"Sabers flash from dusk to dawn
Feed the sharks and praise Manaan."
-Nordland Marines war chant
Sea of Claws, Off Couronne's north coast
Falk
His home province of Ostland being bordered in the north by the Sea of Claws, Falk was no stranger to naval action. It was far from his specialty, but he'd fought ship-to-ship before. This was not going to be his first time going into the fray alongside the Nordland Marines, either. Somehow, they were even more boisterous than Falk remembered.
The Marines were loud, constantly boasting and swearing. They sang bawdy songs that would have most land-based State Troops blushing and mouthed off every time a superior gave them an order. Hair and beards were scruffy, tattoos were plentiful and gaudy, and all in all, if not for matching uniforms, one might wonder if they were still on Nordland's payroll.
But Falk knew better. Looks were deceiving. The Marines' weapons were in immaculate condition. Though they griped and groused, every order was followed at once and to the letter. There was no drunkenness on duty and Draga, the only woman aboard the Imperial wolfship Blauenkrieg, had yet to be groped or even propositioned by a single one of them. It was an odd form of discipline, but it was there all the same.
Just as it was the duty of warrior-priests to aid the armies of the Empire in battle on land, so, too, did Sigmar's realm need to be defended on the waves. Norscan raiders from across the Sea of Claws were the expected threat. Not that day.
The enemy ships were black dagger blades knifing through the water, even their sails looking sharp enough to wound the air. Most of the ships were smaller than their Imperial counterparts of similar roles, but at their heart was a massive vessel that dwarfed them all. The towering Black Ark looked more like a floating fortification vaguely in the shape of a sailing ship, its masts so huge they could each house entire squads of archers or bolt thrower emplacements on cantilevered platforms. Over all the ships flew green banners depicting a blue harpy with crimson hair armed with a dagger. Falk didn't know which faction of the vile creatures that represented, and he didn't care. Every last one of them would be sinking to the bottom of the Sea of Claws by the day's end if Falk had anything to say about it.
Falk and Draga had been stopping in the town of Neues Emskrank which a shore party of the dark elves, known as the Druchii in some scholarly circles, landed with the intent of raiding for slaves. Rallying the militia, the two warrior-priests had helped repel the slavers. When they heard the Elector Count of Nordland was both aware of recurring raids and had already been preparing a fleet to deal with them, Falk and Draga volunteered themselves to the cause without hesitation. Thus, here they were.
The thing was, dark elves didn't like a stand-up fight. They were cowards at heart. Even with their mighty Black Ark present, they weren't here to fight fleet-to-fleet. Thus, the Druchii were using their superior speed to outrun the Nordland fleet. As it stood, they were going to escape, fleeing across the Great Ocean and returning to their cold and unforgiving continent, dragging gods knew how many unfortunate captives to incomprehensible fates of terror and agony.
They would be, that is, if the Nordlanders were working alone.
There was a heavy bank of mist the Druchii were fleeing towards, and were they to reach it, they would surely lose the Imperials in it. However, the mist dissipated before the dark elves could reach it, revealing not open sea, but another fleet, flying the sword-bearing mermaid flags of Marienburg. The wizards of the Grey and Celestial Orders had done their work well.
Falk smiled with fierce satisfaction as he watched the Druchii fleet mill about for a few moments. They were experienced mariners. They wouldn't remain listless for long. That might not matter. Though Marienburg was independent from the Empire, and often antagonistic, neither side of the divide benefited from dark elf raiders pillaging their coasts. This joint effort was the response, the formerly strongest naval power in the Empire working with the current strongest to hammer and anvil the elves into bloody oblivion.
And bloody it would be.
Though he had been advised against it, Falk was wearing his half-plate armor. He already couldn't swim, so if he went overboard in the middle of battle he was dead anyway. The Marines wore leather armor, if any at all. Rather than the halberds and broadswords of land-bound State Troops, they carried cutlasses, boarding axes, and crossbows. Being a poorer province that had to dedicate its economy to maintaining a fleet, the few handguns on each ship were in the possession of sharpshooters up in the tops. Falk's pistol and falchion were perfect for the belly-to-belly work about to happen on the smaller vessels, but on the Black Ark itself, there would be ample room to take his flamberge to some knife-ears.
The Imperial wolfship was a standardized design. It had a prow mounted ram, banks of oars, and a sail, with a larger than usual number of chase guns. It was all a distillation of reactions to the fact that the Empire was outmatched by most enemies they faced naval battles when the deciding factors were seamanship. Imperial firepower meant nothing if they couldn't maneuver it into place.
Sailing straight at someone, blasting away at them until you could ram, board, and cut them to pieces in a boarding action didn't take much maneuvering.
"Feeling better?" Falk asked his partner. The two of them were standing at the prow of the Destrier. The Truthblade's breath fogged before him with each word. Autumn was deepening, and this far north, temperatures approached freezing at night. It was midday and cloudy then, the air crisp and cool.
Draga looked green around the gills, but she had finally stopped throwing up.
"Shut the fuck up." The Blackbow groaned.
"Save it for the knife-ears." Falk advised.
Draga grunted wordlessly.
Falk glanced down at Draga's waist. "Just don't be tempted to use Rikter's present while we're on something flammable."
Draga looked down at a golden cylinder about the size of a cucumber hanging from her belt. It had come with his last letter.
"He said it's not a fire hazard. It uses a mix of…uhm…alright, I'd have to read the letter again to remember that part, but I know he said it doesn't cause a fire." Draga said.
The cannons of the Nordland fleet started firing. The Destrier shook underneath Falk's boots as thunder, smoke, and iron were hurled across the waves. Violet streaks trailing the enchanted ballista bolts of the Druchii's Reaper bolt-throwers crossed paths with the storms of iron cannonballs and spinning chain-shot. One of the bolts struck the Destrier amidships. Several sailors and a marine were either reduced to mist by the magical detonation or thrown overboard and left behind by billowing sails and wave-chopping oars. In the distance, Falk saw a full volley from the batteries of an Imperial greatship break the keel of a Druchii cutter, spilling the crew into the sea and sending the ship down. All three fleets involved in the action were firing and taking their losses. A Marienburg wolfship went up in a great explosion as its powder magazine detonated.
