The Other Side - Blood Stained Leaves

Konistag Erntezeit 13th, Drakwald Forest

With the arrival of Fall, temperatures are starting to drop. One would have thought that would make for more tolerable conditions, but the Drakwald insists on such a thick humidity to its air that we are still left feeling disgusting and sticky, but now we get the dubious joy of doing so with a chill.

The Efror Guard haven't expressed complaint about the conditions. One would have thought they'd feel it worse than any of the landsknecht, the gambesons worn beneath their chainmail must soak up so much of the humidity that they are surely carrying twice their own weight in sweat alone. I could believe that the guardsmen were simply just that disciplined, but even those who we learnt were recent conscripts of the fallen county have been just as tight-lipped.

I owe my life thrice over to members of the Efror Guard who have stood alongside the landsknecht against a mutual foe.

In the time we have been stationed within this inhospitable realm, we have been witness to creatures that repulse and disgust. Beasts that walk as men do, creatures that hurt the mind to look upon, ancient evils that by their very existence remind as to why man is so small in the world. And the undead that we hunt, monstrosities raised and perverted even beyond what they had been during their mortal coil.

There are things in this forest that man was never meant to lay eyes upon. I can't help but wonder if recent events have stirred these ancient evils from a slumber.

Yesterday, one of our scouting parties returned, bloodied and half delirious from exhaustion. They'd spent an entire day running non-stop. Once he regained his mental functions, the head of the scouting party reported that they had found what appeared to be the resting ground of the undead. He even claims that he saw the necromancer himself in their midst.

Captain Sigismund of the Efror Guard is in a meeting with Captain von Eisling and Brother Kakovlev. However, night has fallen. Time to pick the brambles out of my bootlaces and then to sleep. At dawn, I have little doubt our march through this hateful realm begins anew.

-Journal of an unknown soldier

Hulgar Orinson grumbled softly as he followed behind a band of umgi. Much as his pride dictated that he should be leading this merry bunch, he wasn't so proud as to border on blind arrogance. Forests? Not his preferred terrain. And this particular forest was not one that he was about to start practising in without those better suited taking the lead.

The manling leading this band was one of the myriad of umgi that had signed up to join Captain von Eisling. A working-class man who no doubt found the quiet village life to not be to his liking and saw a landsknecht as a chance to live some excitement for coin. Hanz something-or-other. Or was Hanz his family name? Hulgar didn't rightfully know, didn't rightfully care either. Hanz was short and simple. Like the average umgi lifespan. Still, Hulgar had to give credit where it was due, for all that Hanz was walking around in a getup that looked colourfully pompous—something about joining a landsknecht seemed to encourage umgi to try and outdo each other in a contest of flamboyant fashion—he at least walked with a confidence to him, a gait that spoke of a history of fighting. He was still a nobody though.

Hulgar paused a moment and absently checked his handgun—a mastercraft of a weapon, unlike the manlings' umgak—before then reassessing the group. There was only one other Dawi with them, that being Brogar, the two of them being the heavy ranged support, their rifles no doubt ready to absolutely destroy anything that dared to approach the party. Oh, if only he and Brogar were a part of the Karaz Ankor, there they'd be proper thunderers, not this paltry imitation.

Everybody else in the group, manlings. Though, Hulgar would admit a grudging respect for the warpainted, kilt-wearing manlings, the ones that fought as if they were taking inspiration from Dawi slayers—though without the stain on their honour, they weren't going all the way in imitating the slayers, and thus wore passable examples of armour. Passable by umgi standards at any rate.

However, half of the group was made up of these landsknecht umgi. A more or less even mix of archers—because apparently Captain von Eisling, for all that she respected the sheer power of Dawi rifles, still felt that that power needed to be paired with the speed of trained archers—and the spear-men.

Better them than those Efror manlings. Hulgar did not like those Efror manlings. A brief explanation of their history only cemented that opinion. Why would they be proud of their lineage? Descended from those who would secede from the Empire, followers of a man who was insane enough that their city was burnt down. And to make matters worse, nobody Hulgar asked could say whether there had ever been any reparations made from the people of Efror. It was like the manlings of the Empire just let this wrong against them fester, a grudge unresolved.

No, Hulgar did not like or even respect those Efror manlings. But for the sake of duty, he would do as he must and work alongside them. He had pledged his service to Captain von Eisling as a part of her landsknecht, so she was the one who gave the commands, and he would not dishonour himself by refusing to do as duty demanded.

Fortunately, he didn't have to tolerate them at that time.

Click. Click. Click.

Hulgar swallowed back the grumbling that wanted to escape him. That infernal sound was driving him crazy. Why would anybody willingly spend time within these forests if such constant noises and sounds were a normal occurrence, a constant effort on the part of these trees to drive people insane? No wonder the wood elves were so crazy, living their entire lives with such a racket drilling into their skulls.

It was actually somewhat reassuring that even the manlings stilled at the clicking sound, scanning the surroundings with wariness. At least it wasn't just him that hated those infernal sounds.

'Spotted something,' one of the archers spoke up.

The group slowly spread themselves out, putting enough distance between each other that if any giants or minotaurs or whatever else started hurling boulders at them then at least it wouldn't devastate the group in a single blow.

Turned out there was some sort of a structure. It was mostly overrun by greenery, the original stone long since covered by moss and ivy. But it was a structure nonetheless.

But of significantly more interest than a standing stone that was planted near an opening in the ground, was the mass of undead. There was little doubt that they were undead, where flesh should have been, was nought but bare bone and skulls. But there was something different about these walking skeletons. Fortunately, the party was far enough and forewarned enough to keep low, out of sight, allowing them to view the clearing and the undead within, without themselves being seen.

'Wights,' came the low voice of the party's accompanying battle-priest.

'What's a wight, for those of us not versed in necromancy?' Somebody asked.

'They still have their mortal minds,' the battle-priest mumbled. 'They aren't puppets, they're just as skilled as they were in life.'

Hanz visibly ground his teeth. 'Traitors.'

Hulgar was quick to identify that these wights wore the same colours as the Efror warriors. Hulgar wasn't stupid, he had learnt quickly that the Efror manlings were involved because they'd been attacked by the same undead that they now hunted. But if what the battle-priest had said was accurate about those that they could see at that moment, these weren't puppets without a will of their own, they were willing participants.

