The Neutral Zone, a pub of Tilea, was surely the only place of its kind in all of the Old World and maybe in all the world. It was a stone building located in the most rotten part of the city. It was part brewery, part inn. It had been built half a century ago, but while everything around was changing, not the Neutral Zone. Its name told all there was to tell: the pub was a place where no one attacked each other, except for the occasional brawl. But what was so special was that every civilized race was there. In a dark corner of the room, a bunch of suspicious-looking Imperials were arguing with a vampire. At another table, a hooded figure was trading Sigmar-knows-what with a renegade Druchii pirate. A Kislevite clad in bear fur and wolf leather was trying to invite a beautiful Bretonnian damsel to drink with him. In the very bottom of the room, a battle-scarred Dwarf slayer was drinking an impressive amount of ale while discussing with his friend, a young man with blond hair and the accent of Altdorf.

It was sunset in Tilea. It was the hour when real life began in the Neutral Zone Pub. The barman and owner of the pub was an old man with a sly gaze. Everyone called him Old Fred. He was busy this night, serving tankard after tankard of his excellent homemade ale. He even had a few of the famous brewer Bugman's ale in reserve, but its cost was obviously exorbitant. Meals were also served. They came from everywhere in the Old World: spicy and almost raw meat as Dwarfs like it, deer and rabbits from the forest of Gisoreux in Bretonnia, roots of spiky plants living in the Badlands (goblins were fond of them, even though they were far too hard for most other races to chew) and fish for the Norse barbarians. There was of everything in the Neutral Zone of Tilea.

The night had almost completely covered the sky of the Old World when the Bard came into the pub. As usual, he had his hood put on his head, hiding most of his face. His robes were grey and dirty from a long walk. On his left hip was his sword, which reminded brigands that not all poets and storytellers were easy pickings. When the tall and lean man entered the dark room lit only by candles and lamps, all conversations stopped. The Bard, event though no one knew his name, was well known in all of the Old World, mainly in the sinisters places like the Neutral Zone.
"Good evening, brothers," he muttered with a faint smile on the thin lips of his unshaven face. "I'm tired of my travel. First, I need something to drink. And to eat."

The mood in the Zone brightened noticeably. The Bard was a very popular fellow pretty much everywhere he went. No one knew his name, no one knew where he came from, no one knew how old he was, yet it didn't matter at all. He was just the Bard, and nobody cared about anything else. He was known as a storyteller, a merchant, a singer, and even as a wizard and a warrior. He had a lot of knowledge about everything that lived and that didn't. He could cure most diseases with the herbs he carried in his leather pouch, wield his sword with a surprising speed and strength despite his frail-looking frame, make any wild bird eat in his hands within half a minute, communicate with the wolves, play lute, make even Orcs weep when he told sad stories to his listeners, speak over forty languages from all over the world and divine the future only by "reading" in the clouds and in the flight of a butterfly.

The Bard got his meal and his ale in a blink. Old Fred never made him pay a penny: the entertainment the hooded man brought with him was enough of a pay. The Bard, however, gave the barman a little silver coin for a tankard of the famous Bugman Golden XX. While he ate, no conversation started again. Everyone silently waited for the Bard to finish his meal, for no one wanted to miss a single word of his tale. To tease them, the man in the grey robes took all his time. Finally, he ate a part of apple and cinnamon pie from Nuln, the best in the world, and put his empty tankard back on the wooden table. He looked all around the room, finally seeming to notice the various people of the Neutral Zone expectantly waiting for him to begin his tale.

He had a sly smile and said:
"So what kind of tale do you want me to tell you tonight? Something funny? Sad? An epic? A love story? Anything."
"Some Elven story," one said. "The story of Aenarion, and Malekith, and…"
The Dwarf slayer, a big red-bearded guy who was called Gotrek Gurnisson, snorted with disgust and said:
"None of that. Let's speak about the battle of Karaz-a-Karak. Or some other bloody tale."
"Why?" one objected. "Isn't there enough violence in the real world? I want to hear something funny. I'm in a mood to laugh tonight."
The Druchii pirate and the Dwarf slayer frowned in disapproval. Soon, everyone in the pub was requesting his favorite story. The Bard raised his hand and the entire room felt silent.
"I have a tale," he muttered, "that I have not told anyone yet. It will be your privilege to be the first people in the world to hear it. I haven't heard it myself yet."
"How could that be?" one asked.
"I'll invent it. Each time I'll pronounce a sentence, I won't know yet what will be the next. But I hope it will be interesting."

