of the vile weapon, allowing it to slice into their bodies. A dwarfen warrior had his shield split apart, most of his hand mangled, fingers flying off. All three victims immediately doubled over, vomiting, their flesh growing necrotic from the sites of their wounds outward. The dwarf looked on in horror as his mail slowly corroded up his arm, coinciding with the decay of his body beneath, crying out for Valaya's mercy as the daemonic contagion consumed him in mere seconds.
A burning meteor struck the plaguebearer in the chest, causing it to recoil a few steps.
Falk was there, his sword alight with holy power. "Get back! Blessed steel is needed here!" He warned the Regulars. "I abjure you, filth of Old Night! In the name of the Lady of Justice, you will fall!"
His sword swung in, carving a burning path through the daemon's intestines. Vedwi engaged it, too, her hammer shattering the bones of the plaguebearer's left arm, the gromril overcoming the daemon's resistance to steel. With unnatural strength that such spindly limbs should not have possessed, the daemon retaliated, driving Falk and Vedwi back.
Draga snapped out of her fear, putting another arrow on the string and drawing, hoping to score a headshot on the plaguebearer. The biting flies weren't making it easy to focus, but all it would take was one shot…
"Drengbarazal!" Khaldrir called out as he tackled Draga to the ground. A bolt of sickly green-black energy struck the cobbles where Draga had been standing moments ago, turning stone to sludge.
Blackbow and ranger got to their feet, looking up to see a figure in filth-encrusted robes and a conical hood above them. He stood on the nearest turret's balcony, waving a tarnished scythe, calling upon magic that made the paint around him peel and flake, the wood rotting. Worms and insects crawled in and out of the wood of the scythe's haft. Mottled hands with long, talon-like nails were the only visible parts of the one in the robes.
Both Draga and Khaldrir quickly lifted their aim and fired at the Chaos sorcerer, but he leapt from the balcony. Just as Draga wondered why he was suicidal, huge, gossamer wings like those of a colossal horse fly unfurled on his back and began beating the air. More missiles flew at the sorcerer, a couple of them catching at his robes, one even putting a hole in one of his wings, but it didn't slow him. The sorcerer waved his hand. The missiles flying toward him struck a viridian shield, decaying to wood rot and rust upon impact. He then swept the scythe before him, which sent up a fetid wind that overtook a dozen of the Regulars. They immediately fell to their hands and knees, convulsing and hacking as their lungs filled with mucus and blood.
Draga shot two more arrows at the sorcerer, but the flies were still throwing her off. Even worse, she could feel her limbs weakening, the heat in her body having nothing to do with exertion. Fever. The sorcerer and the plaguebearer would have them all too weak to fight back in a matter of minutes.
The sorcerer swooped down, surprising Draga until she realized Khaldrir had lit another bomb. Draga moved away as fast as she could as the dwarf hurled the bomb up. The sorcerer raised his shield once more but the bomb went off barely a foot away from him. Khaldrir fell back, peppered with his own shrapnel, but the damage was done, and the sorcerer crashed to the ground. To Draga's horror, the sorcerer rose unsteadily to his knees, lashing out to cut three closing Regulars in half with a single sweep of his scythe.
"Taal the Hunter, be with me, bless this shot so I may strike down your enemies." Draga prayed, her arms shuddering with the effort. She poured every last ounce of will into her prayer, feeling herself tip over some threshold within her spirit. Her limbs steadied. The flies were suddenly repulsed from her body, and in the back of her mind, Draga was grateful she had forgone calling upon divine favor against the rotkin.
Holy magic flowed through the blessed carvings of Draga's bow. It was the wholesome, lively green of a leaf in spring in stark contrast with the rot of Nurgle. The magic lit up the bowstring, thrumming with threat, like the thundering hooves of one of Father Taal's herds. Then it wrapped itself around the arrow, magic tendrils like vines with all the gentleness of Mother Rhya's embrace.
Draga released the arrow.
The bowstring reverberated like a gust of wind as the glowing arrow leapt forth. It sailed through the air as if cast by the hand of Taal himself. The sorcerer tried once again to raise his arcane shield, but the paltry defense was no match for the wrath of the Lord of Horn and Hunt. It struck the sorcerer in the breastbone, just above the heart, and he screamed in agony as emerald vines curled out from the wound, binding his limbs, smoking and smoldering where they touched the sorcerer's corrupted form.
"I. Will. Not. Be. STOPPED!" The sorcerer wailed, somehow managing to push up to his feet, leaning on his scythe, trying to draw power one last time. "I serve Grandfather Nurgle! I am decay made manifest!"
Draga was running, a messer in each hand. "You're nothing but prey, heretic!"
The sorcerer swung his scythe at her but Draga sprang up, buoyed by her battle prayer, sailing over the sorcerer's head and striking with her blades as she did.
Draga hit the ground, rolling up to her feet, looking back at the sorcerer.
"And now you've been hunted." She said.
The sorcerer pitched onto his back, landing spread eagle, revealing a slowly rusting messer buried in each of his eyes.
As the magic fled her, Draga felt her limbs grow weak. She struggled over toward Khaldrir, sparing only a glance toward the main battle to confirm that Falk and Vedwi were still standing, the fallen plaguebearer dissipating into the pure quintessence of Chaos.
Draga collapsed to her knees at Khaldrir's side. The dwarf was barely hanging on, his arms and face riddled with small, bleeding wounds. His every breath was a gasp and bloody bubbles formed over his lips with each one. Part of the bomb had punctured one of his lungs.