The Destrier was closing with a dark elf frigate. Falk saw the Marienburg fleet pincering in from the other side, their own cannons flashing. The Black Ark was taking dozens of hits from both sides, yet it seemed to be shrugging most of them off for the moment.
Falk drew his falchion. He looked back over the ship, seeing the Nordland Marines ready to bleed. A warrior-priest was not just a fighter, not just another blade. "Priest" was a deliberate part of the name, and sometimes, even those like Falk that weren't so rhetorically inclined needed to deliver a sermon.
"The gods are with us!" Falk raised his voice as the enemy frigate drew nearer. "Every day passes and the so called 'elder races' still look down on mankind as backward, as lesser, as vermin, yet every day we grow stronger while they grow weaker! Look at the Empire, our Empire, that has stood for centuries, and will stand for centuries more. We are the children of Sigmar, of Taal, of Verena, of Manaan. No matter how the Ruinous Powers, the forces of Old Night, wax and wane, we remain steadfast against them, yet these aged relics of a bygone time think they can attack us? Think they can take our people and spirit them away?! I say it's time to remind them that they can bleed as readily as anyone else!"
"For the Emperor!" One sailor shouted.
"By the Comet! By the Hammer!" Another cried.
The enemy frigate was close enough for the sharpshooters to start firing. Dark elf crossbows returned fire. Falk heard screams of pain but he only raised his voice higher. Draga's seasickness didn't affect her aim, and Falk saw the Blackbow pick two crossbowmen from the tops of the frigate.
"Let them laugh at us! Their laughter will turn to choking on their own blood as we run them through with Imperial steel, as we bury them under a volley of Imperial lead! They may be wolves but we are griffons, and the time has come to remind them whose hunting ground this is!" Falk raised his falchion high. "For Sigmar! For the Empire!"
The dark elf frigate turned at the last moment, or at least relatively so in the slower pace of naval combat. The Destrier's ram glanced off the port side, putting a hole in it, but not large enough to sink the enemy vessel. Falk didn't mind that as he saw the grapnels hurled from his ship over the railing of the Druchii vessel's gunwales. The enemy were visible now in their light breastplates and conical helms, clad in slate green clothes beneath their armor.
"Sword of Justice!" Falk roared as he leapt over the railing to the Druchii ship.
The dark elf Black Ark Corsairs were widely feared for their swordsmanship, and one of them flourished twin blades as Falk mounted the railing. The elf didn't have a retort for Falk landing directly on top of him, a boot directly in the Druchii's face. Falk's full weight bore the elf down to the deck and crushed the corsair's skull. Another one was barely a step away and received a face full of buckshot when she tried to advance on Falk.
Draga landed behind Falk. The marines followed in a wave, getting stuck in. The deck of the elven frigate quickly devolved into a chaotic melee, the deck slick with blood and corpses that rolled this way and that with the motion of the swell.
Among the State Troops of the Empire, there was an old concept that was mostly out of fashion. "Rücken." It literally meant "back" or "spine" in Old Reikspiel. To call a comrade Rücken was to say that one trusted them implicitly in battle. It meant that if one was fighting beside their Rücken, they didn't need to look behind them during the fight, because one knew their comrade would protect them, no matter what, letting one focus on the fight in front of them.
As Falk and Draga stood back-to-back, Falk was reminded, not for the first time, of that old concept as his falchion and Draga's messers spilled elven blood across the deck of that blasphemous ship. A pallid elf wearing almost nothing, carrying a dagger in each hand, leapt at Falk from the rigging, keening an ululating war cry. Falk fired his pistol's second barrel up at the Witch Elf. The buckshot tore into the Druchii's middle, fouling her leap. She flopped to the deck, daggers skittering away. Falk watched another elf stumble past from behind, clutching a throat that was torrenting blood over his hands.
The fight was even for the moment, the corsairs managing to minimize the Imperial bridgehead on their ship, flashing blades and boarding pikes sending marines tumbling to be crushed between the ships. The outcome would have remained an open question were it not for what happened next.
Another wolfship, this one flying the flag of Marienburg, drew along the enemy frigate's starboard side. The elves were forced to fight on two fronts now as Marienburg Marines stormed aboard. There were even a few of the Knights-Mariner among their number, templar-knights of Manaan armed with tridents, nets, and light armor. What drew the eye, though, was a person in bright yellow, swinging on a rope above them all, their cutlass glowing like the sun.
"BELLONA MYRMIDIA!" Sister Bianca Scordato declared as she landed on a platform occupied by a pair of Druchii crossbowmen.
Two flicks of her cutlass and the elves were slain, falling from their perch, and the Radiant grabbed another rope from the rigging. She sliced it from its mooring and leap out, the rope slowing her descent. Her boots thudded against the deck just beside Falk and Draga, drawing out her dirk with a reversed grip in her off hand.
"My dear friends! The Lady of War blesses us all this day!" Bianca exclaimed.
Falk, wide-eyed at the amazing display of acrobatics, said, "you're a welcome addition to fun."
"Heard one of them say they're going to spill your ale at the victory celebration. Can't remember which one, though." Draga said.
"Oh? Only one way to make sure we get the right one, then!" Bianca declared.
The trio of warrior-priests dove into the fray. The Druchii, pressed from both sides, were overrun, cut to pieces. No quarter was asked for. None would be given even if it had been.
The human fighters of both sides met in the middle of the ship. Handshakes and friendly jibes were exchanged between Nordlander and Wastelander. Perhaps their sometimes violent rivalry would return tomorrow, but for today, they were all siblings in the same cause.
