This is a topic for all members to post the background of their army, whether it be the fluff behind their general, the gathering of the whole army, or anything in between.

In order to keep this clean and neat, I ask that you only post two things in this topic: the background piece you want to share, and a link to a seperate topic where people can reply to it with criticism or advice; this topic will be big enough without trying to cover all of that as well.

Hopefully, this will act as a source of ideas and inspiration for both people starting new armies and those who are just getting around to fluffing out an existing force. I'm looking forward to reading about the armies of the rest of the people who use this site.

Karag Dron – Thunder Mountain

Here in lies the history of thunder Mountain

One night the night sky was lit like the morning sun, a comet blazed its trail across the heavens before descending into the Black Mountains and out of sight. Moments later an explosion proceeded by a shockwave rippled across the mountain range, thus the comets landing was marked.

All races know the strength and power of the metal that falls from the heavens, but of all races that watched the comet the dwarfs are the best with weapon smithing. Many of the southern holds saw the comet pass but it was Karak Hirn that took action. The great king at the time decided to send a small party to mine the rock. After months of travelling they came upon the crash site, the comet had smote a large mountain and had driven deep into the mountainside. Warily they approached the entrance and entering it with weapons drawn and lanterns lit, soon they discovered they were going deeper and deeper down. With increasing regularity the walls began to reflect light when one reflected it back red and shone like the sun they when in for a closer inspection, their breath was stolen from them. What had been reflecting the light was seems, seems of precious metals and jewels imbedded in the rock. Many decide it was time to return to the king, but the leader decided they must first discover the size of the meteor then return. Agreeing they descended once more, the meteor had smashed it’s way in and down into the floor of a great cavern, seeing it was too big to return with they hacked a small piece off and returned.

Upon their arrival the party was summoned to the throne room. After reporting to their king they were given leave to remove themselves, but one remained to ask his king a favour. Intrigued the king asked him to speak; the lone dwarf outlaid his idea. He wished to turn the comets resting place into a mine, the king thought on this very little and agreed. And so it was within the year the resting place has a small miners complex set up over it, soon the news had spread and many more miners and dwarfs appeared to seek their fortune. With the passing of years it was discovered that the mine had too many dwarfs to be called just a mining complex. So something happened which had not happened for an age, a new Dwarven hold was born.

The news of the hold was passed throughout the Dwarven realm, and soon it was said that they riches dug up were enough to rival that of the great Dwarven hold of Everpeak. Throughout the years it grew, the hold became something of great splendour. The halls throughout it was some of the biggest ever constructed, the hold had every dwarf wishing to make their name come and offer their services. Soon their great gates and supports where adorned with gold, silver and jewels, it was said that at sunrise or sundown the gates shone with a fiery red flame. But alas the golden age of the hold was a bout to come to a tragic end and a time of great loss and woe began, for skaven were discovered. The miners delved too deep and too greedily, one day they broke into unchartered tunnels. Investigating they discovered they were not even Dwarven made, but skaven made! Quickly they turned and fled back to the light but it was too late, their exit was blocked. Out of the gloom thousands of red, hungry and hate filled eyes peered, the last any of the miners saw was a rusty, notched blade flashing out of a tide of moving fur before being engulfed. Thus began the so-called “Skaven Wars”.

Over the next 20 yrs the dwarves fought valiantly to hold back the tide, but there were too many. Slowly but surely, room-by-room they were pushed further and further into the upper halls. More and more the king sat upon his throne and thought, on a night with a great storm raging outside he made his decision. He called all his advisors too him, all came but one. The Runelord. The king outlaid his plan, and with a heavy heart he told them “the hold must be abandoned”. Then realising the absence of the Runelord he asked, “Where is he?” None were sure but a few said he was last seen climbing the Eternal Stair into the eye of the storm.

And they were right. Here he stood atop of the mountain, upon this peak stood his anvil and star metal. And here with the storm above ravaging the heavens he wrought a rune weapon of great power. Into this weapon he poured all his skill and every fibre of his being, and then he drew upon the might and power of the great storm above. As he struck the last rune upon its head a great clap of thunder peeled across the night sky, a bolt of lightning fell earth wards and smote the weapon upon its head. The lightning raged across the face of the head, sending crackling energies through the air, the weapon had the power and rage of the great storm bound unto it eternally. Wrapping the weapon in cloth he began the great decent of the Eternal Stair.

On the morrow he was seen striding purposely towards the throne room, with a cloth covered object cradled in his arms. Entering unbidden, unannounced and unlooked for he walked to the foot of the throne, for many tense moments the Rune lord and King stared each other in the eyes. Finally the king asked in a voice akin to scraping rocks “Whence have you been? Why was my summons unanswered?” Without flinching or breaking eye contact the great weapon smith answered, “I have weathered the storm to bring what we most need” Taken a back a little the King raised an eyebrow “Oh? And what would that be then?” The Runelord answered with a single word “Hope”, at this he threw off the cloth covering the weapon and stood brandishing a hammer of great magnificence. The king was presented the weapon; turning it in his hands he ran his hands over every contour of the weapon. The head crackled with barely suppressed power, the haft was three feet long and was long enough to be held either one handed or two and was carved all the way down with runes and words of power, the runes on the head glowed but he was unsure whether it was because of the fire or of the internal power. The rainbows danced across the hall as light reflected from the great jewel in the centre, and the gold inlaid burned as red as fire. The king stood silent, and then in a hushed whisper he spoke “We run no longer”. Ordering the women and children to leave and giving them as much as an escort as he could spare, he set about organising the last defence of his home.

He chose to meet them in the great hall; the hall was 10 bow lengths long and the same as wide. Here in the pinnacle of dwarfish architecture, the struts supporting the roof were inlaid with gold and depicted the forging of the great hold and it should be fitting that it sees the last of it. Looking to the right of him he saw the many ranks of warriors all grim faced and determined to make the skaven pay, next to these stood the remains of the holds Ironbreakers and the surviving Miners. To the left he saw the same grim and determined faces and out on the far left stood Guttri and his Longbeards, there stood hundreds of years of battle experience between them and an implacable foe. Sparing a last look to his own bodyguard of loyal Hammerer he turned his gaze upon the chittering horde opposite. Across the room in ranks as if to mock the dwarfs stood the foul rats, passing his eye over them he saw giant rats knowing at each other in anticipation, rat ogres roared in rage or pain or whatever emotion they could feel, next to them were plague monks vile blisters popped and puss ran down then fur and in front of them the plague censor bearers swung their censors spreading a green fog about them. In between them ran single skaven grasping a green sphere as if it was percoius and two skaven stood checking valves and needles on a Warpfire Thrower, and other checking over a multibarelled gun. His eyes were drawn to a solitary skaven at the back; it was small and white, from its forehead sprouted ram horns. It was guarded by the largest, most vicous looking and mutated Rat Ogres he had ever seen, and in it’s hands it played with a ball of green glowing rock. Instantly the King new this was their leader and in it’s hands it held Warpstone.

Out of the corner of his eye his saw a group of shadows detach themselves from the rest and headed towards the longbeards; he then realised what they were – Gutter Runners. The Longbeards had seen them too and most were cut down, but out of them leaped a black clad rat armed with twin blades. Guttri saw it too but was too late, as he brought his axe to bear the assassin plunged its twin blades into his heart and throat. Guttri died drowning in his own blood, but then the Longbeards hacked down the assassin. Seeing this the King felt terror grip his heart, turning it to hatred and then to anger. As if the attack was a signal the horde surged forward. Rusted weapon met Dwarven steel, jaws snapped and claws grasped at beards as the wave of fur broke upon the shieldwall. Suddenly a resounding boom assaulted his ears, the Dwarven cannon had opened fire, as he struck out at the skaven one of his Hammerers dropped dead a hole in his forehead marked how; a lump of green glowing stone shone from the hole. Jezzails, but the Thunderers had already seen them and soon the rat were running away with their tail between their legs. Also he prepared to dive back into battle a wave of heat blasted across him, and then followed by the smell of burning flesh; he was suddenly glad he had a flame cannon in his arsenal. Spells blistered the air only to be disintegrated by Dwarven rune, and turned the air static making fur and hair stand on end. Things were not looking good for the be leagued dwarfs, for every skaven cut down three more took it’s place. In the centre of battle the hammerers guarded their King into the thick of it, cutting a hole in their ranks gave them a brief respite. He saw his brethren cut down, swarmed over, bitten, rats gnawing at the dead, dwarfs choking on a green fumes with blood frothing at their mouths and it became too much. He couldn’t stand it any longer and the fire stoked in his heart roared into flames, his anger burst forth like a great storm. As if knowing it’s wielders feeling a blue glow leaped around the hammers head, energy cascading off it as it held the barely suppressed power at bay,

Then he set about him and such was his rage that nothing could withstand it, with each swing of his hammer skaven fell. The hammer shattered armour and turned flesh to mush, where it hit thunder cracked across the battle and if this was not enough to kill them then they were set a blaze by the lightning playing about the head. Where he went he left a trail of mangled and smoking corpses, he lead his bodyguard deep into the skaven lines; to end this the albino skaven had to die. The Hammerers became the tip of the spear driving for the heart of the skaven, seeing their King’s fierce determination and pure power the dwarfs fought with renewed vigour. The skaven believed they were winning but suddenly they were taken back by this new determination and even more so when the dwarfs began to advance.

The King led his Hammerers into the heart of the skaven lines and they wreaked a bloody ruin through the carpet of vermin, suddenly they found themselves face to face with the albino skaven and his bodyguard. Any normal being would have quailed at the sight of them, but the King didn’t he drove into the unit screaming a dwarfish curse at the top of his lungs. Swinging left and right he shattered ribs, crushed skulls and splintered bone; as he swing his hammer into the ribs of one ogre and then into it’s head turn whatever brains it had left to mush. He turned and was face to face with the albino rat, he threw himself forward. Staring at this dwarf covered in blood and gore with a glowing hammer the rat stood stock still, then as if suddenly awakened it started to chitter and wave it’s hands through the air to form symbols. The power started to grow and a cruel smile appeared across it’s foul lips “You die-die Dwarf –thing” it squeaked and as it was about to release the power the words were torn from it’s tongue by Dwarven runes. The last thing it saw as it looked up was a blue glowing meteor descending, then it ripped it’s head clean off. Turning the King decided the battle was not yet won; he turned his Hammerers and charged back into the ranks of rats. The Skaven found themselves caught between an implacable foe and a being wielding the might of the gods themselves. And they broke. On that night the dwarfs leaving the city swore they felt the grown shake and from their home a storm raged inside the mountain, while the dwarfs that fought that fateful day swore the gods themselves fought alongside them. And thus the “Battle of the Great Hall” marked a turning point in the “Skaven Wars”.

Over the next seven years they forced the vermin back down into the deep, now the holds number of Ironbreakers has tripled and they hold a constant Virgil over the mines. Many years past and the hold rebuilt, and the damage done fixed. The current King is renound, under his rule the hold has prospered like never before. When he first came to power many believed him too young to carry such a heavy burden, but he proved them wrong. He is wise as the eldest longbeards and as fearless as the greatest warrior; many times has he proved himself in battle. He has forced the rats down deeper than ever and has discovered new seems of treasure, it is said that in him the king of ages past have returned. Under him the production of gromril and the mining has increased three-fold, and the hold grows more each year. But he has never forgotten the blood ties of the hold and in honour of the original settlers hold – Karak Hirn, his warriors where their tradional colours; and it’s not uncommon for many warriors from the hold to march to war alongside their cousins from Karak Hirn. But whatever has or was or is whispered about the king all agree that give time Thunder Mountain will be one of the most powerful and prosperous of all the Southern holds.




Ok here's some more of my fluff, this is of my holds characters:


King Thorin Thunderhammer of Karag Dron

King Thorin was destined for great things since his birth, upon his birth it was said the Runelord and smiths discovered many portents. His father taught him everything he needed to know to become a king, in the ways of war and ruling. But one thing he did not know how to shape and control was his son’s temper. Many times the young prince got into heated discussions with his father or tutors for it to end up with the prince in a terrible rage as he vented his anger. His father went to great length to keep his son under control of his temper and for the most part if worked, but not entirely.

The king decided to take his son on an inspection of the lower mines, while down in the last and lowest of the mines a band of Skaven stumbled into the mine. Taken by surprise the miners and workers were quickly beaten back, as the king was being shown the machinery and the expected profits a black swarm entered the small cavern and the miners were swollen; drown under the sea of vermin. Then it hit the king’s loyal Hammerers and chaos ensued, the King found himself swept away in the tide. Seeing this the prince couldn’t let his father fall, rescuing a fallen hammerer’s weapon he drove into the deep. He used his anger and nothing stood in his way, the hammer seemed to be made for him and he wielded it with such skill and pure power any other warrior would have been jealous. Wherever he swung the weapon ribs, skulls and bones were crushed; he became a whirlwind of destruction.

The prince fought his way to his father, shattering anything that stood in his way; upon reaching his father he witnessed a beast strike him. Such was the power behind it his father was battered against the cave wall, the young prince then fearlessly threw himself at the beast as it stood over the prone body of his father. Shouting his battle cry he prepared to defend his father, but he was unprepared for the beast. In one sweep of it great claws it knocked the prince flat, he barely managed to roll out of the way in time as the claws dug deep into the earth. Regaining his feet the prince let his training take over, defending and when given a window of opportunity attacking. In the first couple of minutes of the duel both were bleeding from great rents in armour and flesh, but the prince refused to give in. Then he felt something in his chest a power a burning sensation began to build, knowing no other way he threw himself at the creature. The fury and ferociousness of the prince’s attack caught the beast off guard, his first swing shattered it’s ribs; as he tore it from the beasts side great chunks of flesh ripped off causing the beast to howl in pain. The return swing to it’s abdomen forced it to it’s knees, his third swing torn it’s jaw clean off; blood squirted from the mangled wound. Looking into its eyes the prince saw the pain he caused and what it felt, he felt nothing as his last stroke shattered the beast’s skull. Yanking the gore-covered weapon from the crater in the side of its head, he slowly stumbled over to his father. Here he knelt by his father’s side until the battle was done.

In the following years the young prince grew into a great and wise lord, he would occasionally be found down in the mines helping with whatever need doing. But in his fathers eyes he was still a child and was continuously told he was not allowed to go to war. So came the day of his father’s death, the young prince stood upon the very peak of the hold waiting expectantly for the return of the army. What he saw as they entered the gates was a very grim look from them all; at the front where the hammerer’s were he stopped dead in his tracks. For upon the shields of the royal guards lay the body of the King, his father; struck down in battle. After the burial he received his father title, his armour, the crown and the Grund Dron; The Thunder Hammer. He was announced king and the following days were mixed with celebration and morning.