Everyone went nearer. Old Fred stopped washing his tankards, some travellers forgot their meal, and even Gotrek the Dwarf slayer put his tankard back on the table to listen carefully. It was funny to see all those tough-looking or suspicious individuals suddenly waiting for a tale.
"This story," the Bard said, "I will call it the Unnamed Tale, since I don't know yet what will happen in it. All I can say is that there will be blood, love, humor, adventure and mystery. I'll try to include characters of as many races as possible, to satisfy every one of you. I could continue the story until I have no more inspiration, but it might take a year or two to reach that point, so I'll settle to make it last for a few hours."
The crowd cheered.
"What're ye waitin' for?" a voice shouted. "Begin now!"
Everyone agreed.

The Bard put his hood off, revealing his head. He had sly grey eyes and brown hair, and he looked about forty-five years old. His face was lean and looked like a fox's. Smiling, the man drank from the tankard the barman had just brought him and began his tale.





Notice: I don't know yet myself what I will write next, just like the Bard. But don't worry, I'll soon continue the tale. Unlike "The White Knight" (my army's background), this story will not be about Bretonnia, but about all the Warhammer world. Feel free to comment.

"If there is one man cursed beyond all the others in this world, it must be the one called the Stranger. Some would call him the Traveller, or the Man With No Shade. But his names do not matter, for no one really knows him. He has no friends, no family, no homeland. Yet he is everywhere and nowhere. He is ancient, very ancient, but his body is not old. He has seen war, love, hate and despair. He has too many names to count them on the fingers of both hands, which is strange since no one knows who he is. Just like me. But if there is one name that would fit him well, it would be the Unknown Legend. I already hear you ask: "How could a legend be unknown?". Let me enough time to explain.

As you all know, we all have a fate decided for millenias by the Old Ones themselves. It is said that one cannot escape what the Gods have chosen for him. You die at the very second when They decided it. Yet there is one man, and only one, who has ever managed to trick Fate. No one knows what was his name before, for his past has been erased from the mind of everyone, even himself. He was born in the Empire a few decades ago. We do not know, nor do we care, where exactly he grew up, and when. We are not much interested in such futile details. But what is important is that the event that made the balance of Fate sway happened when the man who was to become the Stranger was thirty years old.

It all began when the man was chosen to be part of the Imperial army because as many soldiers as possible were needed to fight a Skaven invasion coming from the Dark Lands. Our guy was part of a scouting party of twenty men that was sent a few days ahead of the rest of the army. But in the mountains, at night, they were ambushed by a warband of foul ratmen and were forced to fight. They repelled their opponent, the Skaven being cowardly as we all know. But our man, even though he didn't know it, had been infected by a disease, like all the other men of his regiment. They were forced to get back to the main camp because of this. When they reached it, the few remaining men were almost dying. During the night, their souls finally left our world.

A little before morning, our man, who was sweating and panting and knew that he would never see the sun rising over him again, had a dream. He saw the Death coming to him, wielding a huge scythe covered with the blood of his companions who had died of the same disease this night. The Death, a hideous grin on its horrid mouth, raised its blade to strike him. But the man gathered what little strength he had left, rolled aside and avoided the blow. Then he woke up. He was still sick, but he wasn't dying anymore. He fought disease for maybe hours, maybe days, but most likely centuries. Finally the sickness left him and he got up on his feet. He got out of the tent where he was sleeping and saw that everyone was dead.

Then he looked down at his feet and saw that he didn't have a shade. Astonished by this dreadful discovery, he ran to a nearby river to wash his face and be sure that he wasn't dreaming and realized that he had no reflection in the water. And so began the curse of the poor man, who had become the Stranger. He wandered around the world for years and realized that no one recalled him. He met his friends, his parents and his brother, but he was now unknown to them all. Time passed and had no effect on the man's body. And still he had no shade. He slowly began to realize the truth: Fate had forgotten him. He was considered as dead now, for he had escaped Death even though he shouldn't have. He was still alive, but he was not much. He had no past, no present and no future. He had no friends and no parents. He was alive, but unknown. Even the Gods thought him dead.