Officers ordered a return to the ships. Falk quickly scanned the surroundings, but it was hard to see. Powder smoke from cannons and handguns drifted over the waves, obscuring the wider picture. From what he could see, several human ships were converging on the Black Ark. More than one wrecked hulk or slowly sinking wargalley or wolfship occupied the waters around the massive Druchii vessel. Magic crackled and burst along the gunwales of the Ark as the wizards on the Marienburg ships fought against the dark elf sorceresses.
"Captain Vijrn! I'll be joining my friends here on their ship. You have my gratitude for helping me do the will of Myrmidia." Bianca called across the deck.
A dashing fellow with wearing a leather beret smiled beneath a mustache and mutton chops.
"The Javelin will be a much duller ship without you, Sister Bianca. Best of luck." Vijrn bade her, placing his hat over his heart and saluting with his cutlass before leading his men back to the Javelin.
"A good man, Captain Vijrn. Terrible breath, though. Loves garlic." Bianca said. She smiled over at Falk. She blinked a couple of times as her eyes focused on Falk's face, slowly following the scar from his mangled left ear to his too-open nostril. Her smile became a concerned frown.
The Truthblade temporarily forgot about the veritable carpet of dead elves and ongoing battle, suddenly feeling self-conscious. The sheer stupidity of that mental shift dawned on him a moment later and he turned away.
"We…should get back to the Destrier. Don't want the fight to be over by the time we get to the Ark." Falk said.
"Of course." Bianca agreed.
They did so. The Druchii frigate was left adrift as the Destrier and the Javelin both made their way towards the Black Ark. It looked to Falk like the siege of a floating city as scores of human marines scaled grapnels and external docking platforms. The huge ship was billowing smoke into the air. More than one of his huge sails was burning from bolts of lightning called down by Celestial Wizards. Corsairs fought them at every entry point, as well as dark elf troops equipped more like a land-bound garrison; spears, shields, two-handed glaives, repeater crossbows. But the elves were not great in number, as was always their greatest weakness on the world stage. From circling ships they were stormed by shot and shell, and with every human that was cast back into the sea, streaming blood, another would take the fallen man's place.
"I've fought at sea more times than I can count." Bianca said. "I've looked a giant promethean in the eye as it snapped a ship in two with one claw. But by Myrmidia's gleaming garters, I've never seen anything like this."
"Me neither." Falk agreed. "Gods willing, with the message we're sending to today, none of us will ever have to again."
"Amen." Draga said. She strung an arrow on her bow, drawing it back. "And praise be to Taal that I get to be one of the messengers."
She loosed the arrow. It crossed the distance over the water, reaching a dark elf that was aiming down at the deck of a wargalley with a repeating crossbow. The arrow truck not the Druchii, but the weapon in his hands. He held it up, dumbfounded, then fell back as a Nordland Marine rang his bell with a belaying pin.
The Destrier came alongside the Black Ark. The grapnels were thrown up once again. Bianca sheathed her cutlass and clenched her dirk between her teeth, scrambling up the side of the enemy ship with ease. Draga, herself a fair hand at climbing, was hot on the Radiant's heels. Falk was the slowest, but he managed to pull himself along all the same.
The deck of the Black Ark was oddly surreal. His eyes saw wooden boardwalks passing between parts of the Ark's superstructure that stuck up like buildings along urban streets. His mind told him this should not be possible, something this large shouldn't be able to float. As Falk saw the space around him, though, he could not help a fell grin from crossing his face as he realized he had the room necessary to use his greatsword.
Falk charged ahead, chopping downward with his flamberge. A corsair tried to catch the heavy blade on crossed swords, but Falk's attack broke through, taking a hand with it. That Druchii collapsed, clutching the bleeding stump. Falk carved deeper into the combat with great sweeps of his flamberge, exacting revenge for the victims of these reavers through a river of blood.
Alongside his fellow warrior-priests and the Nordland Marines, Falk broke through the defenders. The Druchii fell back, no longer able to defend along all the points of ingress used by the humans that were enthusiastically taking their revenge.
The defense coalesced on the Black Ark's massive quarterdeck, where a tall elf in a helm shaped like a nautilus shell had two repeating hand crossbows, and was using them to lay down withering fusillades on the marines coming to take her head. Around the Dreadfleet Admiral, the shrinking circle of elves fought with desperation, but in moments, Falk was reminded that for every epic duel between two champions, there were a thousand inglorious ends.
Lightning stabbed down from above the defensive knot of Druchii. The corsairs were cooked and blackened as a Celestial Wizard brought their arcane might to bear to finish the battle.
From there, the stragglers were mopped up, unceremoniously killed and dumped into the sea. The prisoners in the cavernous holds of the Black Ark were freed and helped onto the human ships. When the last human was off the Ark, the fleet bombarded it until it finally sank beneath Manaan's swell. If any Druchii ships had escaped, Falk had not seen them through the haze of powder smoke.
By every metric, it was a crushing victory, and Falk raised his voice in triumph with all the rest as he watched the Ark go down. The allied fleet made for Salzemund, Nordland's capital.
Falk sank down against the railing of the Destrier, wiping sweat from his brow. Draga was on his right, her eyes closed, already halfway to sleep, leaning against the Truthblade. On his left, Bianca was seated, looking exhausted but satisfied.
"Nothing like freeing a shipload of people bound for slavery and sacrifice to improve the day." Falk said.
"Nothing like it." Bianca agreed with a sleepy grin.
Within a few minutes, all three warrior-priests were snoring.
Salzemund, Nordland
The capital of Nordland was situated on a series of hills among tributaries of the River Salz, not far from where it all met the Sea of Claws. This made Salzemund a uniquely vertical city, with contrasting rises and valleys that bottomed out with the silty waters of the Salz. Given it faced the Sea of Claws and the ever present threat of Norscan raiders, Salzemund was a heavily defended city, with fortifications lining the main passages up the Salz from the coast before even reaching the city proper.