So he began to show that his father didn’t waste any time in teaching him, under him the mines began to produce more and they spread throughout the mountainside. But it’s didn’t all go his way, many times they had to fight against a great horde of skaven; but each time they prevailed. Wherever the skaven appeared they were met with a stalwart defence, with many times the King at the head of the defence. Throughout the years through the blood and sacrifice of his people, his hold and rule had grown. Although it was believed he was too young to have such a burden placed upon him so young, he has not let this bother him and has shown this was not true. Under him the hold has grown and prospered, trade with nearby holds and the manlings of the Empire and Bretonnia has flourished, their weapons and armour are counted among some of the best made throughout the southern holds.

But he doesn’t forget his heritage and many times he has been seen stood beside his brethren and King Alrik of Karak Hirn in battle. Many believe that he will bring about the recovery of the elder kings and help bring a golden age to the hold.




Runelord Dadrin Holheart, master of the weapon shops of Karag Dron

Runelord Holheart is King Thorin’s eldest and most trusted advisor; he is also one of the most renound and respected weapon smiths and runelords in the southern holds. Yet this is all that is truly known of him, his coming to the hold and his past are steeped in mystery.

Runelord Holheart arrived at the hold unannounced and unbidden, one night a sound knock rang from the hold’s gate. Upon opening it the guard found a solitary dwarf. This stranger held himself with a purpose, the light form the guards lamp turned his white snowy beard golden as it reflected off of the many amulets around his neck and bands in his beard. His blue/grey eyes fixed the guard with a look a parent gives a misbehaving child; dressed in a long unadorned cloak he looked no better than a beggar. But the guard stood aside to allow him entrance and looked abashed; as if he had done something wrong.

Without a word or being announced he pushed past the guards and into the great hall, here King Thorin was holding a banquet. All noise stopped at his entrance, conversations hung mid-word, food un-chewed and beer un-drunk. Still the stranger said no word, not even when he walked the length of the table did he speak. Striding past the king; not even bothering to cast a look his way the dwarf entered a private room at the back of the throne. For many hours the two longbeards remained hold up in secrecy, only after the last feaster had long gone, passed out or stumbled off did they emerge.

In the following days this mysterious figure would spend all day in the workshops wondering around inspecting the forging of weapons, armour and the inscribing of runes. His presence unsettled the workers and they approached the king, but he did nothing to ease their worries “Don’t worry about him, he’s just there to watch” were his exact words. But soon he began to do more than watch, he began to help. It was not uncommon to see this stranger working in a secluded area on an item; these items were of the best and purest craftsmanship and quality. Proving himself to the other workers and Runesmiths didn’t seem to bother him, but when offered the position of Runelord he accepted. This illustrious position had been vacant since the first king of the hold, no other has very been able to fill such a void; yet the stranger showed no outward sign of being bothered by this.

Although throughout the years he has been asked about the night he came to the hold and what was said in that room, his answer has always remained the same. He just smiles and says “Never you mind”, this is the same response received when asking about his past. Even now no one knows where he came from, whether or not he was born in the hold or even whom he studied under. As to his age he doesn’t give anything ways about this, it’s known for sure that only himself and the King true know. But in hushed whispers it’s said that he is the unknown creator of the Thunder Hammer, if this is true then he is truly ancient and his skill rivals that of Kragg The Grim of Karak Karaz. Yet of this he makes no claim or rebuttal, and no one dare to push further with their questioning. Yet even as his past remains unknown it’s compensated by his skill, of which it shows no sigh of waning yet.



Azgram Hammerson, Commander of the Royal Guard and King’s Bodyguard

Azgram has been the king’s bodyguard for over two generations; throughout these years he has become good friends with the king. His skill with the hammer has become legendary throughout the hold and no other has been able to beat him in a duel, this has gained him many honours but no more important than saving the kings life.

Azgram’s story begins on the eve of a battle, during this time he was the greatbeard to one of the holds Longbeards unit. In this position he has proven himself to be a competent leader, but when it came to combat there were very few who could match his skills with an axe. He was a honourable dwarf is there ever was one, proud, brave and willing to put himself in harms way to protect his fellow Longbeards. He always accepted a challenge and would put his all into such duels and always come out on top. As it was on the eve of the battle an elite member of the king’s bodyguard approached Azgram and tell him the king requests his presence. He entered the Kings tent with a sense of trepidation, but his worries were unfounded. Instead of what Azgram was expecting he was granted a position in the elite Royal Guard, the King said that his courage, skill and abilities had not gone un noticed. When he left the tent he was now decked in a suit of golden armour, the royal rune engraved upon his breast. In his hands he held a hammer instead of his axe, test swinging his weapon he found it was no different to his axe, just without the cutting edge and the head was engraved with swirling designs and the heads of the Ancestor Gods. In the up and coming battle Azgram proved the decision of his promotion was a good one. At the Battle of Troll Gorge he became a hero.

This battle saw the dwarves of Thunder Mountain face off against their ancestral enemy, the greenskins. The gorge itself was a sloping expanse of land, slowly widening and the rock walls sinking before turning into a rocky stretch of land. At the top of the gorge taking advantage of the higher ground stood a wall of iron, the marshalled ranks of the dwarves gazed of the rabble that resembled the greenskins lines. On the far left of their lines sat packs of wolves mounted by giggling goblins who were busy poking and prodding one another with their spears, next to these sat savage wolf drawn chariots, each one hastily nailed together out of scavenged wood; their drivers stood gesticulating in vulgar ways towards the Dwarven lines. To the right of these stood limbering trolls, each one looking as if it didn’t know what was going on. Many stood eating rocks or picking their teeth with a tree branch or staring at something that had caught their limited interest. Behind them was their fearless leader, and orc with a spear stood ready to poke and prod them into battle.

Next to the trolls game the main force of the greenskins army, goblins. They all stood about shouting insults to one another, every so often a fight had broken out; only of the orc bosses to put it right with breaking a few heads and such. Further along the line was two crude looking bolt throwers, the goblin crew sweating and heaving to put the trollgut string taunt. Next to these was a black cloud, every now and again the dwarves spotted goblins in dirty back robes. This left no doubt; the Night Goblins had left their subterranean homes to face their ancient nemesis. The centre was held by blocks of savage looking orcs, these were the most disciplined as they were cowed by the huge unit of orc; these had gleaming black skin, they stood holding wickedly shaped weapons. And in the middle stood the Warlord, a full foot taller than it’s bodyguard this orc glared from under its brow. On the right flank sat more goblins and trolls along with boar mounted orcs and chariots.

The Dwarven lines stood with a grim determination, on the left were ranks of disciplined warriors and Longbeards, stood slightly apart were the disgraced Sons Of Grimnir, eyeing up the trolls while singing their death chants and preparing themselves for an honourable death. On the right were the gromril clad Ironbreakers with more warriors and supported by ranks of Thunderers priming their weapons. King Thorin and his Hammerer bodyguard held the centre, behind these sat the war machine the dwarves had brought with them; protecting these was a screen on crossbowmen. The greenskins horde let loose a resounding “WAAGGH!!” and charged forth, the chariots easily outpaced their footed brethren only to be reduced to matchwood by the opening of the Dwarven cannons. The sky darkened as giant rocks were launched from behind the Dwarven lines, crushing dozens as they impacted among the greenskins ranks.

But none the less the greenskins still came on marching upon the Dwarven iron wall, on the right the boar boyz charged the Thunderers; dozens being kicked from their mount by the powerful projectiles before crashing into the Thunderers and Ironbreakers. On the left a huge melee had erupted as the foot troops finally met the Dwarven lines, greenskin crashed against the Dwarven iron clad shield wall. The two forces came to a stalemate, dwarf hacked down orc and goblin only for another to leap into the breach; greenskin hacked down dwarf but their discipline shone through and another stepped forth to block the gap. A horse roar sounded the arrival of the trolls into combat, the slayers then started to wade their way through the sea of greenskins towards the noise.

The centre was in the thickest of the fighting, the floor turned a mucky red as greenskins and Dwarven blood mixed with the mud and soil, it ran in rivers streaming down the gorge. The greenskins broke upon the Royal Guard time and time again, dozens falling to their hammers in each attack. Things seem to be going for the dwarves but alas it was not to be, for a rumbling and roaring announced the entry of the Black Orcs and Warlord. These hulking orcs fought like daemons, their axes powered through the hammerers; making a mockery of the Dwarven armour. Through the press of bodies the Warlord saw King Thorin slaughtering his bodyguard and advanced upon him; turning around King Thorin was confronted by a hulking beast. Bellowing a challenge the king sought to find any honour this creature had and kill it in armed combat, his challenge was accepted. Dwarven rune armour was pitted against orc-forged axe, the two combatants fought with skill and speed; sparks arose from the colliding weapons. For over an hour the two warriors circles, attacked and parried one another’s blows, neither seeming to slow or waver. Suddenly King Thorin lost his footing on a patch of blood soaked grass, laying there sprawled on the ground he was defenceless; the Warlord loomed above him axe poised for the killing blow.

Out of the surrounding melee came a dwarfish curse and axe the axe sped to the kings prone body it was stopped; a shield was thrust in it’s path, before being shattered into pieces. Staggering backwards, his arm dangled uselessly at his side it was broken in the impact; Azgram defiantly raised his hammer. The Warlord advanced on this dwarf, all the while laughing. Gritting his teeth Azgram fought through the pain and took on this giant, he put his all into every attack and parry; but in the end it wasn’t enough. Defeated Azgram slumped to his knees awaiting the final blow; he was too weak and exhausted to even raise his head. But the blow never fell; King Thorin had recovered his feet and once again joins the fray against the beast. His first swing shattered the Warlords ribs, turning the Warlord was greeted by the King’s hammer smashing its face through the back of its head. But Azgram missed this, his injuries were too much and he had passed out.

From that day forth Azgram has always been beside his king in his new position as Personal Bodyguard, he follows the King everywhere and if asked would go to hell and back with him. In this new role he has proven himself time and time again, always accepting challenges on the behalf of his king. It’s said that while Azgram lives the King will never fall.


Prince Balin & Prince Kurgaz Thorinsson

These two Dwarven princes are the jewels in King Thorin’s eye; his twin sons are paving their way to greatness. They have always been inseparable, even as children they did everything together. During their childhood they were taught everything together and neither was better than the other, such was their bond that they constantly finished one another’s sentences. The only way to tell them apart was by their beard and hair; Balin with a blonde beard while his brother with a fiery red one. Apart from this they could only be told apart was from their fighting skills, only here did they differ. Being princes they got the best tuition, this came from their father’s personal bodyguard Azgram Hammerson, under his guidance it came clear of the twins differences; Balin had the speed and was quick with the axe but lacked the power, while his brother had the power but lacked speed. They were trained together and when they fought together as one, they compensated for the others shortcomings and became the perfect warrior.

The twins showed their skills at the Battle Of The Golden Gates, here the stalwart Dwarven forces faced off against followers of the foul god Khorne. The Dwarven ranks stood marshalled in front of the gates barring entrance to them, ranks of wizened Longbeards, armoured Ironbreakers and warriors stood ready to sell their lives. Behind them sat upon the holds walls were war machines of many types; here were stone throwers, bolt throwers and cannons. Opposite the Dwarven lines were followers of the blood god, here were men who had sold their soul for bloodshed and slaughter. On the left were men from the northern tribes that populate the wastes wielding wickedly spiked flails or huge axes, each with runes carved into their flesh and chanting blasphemes prays to their patron god. Alongside these came chariots drawn by black, red eyed and ironclad horses; atop of the war machines were chaos warriors in red, spiked armour. Next were the true champions of Khorne; these elite beings were clad in bras and blood red armour. Their shields depicting the gapping maws of daemons or blasphemes runes that hurt to look at’ their weapons still covered in the blood of their last victims.

On the right flank were the faster elements, marauders sat a top of painted steeds preparing their javelins and throwing axes; beside them sat slavering war hounds, barely being held back by their handlers. More marauders and warriors held this flank, all preparing for the up and coming slaughter. Beasts of the other realm, summoned by the blood sacrifices and the promise of bloodshed held the centre, the Bloodletters of Khorne stood ready; great axes in their hands and blood matting down their fur. In from of these were the hounds of Khorne, Blood Hounds wearing iron spiked collars paced impatiently. Next to these atop of coal black steeds sat the elite fighting power of the army, the Knights of Khorne. Each one with blasphemes runes and writing etched into their armour, blood slid down their armour and onto the great beasts they rode. Amidst their number sat one individual bearing a banner, the flesh of the slain was it’s base, skulls dangled from chains; the skin was covered in blood only one thing could be seen; a single rune. Looking at the rune caused pain to the eyes of all except the chosen ones, for it was the sacred rune of Khorne. Yet it wasn’t the banner, the knights, the daemons or the other foes that drew the Dwarven gaze; oh no it was the hordes leader. Valisus Bloodspiller.

On top of a fiery eyed, blood coated, black giant horse sat Valisus. The daemonic steed easily bore the weight of its owner; Valisus wore blood red armour and held two fell weapons in his hands. His armour was a deep red, coats of blood soiled it’s surface never had the blood of his opponents been washed off, brass edged the shoulder guards; every now and again a face would appear it its surface before disappearing with a scream back to whence it came. Glyphs, foul runes and skulls adorned the surface or hung from his waist; the skulls were of his best opponents. A helmet encased his skulls, the leering daemonic features lit by a ruddy glow from the eye slits. The eyes seen beneath the mask held no emotion except to need to spill blood and the enjoyment of such an act. In his hand he held an axe bearing the rune of his god, a full four spans across the weapon boasted of power. His other hand was wrapped around the hilt of a broadsword, its brass edges notched from the constant slaughter; both weapons had dry blood upon them. Raising his bloodied axe into the air he screamed “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!!!” with a clash of weapons the chaos force answered “SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!!” And surged forth.

A blood lusted roar was emitted from the throat of each chaos worshiper as they faced down the Dwarven lines, their banners rippling in the wind at the speed of their attack. The Dwarven ranks didn’t move, instead a roar of their own ripped from their lines as the war machines spoke. Dozens of Khorne followers were slaughtered in the ensuing moments, but it wasn’t enough and they others didn’t seem to care at their comrades demise. Quickly the twin princes realised that firepower alone won’t win them this battle, without seeming to they devised a plan. Prince Balin moved to the left and with him the entire flank moved too, meanwhile his brother did the same with the right; this exposed the weaker missile units. An offer the Khorne followers couldn’t resist. As the bloodthirsty warriors charged the weaker elements down the Dwarven lines opened up with a crack of handgun fire and the whooshing of crossbow bolts, again dozens fell but without fail the rest carried on. It was now when the two forces met the prince’s plan was revealed. The Dwarven flanks stopped and turned to their attackers, and as one swung back into battle catching the Khornites in a pincer.