He understood the full meaning of it the day when he bravely saved an entire village from the assault of a Troll. His sword at hand, he faced the dreadful beast and slew it after an heroic fight. The inhabitants of the little town were more than grateful, and the Stranger was a hero… for a day. For when he woke up in the inn of the village, everyone had forgotten his bravery. He had become, once again, an unknown man among so many others. He was desperate and his only desire was to die. It was so unfair. How could Fate forget someone?"


Everyone was silent in the Neutral Zone. All, from the Dwarf Gotrek to the Dark Elf, the Kislevite and the vampire, awaited for the Bard to continue his tale.
"More ale first," the Bard commanded. "I'm thirsty."
Old Fred scurried to the kitchen and came back with a gigantic tankard of icy Bugman's Forge, the strongest ale existing. The Bard smiled and began drinking slowly, pretending not to notice everyone gesturing at him to continue his story. He finally put and end to the torture.


"Time has come to introduce another character to our story. And like the Stranger, or to be more precise, like all our characters, he is an outcast too. I speak here of the young Kereldin. A Dark Elf or Druchii, as you must have guessed by the name. And I say young because he was only twelve years old when his life changed forever. He lived in Naggarond at the time. This cursed city is known to be the place from where Malekith the Witch King plots his raids against all the races of the world. But there were a few families in the kingdom of Naggaroth, the Land of Chill, who hated Malekith and refused to pledge allegiance to him. When they were found, they were tortured and slain. Kereldin's parents were of those who fought the Witch King in the highest secrecy. And they were found.

Kereldin and his family were captured by the Witch Elves and brought to one of the most cruel torturers of all of Naggaroth, who began flaying them alive one by one. He and his helpers tortured the father, the mother and the big brother for hours before killing them and putting their heads on poles. And the young Kereldin witnessed it all, his wrists tied up to the ceiling. And finally it was his turn to live the same torments. But what no one (not even the young Druchii) knew was that he had already great powers and was able to cast spells of Dark Magic by instinct alone, without even being instructed. People like that are extremely rare (hardly more than half a dozen a century), but the boy was one of them. He felt a strong power grow within him as he was whipped by the torturer (as an introduction before beginning the real "job"). And combined to the endless hatred and sorrow of seeing his only family tortured and killed before him, he finally managed to unleash his dreadful powers against those he hated so much.

No one knows what happened next, but a few hours later, Kereldin came out of the dark building where his parents had been tortured. He was covered with blood, but it wasn't his. His yellow eyes still burned with hate, but he had a satisfied grin. He looked surprisingly dangerous for a twelve-years-old boy.
"Did you kill them all?" a passer-by asked, impressed.
The boy thought for a moment, then said with a wicked smile:
"I think a few of them were still breathing when I left."
The other Dark Elf thought better not to ask what Kereldin had done to them.

The boy had to quit Naggaroth as soon as possible, for he knew that if the Witch King put his hands on him, he would envy the torturer and his helpers, who themselves had not long ago envied Kereldin's parents. So he hid himself in the hold of a raiding ship that was about to attack the Old World. He managed to stay unseen for the four long and uncomfortable weeks of travel. And while the pirates were sacking and destroying Marienburg, in the Empire, he got out of the ship and went to hide in the Drakwald forest, where he lived for a year in the little wooden shack he had built. He didn't know what he would do after, but for now he was content to live in the woods and kill on sight all travellers with his bow to satiate his hate of all living things. So there he dwelt, and soon humans and Beastmen alike were afraid to come in the part of the forest where the one they called the Prince of Drakwald lived."


The Bard took a pause and drank a little. The other customers were obviously interested, especially the renegade Druchii who seemed to like the young Kereldin, and the Dwarf who, like all those of his race, was fond of stories of revenge and bloody justice.
"But those stories are completely different," the old fur-clad Kislevite said, scratching his beard. "What could happen for the two characters you've introduced to meet?"
"Be patient," the Bard said, wiping his mouth. "I'm coming to it. But I have a third character to add."
Everyone came closer as the Bard continued the Unnamed Tale.