The survivors of the allied fleet were keeping every last brothel and commoners' tavern in business that night. Nordlander and Wastelander marines and sailors thronged the streets, boasting of their brave deeds during the battle against the Black Ark. There was at least one report of Nordland State Marines coming to the defense of their Marienburg counterparts in a drunken brawl with Salzemund natives, something unheard of.
Falk, Draga, and Bianca had found themselves in a public house called the Foaming Fathom alongside the crew of the Destrier. The warrior-priests had the foresight of renting rooms before the celebration truly began. It didn't take long for dice to be thrown, shanties to be sung, and countless tankards of ale to be thrown back.
Falk was in an incredibly good mood. He was not drinking very quickly, though. He needed to find the middle ground of having his wits about him while also having enough liquid courage to give Bianca that gift he'd gotten for her back in Zeindorf. Draga was keeping company with the marines, and at first Falk felt bad about that. That changed when, at one point during the evening, Draga looked up from the dice game she was playing, glared at him, flicked her eyes at Bianca, and mouthed fucking give it to her. Falk grimaced, looking at Bianca, who was joined in the chorus of a shanty.
Taking a deep breath, Falk steeled himself, then leaned over to tap Bianca on the shoulder. The Radiant turned to him expectantly.
"I have something in my room I need to show you." He said, and it was only after a moment he realized just how that statement sounded.
Bianca's eyes glittered with equal parts mischief and glee as she saw Falk blush and look away. "My dear Falk, I had no idea you'd grown so bold since last we met."
"N-No, I meant…", he sighed and stood up, "...just come with me."
"With pleasure. May I stop by my room first?" Bianca asked.
"Of course." Falk said, heart racing.
Falk headed for the stairs, Bianca on his heels. The Truthblade spared one last glance to Draga, who was looking at him with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, before he set his shoulders and headed up to the Foaming Fathom's second floor.
The room Falk and Draga were sharing could have been a room in a thousand taverns across the Empire. There was a single window, which was open to let in the cool breeze from off the Sea of Claws. A lantern on the room's single table lit the room. Falk leaned with his hands on the footboard of the room's bed, drumming his fingers on the wood, waiting for Bianca.
When the Radiant reached his room, she had shed her coat and tricorn hat, wearing only a short blouse dark breeches. Her chin-length black hair emphasized Bianca's sharp jawline.
Bianca approached Falk, stopping a few steps away. She was smiling, but the mischief was gone. She looked tentative, but glad. The Radiant held a box under one arm, which she placed on the table, beside a bottle of wine. Unsure of what to say just yet, Falk poured the wine into two cups, offering one to Bianca.
"What's that?" Falk asked.
"Something I picked up in the city earlier." Bianca replied mysteriously.
"Ah." Falk said.
"You weren't attempting to be bold downstairs, then." Bianca said. It was an observation, not a question.
"It was bold for me." Falk amended. He drank his wine, setting the cup down. "I wasn't lying, though. I do actually have something I wanted to show you. It's…well, here."
Falk rummaged around in his travel pack, producing a small, wooden box.
"Oh?" Bianca said curiously, looking intrigued.
"Yeah. I saw this in Zeindorf." Falk said, taking the lid off the little box to reveal the citrine and bronze necklace he'd bought for her. It took a lot of self-control not to grimace with anxiety. What if she found it shabby? What if it was too much? What if, what if, what if…?
Bianca's head tilted to one side as she looked down into the box. Then her brow went up and she placed the fingers of one hand against her mouth with a quiet gasp.
"I know it's not very fancy. Most of my coin goes to gear and ammo. But, I saw this, and it made me think of you, and I thought you might like it." Falk said, forcing his teeth together to keep himself from rambling.
Bianca gingerly picked the necklace up with both hands, holding it out so the five citrine stones caught the light of the lantern.
"It's lovely." She breathed, beaming at him, her brown eyes a little misty. "You were thinking about me?"
"How could I not?" The words outran Falk's wits, yet he could not regret saying them.
Bianca closed her eyes, looking like she would be burying her face in her hands if she wasn't holding something. "I don't know. I supposed a man like you would have a sweetheart pining for him in every city he passed through."
Falk was so dumbfounded by that statement he couldn't even laugh. "A…man like me?" Was all he could think to say. Then again, hadn't he thought something similar about her?
"Forgive me. That sounded bad." Bianca muttered. "What I mean, Falk, is that I took the true measure of your character back in Marienburg. Down there in that dreadful warpstone mine, when you decided you were going to sacrifice your life for Draga and I without a second thought. But even in the smaller, simpler moments; courtesy and kindness when I was angry about the investigation into Herr Razor and taking it out on you, a stranger."
Falk had no response. He did not hear people speak of him in this way, not even Draga. Surely he couldn't be worthy of such praise.
"May I?" He finally asked, indicating the necklace.
"I insist." Bianca said, holding it out to him.
Falk took the necklace as Bianca turned around and lifted her hair. He could not help but follow the curve of her neck with his eyes. Since when was a neck something he admired? Slowly, Falk reached around Bianca, laying the necklace at her throat and drawing the chain and clasp to the back of her neck. Just like back in Marienburg, she smelled of cinnamon.
"I don't mind it, you know." Bianca said.
"Hm?" Falk asked. His big fingers were struggling with the delicate little clasp.
"The scar. I don't mind it. I saw how you reacted when I noticed it earlier." Bianca went on. "You don't have to worry about it. Not with me."
Falk finally managed the clasp. He found himself appreciating she left it at that. No "it looks dashing" or "you're still handsome." It was what it was; part of him, a record of his service to Verena and the Empire.
"That's…thank you." He whispered, fingers brushing the scar.
She turned around. The necklace suited her. Naturally he thought that.
"What do you think?" Bianca asked.
"You're just about the loveliest sight I've ever laid eyes on." Falk answered. Maybe it was the ale and wine, but the words were coming more easily to him than he thought they would.
"Just about?" Bianca teased, though she could not hide the color in her cheeks. She picked up her wine cup and drank deeply, tilting her head up and back as she did as if to emphasize the way her new jewelry rested against her throat.