Every Dwarven warrior exacted a disciplined toll on the Khornites; every axe stroke fell another. But still they can on and berserkers foaming at the mouths hacked dwarves down. The bodyguards to the princes fought like they never had before, nothing could get close enough to the princes; but the princes wouldn’t stand for it. They joined the fray each stroke dooming another opponent, yet with their skill and armour nothing could penetrate their guard. Valisus sat atop of his steed watching the slaughter, deciding it was time to spill blood he started to advance. Suddenly he spotted Balin, seeing such an opponent to test himself against and another skull for the throne he set off towards the Dwarven prince. Prince Balin retched his axe from the destroyed helmet of a chaos warrior, looking up he saw a daemon or at least he thought he did. Facing him sat atop of a fell beast was death and slaughter given form, dismounting it casually strode towards the prince. Seeing their lord face to face with this beast three Hammerers charged it intent upon ending it’s life, Valisus killed them without even breaking his stride. Seeing he had no other choice Balin stepped forth to issue the challenge, as the young prince spoke a wide space had been made with the two combatants in the centre; “I am Prince Balin Thorinsson, son of King Thorin Thunder hammer of Karag Dron. I challenge you, for you will be cleansed from this world by my axe!” From behind the skull mask came rasping laughter “I think not little one, I will bathe in you blood and the almighty Khorne will devour your soul” With this they both attacked, trading blows quicker than the eye they both gouged chunks out of their armour. Balin was fast; he slipped inside his opponents guard, sliding his blade free he was granted with the sound of a keening shriek but otherwise no other evident damage. Valisus had power and his attacks punched past Balin’s guard only to be stopped by the armour’s protective runes.

Meanwhile on the other side of the battle his Prince Kurgaz held the forces of chaos back and had even begun to advance, pushing them back. As he reached the centre of the battlefield he managed to get a quick breather, when looking towards his brother’s flank a corridor opened up. Looking down it he spied his brother facing a fell champion of chaos, fearing for his brother’s life he set off to help. His bodyguard formed the point of an arrowhead as the Dwarven forces punched their way through the chaos lines, smashing his way through the frenzied warriors he found himself on the edge of the clearing; in the centre his brother fell to his knees. Without thought Kurgaz threw himself at the chaos champion, he connected hard and Valisus staggered backwards to regain his footing. Looking up Valisus say that Kurgaz stood next to his brother, who had now gained his footing back; “It matters not, just another skull to adorn the throne of almighty Khorne” With out another word he launched himself at the twins, but he found himself woefully outmatched. Alone they are powerful, but not enough; together they are perfect. The twins worked in tandem as they took apart the chaos lord, piece by piece. Valisus just couldn’t concentrate on one of them as the other attacked then, he wasn’t fast enough to deal with them both and slowly the twins overwhelmed him. As Valisus swung his sword at Kurgaz Balin too the opening, he smashed his axe into a small opening in the blood armour, shorning the arm off at the shoulder in a spray of blood. Seeing their opening they both attacked at the same time, swinging their weapons down they connected with Valisus’ remaining weapon. But the twins had the advantage and putting all their strength behind the attack they split the haft in two and their weapons carried forth into his body before ripping bloodily out of his back. Valisus Bloodspiller was no more, his skull adorning the throne of his god, his blood slaking its thirst. This became the turning point, without a champion to lead them the chaos force lost a lot of its potency and soon the remains of Valisus’ force had been killed or had fled. The battle was won.

Now the twins are renound warriors, throughout the years their skills improved, as has their knowledge. They are now considered to be two of the greatest warriors the hold has ever had, and they are still young. They always fight together and still neither has the upper hand, yet they are still better together. As it is said “Two heads are better than one”.

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The crash of steel on steel echoed though the valley like an explosion. Xarhain held the deadlock, and for a moment High elf eyes met Dark Elf's. Next second, the Druchii had spun away, leaving Xarhain holding his longsword across his face. He brought his sword down, then lunged straight at his hated foe. His aim was true, but at the last moment the Dark elf's body twisted, and Xarhain's sword cut only air. As the High elf sped past, the Dark elf stabbed his dagger down towards the back of the noble Asur's head. Reacting quickly Xarhain allowed his body to drop, the cruelly forged knife sweeping harmlessly through his long dark hair. He hit the floor and rolled, then exploded upwards like a volcano, driving the point of his sword straight towards the Druchii's heart. Once again the foul elf evaded his blade, and Xarhain felt a sharp crack on the back of his head as the dark elf brought the butt of his sword down and round, making his vision blur. He staggered back, and the Dark elf came hurtling after him. Lifting his blade hastily, his eyes tight shut against the pain from the wound on the back of his head, Xarhain desperately parried blow after blow from the elite dark elven warrior, each one threatening to end his young life forever. He finally managed to kick away from his opponent, backing away further to try to give his vision time to recover, which it did, slowly. The two enemies started to circle each other once again, breathing heavily, clothes damp with sweat. Xarhain was scared; there was no doubt about it. He was definitely not ready for this. Most elves first fights were against a goblin, or a skaven rat-creature. Not a dark elf assassin!

Xarhain had no more time to feel sorry for himself. The dark elf attacked, thrusting furiously with sword and dagger simultaneously. Xarhain ducked the first and second swings, and cartwheeled one-handed away before the Druchii could react. Fast as a whip, Xarhain counterattacked, swinging his elven blade in a wide arc towards his foes head. Too wide. The Dark elf brought his sword up and blocked the strike inches from his head, then stabbed his dagger at Xarhain's unguarded midrift. The young warrior saw the blade, and realised there was nothing he could do about it, except twist and hope. He did so, but the dagger tore deep into his side, slashing a large bloody gash from front to back. Xarhain yelled out in pain, and without thinking, jumped up knee first at the dark elf. The Druchii was taken by surprise by the sudden unorthodox attack, and Xarhain's knee connected with a sicken crack with the dark elf's jaw. The two tumbled to the ground, and leapt up immediately, facing each other once more, faces twisted into scowls of hatred. Xarhain could sense something different about this dark elf. It was what had alerted him to it's presence, what had made him turn around, what had saved his life, for now.

The dark elf spat blood, and Xarhain grinned, briefly. Suddenly his vision blurred again, but this time much worse. It made him feel sick, horribly sick. It felt like a fire was coursing through his veins, it hurt so much, he was going to pass out. He looked down at the gash, and saw not just red, but streaks of purple as well. He fell to his knees, poisoned. Dying.

"Xarhain!" Came a wild shout from behind him.
Then, a brilliant bolt of pure white energy flew at the Dark elf. The Druchii flipped high into the air, avoiding the bolt, then landed lightly, before turning and sprinting away with a final scowl. He had not failed, there was no point sticking around to get flattened by a High Mage. He had heard tales about dark elves who had encountered them, and did not want a similar tale told about him. Corzan made his way as fast as he could towards the felled Xarhain. Gasping for air the young warrior managed a croaky "Thanks Corzan." Before blacking out. Corzan summoned the winds of magic, utilising his years of experience and training at the White Tower. He laid one hand on the young elf's heart, which had slowed to a crawl. The other on the poisoned wound. He did not have much time. He closed his eyes, willing the poison out. A tornado of magical energy surrounded the two friends, as Corzan summoned all his power as a Mage. Soon, Xarhain opened his eyes, slowly sitting up. Corzan released his grip, and shook his head.
"Manbane," he said. "A very powerful poison, employed by assassins when they want to make sure their target suffers. You were lucky. Very lucky."

When Xarhain could talk properly again, Corzan addressed him. "Why were you fighting, anyway?" he asked. "You know you are still too young and inexperienced to pick fights with Druchii. They are skilful fighters, very dangerous to a young warrior like you."
Xarhain got up slowly, Corzan helping him to his feet, and dusted himself down. "I didn't pick the fight, he came for me," croaked Xarhain, still not completely recovered from his first real fight.
"Why in the name of Anaerion did he come for you?" asked Corzan, looking concerned. Xarhain averted his gaze, but he knew it wouldn't help. High Mages didn't need eye contact to read you.
"I recognised him," he muttered, more to his longsword than Corzan.
"So who was it then?" Corzan insisted.
Xarhain sheathed the sword and closed his eyes, he knew he'd have to tell him. "His name is Lodane." He paused, this information clearly didn't mean a lot to Corzan, so he decided to go on, "my brother."


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"We must rest Xarhain." Corzan was worried, if Xarhain didn't rest that wound would have a hard time healing.
"I have no need for rest, other things are more important," said Xarhain, wincing at every step. The wound was indeed deep, but rest could wait, he had something else to do. He wasn't sure what, but he knew there was something, something important.
"At least let me heal the wound," pleaded the High Mage, drawing hopefully up to his friend.
"No," replied Xarhain, pushing him away.
Corzan fell back behind his stubborn companion wondering what was wrong. Xarhain was actually wondering the same thing, it was not like him, but there was that thing at the back of his mind, it would not let him stop. Something made him get up, something made him stride off. He had not told Corzan why, as he did not know why, he had not told Corzan where he was going, as he did not know where he was going, but he knew it was the right way.

A short while later, Corzan knew he had to do something. Xarhain was slowing dramatically, and the wound was still secreting blood, it needed seeing to. Once again Corzan drew the winds of magic, he prepared the spell in his head, and was just starting to wave his hand when Xarhain suddenly tensed, and started to turn. Quickly Corzan completed the spell, and Xarhain slumped to the ground unconscious.

Corzan gathered some herbs, took a fruit from a pocket inside is sweeping blue robes, and arranged them on Xarhain's side. He whispered something, then squeezed the juice from the fruit over the wound. It immediately ceased flowing blood, healing slowly. Corzan waved his hand again, and Xarhain awoke. He blinked once, his elegant long features crinkled in a frown as he tried to make sense of his surrounding. Suddenly he jumped up, startling Corzan, and sprinted away.

"We do not have much time!" he shouted over his shoulder as he ran.
Corzan scrambled hastily to his feet and set off after him. As he ran, Corzan tried to make sense of what had happened. It seemed like Xarhain had sensed the movement of the winds of magic when Corzan knocked him out. Only someone attuned to the winds of magic - a mage - could sense a shift, and even then it took a very accomplished magic user to detect such a subtle change as occurs for a simple knockout spell.

The pair splashed through a stream, scattering fish and birds. It was probably just a coincidence thought Corzan. After all, Xarhain was not trained in the art of magic, but then, perhaps he was gifted with the witch sight, he was surely sensing something now, as he was running fast and with purpose. Soon Corzan could sense something too. Another magic wielder, manipulating the winds of magic. He sensed a foul being, greenskin perhaps, and very powerful. There was another one too, an elf. Less powerful, but still capable. It seemed there was a combat between them. Perhaps that was what Xarhain was sensing, but somehow had sensed it long before Corzan had. Had he been neglecting his studies? Was he losing his touch? Surely not.
"Hurry!" shouted Xarhain, sprinting up a small embankment.

They reached the top, and looked down into a large crater-like hole. Below them, a High elven mage was desperately blocking spells launched at him from the other side of the crater by a large orc shaman, dressed in bear skins and holding a large bone staff. Next to the mage was an elven swordmaster, protecting his loremaster from the half dozen orcs that came to assault them. Xarhain was quick to react, he drew his longbow, and notched an arrow. Picking his target carefully, the closest to him, he loosed the arrow. It flew straight, and hit the orc in the neck, spraying blood everywhere as the creature tried to breathe through it's punctured windpipe. Xarhain dropped his bow, and he and Corzan rushed to join the pair under attack. The swordmaster was putting up an amazing fight, holding his own against the four orcs, sweeping his finely crafted elven greatsword quickly and accurately, keeping the orcs at bay. The unengaged orc turned to face Xarhain, dashing towards him. It threw it's massive axe at him with bone crushing force. Xarhain leapt high, the axe speeding beneath his hunched up body as he somersaulted towards the orc. He landed feet first squarely on it's chest, driving his longsword clean through it. The two crashed to the ground, and Xarhain made to pull his blade out and finish it off, but it hit him away with a large fist. The orc rose, clasped it's massive hand around Xarhain's sword, and pulled it out amid sounds of grinding bone, and tearing flesh. The beast bared it's fangs in a giant grin. Xarhain stared in horror at what he'd just seen. Surely, a wound that deep, he must be - ah yes, there he goes. The orc's eyes glazed over, and it collapsed in a heap, dead.

As soon as Corzan reached the other mage he could see he wasn't going to hold out much longer. The poor mage was tiring, and each blast of green magic was getting closer before fizzling away to nothing. Corzan acted fast. Closing his eyes, his mind traversed the gap between the world of reality and that of magic. He searched briefly, before finding his opponent, a great being, radiating power, this would be a tough task. Concentrating, he laid the trap, calling on the dangers of the realm of magic, the daemonic beasts that magic users had to constantly be wary of.

Xarhain snatched up his sword, and dove into the combat between the swordmaster and the orcs. The expert swordsman had already felled one of the beings while simultaneously defending himself and his master from the other three. Xarhain marvelled at his skill, how fluid his motions were, how expertly he used his greatsword, sweeping it as fast as Xarhain could swing his unhindered fist. Xarhain attacked the orc closest to him, a giant mass of green, wielding two giant axes of the size of a man. Xarhain thrusted his sword straight towards the foul things face, using it's yellowish black teeth as a target. The orc brought it's axes up, catching Xarhain's sword between them. The elf released his grip on his sword, and rolled swiftly through the creatures legs. He drew his knife and slashed at the back of the orc's knee joint, waiting for it to fall to it's knees before plunging his dagger into the back of it's neck. No sooner had he picked up his longsword yet again, than a tumultuous explosion blasted him of his feet. He rolled over, to see a smoking whole and some green smoke where the orc shaman had stood moments before.

Corzan opened his eyes, and smiled. His plan worked, the foolish orc shaman miscasted his spell, and the daemons off the other realm were quick to oblige. He turned, feeling smug, and to his horror saw a giant spear flying towards the other mages' head like an arrow. No sooner had he opened his mouth to shout a warning that would voice itself too late, a huge greatsword was flung across the spears flight path, deflecting it harmlessly in the ground. He looked to his right and saw the swordmaster, now unarmed, with his arm stretched out. The swordmaster caught the other mages' eye, and smiled, before the three orcs closed on him. He ducked the first swing of a giant axe, and twisted to avoid the second, but he was surrounded. Before Xarhain, Corzan or the other mage could do anything about it, the noble swordmaster was cut almost in two by a sweep from a huge blade. He collapsed, coughing blood.