As Hanz had declared them, they were traitors to their own.

'Not a lot of them,' somebody noted. 'We could probably take them right now.'

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Hulgar tensed, the new sound momentarily taking his attention. What managed to return his focus to the undead was the way that they were also shifting, visibly scanning the surroundings in reaction to the constant low thudding sound that reverberated through the air, getting progressively louder, before then fading away again.

'What was that?' Hulgar asked.

Hanz stared blankly, eyes narrowed. 'That was new.'

'Sounded like footsteps,' an archer commented.

'I…' an Udoses warrior trailed off, then shook himself. 'Really don't want to see what made those footsteps.'

'We might not get a choice,' Brogar spoke lightly, but Hulgar knew the other dwarf well enough to recognise the way the sides of his eyes creased, the tell that suggested he wanted to frown but was fighting against it.

Hulgar opened his mouth, was going to speak, but he was cut off from doing so by the familiar explosion of sound that was a handgun firing. He and Brogar both lifted their rifles, twisting around and shouldering the weapons.

Behind the priest, a wight dressed identically to those in the clearing swayed on the spot, as though struggling to stand under its own power with its skull now fragmented. It wasn't given a chance to decide if it was going to recover or not, the priest, once he recovered from his shock, hefted his hammer and slammed it into the wight, finished it off, assuming that it hadn't already been finished from the gunshot.

But neither Hulgar nor Brogar had been the ones to fire the shot. Hulgar lifted the end of his rifle, aimed upward at the branches of the trees, focused his attention on the smoke of spent black powder. Something reacted, a blur of yellow and green flew across the branches and quickly vanished from sight.

'So, that's what they meant,' Hanz commented under his breath, then twisted back to face the clearing.

The wights in the clearing had reacted to the gunshot, they had turned to face their direction, with poleaxes lowered into aggressive stances and then they slowly began to advance.

'Aah, I hated sneaking around anyway,' Hulgar said. He aimed his rifle at the nearest wight, quickly pulled the trigger and relished in the way that the undead stumbled and fell aside with one leg removed at the knee. 'Die!'

'They're already dead,' one of the Udoses shouted with a laugh, claymore in hand and charging forward to meet the wights. 'We're just reminding 'em of that.'

Hulgar laughed with the warrior, while already going through to motions of reloading his handgun, carefully pouring from his powder horn, barely needed to concentrate to know when to stop, to know when enough black powder had been poured into the weapon.

'Make way, for the Dawi!' Brogar yelled with glee, his only warning before he too fired his weapon, disarmed one of the wights in the most literal sense of the word.

The warriors all having now met their undead counterparts, the lopsided wight was quickly finished off.

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

There was a momentary pause, both living and undead alike. The pause was broken up when Hulgar, now finished with his reloading, took aim and fired.

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

The trees nearby shattered as something forced its way past them. Halgar turned to identify the new threat, but he wasn't given a chance. He saw a blur of movement, and then a pressure hit him in the chest, and he knew no more.

#

Dalad Proudsworn cursed softly—softly for a dwarf at any rate—as he examined the gunpowder stores.

'Gods damned, it's been tainted.'

'What's wrong?' Gerwin asked the Imperial Dwarf, looking up from where he was running a rag across the length of his blade.

'The keg is cracked. This gunpowder has been soaked.' The dwarf emphasised his displeasure with the news by kicking at the keg that had been full of back powder.

Gerwin hummed in some sympathy. It had been a risk that the guardsman hadn't considered before in regard to black powder weapons, the idea that the gunpowder could get ruined in such a way. Fortunately, the Efror Guard hadn't been able to afford black powder weapons—the mortars that had been sat at the walls of the Feyerabend Keep being the exception—and was as such equipped purely with bows when it came to ranged support, something that didn't have the same concern over. But the landsknecht that the guard had joined forces with was host to a regiment of Imperial Dwarfs, who were armed with handguns, and there was little doubt that the dwarf handgunners were not going to be happy about their diminished ammo stores.

Gerwin privately wondered if the dwarfs would declare a grudge against the Drakwald. Or would the grudge be declared against the weather?

Click. Click. Click.

Gerwin held back a groan at the clicking which was beginning to haunt his dreams with how often it had been heard. Even though he knew he wouldn't see anything, his eyes rose to the tree branches above in a futile attempt to spot the source, be it some bird pecking at the trees, or a lizard pulling back the hammer of a musket mockingly.

He didn't spot anything, as usual. But also, as usual, his paranoia was ratcheted up, nerves taut. He had an unfortunate feeling that even after they finally left this gods-forsaken forest, somebody snapping their fingers was going to have him stressed out and searching for threats that didn't exist.

Dalad also heard the clicking sound, but unlike Gerwin, the dwarf didn't let himself get stressed out by the sound. Instead, he turned to face a random direction that he seemed to decide that the clicking had come from and puffed up his chest.

'And you can shaddap,' he bellowed. 'This is why forests are the bane of civilisation. Why you umgi haven't torn down the lot I have no idea.'

'I'm sure that some would love the idea,' Gerwin said in reply. 'Graf Todbringer would no doubt love to burn this entire forest down just to root out the beastmen within.'

Dalad chuckled and ran his fingers through his auburn beard. 'No doubt.' He relaxed his posture and sneered at the keg of soiled powder once more before dismissing it as unimportant. That, or he simply acknowledged that there was little he could do about it.

Gerwin absently turned his head to look toward the clearing where the leading elements of this small army had gone to have their meeting. A part of him wished he was there to take part in that meeting, but a larger part of his mind was relieved to not be involved in decision-making on that level. Leading men and women in battle was all well and good, but there was a difference between leading from alongside those fellow soldiers, and trusting one's instincts and assessing a situation as the events played out, versus discussing plans and strategy from an abstract position of attempted foresight.

Dalad nudged Gerwin with an elbow. 'Ey, umgi. What you think we'll be doing in the mornin'?'

'Marching.' Gerwin smirked. 'Probably a dose of sweating, for those of us wearing gambesons.' He gave a pointed look to the padded armour at Dalad wore, but the reference was just as much about himself and the padding worn beneath his chainmail. The shift of temperature as summer made way for fall wasn't enough to stop those in padded linens and wool feeling warm.