"Just about." Falk said. "I'm just…I'm glad I've gotten the chance to see you again."
"As am I." Bianca said. She set her cup down. "You can open your gift later, I have decided."
Falk drew in a sharp breath as Bianca suddenly closed the distance between them. The Radiant's height allowed her to her nose to nose with Falk with only a moderate backward tilt of her head.
"You've got ideas for the meantime, I take it?" Falk tried, and failed, to sound confident.
"If you haven't figured it out by now, you'll have me wondering just how you've been muddling through this Truthblade job of yours for so long." Bianca said with a laugh.
"Yeah. I think I have an idea." Falk chuckled.
"You find it agreeable?" Bianca asked.
"Very." Falk replied, not bothering to hide his eagerness.
The Radiant approached him, reaching up to take his cheeks in her hands. Falk welcomed it, but was rooted in place, not quite believing that he was lucky enough for this to be happening right now.
Then he shoved Bianca away from him with all his might.
Bianca yelped in shock, pitching over the bed's footboard, her back thumping into the straw mattress. Whatever words of confusion and anger she followed that up with were lost to Falk as he fought for his life against the thing that had leapt through the window.
The assassin was clad in black, a hunched thing with serrated knives. Falk just barely avoided the initial flurry by using his push against Bianca to rebound himself backwards, and even then two shallow slashes had torn open his jerkin. When the assassin attacked again, Falk had picked up one of the room's two chairs, using it as an impromptu shield. Behind the assassin, Bianca aimed a pistol at the window and fired, causing a shadow that had just perched on the sill to fall away.
The assassin made a mad thrust at Falk, causing the knife to sink into the underside of the chair's seat. Falk quickly twisted the chair before the assassin could pull the blade free, wrenching the weapon from their hands. A moment later, Falk brought the chair up, then smashed it down, splintering the impromptu bludgeon over the assassin's head. The cutthroat dropped, and when they tried to rise, Falk started kicking and stomping until it stopped moving.
And "it" was the operative word, for as the initial rush of surprise passed, Falk realized what he was looking at.
"Gutter Runners." Falk growled, putting his full weight onto a boot upon the skaven's throat, feeling things break and snap through the leather sole.
"Shallya's mercy." Bianca swore. "This couldn't be retaliation for the Ghost Lodge mine, could it?"
"I can't think of any other reason." Falk replied. Now that he didn't have a murderous skaven in his face, he had the necessary moment to draw his falchion.
"All of my gear is next door." Bianca said, holstering her spent pistol at her side.
Falk nodded. No time to put on armor, so he belted on his grudge-raker and accompanying ammo. Everyone downstairs, drunk and with their guards down, would be massacred if they weren't warned. Falk gathered up Draga's bow sheathe and quiver of arrows.
They hurried into Bianca's room. It was clear. The Radiant geared up with practiced swiftness and the two warrior-priests hurried downstairs. From across the tavern, Draga looked up from her dice game to see them entering, a questioning look on her face. Falk motioned her over to him. There were some curious glances in their direction, but the conversation, singing, and music were so loud that even if the several dozen marines occupying the tavern had heard Bianca's pistol shot, it would have been muted enough to mistake for something else or seem too distant to matter.
When Draga was halfway to them, Falk threw her bow and accompanying arrows. Draga caught them, and not a moment too soon, for as she did, dark shapes emerged from the back room of the Foaming Fathom, and before anyone could react, they hurled themselves among the marines, curved daggers flashing, sending arcs of blood across the walls and ceiling.
"No. NO!" Falk bellowed, and he fired both barrels of his pistol into the main mass of the Gutter Runners as they tried to sweep through the marines. A skaven went down, trampled by its fellows. He pushed through the stunned, confused crowd, righteous fury welling up inside of him. "Lady of Justice, give unto me the power to smite the corrupt and burn the evil!"
Falk felt Verena answer his prayer. Vigor flooded his limbs as he was limned with holy light. He waded into the skaven, his falchion cleaving one from clavicle to lungs, then pulled his sword free. A Runner leapt at him but Falk interposed his sword. The ratman impaled itself on the blade and Falk pitched the bleeding body into one of its fellows. One of Draga's arrows pinned a skaven to the side of the bar.
"Do not run! Do not falter! Protect this city! Avenge your brothers!" Bianca extolled the marines as she tried to follow through the lane Falk had pushed through them.
Receiving commands seemed to shift the Nordland Marines from off-duty to on in a moment. They drew knives and sabers, and though many were unsteady with drink, it served to inure them to the terror of facing the skaven. For several horrible moments, the Foaming Fathom was a bloodbath as the two sides had at each other.
Then, as quickly as they had arrived, the surviving skaven pulled back. Falk went after them, managing to cut the legs out from one of the fleeing ratmen. The brown-furred skaven fell to the floor. Falk stepped on its back. Angry as he was, pursuing a skaven retreat was rarely a good idea. The ratmen were masters of turning around a rout, be it a true or false one, and making it into a deadly ambush. Instead, he put his sword to his prisoner's back.
"Where is your leader!" Falk demanded.
"Close-nearer than you think-think, man-thing!" The skaven replied in a hideous parody of a human voice.
SMASH
The entire back wall of the foaming fathom shook. Those still standing within the tavern looked at it as several liquor bottles tumbled off and smashed down to the floor.
SMASH
The kindly bartender vaulted over the bartop and ran for his life out the front door. Falk hurriedly reloaded his grudge-raker.
SMASH
Entire shelves fell now, not just bottles. Bianca demanded the marines in the tavern stand and not flee, cursing anyone who thought about doing so as a coward.
The back wall came down in a shower of splinters and chunks of timber, and the thing that emerged through the mess with the "routed" Gutter Runners was a creature from a nightmare. It had a skaven's head, which was comically small upon a hulking body that was half again as tall as Falk was, almost just as wide at the shoulders. A stitched up and stapled body of pallid flesh and patchy fur rippled with grotesque musculature. Hateful red eyes burned with the fury of a creature that knew it should not exist and decided to take that fact out on the nearest viable target.