"NOOOO!!!" All three elves had screamed, but none more so than the mage the swordmaster had died to protect.
Xarhain and Corzan both looked at him, so did the three remaining orcs. His eyes were burning with hatred, it was clear the only thing on his mind was vengeance. He brought his hands back behind his body, before thrusting them forward, sending an enormous blast of fire sweeping towards the orcs. They tried to turn and run, but the blast engulfed them, drowning their dying screams with the purest cleanser of all. Fire.

The fire mage ran to his faithful warriors side, and sunk to his knees beside him, weeping. Xarhain and Corzan walked slowly towards the pair. The swordmaster was still alive, barely.
"I can save him!" said Corzan hopefully.
"No," coughed the swordmaster. "Nothing can save me now." He turned his head to look at the fire mage. "Do not cry Arderfin." He lifted his hand slowly, and wiped a tear from the mages eye. "I am going to a greater place, and I can think of no better way to die than in protecting you." He coughed again, spraying his hand with blood, then looked at Xarhain and Corzan. "Before I die, tell me your names."
"Xarhain," "Corzan," the two replied.
"My name is Lenwe, thank you for your help, Xarhain and Corzan, without you we would surely both have died. It is better this way. My sword." He gestured over to where his greatsword was sticking out of the ground. Xarhain got to his feet, and retrieved the sword. It was lighter than he expected, for such a large blade. He brought it over, and laid the finely crafted golden handle in Lenwe's outstretched hand. Lenwe held it for a minute, fighting back the pain that threatened to engulf him. Eventually he broke the silence again.
"Xarhain, you proved yourself as a warrior here today, I would like to ask you to do something for me." Xarhain looked up. "Take my sword to the White Tower of Hoeth in the lands of Saphery, give it to Valandil, he will know what it means." He handed Xarhain the sword, who proudly received it.
"I will do as you ask, it is my promise to you," Xarhain replied solemnly, bowing his head.
Lenwe smiled, then shook again in his death rows. His time was over; he had accepted it. He fixed his eyes once more on Arderfin's, who clasped his hand in his. Lenwe spoke one final time. "Remember me."


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They buried Lenwe that night under the stars, in the centre of the crater in which he had fallen. While Xarhain and Corzan made a camp on the lip of the hole, Arderfin began working on an enchantment. He was weaving his hands in an intricate set of movements, each one followed closely by Xarhain's staring eyes. Once again Xarhain could sense it, a great power radiating from the accomplished fire mage, a beacon of light in the darkness of the night.

A small ring of bright orange fire was beginning to form around Lenwe's grave, burning fiercely but not scorching the land below. Which each movement of Arderfin's hand the ring of fire thickened, until eventually the entire crater, more than 80 paces across, was ablaze with the magical flame. At the centre of the inferno, Lenwe's body lay, protected for eternity.

"Let him be," said Corzan, halting Xarhain as he made to get up and go over to Arderfin. "He must deal with his loss alone. It is better that way."
Xarhain sat back down, casting a concerned glance at Arderfin as he did. He felt desperately sorry for him, he knew how it felt to lose a loved one, and he knew there was nothing he could do to help.

In an effort to distract himself, Xarhain dragged Lenwe's sword across his legs. He unwrapped the deep red cloth he was using to protect it, and gazed at the wonderful piece of elven construction. It had a shimmering gold handle, with bright red gems set in the base, centre and wings of the hilt. He ran his hands along the blade, savouring the touch of fine elven steel. He brought his hands back to the handle, and hefted the giant blade, two handed in the fashion of the swordmasters of Hoeth. He stood up, and gave it a practice swing, the razor sharp edge cutting through the air with a grace Xarhain had rarely experienced, so finely balance it was. Xarhain wasn't used to wielding a sword in two hands in the way of the swordmasters, it would take some time to learn the technique. He wrapped the ceremonial greatsword back in the cloth, keeping it's beauty safe from prying eyes.

Arderfin returned from his work, and bedded down for the night. No words were spoken, none needed voicing, so Xarhain too removed his long elven cloak; draping it over himself he lay down on the soft ground. He stared at the sky for a long time, his sharp elven eyes picking out the silhouettes of hunting owls, and the occasional shooting star
lighting up the night. The wound in his side was healing well, though hindered by that evening's fighting. He thought back to the battle, and a sharp stabbing pain entered his heart as he was reminded of Lenwe's death. He looked to his left, gazing at the roaring fire that surrounded Lenwe's boy. Those flames would burn for ever, and Xarhain turned his body towards them, taking comfort in their warmth.

Corzan woke early, before Xarhain and Arderfin. The fire around Lenwe's burial site was stilling blazing, no less fiercely than the night before. Corzan was fascinated by the fire mage's ritual, the fire serving as protection he supposed. Probably Arderfin wanted to repay Lenwe for the protection he had offered him in life.

Rising to his feet, Corzan stretched his sleepy muscles, and yawned loudly. He wasn't particularly tired, he just wanted to wake the others; he couldn't stand being alone, he needed to talk to them

Gradually Xarhain and Arderfin rose from there slumber, rubbing their eyes and yawning.
"Breakfast?" Asked Xarhain sleepily.
"None here, we'll find a town," replied Corzan. "But first we need to sort some things out."
"I'm travelling to the lands of Saphery, to fulfil my promise," said Xarhain quickly, catching on. "And," he paused. "to see my home once more."
Corzan nodded, "I'll come too, I have some things I am overdue to attend to, and I'll have to look after you of course," he remarked, looking fondly at Xarhain. The young elf smiled back, eyes shining. The two had been friends for a long time, first meeting while Xarhain was still growing, in a village near the White Tower. Corzan had been studying there, and something had always attracted the young Xarhain to it. He always knew where it was, and numerous times Xarhain and his friends had got lost in the forest, and every time Xarhain had somehow lead them back to the Tower, from where they could find their way home.

"I err... I think I'll come too," said Arderfin quietly. "I have no desire to be alone, and I would like to return to the Tower." It was the first time Xarhain had heard him speak since Lenwe's death. "We should purchase some steeds at the town though," Arderfin advised, his voice low, little more than a whisper. "It is a long way to the Sea where we may board a boat for Ulthuan. We shall need the speed."
"Good idea!" Praised Xarhain, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.
"Very well, we leave as soon as we are ready," announced Corzan.

Soon after, they had said their final goodbyes to Lenwe, the magical fire still burning bright, and set off on the short journey to the nearest town. The journey was short, and little conversation was attempted by the three elves, Xarhain and Corzan preferring to leave Arderfin in peace, to mourn in his own way. Arriving at the town they first headed to a tavern to eat. They ordered and ate quickly, pausing only on the way out to ask of the nearest stable, preferring not to stick around for the sideways glances that accompanied elves in the lands of men.

They headed over to the stables, to buy the horses they required.
"Three of your finest stallions if you please," asked Corzan purposefully, slightly startling the stout man who stood by the animals.
"Oh, err... Yes yes, of course," the man mumbled, as he disappeared behind the door to a section of the stables, emerging leading three pearly white horses. The three elves empties their pockets of gold, tipping it onto a small wooden table, next to a plate and tankard.

"I'm... I'm afraid that's not enough," The man stammered, nervous in front of the elves. "That's barely half of what's needed."
Corzan considered for a minute then spoke. "How about a little wager then, double or nothing?" Corzan had heard that men liked a gamble, and would never pass up the chance. "You see that tree, way over there, the one with an old birds nest at the top?" he pointed way over to the right, up a hill to a tree over 250 yards away.
"Yes, yes," the man replied, squinting at the tree Corzan indicated.
"Well, if my friend here," Corzan patted Xarhain on the back, "can knock that nest out of the tree with one arrow, we take the horses. If he misses, you keep our gold. Agreed?"
Xarhain looked suspiciously at his friend, wondering if Corzan really thought he could put and arrow in that nest from that range.
"Well, ok... Agreed." Said the man, eager at the thought of the seemingly impossible task that now awaited the elf. "When you're ready," he gestured at Xarhain, before sheepishly looking away from the elf's return stare.

Corzan nodded at him, and Xarhain took his elven longbow from it's position on his back. Pulling a white fletched arrow from his quiver, he took one final look at Corzan, who smiled, before notching the arrow to his bow. Taking a deep breath, Xarhain closed his left eye and drew the bowstring to it's maximum, the wood bending almost to the point of snapping. Limbs screaming with the effort of holding back such a potential force, Xarhain made the final adjustments to his aim, before releasing the string from his fingertips. Xarhain's arrow burst from the longbow with an almighty twang, rocketing high into the air as the three elves and the man looked on.

The arrow sailed gracefully high through the air, shooting up the hill almost faster than the eye could follow. It looked as if it was off target, but suddenly it seemed to drift, pointing down towards the tree. The second it did so Xarhain's head snapped to the side, he could sense something again. He looked closely at Corzan; his eyes were glazed over, and he was muttering quietly under his breath. Xarhain looked back at his white fletched arrow, speeding through the air, and both elves and man stared in disbelief as the arrow cut straight through the centre of the unused nest, knocking it gently out of the tree, to fall down to the grass below.



unfinished.

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Son of the Land

The gentle tread of hooves against the loamy earth sounded en masse, a dull undertone beneath the quiet clatter and clink of steel armour as the procession of knights wound its way along the broad track, broken stones and bare mud pressing beneath the horses. An insubstantial rain fell half-heartedly from the leaden sky, slicking the battle-worn armour of the knights with grayish water as they plodded onwards, their slow course following the realm’s border.

Duke Alain of Morgause looked out across the green, hilly expanse of his fiefdom. Morgause was a wild country that bred fierce men – the first defence Lyonesse had against the sea, swathed with hills, pine-woods and unusable, moss-blanketed turf. It was a land that bred the hardiest of the Brettonians. A land that bred warriors.

However, it had been many years now since the last battle the aging Duke had fought, many years filled with petty skirmishes and the running-down of bandits. He felt an ache in his left elbow now from the cold – he had been living indoors too long. He sneered at himself beneath his helm – for the first time in years the greenskins gathered in force, and his old bones ached. Had he truly become such a pathetic, old man?

He might have aged, he thought, but the province had not. No other fiefdom in the realm, in the whole country, could field as fine a complement of warriors – ten score knights, rallied under his banner, ten score knights ready to ride and fight. His own sons – Phillipe, by his first wife Elena, and Gawaine by Melia, his second – it still hurt to think of Elena’s death – his own sons rode with him, Gawaine beside him and Phillipe in charge of the Errants of the dukedom. Gawaine had the honour of bearing Alain’s own standard, the banner of Morgause. The Prophetess Elodie had said it so – that the boy’s errantry task would be to carry the banner through a dozen victories – and the Duke was not one to deny the will of the lady. He touched at the pendant of the sacred Grail that hung around his neck and looked around at the white-clad Grail Knights behind his own guard – the Lady was with them. He had lived through four score battles and skirmishes along the borders of the realm, so why should he fear this?

He could not silence the voice at the back of his mind. Because you are old, it hissed. Because you are slack. The realm has gone on and you have faded – can you even remember how to swing your sword, old man?.

His thoughts were interrupted as a bugle call echoed over the next rise of the hills, fifteen of his squires galloping back towards the column – the enemy had been sighted. Roaring an order, Alain sent his knights cantering across the loose turf into their formations – he wondered at how hoarse and cracked his voice seemed to sound. Phillipe was drawing up the Errants on the far right, the Grail Knights taking place beside them – beyond that, towards him, rank after rank of his knights formed into brilliant formation, colours flashing in the dull light as horses tossed their heads and whinnied.

The lead squire galloped alongside the Duke, reining in his bucking, neighing draught-horse.
“How many?” growled Alain.
“Many, lord! They are pouring out of the valley – at least five warbands. It is no raid.”
“A battle indeed!” voiced Gawaine, by Alain’s side. The headstrong lad lifted the banner. “We shall show them not to trespass against the strength of Brettonia!”
Alain shifted uncomfortably inside his armour. The boy was brave, but brash. He hoped this first battle would beat that trait from him – he knew a boastful soldier to be intolerable.

He lifted his lance, and nodded to the squire. “Gather your men into groups of seven – harry their flanks. If they have brought their foul outriders, we will be in need of your bows.”
“Ay, sire!” Cold fire burning in his eyes, the squire turned and rode hard towards his men, shouting the order – was he one of those who had lost their homes to the initial assault of the green-pigs? He could no longer remember.

“Raise your banners!” he bellowed, his voice carrying down the line. Trumpets and bugles blasted, their stringent notes cutting the dull air – fanfares still blowing, the line of knights began to trot forwards, cresting the rise of the hill as their horses increased in pace. The banners began to swing up, brilliant streams of colour behind their dark, varnished banner-poles. The rhythmic clank of armour clashed in time down the line of battle, clattering like the beat of a terrible drum…

They crested the rise, the dim sunlight striking on their lance-tips – and stopped. The valley below was flooding with greenskins – huge mobs of orcs swarming from the trees on the other side, goblin slaves laying wooden bridges across the broad river as overseers lashed them on. Distant green figures pointed and exclaimed, the vague murmur of the orcs reaching the men atop the ridge. Unruly swarms of the greenskins began to congregate as bosses bullied them into line, weapons being grabbed or handed out amongst the horde.

At least five warbands – maybe six, seven even. He looked along his line – they seemed pitifully few in comparison to the greenskin army below.

****

Gawaine watched as his father rode sedately out ahead of the line, his slow movements a strange contrast to the frantic shapes of the goblins below, bringing more boards to bridge the river. Rain pattering harder off his armour now, the Duke turned to his troops, raising his lance to draw their eyes.

“Men!” shouted Alain. There was a long pause – an expectant pause. “They are orcs! Show no mercy!”

Swinging his horse, the veteran warrior pointed his lance towards the foe. “DEATH TO THE GREENSKINS!”. His cry was taken up by knight after knight as the line surged forwards around him, horses stamping and tossing their heads, a roaring roll of human voices booming down the valley. With an incoherent warcry, the duke lowered his lance and charged.