Dalad grinned toothily, acknowledging the downside of a good gambeson with amusement, then turned and started to clean his handgun.

Having been thoroughly distracted from the stress brought on by the earlier clicking sounds, Gerwin returned to swiping the rag across his sword, wiping away the moisture of the day's dose of humidity and replacing it with a thin coating of oil. Lost in the motions of the soothingly repetitive act of weapon maintenance, Gerwin allowed his eyes to rise to the forest canopy, green leaves gradually getting replaced with reds and golds.

The lizardman perched on one branch blinked its bulbous eyes at him when it saw that Gerwin was looking at it. Gerwin blinked in reply, and the lizard vanished. The sergeant swallowed back the reflexive desire to scramble, to call out an alert. He doubted the strange creature was still there.

'Still here then,' he muttered irritably.

'What's that?' Dalad asked, looking up from working his own weapon's maintenance.

'Nothing.' Gerwin shook his head.

Nothing would be accomplished by getting everybody up in arms, and in the month plus extra that they had been within this forest, those strange creatures had done nothing against the loyal men of the Empire. The few sightings of them had shown them only really seemed to be interested in watching the Empire's sons. The most that they ever acted beyond that was always targeted against the same undead that the Efror Guard and the landsknecht were hunting, or against the beasts of Chaos.

So long as the only offensive acts that the reptilian creatures performed were against a mutual threat, Gerwin would ignore their existence. For now.

He wouldn't forget that they were responsible in part for the fall of the Feyerabend Keep, however. That they were one part of the fall of his home.

#

Allison pressed herself against the bark of the tree, willed the branch that she was perched on to not break, to not even creak at her weight pressing down upon it. Below, she watched a pair of those strange reptilian creatures that had warned her and the sergeant so long ago of the undead, and more than that, had directed them towards the landsknecht—the leaders of which had shortly after meeting decided to consolidate their forces with those of the Efror Guard. With that experience, one would assume them to not be an enemy, to not be a threat. However, that did not change the truth that they were non-human, mutants, little different from the beasts of Chaos. Allison did not trust them, trusting them would be anathema to good sense.

Besides, the story had been passed about shortly before they had entered this accursed forest. The tale of the count's keep falling to these same creatures. They were very clearly no friend of the Empire. That they seemed to have an aversion to Chaos meant that they were simply a lesser evil in the grand scheme of things. A threat, but one that could be left be if just so that they could weaken the bigger threats for the Empire's sons and daughters to benefit.

'Looks like they're getting ready to move,' one of the creatures hissed.

'What way?' the other asked.

The answer was too quiet for Allison to hear, but judging from the gesture, they weren't talking about the army of humans. The guard and the landsknecht's unified army wasn't marching in the motioned direction.

Another quiet hiss where Allison couldn't make out what was said, and then both of the reptilian creatures turned to stare abruptly in the same direction, paused, bulbous eyes searching for something that Allison couldn't see, and then they scampered away, vanishing into the darkness of the night.

Despite now being alone, having apparently managed to go unnoticed—this time—she didn't move. Something had scared the creatures off. That had not been a controlled departure, that had been a hurried retreat.

Two minutes later, something entered the clearing. It didn't look like any creature that Allison knew of, but that wasn't too surprising. A farmer's widow and part-time hunter turned conscript for the remnants of a count's private militia did not make her learned regarding all manner of beasts that threatened the good men and women of the Basin. However, even to her uneducated eye, this wasn't something that had anything to do with the breyherds, and it didn't share the decayed look that suggested it had anything to do with the undead.

The Drakwald was home to many a threat, the beasts of Chaos were one among many. Was this… thing… one of those untold horrors that dwelt deep within the Drakwald?

What emerged from the darkness was a nightmare given form. Its body was a grotesque fusion of sinew and metal, twisted and contorted together into an unsettling visage that gnawed at the senses. It had a sickly pallid blue hue to its flesh, with veins visible beneath, glowing with an unnatural hue that made its appearance even more eerie. Tendrils of dark, pulsating energy extended from its form, reaching up and then arching so that they came down like grotesque fingers descending from the heavens. There were eyes—pale white lights that were placed where one would assume eyes to be—reflecting the sickly glow that illuminated its veins, and for all that they resembled lights rather than actual eyes, they still held to them that gleam of intelligence, malevolent though it may be.

Allison swallowed back the bile that wanted to rise up as she took in this monstrous figure. What was it? A daemon? Some artificial creation of the undead? Or an ancient guardian of the Drakwald?

Klak-klak. Klak-klak. Klak-klak.

Allison brought her hand to her mouth and bit down. The pain helped, grounded her, reminded her to not gasp out her breaths, but to control them, keep them as quiet as possible lest she earn the attention of this manifest nightmare. Would have probably drawn blood, had the thought not crossed her mind: can it sense blood? The internal question had her ease up the pressure of her teeth pressing against the meet of her hand just below her thumb, kept it at a point where it was doubtless going to bruise, but the skin remained unbroken.

The grotesquery remained stationary, its dark tendrils quivering. Then its entire body shifted, turned in the direction that the reptiles had disappeared into. Two seconds later, the monster surged forward in a rush of movement and likewise disappeared into the darkness of the night.

Allison didn't move, other than to press herself against the bark of the tree and gasp out a strangled breath. Despite the absence of whatever that creature was, the air was still thick, heavy with a physical weight that pushed down against her and made it difficult to properly breathe.

#

'Half of our night patrols never came back.'

Gerwin craned his head to look at Burke, who had just spoken. The huntsman had a concerned frown, lips tugged downward into a grimace. Without pausing in his stride, Burke looked back to Gerwin, and then jerked his head toward the surrounding forest.

'Twenty men and women, missing.'

'You think something happened?' Gerwin asked. He kept his voice low, didn't want to attract too many ears and possibly damage morale over speculation.

Fortunately for his efforts, the marching column wasn't so tightly packed as they would have been had they been marching on open plains. The forest being so thick with trees meant that the men were fairly spread out to avoid people tripping over one another as they rounded trees in their path. But that didn't mean that the men nearest to Burke and Gerwin weren't still within earshot if they didn't control their volume.