"Rat ogre!" Falk's words were lost in a cacophony of noise as the beast hauled itself over the bar, crushing a marine with a single punch, picking another one up and throwing him with enough force to shatter his back against the far wall. An arrow suddenly sprouted from its chest, then another, and another, as Draga pelted the beast at range.
Falk tried to shoot the rat ogre but the Gutter Runners flowed around it. Both barrels were spent stemming that tide. Bianca's pistols sent up spurts of blood from the rat ogre's brawny torso, but it was no use. The brutish creature stormed forward, stomping marines and even other skaven flat as it rampaged around the bar.
Falk ducked under a massive arm and stepped in, hacking at the rat ogre's flank. The blood that flowed from the creature's side was black and ichorous, smelling of corruption. The rat ogre huffed in dismay, slashing at falk with dagger-like claws. He barely avoided them, but Falk was thrown back as a marine that worked up the courage to run up and bury his dagger in the rat ogre's gut was struck by the great beast and slammed into the Truthblade. Falk hit a floor that was rapidly pooling with blood and cooling bodies, desperately throwing off the broken, wheezing body that was on top of him just in time for a Gutter Runner to land on him. Falk tried to stab upward but was parried, then barely deflected a slash at his throat. He couldn't roll. Couldn't get leverage to throw the skaven off.
A slashing blade removed the skaven's knife hand. Falk cut the thing across the chest. Someone shoved the skaven off of him. There was Bianca, holding a hand out to him, then helping him to his feet. Neither of them said anything. There wasn't any time for that.
The tavern was a slaughterhouse now. The rat ogre was in a frenzy, a veritable pincushion of arrows, bleeding from a score of blade wounds, yet still it killed. The monster flipped a table across the room that slammed into Draga and threw her to the floor. The rat ogre made to advance on the archer that had stung it so many times.
Falk was already running. He hacked a Runner out of his way, jumped up onto the bar, then leapt out, landing on the rat ogre's back. Falk hacked down on the rat ogre's head and neck as it thrashed, trying to throw him off. At first, Falk was sure the monster's bulk would keep it from having the flexibility to reach him, but this was proven wrong as a meaty hand closed around his waist. Falk was suddenly flying, his hat gone from atop his head. He went smashing through a table, then laying on the floor again, pain washing over him in waves.
"Fuuuck…", he lowed, pushing himself up to one knee. The tavern was noticeably emptier now, but that wasn't a good thing. The rat ogre was so enraged that it was attacking everything around it indiscriminately, throwing spatters of disgusting blood in every direction. It bit off the head of the last Gutter Runner that hadn't fled. The rat ogre was noticeably ponderous compared to its initial attack, but if they didn't do something about it soon, that wouldn't matter much.
Bianca managed to draw the rat ogre's attention, cutting off one of its fingers with her cutlass as it tried to slice her with its claws. Meanwhile, Draga freed herself from under the table that had been thrown at her. She reached for her belt, grabbing and twisting something.
"Bianca! Bianca, get down!" Falk roared.
The Radiant saw Draga start to throw something and dove away from the rat ogre, grabbing a dead marine as she landed and pulling the body over herself to use as a human shield.
The golden cylinder that Rikter had given Draga flew through the air. Spikes emerged from small holes in it Falk had not noticed, causing the cylinder to stick to the rat ogre's shoulder. The beast didn't seem to notice the relatively tiny injury until the cylinder started to smoke and dissolve. Viscous liquid suddenly drenched the rat ogre's left shoulder, and it roared in pain and fury as the flesh of its arm and part of its chest began to bubble and slough away. Falk couldn't help but find himself horrified. Clearly Rikter was very interested in ensuring Draga's survival.
Bianca threw off her unnecessary human shield and stood up, driving her legs forward over the bodies cluttering the floor of the Foaming Fathom. She ducked under an enraged swipe from the rat ogre's good arm. It tried to raise and swing its ruined arm, but the alchemical acid had melted down to the bone and turned that bone into something about as sturdy as spun sugar. The limb fell off with a wet flop, the rat ogre watching it happen with an expression of dumbfoundedness. The Radiant thrust upward with her cutlass, the point of the blade entering the rat ogre's throat, and then Bianca took a lunging step, wrenching her blade to draw a red-black, weeping grin in the rat beast's flesh.
The rat ogre reared back, clutching at its throat with its good arm, then collapsed onto the bar, smashing it to pieces. The monster's choking gasps and thrashing legs were all the few human survivors in the room could focus on until the thing finally went still.
Falk vaulted over the dead rat ogre, looking out into the alley behind the Foaming Fathom. The fence of rotting wood behind the tavern had been smashed through by the rat ogre. Beyond it was one of the sewage channels that flowed out into the River Salz. The large iron grate that normally would have kept people out had been wrenched from its mountings and set aside.
Letting out a long breath, Falk closed his eyes. Then he turned back around, going into the tavern and looking among the fallen skaven for one that was still alive. He hauled the ratman up, shoved it against the dead rat ogre, and held his falchion to its throat.
"Who sent you." Falk demanded.
"W-Warlord Harrox Razortail. In lead-command of Clan Felketch, he is!" The skaven squealed at once. They were cowards, one and all.
"Where can I find him?!" Falk snapped.
"Fort Fang! Can show-lead the man-thing! Far away from here, yes-yes." The skaven assured him.
And, for a brief moment, Falk actually considered the idea. But it would have been a fool's notion. It was just asking to be led into a trap. There were untold numbers of skaven in the Under Empire. There were other ways to figure out where this Fort Fang was, and Falk could not abandon his duty as a warrior-priest to go traipsing around in search of it.
Falk cut the skaven's throat, letting the body slump down the bloody, melted flank of the rat ogre. The Truthblade set his jaw. He couldn't help but feel partially to blame for this.