Formation after narrow formation of knights slammed after him, their horses picking up speed down the slope as hooves thundered against the wet earth, the clash and peal of armour mingling with the tumultuous beating of hooves into a solid wall of terrifying clamour. Ahead of them, the ford slashed white against the rocks it ran between – Phillipe and the Grail Knights swung out for one of the makeshift bridges the greenskins had constructed, the two formations changing direction in the blink of an eye as they pounded down the hill. A full two score knights rode with the duke as they hurtled towards the ford, more on the left pelting in a tide of unstoppable metal towards the many bridges before them. Lances were swinging down, the orcs bracing ahead – Gawaine could see their red eyes now, he could see their snarling, yellowed fangs…

With a simultaneous crash of water the knights plunged into the ford, their horses rearing as they were forced onwards. A huge figure stepped forwards from the centre of the orc line and raised a crude blade high over his head, bellowing a savage warcry – with a shout of “WAAAAAAAAAGHH!” the greenskins counter-charged, scrambling over the banks towards their foes. To the left and right, thundering Brettonian horse ploughed into the greenskins surging over the bridges, the tide of green flesh rising before the Duke’s own guard amidst a cloud of flying white water as the horses were forced into a clumsy charge. Gawaine hacked right and left with his sword, his left arm committed to holding the standard high – a dozen victories. He must hold it through a dozen victories.

Ahead of him, his father forged through the crowd, the din of battle masking the man’s shouts beneath the terrible clangour of metal as the knights battled towards their leader, broken lances discarded and swept away by the white water as they swung with swords at the orcs wallowing through the river. A hulking greenskin threw himself at Gawaine – wrenching his horse to one side in a cloud of spray, he swung around desperately with his sword, hacking half through the creature’s neck before his mount reared, flailing its hooves to dash out the brains of another green-pig beast. Three knights galloped past, foam flying from the thundering hooves of their horses – swords flashed as they sped past the embattled Duke, ripping his assailants from him. In more and more places, knights were cutting through the dense melee, reforming and driving the greenskins back. Alain’s cries of “Death!” could now be heard above the peals of metal, the Duke’s own sword of tempered steel gutting beast after beast.

There was a savage bellow to the left of the central guard as they finally gained the bank of the river, the swirling water behind them streaming black with orcish blood. Wheeling his horse, Gawaine cried aloud in horror as he saw a mob of heavily-armoured orcs, their skin unnaturally dark, charge towards the unprotected flank of the Brettonian warriors. Their leader, a ogreish being with a sodden fur cloak streaming out behind him, hit the line first – his massive, two-handed blade smashed a knight from his steed in a shriek of metal, bright blood exploding across the weapon’s rusted surface. More knights went down, clubs, flails and maces smashing horses’ legs and stoving in helms as the orcish elite crashed towards the Duke. More orcs were swarming into the fight on all sides – he could no longer see the rest of the army, only their banners flying high amidst a sea of green that surrounded them, trying to drive them back onto the bridges.

Gawaine strained forwards, his sword punching gracelessly through the visor of a crude helm and soaking his sword arm in black blood as the creature’s head was pierced. There was suddenly a dull, vibrating thud below him and his horse, screaming in pain, fell – its side ripped savagely open. The black orc that had felled him loomed like a black shadow, maul upraised –

A knight swung past, his sword describing a shining arc through the air towards the beast’s neck. There was a horrible tearing noise as the creature was decapitated – its headless corpse crashed to the sodden earth as its head spun grotesquely in the air, thudding against the long grass. Lifting the banner, Gawaine regained his feet, shouting for the knights to hold firm as they began to fight back.

Throwing himself into the fray on foot, he used the pole of the ancient standard to strike an armoured orc down, plunging his sword forwards to gut the vile creature before pulling it free once more. Swinging round, he cut another greenskin’s throat – the third’s club smashed against his cuirass, sending him stumbling back, off-balance as to his right a pair of knights were surrounded and unhorsed, their helms smashed in. He watched helplessly as the Warboss pushed past him, flailing wildly with his sword at the massive brute – it paid no attention. A blow of its massive blade dispatched a knight in a gruesome spray of gore – striding forwards, it confronted the Duke.

Alain turned as the beast’s savage challenge rang out, the sounds of the fight seeming to dim around him. Spurring his horse on, he rode to meet it – Gawaine watched as the sword arced up, spinning above the Brettonian lord’s head before flashing down as Alain thundered into his foe. Amazingly the greenskin’s weapon was there, blocking the lightning blow and forcing it aside – with a cry of glee the great creature reversed its swing and buried its heavy blade in the neck of Alain’s horse, pitching the dying beast over with the force of the blow as it twitched and screamed, half-decapitated, on the ground. Alain scrambled upright – the Duke raised his shield as a blow of massive strength smashed into it, rending the metal in two and buckling it like crumpled paper.

The Brettonian threw his useless shield aside as he ducked the next blow, a fragment of gilt flying from his crest as the swooping blade caught it a glancing blow. Crying out, Gawaine tried to force his way towards his father, but three of the armoured greenskins barred his way – a swinging axe ripped open his pauldron, crimson blood pouring from his slashed shoulder. Kicking out, he cried out for aid.

Alain circled the massive orc, ducking two successive swings before lunging forwards. He caught the predictable return blow of the Warboss on his own sword, holding the steel blade in both hands to prevent it being wrenched from his grip as the two weapons smashed together. Pulling his own aside in a grating scrape of iron, he swung upwards and brought it down with all his force on the orc’s helm – the pot-iron crumpled, but failed to break. Dazed, the great greenskin stumbled – overcoming his shock at the monster’s refusal to die, Alain hurled himself forwards once more, lunging below the great beast’s reach to strike up at its chest. To his left, he saw the standard begin to fall out of the corner of his eye – turning, he saw Gawaine steadying it once more as he dispatched the last of his foes, coming to the aid of his father with an incoherent cry.

It was the last thing Alain saw. The massive blade of the black orc swung round, crashing before Gawaine’s eyes into the small of his father’s back – the boy saw armour rend and tear, chain links shattering and flying from the impact as red blood gouted from the wound, spewing over the shorn steel of the Duke’s cuirass. The crude sword continued its terrible course, ripping through flesh and bone with equal ease before burying itself halfway through the war-leader’s stomach. His spine severed, Alain fell to his knees as the orc loomed over him, a hand reaching spasmodically out towards his son – the Warboss kicked him from behind, knocking the man onto his face in the mire – dead.

Gawaine screamed a hoarse cry of denial, swinging his sword up and dropping the standard as he hurled himself upon the orc. With a dismissive grunt the great beast whirled and slammed the pommel of its massive blade into the visor of the young knight’s helm with a shriek of crumpling metal as his sword swung round, batting aside the Brettonian’s blade with one armoured limb as if it were a gnat’s bite. Lifting one hobnailed boot, it stamped down on Gawaine’s arm, forcing the half-conscious knight to release his blade as bones cracked under its weight.. It loomed over the prone form of its victim’s son, a guttural chuckle spilled from its lips as it raised its sword for another kill…

There was a sudden clamour of cries behind it, and the huge Warboss turned. Black orcs and other greenskins were fleeing as a knightly charge smashed into them from behind – Phillipe and the Grail Knights had fought clear of the melee, coming around and charging back in from the rear of the Greenskin line. Gawaine gave a croaking cheer as he saw the banner of his half-brother’s Knights Errant surge forwards through the mass, the charging lance of knights cutting through the green-pigs with terrible force. With a growl, the Warboss turned to be rid of its prone foe, raising its sword once again –

Behind it, the mob of Black Orcs fled, the Errants coming through in a looming mass of thundering horses. Phillipe’s lance swung down – before the great Warboss could even turn the shining tip of bloodied steel ripped through his chest from behind, a great spurt of black blood spraying from the lethal wound. A roar of dying agony tearing from its throat, the beast crumpled and fell, sprawling across their father’s body with a ringing crash of armour.

Reining in his horse, Phillipe swung himself down from the saddle and drew his sword, hacking off the beast’s head. Lifting it high in one steel gauntlet, he screamed “Your leader has fallen!”. He cast his eyes around – seeing the fallen standard, he grabbed it and lifted it high, swinging himself back onto his horse. “YOUR LEADER HAS FALLEN!” he bellowed, lifting standard and orc head above his crested helm. “YOUR LORD IS DEAD!”

Gradually, the greenskins began to turn, looking wherever they were unengaged towards the grisly trophy in Phillipe’s hand. The surviving black orcs were scrambling away, moaning in fear at their invincible leader’s demise – the goblins were already turning to run. With a collective roar of anger, the knights pressed forwards with all their energy, seven score of Brettonian warriors slamming back into their foes. Across the field, the orcs began to break – squeals and shrieks of fear rang up from their massed ranks as they dispersed and scattered. The knights came surging between them, running them to ground – the retreat became a rout, flight from their merciless, steel foes. No longer mired in melee, the knights charged after them, captured totems and standards of the orcs being lifted high above the surviving riders – the day was won. Gawaine allowed himself to smile behind his crumpled iron mask before darkness closed in, his pain-wracked consciousness flying into blessed sleep…


***

The stone hall was gravely silent – the only noise the soft, reverent pad of feet as the coffin was borne up the aisle between the pews of mourners. The Prophetess Elodie stood at the altar of the great church as Alain’s coffin was laid upon it – lifting one hand over it, she uttered a few words of quiet blessing. Two knights took the wooden casket sadly up and descended the steps into the crypt as the congregation – every knight and peasant of the fiefdom who could cram into the hall – spoke the words of remembrance, their hushed voices filling the great edifice with echoes.

Elodie looked up as the stone slab was pulled back into place over the crypt entrance. She moved forwards to address the gathering – looking around, she could see the two brothers standing in the front row, Gawaine’s arm and head bound with bandages, the broken limb hung in a sling. Many of the noble warriors bore similar wounds.

“People of the domain – we have lost much, and gained much. We have lost lives on the field of battle – and we have lost our lord. Let the Lady rest his soul.”

A murmured chorus of agreement.

“But we have gained the expulsion of the horde, which has razed three of our villages, from our fair lands. We have gained the death of their foul warlord. And we have gained a new lord to replace the old. Phillipe, as eldest son of your father, you must take the responsibility of the fiefdom.”

Phillipe looked up from his thoughts.

“Step forwards.”

The man stepped forwards and knelt.

“Repeat this with me…”

Gawaine watched in wonderment as the damsel began to intone the vow of the Realm Knight, his brother echoing her words in a reverent tone. Slowly, realization crept over him – he had let the banner fall. This was an honour that would be denied him.

As the last words of the vow drew to a close, Gawaine started to hear his own name:

“Now I call forth Gawaine, second son of Alain and half-brother of Duke Phillipe. Step forwards, Gawaine.”
He stepped forwards, humble, head bowed.
“I let the banner fall, milady.”
“You dropped the banner, Gawaine. You dropped the banner to avenge your father, facing his murderer. You faced down a warlord of the orcs. Repeat this with me:”
Gawaine stared up at her for a moment in shock – then his stammering lips found the words as he echoed the damsel’s repetition of the vow.

“When the clarion call is sounded…

I will ride out and fight in the name of liege and Lady…

Whilst I draw breath the lands bequeathed…

Unto me will remain untainted by evil…

Honour is all. Chivalry is all.”

The vow drew to a close. Gawaine looked up.

Elodie smiled. “You swear to fight for liege and Lady, Gawaine of Morgause. Do not forget what that means.”
”Never, milady. I swear it.”
She laughed.
“You already have, Gawaine.” Turning, she looked at Phillipe – Gawaine’s brother stepped forwards once more, lifting the recaptured standard.
“Gawaine, for your bravery on the field of battle, for your courage against our father’s foe, I give you this.” He handed over the banner. “You are bearer of the standard of Morgause from this day forth, until you or I should fall.”
”Ay, my lord.”
“It is ‘Ay, brother,’ Gawaine. Please.”
“Ay – brother.”
Gawaine looked up. He had always been distant from Phillipe – different mothers and a war-duke for a father did not make for close friends. But he had never disliked him – his own half-brother, barely more than an acquaintance. Looking up into Phillipe’s eyes, he saw the glint of steel he remembered flashing in the eye of his father – his living, younger father – and knew the land lived as strongly in Alain's son as it had done in the man himself.



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Duke Phillipe was already buckling on his gauntlets when a squire burst into the room, shocked to find the war-leader fully armoured – Duke for only three months, and already he had the instincts and insight of all those who had come before.

“I saw the smoke,” spoke the knight, curtly. “What has happened?”
“Alberon is burning, sire!”
“Who?” roared Phillipe, catching up his sword and buckling it on. “Who has attacked? I know very well which village lies where in my domain, man.”
“I – I’m not sure – he seemed like a man of the Empire – but they were dead – all of them – dead!”
“Speak clearly, boy, or not at all.”
“A – A pale man, on a horse – like a noble of the foreigners – and a host of men in their foreign uniforms – black and white, with rusted halberds and spears – and they were dead men, sire! Dead men walking – I shall never forget it. Lady preserve me…”
Phillipe held up a hand for silence, and nodded slowly. His great helm already obscuring his features, he turned with a clank of armour and strode to the window, calling for his men to be ready. Snatching up his lance, he muttered a farewell to the peasant before dodging past him, descending the spiral staircase of the keep’s tower in a hurried clattering of metal on stone.

The squire looked around nervously for a moment before daring to look out of the window – looking down into the courtyard, he saw a force of knights and outriders assembled, the Duke pushing open the door below him and making for his horse as the famous Banner-Bearer, Gawaine, mounted up to join the knights. Clambering into the saddle, Phillipe rode to the head of the column, the word “Alberon!” volleying from beneath his helm. He turned and kicked his horse into action as the portcullis ground upwards ahead of him, the great mass of knights surging after him in a galloping column – the sound of their hooves on the cobbles was like thunder, the roaring clatter filling the peasant’s ears. There was a final boom as the hooves faded, the portcullis having dropped shut.

The squire realized he was in the duke’s room and scurried out, running onto the wall of the keep. Leaning over the heavy, granite battlements, he watched the riders gallop away along the road, towards the distant plume of smoke, their banners rising in brilliant flashes of colour over the slight cloud of dust that rose behind them. In the distance, the village burned.

****

Phillipe’s heart beat unevenly in his chest as his horse galloped on beneath him. He was afraid now as he had never been afraid before – for all the new Duke had always shown on the outside, for all his apparent imperturbability, the thought of the living dead terrified him. He rode without the deadly Grail Knights, with only the quickest force he could muster, to face an unknown, deathly foe. His first command of a battle – not the one he would have chosen.

He cast his eyes around, seeing the battalions of knights spreading into their formations to either side of the road, forming a line of speeding horses. He brought three score of riders with him – he only hoped that this fraction of the fiefdom’s force would suffice.

He shook his thoughts into order. Fear had no place here, nor his unreasoning apprehension of facing this enemy. He must set an example to the men who rode with him – and then there was no more time for thoughts. The black cloud of smoke was closer now, for they had been riding hard, riding for at least an hour – battle would be upon them.