"To meet our third character, we have to go far away to the East, to the World's Edge Mountains. Under their dark peaks dwell the Dwarves, and even though they are no more the highest race in all the Old World, they are still able to forge good blades and brew excellent ale. And more than anything, they are unmatched for creating all sorts of machines using powder. One of the best of them is the old engineer Mordrok Hammerson. As far as I know, he still lives in his dark dusty forge on a lonely and rocky mountain. If you meet him, you'll recognize him easily: he's a big Dwarf with a long white beard and leather clothes who always looks mad with the way he mutters at himself all day long.

Mordrok is a real genius of the powder and has created dozens of kinds of cannons, hand guns, pistols and rifles. Unfortunately for him, there was corruption in the Engineers Guild, and somehow, the inventions he had patented were attributed to an arrogant and extremely rich rival. When the old Mordrok had had enough of this injustice, he went to live far away from his race to create his weapons in secret. Now, he lived in a cave lit only by a few torches, where it was too light, too dark, too hot and too cold at the same time, but it is what most Dwarves are used to. Mordrok's pride was his rifle Thunderbolt, a powerful and superb handgun made out of oak, steel and gold. This unequalled weapon was powered by the old engineer's own special powder and could shoot four times before reloading. Its accuracy was terrifying and its range was impressive. The gun had a good scope on top of it. One day, Mordrok had defended with this gun alone his forge against an assault of Goblins.

This morning of spring, the old engineer was in a good mood for the first time in years. He had decided to go to Nuln, in the Empire, to see what kind of things humans invented. He had heard about a great exhibition in the Imperial city, the greatest for half a century, where hundreds of engineers introduced their newest inventions. He couldn't miss this show: even though some arrogant Dwarves thought the human cannons and guns ridiculous, Mordrok knew that the men of the Empire were never to be underestimated. He had to keep an eye on them to make sure that they didn't go anywhere near of the Dwarven level for engineering. He had decided to leave this very morning. It was only dawn, and already Mordrok was on his way. He had taken a few of his own inventions to compare to the men's, and maybe also to patent one or two and be sure that he wouldn't live the same injustice as the one he had lived at the Engineers Guild. He had with him his Thunderbolt Rifle, his miniature pistol (the smallest ever made) that he could hide in his sleeve, a little bomb of his making that had an original system of countdown that didn't require fire to ignite, and two bags of his special black powder.

Being a Dwarf, he of course also needed a little barrel of ale, his battle axe, his armorer's hammer and his personal book of grudges (the one at the first page being against the Engineers Guild). He was happy this day. Dwarves are not travellers, but Mordrok Hammerson knew that the beginning of an adventure was always fun. But even though he didn't know it, the rest of the said adventure wouldn't be so much fun. He wasn't aware that the next time he would come back to his forge, his life would be changed forever by what he would have lived."


The Bard took another long drink of his ale.
"I'll take water now," he said to Old Fred. "You guys sure don't want me to become too drunk to speak coherently before this tale is over."
When he had his tankard of fresh water at hand, he said:
"Our characters are all there. Let's begin the true story."
So he began the true story.


"The Stranger swang his sword in another deadly arc and slew two more Beastmen. The forest became calm again. All around it was quiet, but the man knew that the barbaric mutants were not far. According to what he had learned by asking the villagers, their tribe wasn't very far to the East. He was in the Forest of Drakwald, searching the place where the shaman Khordrull and his horde lived. The tribe of beastmen had attacked the little Imperial town of Heitmitz not long ago and had captured a sixteen-years-old girl. The Stranger was on his way to go free her before dusk, when the gors usually sacrificed their victims to the blood-thirsty Khorne.

The man was fighting evil and participating in battles for decades (even though his body didn't get older since Fate had forgotten him). His objective was to have some influence in the order of events so the Gods would realize that he was still alive. By the time he was living all kinds of adventures, the Stranger was surprised that he hadn't got killed yet, but after all it was normal since Fate thought that he was already dead… It could mean (the man shuddered at this thought) that he would never die and would have to go through this cursed life for the eternity. But this time, he hoped that he could change Fate and free the young girl so he could be back in the great scheme of the Old Ones.