"Are you alright?" Draga asked, limping up to him.
"Fucking rat ogre landed on my hat." Falk grunted, and turned back to do what he could for the wounded.
Harrox
The warp tokens spent hiring the Gutter Runners from the cowards among Clan Eshin and buying a rat ogre degenerates of Clan Moulder ended up being for naught.
Harrox Razortail saw the man-thing called Brother Falkenwulf as he peered towards the sewage drain where the Warlord looked out from. Unlike most skaven, Harrox was not scared of direct confrontation. This attack was a test. Had the man-thing perished, it would have proven he was not a worthy opponent after all. It was still a frustration, of course, but Harrox would deal with it.
This was only a minor setback. The man-thing would not be able to find him easily. When Harrox met Brother Falkenwulf again, it would hopefully be at the head of an army drawn from the entire Under Empire. Harrox would bring his new ways of thinking to every skaven, and they would either comply with them or die. When the surface world was facing one-thousand to one odds, it wouldn't matter how many non-skaven there were or how strong they were.
Harrox would have to reconsider his revenge. Clearly, the man-thing was more formidable than he realized. Harrox's mind did not immediately jump to assuming his underlings or superiors had betrayed him. That was the old way of thinking, the way that had kept the skaven fractious and in-fighting for as long as any of their histories could remember. No, he had simply underestimated his opponent. Harrox had taken the opportunity to attack the man-thing because his actual objective had been located nearby and already accomplished. A raid against another clan, the flagging Clan Kozrot, had yielded a bounty of slaves and warp tokens.
Refusing to risk his greater dream simply to kill one human, Harrox turned away, the Warlord of Clan Felketch slinking back down the sewer. He would not forget this defiance, of course. Not even a skaven as unorthodox as Harrox Razortail could truly relinquish the fell nature that lurked in the heart of every last one of the ratmen. Harrox would pull back. He would plan. He would wait for another opportunity. And perhaps the man-thing would be spurred to action by this attack, driven by rage or self-righteous idiocy. One way or another, Brother Falkenwulf might decide he didn't want to sit back and wait for another attempt on his life. If that was the case, and the man-thing followed the trail to the end, he would find the full force of Clan Felketch and the might of Fort Fang waiting to stop him.
Harrox made his way through the sewers with haste, finding the point where the man-thing tunnels became those carved out by the skaven. His warband would be waiting for his return.
Falk
They all agreed a different inn was in order. When the guards came and saw what had happened in the Foaming Fathom, the three warrior-priests were forced to take charge. The dead skaven were dumped into the nearby sewer channel, bodies carried out to sea in the dark. The rat ogre needed to be cut up. It was gruesome work that Falk was guiltily glad he didn't have to do. All present were sworn to silence. Falk knew he, Draga, and Bianca would be safe as long as they didn't yap about the ratmen. The others? He had no idea.
Too tired and sore to even notice the name of their new lodgings, Falk and Bianca helped Draga up to a room, gave her a few draughts of something strong, and let her sleep. The Strigany was not bleeding from anywhere, but was battered and bruised like a prize fighter that had gone ten bareknuckle rounds against a minotaur.
Falk, meanwhile, was essentially dragged next door by Bianca into a different room. As much as the Truthblade just wanted to curl up and sleep, he was also too tired to resist, and wasn't exactly uninjured himself. Bianca sat him down on a chair.
"Shirt. Off." Bianca commanded as she laid out things to clean and bind his wounds on a table next to them.
Falk did as he was told. Draga and he had stitched each other up countless times over the preceding months. The Blackbow had a similar bedside manner.
Falk's body was a tapestry of scars. The tattoo of the Truthblade's heraldry on his arm was one of only two he had decided to be marked with. The other was on his upper back, a rampant bull whose horns were curved blades. The words, "...now get the horns", were scrawled in an arc beneath the bull.
"Your regiment, I take it." Bianca asked. Falk felt her fingers lightly brush over the tattoo, causing him to shiver.
"Mhm." Falk replied. "The Brazen Bulls; the Pride of von Raukov, Wolfenburg's Honor, the Horns of the North, et cetera, et cetera…" He waved a hand in a slow circle.
"Sound dismissive all you like. I know you agree with all those titles." Bianca teased him.
"And would punch the teeth out of the man who didn't." Falk said with a grin.
"Naturally." Bianca giggled. She dampened a cloth in a bowl of water and started cleaning the slashes left by the skaven's dagger on his chest.
It hurt, but Falk didn't really react. He'd had much worse.
"Do you miss that life? The life of a soldier?" Bianca asked him as she worked. Her callused hands were gentle.
"Uhm. Hm." Falk let out a thoughtful huff. "In some ways. It was simpler. Someone else was always telling me what to do. There wasn't any chasing shadows or schemes within schemes. Just my sword, my brothers in arms, and the enemy." He paused. "But I wouldn't go back now. Verena's work is necessary work. I'm proud to do it. Honored, even. And besides", he smiled, "the company's a lot prettier."
Bianca playfully batted him with the cloth before rinsing it out in the water bowl.
"After what I've heard you say of it, I feel confident thinking you have no desire to go back to your old life." Falk mused.
"Not in the slightest. Myrmidia has blessed me beyond belief. I'll serve her with my whole heart until my body can do so no longer." Bianca replied.
"And what will you do then?" Falk asked.
Bianca started wrapping bandages around him. Falk found himself glad they hadn't gone to the Shallyans for healing.
"A good question." Bianca said. She thought for a few moments. "My dream is to go fishing every day, then spend every evening drinking too much rum and catching up on all the reading life as a Radiant hasn't given me the chance to do."
Falk couldn't imagine the bold Radiant living a quiet life holding a fishing pole. But he hoped it would happen for her.
"What about you?" Bianca asked.