Gawaine brought his horse up alongside his half-brother, the man’s voice shouting hoarsely over the thunderous advance of the knights around him.
“Who has done this, brother?”
“Evil men from the East. Fear not – we shall drive them back. They shall pay.”
“Ay, brother. They shall pay in blood.”

Ahead of them, the ridge they were ascending reached its crest, the line of knights spreading into a single rank as they tore towards the highest point of the hill. The sky was lowering and dark – clouds seemed to build unnaturally overhead, obscuring the sun. Banners held high, the line of riders reached the crest of the ridge…

Before them the village was a smouldering, blackened wreck, its position atop a low rise making it stand out against the slate-grey sky. The charred skeletons of houses stood stark in the darkness of the clouds, hellishly lit by the fires that still blazed in their roofs – the Duke thought he could make out dark figures moving between the buildings. Dark woods stretched away like a carpet of pine-trunks behind the dead settlement, a deathly silence pervading the scene.

“Form the battalions!” bellowed Gawaine, turning and riding along the line. “Form up! Form up!”
Horses whinnying in nervous fear, the knights brought themselves into their familiar flying columns, reassuring themselves on the grip of their lances as they saw black, loping shapes detach from the mass around the village, coming over the rough ground on their right towards them. Mounted squires strung their bows, a few warning shots driving the lupine monsters back – they were barely more than shadows in the dark shroud of the sun-blotting clouds.

A mournful howl went up from the village – a piteous, sobbing scream cutting the air before the howls went up again, sounds of savage slaughter pervading the cold air. The knights stood silent, their banners limp and tangled around the ancient spear-hafts that bore them. Muttering a ward against evil under his breath, Phillipe rode forwards, hefting his lance in his right hand. Turning his horse, he faced his men.

“The foulest abomination to the Lady walks here. I know not how this dark mageling has come to our borders, but I tell you this: his presence will not be tolerated! The dark one comes to murder our sons! To defile the resting places of our fathers! We greet him with the gift he seeks to deliver unto us – we greet him with final death.”
Phillipe paused.
“No man must shirk at a dead face. No man must allow his courage to falter. Bring rest to his slaves – bring death to the man! Bring death!”
A muttering, rising roar of assent came from the squadrons of knights, Gawaine riding to the head of his regiment as he raised the sacred standard of the fiefdom. Overhead the clouds rippled and broke – sunlight streamed down, striking off the steel and bright cloth of the Brettonian force in a shining aurora of light. The white grail on the surface of Gawaine’s banner seemed to shine with an unearthly light, the age-worn cloth rippling despite the lack of wind.

Phillipe saw the things in the village begin to move together. Spurring his horse forward into a rising trot, he pointed his lance towards the enemy, his warriors following as he picked up speed. “THE LADY SHINES UPON US! DESTROY HER FOES!”
“FOR THE LADY!”
With that cry, the force launched itself forwards into the charge, crashing armour, clinking harness and thundering hoofbeats mingling into the familiar roar of the knightly charge. Wolves howled in response – silent regiments of uniformed figures were forming up before the hurtling knights, taking position at the edge of the village’s raised ground as dashing wolves sped towards the yeomen who cantered at the flanks of the thundering knights.

As Gawaine’s regiment pounded forwards on the right flank, a figure stepped forwards from the line of the dead – raising its hand, it bellowed an inaudible sequence of words. There was a rumbling crash as the ground before the standard bearer’s knights crumbled and caved – mouldering corpses burst forth, skeletons with scraps of desiccated flesh hanging from their yellowed bones that threw themselves upon the horse-soldiers. Screaming, rearing horses were driven back as the dead things clawed forwards, bringing a knight down under the weight of the press – then Gawaine rallied his men, charging into the skeletons before him. The dead things collapsed and broke apart beneath the force of the Brettonian counter attack – but the standard’s guard now lagged behind the rest of the army by a great way, even the yeomen who were by now diverging to deal with their lupine foes. Arrows whined and cut the air before the peasants put away their bows – hefting hunting spears, they urged their draught-horses on towards the slavering wolves, half-terrified cries of anger on their lips.

Phillipe had no more time to survey the tide of the battle – the ranks of dead men, the decayed halberdiers of the distant Empire, loomed ahead. Things carrying what might once have been crossbows lurched forwards, swinging their rotted, wooden weapons like clubs at the cavalry that hurtled towards them, filling the vision of dead, yellow eyes and darkly glowing eye-sockets…

There was a clatter of metal as the front rank of the dead braced, the screaming knights of Brettonia lancing home. Spears shattered, shields shook as the formations of armoured riders ploughed into their undead foes, broken, rotten bodies flying into the air with the force of the impact as the slow regiments of the dead were smashed apart. Halberds swung too slow as swords were drawn – breaking rusted weapons’ heads from their worm-ridden hafts, the knights forged into the press, battle-hymns upon their lips. Still the corpses pressed on – at the front of the attack Phillipe’s sword, his father’s deadly blade, slashed and hummed through the air, taking undead monsters apart with every swing. His horse reared – its hooves smashed the yellowed skull of a skeletal warrior as the Duke turned and hacked down at his side, cleaving a pus-leaking zombie in two. They fought like automata – predictable, gracelessly but relentlessly, never abating in their menacing press. Their ranks were thinning – surely the knights could not be held much longer. Was this all the dark ones had thrown forth to hold them?

Having cleared a space about him, the Duke snatched a look back across the pressing ranks of knights – on the right flank, Gawaine’s knights had brought around to bear, the standard streaming at their head as they plunged into the mass of undead soldiery with a splintering crash of breaking corpses. On the right, the squires were regrouping over the corpses of their comrades and the wolves they had slain – on the left, blood-stained wolves were loping forwards over the fallen bodies of horses and men, picking up speed towards the unsuspecting peasants on the right.

There was an unholy howl from up ahead, and Phillipe’s head whipped round. Storming down the central road of the village came a group of armoured dead, ancient, wicked blades flaring with a dark blue light in their gauntleted hands. Surging into the melee, they crashed into the knights – their swords seemed to cut armour like a hot knife through ice, ripping heads from shoulders in sprays of bright blood. In the centre of the loose mass of warriors, a dark being strode.

He seemed a man – a pale-faced man, his black cloak billowing out behind him as he drew a sword of dull, unreflective metal, its edge honed to a fine point. For a second, the gazes of the two leaders crossed each other – and locked. The man’s eyes were red.

“Gawaine! Come to our aid! Take them to hell!” screamed Phillipe, swinging his sword up as he spurred his horse towards the dark lord. With a hiss, the pale figure raised its own blade, striding forth to meet him. The Duke thundered closer, looming, sword screaming in a silvered arc above his helm…

The vampire caught the descending blade on the edge of his sword, battering Phillipe’s blow aside and reaching forwards with its free hand to catch the horse of his foe. Holding it by the neck, the creature swung his arm up in a bellow of exertion, using massive strength and the beast’s own momentum to send it flying into the air, hooves flailing. Horse and rider crashed to the ground, flattening several of the vampire’s Wight guard in their skidding landing.

Phillipe staggered upright, his sword held wavering before his blurred eyes. His horse was dead – its neck broken, and as his vision cleared he saw the vampire striding towards him, sword upraised. With a hoarse, incoherent shout of rage the Duke hurled himself forwards, battering aside the monster’s blade and striking out at the creature’s unprotected chest. There was a flash of quicksilver movement and the vampire had stopped the blow, was clutching the blade in his hand – smiling laconically, it wrenched the sword from Phillipe’s grip and kicked forwards, sending the half-dazed Brettonian skidding once more, now weaponless, to the floor. Tossing the Duke’s sword into the air, it caught it by the handle and advanced, both blades held high.

Gawaine’s riders broke through. Twenty voices roared in unison as they crashed into the flank of the Wights – the vampire threw itself to one side as a knight’s lance nearly spitted it. Scrambling upright, the Duke grabbed his dropped sword and raised it high, seizing a horse whose rider had been slain and vaulting onto the saddle. Keeping the sword high above his head so his men could see he lived, he screamed “Kill them! KILL THEM!” Behind the furious melee there was a sudden volley of cries, and the whipping noise of arrows cutting the air, volleying towards the now-charging wolves. Dropping their bows, the peasants took up their spears and counter-charged, the two groups of outriders slamming together. Wolves reared and snapped their jaws at the throats of the horses – three went down immediately, the screaming steeds crushing their riders as the jaws of the beasts locked around their bloody necks. Fighting back, the humans began to make headway against the undead hounds, their spears ripping leaping wolves along their bellies or cracking down the back of mouldering skulls.

The Wights were retreating now, pulling out as they raised their shields to deflect the blows of the knights. Rain was beginning to fall from the sky – rain that soaked the churned ground into a mire, mud that tangled horses’ hooves and spattered barding brown as wind blew in their faces, the tattered banners streaming out in its force. Behind them the wolves howled mournfully and pulled away, the half-dead peasants thanking their gods for salvation – the thought of pursuing these enemies that even the elements aided did not cross their minds.

“We cannot let him escape!” roared Phillipe as the dead vanished into the pall of thickening rain. “Gawaine – remain here with the standard, and the peasants – keep your men – the rest of you with me! Scatter into the forest, hunt his minions and him down!”

With these words the Duke spurred his borrowed horse on, thundering off into the rain. The knights swarmed after him, formation lost as they cantered towards the forest, swords drawn.

There was a crashing of fallen branches and a steady rustle of leaves as the knights entered the gloom of the woods, their horses slowing in fright before being beaten on to speed. Phillipe had vanished into the gloom, he and his party of knights disappearing between the trees – more and more groups were separating, plunging into the shadows to vanish from sight. Bugle calls echoed through the woods to keep the force together, as they had done time and again in pursuit of greenskin raiders or human bandits.

The knights spread and faded into the gloom. The leaves pattered and hissed beneath the rain.

****

Phillipe’s horse gave a frightened whinny as it paced across the dry leaves of the forest floor, slowed now to a walk to avoid collision with the dense trees. The Duke and his riders were following the remains of a broken track –half an hour or an hour back down its course they had seen prints. In the distance, bugle calls could still vaguely be heard… vaguely. Bugle calls? Or howls… wolves crying out in the darkness of the trees…

There was a sudden snarl on the right of the track and two dozen twisted beings launched themselves from the dark, gnarled bushes, clubs and crude blades flashing. They seemed half-human – clad in rags and with twisted, bestial features they were pale and emaciated, a frenzy born of desperate hunger shining in their black eyes. Shouting men swung back with swords and horses reared, but the ghouls did not care – darting between the confused knights they hacked and slashed, hamstringing mounts and bringing riders down to be stabbed between the joints of their armour. A knight fell, two, three – two remained protecting Phillipe, their swords hacking three ghouls down in as many seconds. Riding forwards, Phillipe smashed into the pack as the penultimate knight was swarmed. The sword of the Dukes of Morgause screamed through the air – its shining path spurted red with blood as it wreaked bloody carnage among the twisted beings. Whimpering and squealing in fear, they fled, vanishing into the darkness once more.

Phillipe turned in his saddle. His last knight had been unhorsed – both of them were almost unrecognisable as knights of Leoncouer, their shining armour and bright tabards obscured with filth and blood.
“Stay here,” commanded Phillipe, “I shall return.” Sword in hand, he spurred his horse on to a gallop as the track widened ahead, seeing fresh tracks in its damp mud.

He thundered between the trees, his voice screaming out a lonely challenge. The track curved ahead – then another curve, and another, his horse slowing and crying out as it nearly struck the trees. Spurring on down another plain track of mud, he reined his mount violently in as the track stopped – ahead of him, looming through the grey mist of raindrops, was the black bulk of a shrine to the Lady. A mirror-like, rippling lake spread out behind it, spread to the limit of his sight in the dark shroud of the rainstorm.

He dismounted, hesitated and stepped forwards, rainwater coursing down his armour in rivulets as he knelt in the mud before the shrine, clasping his hands in fervent prayer.
“Lady, protect me… lead me to my foe –“
His prayer was cut off as the cold, accented voice of a foreign noble sounded behind him. Wheeling, he saw the black-cloaked figure, barely more than a blur in the rain.
“Your faith can’t save you, Brettonian. Do you really believe the gods care for men?”
“You have no gods, monster. Do not speak of what you know naught.”
There was an angry snort, and the vampire stepped into vision. The pale man’s greyish-white hair was bedraggled and soaked, eyes flaring red in the dim light. His fine clothes were soiled and ripped – his boots were battered and caked in mud. For all its arrogance, this creature had fled.
“I am of the house of Carstein, boy. I have walked with gods. I live as a god. And I tell you, we care nothing for men!”
The vampire stepped forwards, two swift strides – its blade swung up like a flash of silver in the gloom. Its impact ripped a scrape of reflective metal across the surface of Phillipe’s shield – battering the shield forwards the human drove the blade to one side, stepping back again.
“You say you are of the house of Carstein! You have the name of a man, ‘god’.”
The vampire’s face remained impassive in response to the Duke’s taunt, and he lunged again – the corpse-lord’s sword slashing inches from Phillipe’s neck as he stumbled backwards. Roaring the name of the lady, the knight pitched himself back into the fight – he turned as he hurtled into his foe, bringing his shield up to take the reversed blow of the vampire’s sword before kicking out with his steel-clad foot, knocking the monster off-balance. With a triumphant cry he swung his sword forwards, the heavy blade clashing with the tempered steel of the vampire’s weapon. The peal of striking steel sang out twice more before Phillipe rammed the pointed base of his shield forwards into the dead man’s face, sending him stumbling back as blood ran from his broken brow. Battering aside the creature’s weakly defending sword, he screamed the name of the Lady as he rammed his sword forwards, point-first, impaling the vampire’s gut.

The vampire regained his balance and looked groggily down at the sword running him through, its blood-slick tip protruding from his back. Smiling, he lifted his face to look at the horrified Brettonian and spread its hands wide, smiling evilly –

- Moving too fast to be true, the Von Carstein grabbed the hilt of Phillipe’s sword, wrenching the blade from his belly in a spray of blood before lunging and stabbing down overarm, punching the point of the knight’s own weapon through his shoulder. Blood ran down over the battered and filthy armour, Phillipe staggering backwards in pain as the vampire grinned, twisted the sword and pulled it free. A backhand blow battered the Duke back towards the edge of the lake, armour clattering as it barely withstood the force of the hacking stroke.