"Shit. Fuck." Draga said, feeling a rattle deep in her throat as she breathed in.
The dwarf reached out a meaty hand and grasp Draga's. It was not rough, not squeezing, but firm, as if to confirm Draga was still there, that he wouldn't be crossing over to whatever afterlife awaited dwarfs alone.
"You did good, dr-...drang…bazi." Draga said, feeling foolish for butchering the word.
Draga thought Khaldrir coughed, then realized it was an attempt at laughter. He gave her hand a squeeze. Others were gathering around but Draga paid them no mind. If she was honest with herself, Khaldrir had been her least favorite of their four dwarfen companions, but he had saved her life twice over against the sorcerer. Draga decided she would judge him by that metric here at the end. If only there was something she could…
There was.
Draga reached for her belt, producing the phial Rikter had sent her. Would it work on a dwarf? They were naturally resistant to magic, but perhaps it would at least keep him from dying?
"Khal. I have something here. It's a potion of healing. You need to drink all of it, you understand?" Draga said as she unstoppered the phial and tossed the cork aside.
Khaldrir didn't really respond, just opened his mouth a bit wider. Draga poured the grey-blue liquid into the dwarf's mouth. She worried he would cough it back up, but leave it to a dwarf to not spill a drop of drink even on the verge of death.
When Khaldrir's breathing slowed, Draga feared it was too late, but then she saw a few pieces of shrapnel pushed out of his skin. His breathing leveled out, and Draga was able to reach into the rent in his armor to pluck away a nail sized sliver of metal. Collapsing onto her backside, Draga coughed and spat. She wasn't getting rapidly weaker anymore, but she was most definitely sick. Her right eye was swollen shut thanks to several fly bites.
Rain started to fall again. Draga looked up to see Falk standing over her, looking like death warmed over. His nose was running and there was a distance in his eyes. Having just gone toe to toe with an actual daemon, it wasn't surprising.
"Vedwi?" Draga asked.
"She's ok." Falk said.
"Good." Draga said, laying down on her back, letting the cool rain patter against her face. "Guess I'm glad you're fine, too."
"Will be." Falk said with a sniffle and a cough.
Draga heard him sit beside her, then lay down. She sought his hand with hers, only to find him doing the same thing.
"Fuck this town." Draga rasped.
Falk's grip firmed around hers.
"Fuck this town." He agreed.
A letter bearing the seal of a warrior-priest and the words of a wizard of a Gold Order had been enough to at least get the wheels of bureaucracy turning in Altdorf, a process that more letters from the surviving well-to-do from Stromdorf sped along. Still, it was almost two weeks before a flotilla of relief barges came floating down the River Teufel. Sigmarite and Shallyan priests, State Army physicians, food and medicine, reinforcements for the garrison. The majority of the population would never have any idea that their town had come so close to falling to Chaos. Epidemics were a fact of life all over the Old World, as was the strife that came with them.
When he was well enough, Falk conducted an investigation of Durich's manor. The Burghermeister, it seemed, had suffered from some chronic illness all his life, trying cures mundane and magical. A strange, traveling healer came through Stromdorf one day, giving Dunrich a tincture that, according to the Burghermeister's journal, made him feel like new. It was, clearly, the first step down the road of Dunrich becoming a daemon's vessel, and the "healer" was actually the sorcerer of Nurgle that Draga and Khaldrir had battled. As for all the rotkin, their origin was less certain. Perhaps the sorcerer had brought them with, or slowly assembled them from travelers and the undesirables of Stromdorf.
"Will be an orderly day in Norcsa when all the answers come easy." Falk had said at the end of his investigation.
The day of Falk and Draga's departure coincided with the first snowfall, which was a nice change of pace from rain and sleet. The warrior-priests hugged their four dwarf friends farewell.
"I owe you a debt, drengbarazal." Khaldrir told Draga. "If you ever need help, I'll be there, and with every dawi that will follow."
"He means us, rinn." Galdrig said with a chuckle.
"Aye. S'pose he does, doesn't he?" Zedam agreed.
Vedwi gave Draga an especially fierce and tearful hug, clapping the Blackbow on the back and saying, "you'll always have friends in Karak Azgaraz."
"And you'll always have them in the Empire." Draga replied with a smile.
Draga and Falk mounted up. They rode away from the camps, away from the busy city that was slowly bringing itself back to life. Draga spared only one look back for the Strigany encampment. There was Elder Kosan, Draga's parents, and a few others. No one waved or smiled or called out well wishes. They just watched their saviors go.
As usual, Falk didn't press the issue, didn't tell her she should go back and try make amends.
"They controlled every part of my life until I was saved by service to Taal." Draga muttered. "Never cared what I wanted. Just wanted the perfect bride-to-be for an Elder's son."
"We're all going to go to Morr's Garden with grudges in our hearts and business left undone. And regrets, I reckon." Falk said.
Draga sighed. "It feels like I should have let it go by now. It happened when I was pretty much a kid."
"They're called 'formative years' for a reason, I figure. We carry our youth with us to the grave, for good and bad. You can't get back those years by forgiving people who've done fuck all to earn it. You'd just be chasing nostalgia for something you never had in the first place." Falk said
"...yeah. I think you're right." Draga said.
"Besides." Falk said. "Family doesn't have much to do with blood, in my experience."
Draga looked over at Falk, who was smiling, but looking straight ahead as he rode.
Draga smiled and looked ahead as well. "...yeah", she repeated, "I think you're right."