It was a marching column in name only.

'That's the thing that's concerning me right now.' Burke glared at the thick trees, his grip on his bow tightening such that his knuckles could be heard popping. 'The patrols don't go that far from camp—they're patrols, not scouts—if something happened, we should have heard it.'

'You think desertion?' Gerwin tried to clarify.

Burke shook his head sharply. 'I know a few of the missing, they wouldn't desert. Especially not now. Can't speak for the landsknecht folk, but our people? Not likely.'

'Not even the ones we conscripted at Dryad's Fell?'

'Not even them. Pride and a need for vengeance over what happened to our county are fuelling them.'

Their voices weren't low enough, not to avoid all attention. A member of one of the sub-groups within the landsknecht—the ones who spoke with thick Ostlandic accents, wore kilts and painted the right sides of their bodies with woad warpaint, and were supposedly all directly descended from the ancient Udoses tribe—moved closer to Burke and Gerwin. For a moment, Gerwin was concerned that the man wouldn't control his volume, but was quickly proven wrong with his concern.

'Four of the missing were my men, and I can assure you that there are no craven among me and mine,' the bearded man informed them, didn't sound angry at the speculation bringing up the possibility of his men deserting. 'If they din'nae return, it was because they can't.'

It took Gerwin a moment to make out the words beneath the accent, one that he was reasonably certain wasn't standard even within Ostland. His voice was very thick with traces of what was the well known Ostlandic regional accent, but now that he was actually listening to one of these "Udoses", there were differences, something more archaic than the norm.

'That doesn't make me feel better,' Gerwin said in admission. 'That means something was close enough to camp to interfere with the patrols, but nobody else heard or saw anything.'

'Wasn't meant to be reassuring,' the man gave a non-smiling smile. 'Bran Doylei, first of my clan.'

'Sergeant Gerald Gerwin of the Efror Guard.' Gerwin introduced himself, possibly redundantly, but Mamma Gerwin hadn't taught him not to be polite.

As cautious as Gerwin felt around these clansmen, who had the misfortune of reminding him a touch too much of Norscan tribesmen, they were still allies. No need to be adversarial with them, not if his life might depend on having one of these Udoses watching his back at some point in the future. The presence of warrior-priests within the landsknecht that these clansmen were attached to helped to put any unease Gerwin had to rest. They might not be so paranoid as witch-hunters traditionally were, but warrior-priests were still keenly vigilant to the taint of Chaos.

'Yes, Efror.' Doylei grinned knowingly. 'An independent city-state that burnt down but two generations after Orwell Adelbrecht earned Efror's independence. Too bad his progeny didn't match up to their legacy.'

'You seem better educated about my home than I am,' Gerwin said with a sharp glare levelled at the larger man.

The only members of the guard who seemed to have any real knowledge of the history of the county were Captain Sigismund, and the missing Cruniac. Gerwin had never felt the need to educate himself on the past, on the glory days that he hadn't gotten to witness.

Doylei's grin widened, then fell. 'I s'pose that means that Count Adelbrecht's friendship with my clan is lost history then.'

Gerwin shared a look with Burke, who looked just as surprised at the comment. 'Truly?' he asked with a small measure of scepticism.

'I'm no storyteller, I can't speak overmuch on the history myself. I know that back during the War of the Three Emperors, my kin fought side-by-side with the men of Efror. Can't say much more'n that.'

Gerwin hummed and logged that bit of trivia away to ask Sigismund about at a later point. Further conversation was cut short when a rumble of voices from further up the marching formation. The sergeant strained his ears, tried to make out what was being spoken of, what had caused this rapid shift from otherwise scattered but quiet conversation between those marching side-by-side to a wave of voices slowly raising in volume.

Significantly more concerning was the way that those in front were closing ranks from the previously relaxed formation, shields lifted to form walls at the sides of the column.

#

Othan Stock was a proud Ostandler, one of the true sons of the Udoses. Not like most of those who called Ostland their home now. Time had watered down the blood, until only a small number could claim to be true heirs of the Udoses, most of whom dwelt within Udosheim, where they largely remained isolated from the rest of Ostland at large.

Isolated, but not indifferent, and on hearing of the passing of a landsknecht, it had been decided that a number of fighting men would join up with this army, an opportunity to remind the people of the Empire that the son of the Udoses still remained, still believed in the Empire that Sigmar Heldenhammer had forged. And so, they had intercepted the landsnecht of Tanya von Eisling and the Knight of Morr called Brother Kakovlev, and pledged service until the purpose of the landsknecht had been fulfilled.

Othan had been mildly disappointed to learn that the threat in question had not been related to the rumours of Chaos within Middenland, but instead some bloated menace of undead aberrations. Not that Othan was about to dismiss the undead as a threat, he had been raised on stories of the many different ages of strife and internal feuding, and when the undead came to mind, so too did tales of the Vampire Wars. If the Elector Count of Stirland was concerned enough about an undead threat to hire a Reiklandese noble to form a landsknecht for the purpose of hunting that threat even beyond Stirland's borders, then Othan was not about to dismiss that threat simply because it wasn't Chaos.

And to be very honest, the few confrontations that they had engaged in during the month that they had been hunting within the Drakwald—blight upon the Empire that it was, hiding not just their prey but greenskins and beastmen and more besides—had shown that the undead were a foe most infuriatingly resilient. Glimpses had been spotted of the greater whole, but the horde vanished quickly, always leaving behind a smaller horde of chaff which delayed any attempt to pursue.

While some of his kin were grumbling about how they were fighting cowards, Othan was looking at it from another angle. The necromancer in charge of this horde was planning something, and they weren't interested in the kind of delay that fighting an organised enemy would cause. Othan was prideful, but he tempered that pride before it became arrogance; acknowledged that it was possible that a full-on fight might not end with victory, for they had yet to see how large the horde truly was. There was enough evidence that the horde was still growing, that every fight had with the others dwelling in this forest meant more bodies to add to the collective.