“What were you trying to achieve, boy? You come here alone to face me down…” The vampire strode towards the swaying knight, Phillipe’s bloody sword clutched in the corpse-lord’s pale hand. “You never stood a chance.”
He could see the madness in its eyes.
“You wish to know what I came here for?” he managed to cough, straightening up. “What I am trying to do?”
”Humour me. It’s not as if you have another option. Why have you followed me? What do you hope you can do to one such as I?”
Phillipe paused, shifting a foot into a more stable position. He looked up, looked straight into the red eyes of the monster.
“This.”
With a cry, he lunged forwards, seizing up the black-clad creature around his waist and turning on his braced foot. Crying out, the vampire slashed wildly at his arm, ripping open armour and forearm alike in a shower of blood – but Phillipe bit down the pain, hurling the vampire with all his strength. The creature’s scream chilled his blood as the vampire sailed through the air, crashing into the mirror-like water of the lake. As it struggled to remain afloat a howling wind scattered the raindrops around the sacred pool, the golden symbol of the Grail atop the shrine burning with a holy radiance as the gale stirred the millpond-flat waters into swirling, circling waves…

The rough water around the vampire began to boil, his piteous screams rising to an inhuman shriek of deathly agony. Brilliant, white light broiled forth from his open, screaming mouth, his eyes – his clothes caught into blinding fire beneath the surface of the water, his flesh running and melting. A circular wave of white fire slammed forth across the surface of the water, crumbling black dust falling from the skeletal frame of the dying corpse-lord. With a final, echoing scream he blew out, particles of flaming charcoal dust slashing across the surface of the water before sinking and dying, their brilliant fire still glowing painfully on the back of Phillipe’s eyelids. Blinking stupidly, he stumbled, half-falling into the water, his vision dimming as he felt the true pain of his wounds, the adrenalin ebbing. His blood swirled in the swirling, calming lake water - he was dying. As his sword began to sink beneath the surface, he reached out almost automatically: his gauntleted hand grabbed it by the blade, bringing it, slick and clean, into the air once more.

Phillipe suddenly looked down, amazed – his forearm’s wound had healed, cleansed and mended by the touch of the blessed water. He felt a tingling in his shoulder as a bluish mist began to rise around him, cloaking him in curling tendrils of fog – the bloody wound closed over, the mud and muck crumbling from his armour as condensation dripped and ran across its surface. Looking up, he saw a vague shape coalescing before him – the spectral outline of a woman, two eyes of piercing blue staring into his soul.
Thou art Phillipe of Morgause
“Ay, lady,” mumbled the knight in wonder, falling to one knee in a splash of water.
Thou hast slain a great foe of my people, Phillipe of Morgause. Thou hast risked thy life in my service.
“As I have sworn, lady.”
Drink from this, Phillipe
He had not drunk since he set out – for four or five hours, for the course of the battle. When he was wounded, it had seemed a trifling hardship – now he gladly drank, draining the water from the chalice he was offered. He felt a strange feeling came over him – he looked down at the cup in his hands.
Let the Duke of Morgause never forget his loyalty. You are the Lady’s own, now…
The figure faded, and with her the mist, and the Grail.

***

Gawaine watched anxiously as the sun began to set behind the hills, the hourly bugle call of the camp sounding again. Behind him, the peasants and knights were heaping their enemies’ horrid bodies in funeral pyres, but the stench of those already burning was not what troubled him. Most of the groups had returned now – most had returned on hearing the calls of his trumpeter, calling them back. Phillipe alone now had not. It had been three hours since the last group had returned, bedraggled and frustrated – but alive.

There was a sudden cry of joy to his left – wheeling round, he thrust the standard into the hands of a nearby knight and ran towards the road as he saw the Duke come riding out, an unhorsed, battered knight riding behind him on the single horse they had between them. Phillipe was different – for one thing his armour shone as if new-polished, clean of the grime of the battle. But there was something else – an aura of power seemed to exude from the man as he dismounted, helping his comrade down.

“Brother, I am glad to see you!” exclaimed Gawaine.
“And I you.” There was something new in Phillipe’s voice – it rang like a clear bell, quiet but commanding.
“You are changed – you are different! What has happened?”
“I am Phillipe of Morgause, Gawaine. Your brother.”
Alberic, commander of the second regiment of Realm Knights, knelt as realisation dawned. He murmured reverently. “Ay, sire. And Knight of the Grail.”
Gawaine stepped back, amazed. Phillipe raised his metal-clad hands, crying “No – please! None of you kneel. Gawaine, I am your brother still. Alberic, I still remain your comrade in arms. Think nothing more of me.”
He looked up at the growing funeral pyres.
“The vampire?” asked Gawaine.
“He is dead. Come,” Phillipe said, gesturing towards the mounds of bodies, “There is work to be done.”

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OK, apparently there's a limit on the number of words, and I've exceeded it. So what I'll do is just type a name for each following chapter of the story, and you can read the new instalments at the link below

Chapter 3: Foreign Intrusion
Chapter 4: A Captive's Treachery
Chapter 5: Endeavour Rewarded
Chapter 6: The Storm Breaks


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The Darkness of Kin

‘You are entering the memories of a High elf, or one who once was one of us. There are those who now debate his alignment, but this search is done for you to judge for yourself. These memories are read by magic, ensorcelled by the most powerful telepath in the White tower, Nadiatesya, his wife. These memories start at the age of sixteen, for earlier than that, we cannot be certain of their accuracy. We fear no lies for a potent truth spell has been laid upon them both. His trial has been made public to satisfy the people of Asur that justice has indeed been served. This man stands accused under many charges, among which are treason, murder, rape, blasphemy, association with our dark brethren, succumbing to evil thoughts, succumbing to evil deeds, bloodshed of the innocent, disregard of Asurian lives, corruption of brothers, wilful torture, disregard of the Phoenix King’s orders, all of which punishable with death. All lesser crimes will be disregarded for the aspects of this trial. Each charge will be evaluated separately, by a vote of the people, majority decides guilty or innocence.’
-High Justice of the Asur

Sytharion Daranan

* * *

It was a night like any other. The stars shone bright in the ebony that was night. Their camp rested peacefully. There had been an abnormal rate of Druchii raids of late, however, they would not dare attack on so pure a night. The camp would be gone in the morning, as there had been rumour of skirmishes further east. There were hushed voices suggesting that the Shadow Warriors were amassing. The resurgence of Druchii could not be countered by the little bands they now had. If anyone was to have a chance, it would be together. Too many were dying, and the Phoenix king would have no more of it. They had been pressing hard, barely enough time to forage as they ran east. This was the first night they had dared set up camp in over a fortnight. It had been a heated debate whether they could afford to stop tonight. More of the fact was that they could not afford not to. The children were run rugged with fatigue, and the women, so thin from lack of nourishment could not support their children. Those over ten were to fend for themselves. The men were out hunting, or scouting, or fighting. It seemed that all they could do was die now…. I was almost asleep while thinking of what I could do for my mother, and my younger bothers. I had two, and they were both dying, between fatigue and malnourishment, I didn’t know which would claim them first. If they could make it another week, they would be at the camp, and all would be all right. I must not think that they look to be dead by tomorrow. Mother always tells me to focus on the positive, always look to the future when the present seems bleak. That’s why she says she’s still alive. When she was young, the Druchii captured her in a raid. For no explained reason she was taken alive. She was held for close to fifty years, with nothing. No clothes, little food, minimal water. They beat her fiercely… I must keep calm. I may hate them, but do not let it cloud my vision…. She kept herself alive by thinking of the future, of the son she may one day have, of the life she may one day live. Hope for the best; expect the worst. She is alive now, although barely, may she be granted many years of happiness for what she has suffered.

My eyes were closing again, finally. I had a plan for my family, a plan that could work. I am a good hunter after all, and I could likely feed my family by myself, if everyone else didn’t keep taking my game. I hunt with a dagger, for an arrow can pierce the insides of the game, making them toxic and inedible. A dagger gave you more control, and a quick slice across the throat of any herbivore will never spoil the meat. If I went out now, in the cover of night, with no one else with me, I might just be able to get the meat back to my family without it being distributed amongst the whole tribe…. That’s the only way I could do it. If we had one good meal, of wild game, roasted on the pit, then we could make it to the camp, alive…. The matter was settled, and I crawled out from under the blankets. Wearing nothing but my hunting knife, I left my tent, hoping no one would wake… so far, so good. No one stirred, all driven to deep unconsciousness by the trails of the last few weeks; now to slip past the scouts. At least some good comes from all these hardships, as this would normally be an impossible task, especially for one as young as myself, but the scouts themselves were mostly asleep. One slow step after another, eyes kept sharp for anyone or anything, friend, or foe, for if I could slip by, so could anyone else. Perhaps it was the hours of trying to sleep that prevented my adventure from ending almost before it began, for I could see a little better in the bright night, my eyes having been shut. There was a scout, cunningly positioned high in the branches of a nearby tree, keeping a sharp eye and ear out for anything that moved. I was able to sneak behind another tent as I made my way farther from camp, and closer to the salvation of my family. Blood was rushing through my veins, for the hardest part was over, the rest was child’s play. I have learned something while hunting with the elders though, wild game can smell rushing blood, and malintent, trying to hunt now would bring no luck, and only further risk of being caught. Needing the time to calm down anyway, I decided to make a small fire pit, on which to cook the meat, once caught, and gather the tinder while calming my mind. It would be a long night, but it would keep my family alive, and that’s all that mattered, especially with father dead. With the fire pit made, it was time for me to head to the stream, as that was the best place to find game at this time of night, though I may have predatory company, I needed to take the chance. I found the prefect shrub, and hankered down, prepared for a long wait.

There wasn’t much to do while hunting except think, and wait. Waiting was one of my strong points, though thinking wasn’t, yet. I have many years ahead of me, and I want to get things done right. Hunting and battle are much more important than poetry and art, as poems will not keep you alive. Although, the elders did say that the long hours spent hunting are ideal for deep meditations, as long as you can keep the blood flowing through your veins. I chuckled, recalling one of my first hunting excursions, about two years ago, long before I knew what keeping blood in your extremities meant. I found out the hard way, when after we went to collect the meat for skinning, I couldn’t get up and walk. I panicked, thinking I had inadvertently broken my back and would never be able to walk again. The others laughed good-naturedly at me while poking my legs from a safe distance, as my arms whirled wildly trying to keep them away. As per normal, the feeling came back, though rather uncomfortably among all the movement caused by the other’s harassing me. When I could finally stand again, I gave a couple of them a good run as I chased them down, while the others laughed even harder. Ah yes, the old good times. Well, I might as well try to think of a poem, I mean there was nothing but the moon to keep me company now… and they all say that it takes trials to write good poetry. There were too many of those these days….

The moon looks down upon the world
Like the orb of an indifferent god
Not knowing or caring about those he sees

The moon reflects of the waters
As laughter reflects off the souls of friends
But the laughter is cold as the waters below

The moon lights my way
Showing me the path I take
Though no one cares if I walk it or not

The moon travels slowly, lonely
Across the endless skies
Not knowing the love of family

The moon cries softly, emptily
For no one cares where he goes
There is only darkness for him to fill

The moon looks down upon the world
Knowing what was, and seeing what is
No one caring or knowing about him….

The silence seemed deeper, and I noticed that I was losing feeling to my limbs, distracted as I was from the moon…. I never really noticed it before, so lonely; a simple nomad, just like myself…. And then it was there, the game I needed to save my life, walking from behind, on it’s way to the stream. Perfect, I thought, now I just have to kill it before the wolves beat me to it. Must… wait… for the precise moment… at which to… there! Wasting no more time, I leapt from the shrubs, focusing all my energy to my legs, for the stag was tall, and I was in full crouch. As anticipated, the stag reacted instantly, diving away from the brush. It a moment of horror, I realised I may, in my inexperience misgauged the distance to the stag’s back, counting in the distance he could get from me. Precious split seconds in the air finally ended with me atop the stag’s back, holding on for dear life…. I thought it was all about to end, yet again, as out of desperation I drove the hunting dagger home, deep between the vertebrae in the beast’s neck, rendering its legs useless. The stag fell heavily to the ground, the precious spark of life leaving its eyes. His death will help us to live, I knew, so it was not in vain. I must learn not to kill for the pleasure of the hunt, but out of necessity, to keep the fragile balance of elves and nature in harmony…. I stood in the moonlight, the blood glinting off my dagger, panting, not only with the exertion of the recent hunt, but out of desperation. It was almost dawn; the others would be waking soon…. I must hurry if I am to succeed! The kill was done, the fire pit ready, and now it was time to get my family….

I edged my way back to the camp, fully aware that there would be more awake now then when I had left. I remembered the tree where the scout had been cleverly positioned before I left, and crept close, seeing if he was still there. He sure was, and sleeping even! Now was the time to test my true stealth, if I could sneak underneath a sleeping scout, I would indeed have bragging rights. So I hugged the ground, and moved slowly… quietly…. I was underneath him when I thought my fun was over. I felt a tap on my shoulder, so I froze, not knowing what, or who, it was. It came again, not so much a tap as a drip… a drip of what? I turned on my back slowly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious dripping. With my eyes fully focused, I realised where I was… right under the sleeping scout; only, he wasn’t sleeping. He was dead. Perched in the tree, right were I left him, however, this time there was an arrow lodged in his chest, a Druchii arrow….