Falk had anticipated the question, his answer already in mind. "I'll be able to serve the Cult of Verena as an archivist or auditor or some such for a long time after I can't swing a sword anymore. Something to keep my hands busy. But with that on top of my pension after years as a Truthblade, I plan to grow old and get fat on good beer and food all the while." His face glowed with preemptive contentment at the idea.
"Falkenwulf Daur the scribe. Would you be the jovial or grumpy sort of fat, I wonder?" Bianca asked.
"It'll depend who's bothering me for some obscure scrap of information, probably. I know I've pissed off my fair share of the Order of Lorekeepers over the years. And I'm about to have to do it again over this skaven business."
They went silent. Falk sagged a little.
"Those marines downstairs…" Falk started to say.
Bianca tied off his last bandage hard enough to make it sting. He hissed, but it served the Radiant's purpose. She crouched in front of him.
"If you're to blame for it, then Draga and I are, too. Is that what you think, Falk? Do you blame us?" Bianca asked pointedly.
"Well, no…", he began.
Bianca reached up. Her index finger pressed against his lips. Falk stopped speaking.
"Then you can stop right there." Bianca whispered. "What happened tonight was an enemy of mankind trying to take revenge because we refused to let them hold our people in bondage. That is the end of it. I'll have no more self-pity from you. You deserve better from yourself."
Bianca's finger fell away. Falk looked down into her eyes, deep brown and earnest, and the yearning he felt just beneath his breastbone ached worse than any dagger wound. But unlike those caused by steel, this was a pain he would gladly endure a thousand times. It was a mortal, invigorating thing, and in spite of his exhaustion, in spite of the injuries, Falk felt more alive than he had in a long time.
"Just going to stare? I'm not shushing you anymore, you know." Bianca said, a sly grin slowly turning up the corners of her mouth.
"Doesn't matter. You leave me speechless all the same." Falk replied in a quiet voice.
This seemed to take Bianca off balance for an instant, her grin turning into a bashful smile. Falk allowed himself a slight feeling of triumph.
"On that note, I think we should pick things up where we left them before getting rudely interrupted earlier." Bianca's words were low, approaching a purr as she slowly slid into his lap.
"I was thinking something similar." Falk said as he put his arms around her. He felt the coiled tension in Bianca's body as his hammering heart tried to smash its way through his ribs.
Bianca's face was mere inches away from Falk's. One hand went to his cheek, the other the back of his head.
"We'll both live to see those easy lives we have planned, won't we?" She asked, and for the first time Bianca sounded afraid. Uncertain. Deep down, Falk knew he had just witnessed a lowering of defenses that Bianca had not dropped for a very long time.
Falk brushed her hair back with both of his hands, holding her gaze. Shallya's mercy, but she was beautiful. He couldn't promise what she asked. How could he? A lucky glance had been the only thing that kept the two of them from dying on skaven daggers that very evening. How could Falk, in good faith, answer this impossible question with anything other than 'no?'
"We will." Falk assured her.
"You promise?" She asked.
"I promise." Falk said.
"I'll hold you to that, Truthblade." Bianca said.
"Then you'd better not make a liar of me." Falk said, and with that, he finally closed the gap between them.
Their first kiss was soft, tentative, as if both of them were expecting the other to pull back. The second was much more certain, excited, eager. The third, the deepest yet, an exploration, an admission of vulnerability, two walls coming down, a submission.
Falk rapidly lost count after that.
Bianca was still asleep. She snored quietly.
Falk stood by the window of Bianca's room, watching as the sky started to brighten with the dawn. He should have been terrified. Paranoid. Would the skaven come after him again before he could find this Warlord Harrox and preemptively strike? What if the ratmen started attacking his friends, his family back in Ostland?
He couldn't. Logic and reason had no place in that room, that momentary paradise, its only flaw being that very temporary nature. Verena would be with him. He would find the truth of things. He would protect the Empire as he always did.
Falk looked back at Bianca. Her raven hair was splayed across her face. She was on her stomach, arms wrapped around her pillow. The blanket was down around her waist. Falk traced with his eyes the scars he had memorized with his lips the night before. He felt warm. Content. Happy. His companionship with Draga was something he deeply treasured. It was love, not quite the love of a sibling, not that of a lover, but only the love that could form between deeply bonded friends.
What he had with Bianca…it was too soon to call it love. And that was alright. Whatever it was, it was something Falk hadn't even realized he'd needed until he'd experienced it. It wasn't just an night spent with someone pretty. Falk cared about her. He'd been unable to shake her from his mind after their first meeting in Marienburg. Now his fantasy had been realized, and it only left him wanting more.
That's was it. It wasn't just the nebulous looking ahead to whatever the next danger he and Draga had to confront might be. It wasn't just his faith or his patriotism. The former was his duty, something to be done with pride and all his skill. The latter two were motivations, his reasons for continuing as a Truthblade day in and day out. But Bianca was hope. She was something to look forward to, something to cherish, something to build up. When either of them might meet the threat that killed them on any given day, what choice was there?
Falk's attention drifted from Bianca to the table past the foot of the bed. The box containing his gift from her was sitting on it, and he realized he still hadn't opened it. Falk knew he should probably wait until Bianca woke up to open it, but curiosity got the better of him. He padded across the room and pulled the lid off the box.
It was a hat, a wide-brimmed cavalier hat of black felt. He reverently pulled it out of the box, looking at the it. It had made him more sad than he cared to admit that his old hat had been ruined, but in truth, it was a faded, patched, and stained thing that had probably seen too many years. That sadness was gone completely as he placed this new hat upon his head. Its brim was a bit wider, the angle of it cocked a bit more jauntily, but it fit perfectly. In the box under the hat had been three large, crimson feathers.
Falk set the hat on the table. He went over to the bed, leaned down, and kissed Bianca on top of her head. She shifted slightly in her sleep, but did not wake.
Feeling like he was walking on air, Falk got dressed, stuck the feathers in his new hat, then went downstairs to order breakfast up to the room, and something for Draga as well. He was likely only going to have a day or two with Bianca, and he intended to make the most of them.