So, Othan Stock was one of many scouts combing the forest for their foe. He might not be a huntsman by trade—his claymore marked that his preferred method of warfare was of the close and bloody variety—but no son of the Udoses would ever be lacking in basic survival skills, tracking being one such. There was risk involved, especially for those scouts and hunters who had changed tact and were now hunting solo rather than as parties. It was hoped that by doing so they would better avoid notice. If they found the horde, it was very much hoped that the horde wasn't given cause to move away before the landsknecht could encircle and crush them.

In the distance, the sound of sporadic gunfire that was far enough away that it sounded more like a rumbling of thunder, marked that either a dwarf or two had found a threat, or the creatures that rumour claimed to be carrying handguns had gotten into a fight. There was a part of his mind that said he should backtrack, to follow the sound of gunfire to lend aid, should it be the imperial dwarfs that had signed themselves up as members of this army.

However…

He believed himself to be on the right path. For the past hour, his movement had been following disturbed ground. That in and of itself was hardly noteworthy, with the other threats within this accursed forest. What was noteworthy was how uniform the disturbances were. Even when parade marching, people's footfalls were not perfectly uniform, slight distances apart from the neighbour, who might have had longer legs, or just been a fraction of a second slower in putting their foot to the ground.

But with the undead, particularly those that had to be puppeteered by the necromancer in control—such as animated skeletons—there was an unnatural, uncanny uniformity to their movement. If Othan was not mistaken, he was following such a trail.

Was following such a trail. In the span of seconds, he felt a pressure around his chest, and then a hand clamped over his mouth. Next thing he knew, he was pressed against the rough bark of a tree, staring at the bulbous eyes of something that was definitely not human. The creature stared at him, then pointedly turned its head to one side, tilted, while a low hiss escaped its maw.

Wait, that's not a hiss… It was shushing him! Of all the nerve!

Othan made to force the hand covering his mouth away, while also reaching for his claymore. His movement stilled when a snap echoed through the otherwise silent forest.

Klack-klack. Klack-klack. Klack-klack.

Low thumping sounds vibrated the ground. Rhythmic. Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Took a small number of repetitions for Othan to realise what it was. Footsteps, from something big. Wait, no… multiple somethings. Was right about the size though, they were big.

The creature that was holding Othan to the tree pushed itself forward, pressed its body against Othan in a parody of an intimate embrace, and hissed out quiet sounds that were eerily reminiscent of a shushing sound. Othan started in shock, but quickly stilled himself as the flesh of the creature warped, changed colour until he was looking at the same colour as the bark of the tree against which he was now being held, with patches of green which matched the vines that climbed the tree. If he hadn't known where to look, he wouldn't have known where the creature's bulbous eye was; the actual orb might not have changed its colouring, but it was a speck compared to the rest of its body, still easy to miss.

The creature shifted, releasing the hand which had pressed against Othan's mouth to prevent any sound, and adjusted its position. It took moments for Othan to realise that the size difference between them meant that it wasn't able to completely cover Othan, so it was moving so that its body was covering that which would be most noticeable—the woad warpaint—Fortunate for Othan that only one half of his face was painted, allowed him an eye to watch what was happening—and it was clearly hoping that what else showed wasn't enough to be too noticeable.

It was a hope that Othan quickly shared, as from around the nearby trees, armoured figures stomped by and formed a loose perimeter. But despite the armour, there was no hiding the fact that these were undead, mottled and rotted flesh visible where the armour failed to cover them. But these were no mere zombies, the glowing blue orbs where eyes should lie spoke of power, and these wights had a clear awareness that was beyond most risen.

The next figure to emerge was similarly armoured, but the drawn hood did little to hide that there was something unnatural about it. Blue orbs glowed from within the hood, but they did little to dispel the thick black darkness, where light refused to touch.

The wraith—for what else could it be?—paced around the formation of wights, clearly agitated. Its hand constantly twitched toward a blade at its hip, before aborting the motion.

What is it worried about? Othan wondered. Or is it merely impatient?

Then yet another figure stepped into sight. This one was an elderly-looking man, weather-worn and beaten down by time's less-than-gentle touch. Yet he stalked toward the wraith without an ounce of fear.

Is this the necromancer we've been hunting?

His question was swiftly answered with a negative, all the wights and the wraith turned to face this elderly man, weapons pointed in the clear promise of violence, though they delayed from making through on that promise.

'I have no quarrel with you,' the elderly man spoke up after a pause, voice ragged with age.

'That's funny,' a voice, clearly coming from the wraith, answered him. 'We have a quarrel with you.'

The geriatric chuckled, a humourless sound. 'I believe there is a saying about biting the hand that feeds.'

'And there is a saying about believing the lies weaved by one such as you.' The wraith stepped forward, towered over the old man. 'Your services are no longer required, oh weaver.'

To Othan's shock, the man didn't look afeared at the clear threat, the evidence that his life was soon to be cut short. The old man simply laughed again, this time with clear mirth. He paused a moment, took in the armoured appearance of the wraith and laughed harder.

'How quickly your count disregards his debts. And yet I note that he has not come to parley in person, he sends you to waste my time.' The geriatric stopped laughing abruptly and tilted his head as though in thought. 'I suppose one could understand, he has that Empire army hunting him down. But no…'

The old man turned his back on the wraith, heedless of the threat that the undead entity represented.

'Oh, I see…' he said, speaking to himself than to the wraith.

The wraith lunged forward, jagged and chipped longsword thrust forward to cut down the old man. And the old man turned with a speed that should have been impossible at his age and held up a hand. The wraith, against all logic, stilled mid-lunge. The old man cackled with amusement.

'You forget yourself… you owe your existence to me. You and the rest of you. Your count owes me a debt, and I will have it repaid in full.'

'You are nothing, old man. A relic of a time past.' The wraith didn't spit, but Othan got the distinct sense that it wanted to.

Klack-klack. Klack-klack. Klack-klack.

Othan's brow creased… that was a different sound from the usual clicking that had long since become just another part of the ambience. He'd heard it earlier, hadn't he?

Apparently, that new sound was new to the undead as well, the wights all turned and faced outward, away from the wraith and the old man, their poleaxes adjusted into defensive stances, but for all that it was impossible to read the body language of the risen dead, they still somehow projected a sense of uneasy caution.