I panicked and got hastily to my feet. I had ran only a few yard towards my tent when rational thought finally kicked in. If the scout was dead, where were the Druchii? They never left with only one dead, and with the band weakened like this…. I returned to my slinking, fearing the worst, hoping the best; after all, I had heard no sounds of fighting, and someone was bound to have seen them and alerted the rest. I was desperate to know my family was safe, so I crept ever closer. I just needed to get close enough to see the tent, and I would be okay. My breath finally left my chest when I saw a shadowed figure just outside my tent, just as I was about to get to my feet and ask how everything was, I noticed that his cloak hung much differently than our typical woollen mantle. It seemed heavier, thicker, and somehow much darker… that of a shade. Blood rushed back through my body, and I could once again feel my heart beating in my ears. Keep calm, and this would be an easy kill. They thought they had everyone here, as they likely had easy work with the perimeter scouts, much as I had. I wanted him alive though, for a quick death was deserving of wild game, the Druchii were much less than animals. Unsheathing my hunting dagger, noticing the blood of the stag that I had neglected to wipe off, I thought about where the knife would one again drink. I got to my feet, although this time my intent was much less than a ‘parley.’ Keeping my eyes wide, to ensure the same fate would not be my fate, I snuck silently in behind the guarding elf. I knew that I had to stop a warning scream while incapacitating him, so, needing to draw blood, I decided on the next best course of action, short of knocking him out. Dagger drawn, I swung my cloak up and around the elf’s face, lodging my forearm between his teeth, muffling a scream while my blade was buried solidly in the hapless form’s lower back, making his legs useless, but keeping him alive none the less. The stag’s blood mingled with that of the elf in an odd fashion, with streaks forming odd patterns on the knife as the thinner blood ran down crevices in the thicker. Within seconds he was unconscious with the pain, and I was off to stalk more prey. I would work my way over to my tent, hoping against hope that my family would still be alive. There was only one other between my tent and I, and I caved to the orthodoxy of the simple butt of the dagger to the base of the skull, saving my creativity for later. The tent was intact, although, this could always be as much of a good sign as a bad one. The coast was clear, and I headed for my tent, preparing for he worst, hoping for the best. They were alive, or dead, and that’s all that mattered. Lifting the flap to the tent, my shock almost cost me my life…. They were dead; no not just dead, they were butchered. This could not have been the work of anyone with a soul, or a appreciation for the living. It was, none the less, a calculated procedure. My brothers were ripped from neck to navel, with no recognisable body parts in between. Their throats were ripped wide open, revealing the spinal chord in the back, completely exposed. Their ribcage was torn open, leaving their lungs and internals exposed. Both were missing their hearts. The pure hearts of my bothers were no longer in their chests to pump life-giving blood to their arms, legs, fingers toes, and minds. Whoever had their heart’s now would have no use for them, even though it was doubtable the thieves had a heart in the first place, especially no heart as precious as these…. The rest of their bodies were mangled likewise. With intestinal tracks strewn about, tossed aside as though they had no worth. But they did! They were essential for life, my family’s life, my life! How could any thing have such a disregard for the sacredness of life? It was then that I noticed him, standing in the corner, watching me. A smile came to him slowly as I looked at him….
“This is your family, I presume.” The voice was cordial enough, but it’s tone bit to the bone with icy coolness, chilling me with indifference. I thought of the best way to respond, a thousand vile remarks springing forth. I finally settled on, “Yes.”
“It would please you then, to know that they died well. No wailing for mercy, no pleading for their lives, no snivelling and grovelling that the rest of your tribe did. They took their deaths well. Though you may want to thank your bothers for letting me know that there was one not there. They looked for you, and looked relieved you were safe. I, of course, had to wait for you, for I didn’t want you to live such a lonely life without your family, for it is rare to find caring Shadow warriors. You were lucky in life, you know, to have such a loving family, not too many get the love you did. Then again, love is only necessary to those weak in spirit. This is why your entire race will one day perish, only the strong survive.” Seeming to fulfill his desire for meaningless drivel, the dark-elf lunged before I had time to call him a coward and a liar.
Immediately the training my father gave me sprang to mind, called on by a desire to save myself, to help my family, even in their death. The dark tent seemed to tense with the apprehension of yet another noble death; the short sword was precise in aim, predicting the typical movements of a young warrior, designed to catch him where he was going to be, and not where he was. This was not my day to die, and I was no young warrior; I was my father’s son, and knew very well what was my expected was to be. Knowing that the blade was likely poisoned, as is the fancy of our dark kin, I chose to let him know I was no ordinary fighter. I fell to my back, and buried my feet in his chest, and his miscalculated jab missed by a sizable margin. Indeed, I had foreseen right, for the steel glinted softly off the moonlight that filtered in. The coating was not blood, for none of your blood was to think and dark a colour. Heaving my assailant over my head, I scrambled to my feet. I needed time to calculate, for rushing to kill a veteran shade was certain death. Besides, I wanted him to live; he would pay for the crimes against my family. The voice of my father drifted through my ears, whispering the philosophies of the movements. Combat was not about your skill in arms, the purpose of combat was to challenge wits. This is where I knew I could succeed; the dark elves were always taught to fight with their weapon, that a warrior was only as good as his weakest tool. Fortunately for me, they forgot to consider their mind as a tool, and more as a superfluous organ that kept them breathing. This is what would keep me alive; this and my hunting knife, and the thoughts of my slaughtered family.
We circled each other for what seemed like an eternity. He was gauging my fighting ability, and I his mind. His paces were fluid, methodical, but without purpose. He thought only of killing, and this would be his demise. I adopted the weeping willow fighting stance, for within this consciousness, I could evade a killing intent. My mind melded with my purpose, and his, I then truly started the battle of wits. He sneered, seeing what he thought were obvious holes in my defence. This is where his mind would have saved his life, had he but realised these holes were their to bait, for they were the easiest to respond to. He approached quickly, bringing the blade hard over his head, with a strength and speed that could never be parried; but parrying was not what I needed. His eyes went wide, as my body bent in a way he had not seen, weak as his mind was. The bending allowed a quick posture change, and I was hugging the ground behind him, staring at a vulnerable hamstring. Snip. The knife drew the blood and thirsted for more, the dark elf screamed as his leg lost all function. I will give him credit, his will is strong, for he is still on his feet.

(for those of you who are orcs you may find this selection offensive)
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:lizard: Lizzardmen Clan Texil :lizard:

"WAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" came the Orcish battlecry from across the frozen tundra.
The rumbling of the charging feet echoed loudly in the ears of the Lizzardmen. The savage barking of orders from their leader, Texil-Garr prepared them for the carnage that would soon follow. This Scar Veteran was far from ordinary, while he had the same body as a normal saurus (with the exception of his muscular physique) but instead of normal legs he had a salamander's body, he, or better yet "it" was a salamender-centaur, the subject of hideous warping by the forces of chaos. He looked over his troops, they wore animal skins, and scraps of orcish armor that they had scavanged from the orcish settlements they had sacked. Texil-Garr signaled a charge with the wave of his huge orcish choppa. The first to move were the Cold One-centaurs (mutated saurus much like himself) they were followed by the saurus, then the stegadon, laden with polar bear skins and scraps of metal armor.

to be continued

Prince Enkil's Prologue- At the time of Enkil's birth, Enkils father, Eleskil. a noble of Nagarythe and cousin of Malekith (through Morathi) was protesting Malekith's return to the throne knowing of Malekith's true intentions for the isle of Ulthuan since he was blessed by Isha with preminitions. As tentions flared, Eleskil sent word to the Pheonix King and made arrangements for Enkil and his mother to be escorted to Eataine by a body guard of Swordmasters to dwell in the court of the Pheonix King.The night before Enkil and his mother were to leave, the court of Malekith ordered the execution of Eleskil and his family. Enkil was told to hide using the family heirloom , the amulet of Likil which was used to make its wearer ethreal.Soon after black cloaked soldiers knocked down the door and Enkil watched in hateful silence as his father was murdered and his mother raped and killed.Soon after the guard of Swordmasters arrived and took Enkil. As Enkil was rushed off he only took his fathers duel blades of Gildor Hel, to Lothern where he was trained By the Pheonix Kings' combat aids and he became a masterful swordsman and warrior.

Enkil became as skillful a tactian as he was a warrior. Enkil's unit of spearmen, The Black Dragons rose to the forefront of the Pheonix Kings' army, leading many devastating charges against all who would taint Ulthuan's shores. After the last bit of their dark kin were dispatched from Ulthuan, Enkil moved back to what was left of his ancestral home in the Shadowlands and the Pheonix King crowned him Prince of the Shadowlands and promoted him to general of the 3rd army. The Pheonix Kings' reason for choosing Enkil as succesor to the throne of Nagarythe, was simply this that since the majority of the court of Nagarythe was killed or exiled from Ulthuan, it was Enkil's birth right since he was the closest in blood line to Malekith to take up the Princeship and it was also to re-establish a true high elf presence in the area .

The ancient Lizardmen city of Ux-Mal is a subject of legend among the denizens of Lustria. Originally said to have been located somewhere in the steaming jungles between Pahuax and Tlanxla, Ux-Mal is thought to have been lost during the fall. The city’s ruins, however, have never been found. Only a select few Skinks and some of the venerable Slann Mage-Priests known the truth. Recently, however, a group of Lizardmen claiming to be denizens of Ux-Mal have been seen roaming the jungles of Lustria. Now, the truth about the fate of Ux-Mal is finally coming to light . . .

THE FALL

When the polar warp gates collapsed, unceasing tides of daemons swept across the world. The Slann and their Lizardmen subjects became besieged in their own temple-cities as daemons poured through Lustria. Ux-Mal was no exception: the city’s resident Slann, Xlantec, and his hosts of Saurus fought ferociously to fight off the daemonic invaders. For a hundred days and a hundred nights, the daemons hurled themselves against Ux-Mal’s magical barriers, uncaring of their losses. Eventually, the barriers were breached, and it fell to the Saurus warriors to battle the daemons in the city’s streets.
Lord Xlantec knew that, unless the daemons were stopped quickly, Ux-Mal would perish. Thus, he drew up all of his power to invoke a single, mighty spell that would save the city from destruction. Utilizing the Eye of Quetzl, a sacred artifact passed down from the Old Ones, For a week, the Lizardmen defenders tried to keep the daemons at bay while Lord Xlantec summoned up the power necessary for the spell. Finally, just as the last of the Lizardmen were about to make a final stand at the base of Xlantec’s pyramid, the Slann unleashed the spell.
A massive tidal wave of searing white light surged out from Xlantec, washing over the city and incinerating any daemon it touched. The wave carried on outside the city, destroying all daemons within a hundred miles and cleansing the landscape of the Chaotic taint.
So it was that Ux-Mal had been spared. However, Xlantec, having used up most of his power in the spell, was so weakened that he passed into a deep, comatose sleep. The Saurus at the base of the temple, too, were put into a coma by the effects of the spell. The only ones who weren’t affected were a select group of Skinks: Xlantec knew that the spell would rob him of his energy, and so entrusted Ux-Mal’s remaining Skinks to watch over the city in his absence.
The effects of the spell itself was massive: Ux-Mal was placed under a permanent ward that would destroy any daemon that entered, and keep the city hidden under a magical illusion. In the process, however, Ux-Mal’s spawning pools for the Saurus were severely affected, and were left unable to produce new Saurus. So it was that the Skinks of Ux-Mal placed Xlantec and the remaining Saurus in special protective chambers that would preserve them over the ages. Hence, for millennia, the Skinks have watched over the hidden city, ensuring that it is kept hidden from mortal eyes.


THE AWAKENING

Recently, a Ara-kor, a Scar-Veteran kept in preservation, has awakened from his slumber. Likewise, the Saurus spawning pools are slowly beginning to produce life once more. The Skinks believe this to be a sign that the Old Ones wish for the spell to be lifted, so that the hosts of Ux-Mal may fought the spread of Chaos once more. The Skink Priest Tlacepotl believes that the key to lifting the spell and awakening Lord Xlantec lies in the Eye of Quetzl. The Eye, however, was destroyed when the spell was unleashed, and its fragments were flung war across the globe. So it is that Ara-kor and the Skinks of Ux-Mal have started to search for these shards, in the hope of awakening Lord Xlantec once more . . .




Note: the few working spawning-pools, and the Lizardmen slwoly awakening from stasis, represents how my army is slowly building up unit by unit. The shards if the Eye of Quetzl will actually have an effect game-wise: at the start of each battle, an enemy character is holding a shard on a certain D6 roll. I will have to kill this character in order to get the shard. Once I gain 8 or 10 shards (haven't decided which yet), I will be able to field a Slann Mage-Priest.

I wrote the history of my army in three chapters:

THE WHITE KNIGHT
The Fall of Blancastel
The Fortress of Doom
The Cursed City


For those who are too lazy to read it all, I have a summary here.


The Count Robert of Bastonne was born in Bretonnia twenty-five years ago in a rich family that lived in Blancastel, a white castle in the middle of a beautiful valley to the north of the Massif Orcal. His father the Count Richard, a Knight of the Grail, taught him how to fight, and his mother, the Lady Allariàn, a High Elf from Ulthuan, taught him to read and write. The young Robert was only twelve when his father disappeared during a raid against Greenskins in the Orc-infested Massif Orcal. The boy, overwhelmed with sorrow and anger, took his sword and went in the mountains to find his father and, if he was dead, avenge him. He searched the barren hills and rocky valleys for two entire months, slaying on his way dozens of Orcs and Goblins without succeeding to find the Count Richard. He was finally found by the Fay Enchantress, the herald of the Lady of the Lake, and brought back to the castle, where he continued his military training. He became the Count of Blancastel when he reached sixteen, the age when a young Bretonnian is considered an adult. Robert, being a half-Elf, is tall and slim and wears no beard. He has shining hair of the purest white and blue eyes that darken when he's angry. He has a white armor, a white cape, mounts a white Elven stallion and wields a powerful two-handed sword.
[Note: This part of the story isn't written in the long version of my army's background.]

The standard bearer of the Red Crusade, the Baron Xavier of Aquitaine, comes from the bottom of the society and is one of the few peasants to have ever become a knight. When he was nine, his parents were slain before his eyes by brigands armed with bows, and since that day he hates all ranged weapons. He lived as a young travelling thief, honing his combat skills by fighting wolves and bandits, until he was fifteen, when he saved the daughter of one of Robert's knights from the Night Goblins. The Count was so impressed by the boy's fighting skills that he named it knight errant. Such was Xavier's talent with the sword that he soon became standard bearer even though he's only seventeen. Xavier is a bit more muscular than Robert. He's a handsome young man with long, wavy brown hair and grey eyes.

The Lady Allariàn is Robert's mother. Born in Lothern, on Ulthuan, she learned that arts of magic at Saphery. She went to live in Bretonnia after her first husband was killed by Dark Elves. She married the Count Richard and became an important character in all Bastonne because of her wisdom. She is kin with Aenarion, the greatest High Elven hero, even though the bloodline isn't direct.

The most important part of Robert's history was when a lord of Khorne called Skardrek, followed by a huge army of Chaos warriors and daemons, attacked Bastonne during the great invasion called Storm of Chaos. When he reached the valley of Blancastel, he offered Robert a choice: if the knight chose to surrender, his people and his land would be spared. Being a Bretonnian, the Count obviously refused and fought. His army was heroic this day, but it wasn't enough, and they were defeated. To punish Robert of his resistance, Skardrek had all the towns burned and most inhabitants slaughtered in the name of Khorne. When the young paladin woke up after the battle (he had only been stunned by a blunt weapon), he saw what his arrogance had done and decided to begin his quest for the Grail, the only way for a Bretonnian to have his honor back. He gathered the survivors of the battle, pursued the host of Chaos, attacked them at night at their camp and slew them all, except Skardrek who somehow managed to escape the massacre. Then Robert vowed to fight evil as long as he would be alive. Bitter and full of hate because of the loss of his land, he took with him the army that now called itself the Red Crusade and began his quest for the Grail.

The Lady of the Lake, goddess of Bretonnia, sent to Robert the young Lady Caroline, a beautiful damsel, to help him in his quest. The White Knight and his Red Crusade are still on their great war against evil and will not stop until Bretonnia is rid of the influence of Chaos.