The man cackled, and Othan wanted to sock him in the jaw for the knowing sneer he now had painted across his face. He then slowly, deliberately turned his head, and stared directly at Othan and the creature that had mostly concealed him and let out a slight smirk. 'I'll take my leave now.'

'You are going nowhere, old man,' the wraith scoffed as the man turned his back again.

This time, when it swung its blade, the old man didn't react, and the jagged metal carved through his flesh. But what fell to the ground, was not the bisected corpse of the old man, but instead a skeleton dressed in the same colours as the bulk of the undead force. It was as if the old man had never been there.

The wraith stared at the pile of bones, managed to convey an air of bafflement despite the lack of any facial expressions. Then the old man's cackle filled the air again. Yet there was no sign of where he might be.

Thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Low, thudding booms, those same footfalls which had originally alerted Othan and the creature pressed against him, returned anew. And this time, the source of those footfalls revealed themselves. Two monstrously large figures pushed aside the trees that were in their way to make room for their advance. They towered over everything, large enough that Othan wondered if he were looking at giants. They were humanoid in the vaguest sense of the word, in that they walked upright on two legs and had two arms attached to a torso that seemed human enough in shape, but everything else about them was just plain wrong, in a way that made Othan's eyes ache. They had a light grey bordering-on-blue hue to their flesh. Their heads were misshapen, the proportions all wrong for the otherwise humanoid look; mouths too wide, eyes too large, and too many at four a head, with two tusks jutting out from beneath their narrowed lips. And instead of feet, they walked instead upon cloven hooves.

Whether they were some breed of the beasts of Chaos, or something else, Othan had no clue. What he did know was that as brave as he was, as capable as he was, there was no way he would be able to survive a fight against even one of those creatures, not on his lonesome. He felt his opinion on that matter was quite justified when one of those giant abominations, charged toward a cluster of wights and swung a leg around in a kick. The impact of hoof and shin with the wights unfortunate enough to be in the path of that kick were shattered—bones turned to powder from the amount of force levied against them. Fragments of the wights' armour were scattered in the wake of the sheer force levied against the wearers.

The wraith stilled, glowing blue orbs staring at these abominations as if flummoxed by their appearance. Then it lifted its blade into a salute and charged into a fight that it surely knew it wasn't going to survive. Then again, Othan mused, holding his breath as though it would help prevent his being noticed, what fear does a wraith have of dying?

The giant creatures made short work of the undead. While a few of the wights managed to get their licks in, their pole-axes managing to carve chunks from the legs of the giants, it wasn't enough to so much as slow the oversized aberrations. The wraith put up the best fight, but it too was felled in a single kick that left behind little that was recognisable.

The giants stood silently for a moment, simply seemed to be revelling in their one-sided victory. Unfortunately, for Othan, one of the giant creatures turned its head, its four eyes zeroing in on Othan. Whether it was aware of the creature covering him or not was irrelevant, it was staring at Othan right in the eye, knew that he was there.

'Shit,' Othan cursed.

Thankfully, the reptilian creature recognised that Othan had been noticed. The creature hissed, pulled itself away from Othan, its flesh rapidly reverting to its original colouring, and it pulled up its handgun, levelled the weapon at the giant abomination. The trigger was pulled, and thunder echoed out as the weapon spat fire and lead.

The giant reeled back, an over-sized hand coming up to cup one of its eyes. A sound finally escaped the giant, a low groan of pain. Black liquid seeped down from behind the hand. It didn't seem to incapacitate the over-large creature for long though, its hand lowered again, one eyelid sealed shut, not that it did much to prevent the black ichor that leaked, and it started to advance.

To make matters worse, the other one had turned, alerted by the gunshot.

'Run,' the reptile hissed, already going through the motions to reload its handgun. 'Run now!'

And Othan did as the creature told him, he turned tail and he fled. He wasn't long into his sprint when he heard the retort of the creature's handgun. And moments after that, a thunderous sound that was followed by a crack. He never looked back.

Not even when he heard the thump. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. He continued to run, pretending that he couldn't hear the rapid footfalls getting closer and closer.

#

Sigismund scowled, assessing the scene with distaste.

A small clearing, one that might have looked almost picturesque under normal circumstances. That serene picture was tainted though, with the amount of blood that stained everything, and more than just blood. Something had passed through here, and it had torn and ripped asunder some poor unfortunate fools.

Whether those poor fools were his men or not he honestly could not tell. There was nothing left but the blood, the entrails, and flayed flesh so thoroughly dyed in crimson that one had no way of telling what the original tone had possibly been.

'This was recent,' Captain von Eisling commented from where she was crouched next to a gory puddle of fleshy remains. 'The stink of rotted flesh hasn't yet hit.'

Sigismund let out a slow nod of agreement, the hand resting on the hilt of his blade twitched, but he still was not yet pulling the weapon free of its scabbard.

'Which means whatever did this is probably still close,' he observed while he moved his eyes away from the gore to instead glare at the nearby trees as though they were about to walk and try to rip him in two suddenly.

Captain von Eisling let out a sound of surprise, and she snatched something from the ground then held it at eye level. After a moment, she approached Sigismund and held it out for him.

'Does this mean anything to you?' she asked.

Sigismund took the offered item with a grimace and looked at it. He did recognise the cloth scrap. Though it could just be a coincidence, but the green fabric, which had somehow avoided getting stained by all the blood, reminded him all too easily of some of those individuals who had taken the Feyerabend Keep. The same ones who Gerwin had reported as being within the Drakwald with them.

'The Legion.'

The other captain raised an eyebrow. 'The "Legion"?'

'The Outland Legion,' Sigismund quickly clarified. 'Lustrians playing mercenaries.'

Von Eisling's eyebrow lowered, and she rubbed at her chin thoughtfully, a look of vague recognition flashing across her features before they were then walled behind her typical stern visage.

'I see.' She hummed, and her eyes rose to the branches of the surrounding trees as though she would instantly make out one of those alien creatures. She wouldn't, Sigismund knew, Gerwin had reported that the ones with the green garb could turn themselves invisible, so if they were indeed being watched at that moment, he sorely doubted that von Eisling would make them out.

At least not while the weather was dry.

'I'm not fully educated on Lustrians,' von Eisling began after a long pause. 'But wouldn't the Drakwald be their favoured terrain?'

Click. Click. Click.

Sigismund's face twisted in distaste at the topic. 'The stories of these particular Lustrians date back at least two centuries,'—had to stop himself from exploding into a verbal tirade about how the history of these reptilian sellswords seemed determined to entwine itself with the history of Efror—'which involves a lot of back and forth from the Provinces and the Border Prince Peninsula, so they might not be so used to forested terrain any longer. Why?'

'Trying to get a sense of how dangerous a threat we have lurking nearby, if it managed to massacre Lustrians in a forest like this.'

Ah, that's… He hadn't quite considered that. 'The ones that wear the same green as this scrap? They can turn invisible.'

That detail had von Eisling start in surprise, though after a moment she did mouth the word "invisible" to herself in confusion before acknowledging everything and thinning her lips into a grimace.

'So, masters of hiding and ambush, and they were…' Her arms swept the scene. 'Maybe we'll have the advantage, that being numbers and regimental formations, but I would still prefer we not meet whatever did this.'

That was a sentiment that Sigismund could get behind. He opened his mouth to say so, but the sound of a dry twig snapping had him twisting around, his blade yanked free of its scabbard and held up alongside his shield, while Captain von Eisling lifted her flamberge and readied it. Nearby, the dozen halberdiers who had accompanied them to the clearing lowered their polearms into a ready position and stepped forward to form a small box with Sigismund and von Eisling as two of the corners.

Click. Click. Click.

Snap!

Everybody angled themselves toward that last sound, tensed. Then the source of the sound emerged. It took Sigismund a few seconds to place her, one of those who had joined at Dryad's Fell, the farmer's widow who had talent as a hunter. Allison, he reminded himself.

Allison's eyes were wide, frantic with a fear that looked out of place on her. Her skin was a pale shade akin to parchment that had been left under water for too long, and was slick with sweat.

'Captain,' she breathed out in open relief on identifying Sigismund, then her eyes drifted to von Eisling, 'captain.'

'What's wrong?' Sigismund asked, beating his counterpart to the question by a sliver of a fraction of a second.

'We need to move,' Allison said, voice hoarse. 'There is something in this forest with us.'

'Is that something responsible for this?' von Eisling asked, motioning at the scene once more.

Allison took a moment to spare a glance at the gore-soaked clearing, then nodded frantically. 'I saw it. I…' she stopped talking for a moment, visibly trying to steel herself, to reign in her obviously frayed nerves. 'It's… I don't think it's natural, but… it didn't look undead, and it doesn't look…'

'It's alright, it's alright…' Sigismund shot a panicked look at von Eisling, silently hoping that she would be better at calming somebody who had just witnessed some of the worst the world had to offer—at least, Sigismund assumed that that was what Allison had just witnessed. The best kind of help that Sigismund could offer was to play the stern officer and to use the training of his men to not so much snap his men out of panic, but to get them into the motions where they were functional, and that would be enough to allow them to wait for the breakdown to happen at a more opportune moment. Unfortunately, his was a method that would not work with a conscript that wasn't actually trained in such a manner.

Von Eisling shot him a look that suggested that she didn't feel any more qualified than Sigismund was. Indeed, the next words out of her mouth were in a tone that had even Sigismund flinching because that was not helpful, even if all that was spoken was an urge to calm down.

'I am not a fragile waif! Do not talk down to me,' Allison snapped, breathing picking up in pace.

'I know you aren't,' Sigismund answered, careful to keep his tone as its normal self, even if it was a tone that would sound like he was pissed off—he usually was, that was normal for him. 'Just say what you saw.'

'What I saw…' Allison breathed in, then let out a description of the monster that she saw during the night.

Sigismund shared a look with von Eisling. 'Daemon?' he wondered aloud.

'The amount of blood would be very Khorne, but for the silence…'

'Whatever it was,' Sigismund said while casting a concerned look at the surroundings, 'I think we should move. The longer we linger, the more likely we are to meet whatever this abomination is.'

Click. Click. Click.

#

Othan slowly roused to wakefulness, but didn't immediately move, did not even open his eyes. The fact that he was alive was a good sign, but not a promise of safety. Surreptitious movements of his limbs told him he wasn't bound, also a good sign.

'Any sign of it?' The voice that spoke was low, with a queer accent, softening consonants while stretching vowels.

'No, Sharpe.' This second voice also had an unusual accent, one with an almost melodic quality to it. The closest analogue that Othan could liken it to was the brogue of the Halflings of the Moot, but tempered and with the vaguest hints of Marionburgese. 'Whatever it is, it only seems to hunt at night.'

There was a pause, then a sigh.

'And we know that those things chasing mister barbarian here aren't the same as…?'

'Those things aren't ripping apart whatever they catch.'

There was a moment of silence, and Othan felt a weight of disbelief press down upon them.

'Those things are just smashing whatever gets close. Smashing with force enough to make what they hit look like overripe fruit, but still smashing, not… not tearing apart what they get a hold of.'

Another moment of silence, then another sigh.

'Ok. I'll take your word for it.' Another huff, and the faintest thud of a footstep.

'We planning to leave sleeping beauty here?'

'He's not our problem. He's alive, he saw those things, so he can tell that army to keep an eye out. But other than that? We have our own issues.'

Silence again, though Othan reckoned he could hear the faint footfalls of the two conversing. Then a louder thud, one not needing the Udoses warrior to strain to hear.

'Tongue?' the first voice spoke up.

A new voice answered, the accent more like a typical blend of Reiklandic and Marionburgese. 'The undead just exited the Drakwald.'

A soft utterance that didn't hold to any words that Othan could understand, made up entirely of sibilant hissing. After three seconds of such, the hissing stopped. 'Happy, gather everybody up. We're moving out now.'

'Where're we headed?' The second voice asked.

A pause, then the faintest sounds of footsteps slowly moving further from where Othan was laid.

'I think we're due a chat with Rauscher,' the first voice commented, softer with distance.

Othan waited for a minute after the sound of footsteps had disappeared, seemingly through distance, but with his eyes shut as they were, he couldn't be certain that such was truly the case. After a full minute, he finally opened his eyes and found no sign of life other than himself. Turned his head, then started in shock as realised that he was laid out atop a tree branch fairly high above the ground.

Though he saw no sign of life, he swore he heard the faintest echoes of amused laughing when he yelped and clutched at the branch with wide eyes.

To make matters worse, he could see his claymore. It had been left on a completely different branch, thoughtfully laid such that there was no chance of it falling outside of deliberate action from either himself or another party aware of it.

'Oh, you cocks,' he growled irritably, blinking away the feeling of vertigo that wanted to take over his senses. 'You utter cock-sacks.'

A second look over the edge of the branch did not do wonders for his vertigo. Unfortunately, it looked like the only way down for him would be if he climbed down himself, there was no sign of those responsible for leaving him there, and calling for aid would do nothing for him.

Swallowing nervously, he began to plan out how to reposition himself from his lofty perch.

#

The village of Crawsfet was a hardly little village, situated not terribly far from the edge of the Drakwald. That meant that those who lived within this village were hardened by a life of constant threat. When those that dwelt within the Drakwald chose to exit with intentions of violence, Crawsfet was one of those villages most likely to be hit. And hit hard. That Crawsfet still stood, even after all this time, could be attributed to stubborn Middenlander pride, stubborn Middenlander hardiness, and stubborn Middenlander superiority.

The men of Crawsfet were tough, most had served in militias purposed specifically for ventures within the Drakwald, so they held little doubt that come anything less than the entire population of beasts within the forest, they would more than easily defend home and hearth.

To aid in the defence of this village, a wall had been built. A wall of stone, overseen by Imperial Dwarfs who had been paid a pretty penny. It was seen as a worthwhile investment, for the longer that Crawsfet could hold off the hordes of the enemies of man, the more time that Middenheim had to muster the professional fighting men to come assist, or to go aid other, less hardy, villages that might fall under threat from the foul beasts. This stone wall was a testament to the stubborn refusal of the people Crawsfet to give ground to anybody or anything.

It would almost be more accurate to call Crawset a fort, rather than a village.

So tough and hardy were the men of Crawsfet, that on occasion other towns, those with garrisons of Middenland state troopers, would send some of those troopers to this village to train up alongside the hardy sons of Ulric. It was hoped that by spending a month or two in Crawsfet with such a diligent and tough people, some of that hardiness would rub off on the state troopers.

Such was the case with a regiment of Middenlandese halberdiers. They had no clue about what was happening in the northern half of Middenland with the raiding Chaos forces, for such news had never reached the village. Even if it had, the inhabitants would have likely not cared, so long as the raiders weren't coming towards them. All that the men and women of Crawsfet cared about was the threat that came from the Drakwald. Furthermore, should that news have reached them, the regiment of halberdiers would still have spent their time exactly as it had been without the news—without orders to do otherwise, they were to remain in Crawsfet, train some of the locals and be trained in turn.

In truth, for that regiment of halberdiers, spending months in this village was actually considered relaxing. The men of Crawsfet didn't care to learn from anybody softer than them, and these halberd carrying men from a town far enough from the Drakwald that it wasn't an omnipresent threat, they were soft. Point of fact, anybody not a part of their community was inherently soft, in their eyes.

So this regiment was left to enjoy what was essentially time where they were paid to stand around and look more important than they actually were.

It was two of these halberdiers that died first. The wall surrounding the village was a work of art, worth every coin paid to the dwarf builders. The problem that arose, was that the wall was designed with a specific threat in mind, a specific threat with well-known limitations. Had this wall been built in Sylvannia, the weakness that was exploited would have never been there to be exploited. As it stood, however…

The halberdiers had been standing on a wooden bridge that crossed over a small river that bisected the village into what was not quite two halves. Calling it a river was actually being generous, but it wasn't small enough to be called a stream. But for all that it was not a terribly wide river, it was a very deep river.

'You hear about that army that went into the Drakwald?' one of the halberdiers asked the other, before crunching down upon an apple.

The other scoffed. 'Hunting undead of all things.'

The first took another bite from the apple, then hummed in consideration. 'Why would they hunt undead in the Drakwald? Just let them go. If they are in there, they aren't a problem for us.'

'Maybe they're worried that they'll come out,' the second gave a sensible answer after a moment of consideration. 'Better to cut down the problem before it becomes a problem.'

The first took another, final bite from the apple and then tossed the remains carelessly over his shoulder and into the river. 'But the Drakwald… they'll be getting into fights with more than just undead.' His arms waved at the village. 'If they aren't part of the Drakwald patrol, then they're just getting themselves killed.'

The second halberdier didn't answer, his attention was drawn to the river. It sounded like something was splashing, but by and large, it was a still river, so unless somebody had gone for a swim, there should be no disruption to the water. He leaned over the edge of the bridge and tried to make out the source of the disturbance.

The water's surface rippled, then parted, allowing a wraith to seemingly lunge upward and grab the halberdier's neck with one fleshless hand, while the other hand shoved a short blade into his throat. Then the wraith allowed itself to sink again, but it didn't relax its grip on the gargling and choking man, pulled him off the bridge and dragged him beneath the water.

The remaining halberdier noticed this and shouted out a shocked yell, then prepared to call out in alarm, but never managed to get that far. A spear punctured through his torso from behind. He dropped his halberd, which never did get the chance to be used against any enemies of man, before then he too was pulled off the bridge.

At the edge of the village, a bell was rung, an alarm warning the village that a threat was approaching the walls. There was no way for that same bell to warn everybody that the threat in question were not the beasts of the Drakwald as was to be expected, but a horde of undead. It was only as the first of the fighting men reached the walls, ready to defend home and hearth, that the watchmen were able to communicate the nature of the oncoming threat.

While attention was pulled to the walls, the river's surface rippled. After days of plodding along under the water of that river, the undead made their move. They had finally left the Drakwald, and were marching for their next destination.

Had the undead not attacked from the river, Crawsfet would have survived long enough for reinforcements to come from neighbouring towns, and even a rapid mustering of the nearest garrisons of the Middenland army, now that Graf Todbringer was fixing the issues of the missing command staff which had plagued the state's army.

With the attack from both outside the walls, as well as those that emerged from the river within, Crawsfet fell within hours.