It was late afternoon. The Stranger didn't have much time left. Luckily he found a trail with footprints. Footprints of hooves. It was the good track. The man walked for a few minutes and met four beastmen on his way. He killed them all easily. He was about to assault an entire tribe of gors, but he didn't fear the fight: since he was already dead to the eyes of the Gods, he wouldn't be slain today. Nor tomorrow. He wouldn't die in all his life. Unless he managed to change Fate. He finally found the village of the herd. It was a circle of shacks made out of logs and decorated with skulls and skins. In the center was a sacrificial altar and a big fire. Thirty beastmen of various kinds were there. Among them was the shaman Khordrull, a very old beast with white fur and yellowish horns. He was holding a wicked-looking curved knife that seemed to have the exact form and size to fit an human's throat. On the altar, a beautiful young girl with long brown hair and terrified eyes was bound.

"Khorne," the shaman chanted, "Master of Blood, Skulls and Violence, feed yourself with the sacrifice of a virgin. Accept our offer, and may your hand bless us humble servants of Chaos."
While the entire tribe was busy chanting in an unknown language, the Stranger walked in the village. He didn't run, nor scream like a savage. His face was as hard, cold and immobile as stone and his eyes that didn't blink burned with anger and hate. With his blood-stained blade, he slew five beastmen before they were aware of his presence. Some warped mutants jumped on him to stop him, but he killed them all. Soon he was in the center of the village and all the tribe was trying to rip him with claw and spear. The Stranger repelled them with swings of the sword that seemed more annoyed than frantic. He didn't even look at his opponents when he brought them down. His gaze was set on the old shaman.

Khordrull didn't notice the man until they were ten feet away from each other. The beast looked surprised. He raised his knife to fight and tried to slash his enemy. The Stranger, calm and amazingly confident, didn't even dodge. The blow just missed. Then the man gave a thrust of his blade and the shaman was impaled, his foaming mouth agape. He fell on the ground in his own blood. More beastmen, wanting to avenge their shaman, assaulted the lone man, who fought with no passion and no rage but with an implacable efficiency. Soon the entire tribe lay dead. And the Stranger didn't have a single scratch.

The young girl bound on the altar still looked terrified. With a single swift move of his sword, the man freed her. When the girl got back on his feet, she almost fainted with relief.
"Thank you so much," she muttered. "You were heroic. I've never seen a warrior like you."
Her voice was soft, beautiful and, above all, extremely grateful. She truly seemed to admire the Stranger as a true hero. But after all, he wasn't: to be a hero, you have to risk your life to save another. And the man didn't risk his life, since Death wouldn't even take him back. Still, he was happy that someone would finally remember him all his life.
"Let's go," the Stranger said. "We don't want to be in the forest after nightfall.
They got out of the village of the beatmen and walked in the woods. Even in twilight, the young girl seemed to know her way, but it was obvious that they couldn't be back at Heitmitz before night. They looked for a place to sleep in safety.
"I think there's a river over there," the Stranger said. "It'll be a suitable place."
If there were light, he would have seen the girl's face become ashen.
"We can't," she murmured, trembling. "It's the forbidden territory. The zone where the Prince of Drakwald lives and hunts."
"The what?"
"The Prince of Drakwald. That's the name we give to the man or the thing that lives there. No one who comes near ever comes back. You may be able to fight beadtmen easily, but the Prince is an archer. He or it can kill the both of us before your hand reaches the hilt of your sword."
"Okay then. Let's find some other place."

They finally found a little cave in a big rock. They talked for an hour and, despite the fact that the Stranger was physically two times older than the girl (and, actually, four or five times older even though his body was young), they fell in love. The man later remembered to have kissed her before they slept. But when they woke up in the morning, the girl said:
"What am I doing here?"
"Don't you recall?" the Stranger said, surprised. "You had been taken by the beastmen. I have saved you."
"Oh, I remember the shaman now. But… did you really save me? Is it a joke?"
She sounded skeptical. Then the man felt an immense frustration when he understood. The girl had forgotten that he had rescued her after he slew thirty beastmen! Now, she didn't have the loving and admiring voice she had yesterday. She spoke to him as we speak to a mere… stranger. It was so unfair! How could the Gods be so cruel to him? He had saved a beautiful young girl, they had fallen in love, and the next day she doesn't even remember!

The Stranger was in a bad mood all his way back to Heitmitz. He brought back the girl to her family, but no one even thanked him. They all seemed to believe that the girl had escaped alone. And even she thought that. The man cursed the Old Ones, the Gods, Sigmar, his Fate, the girl, the beastmen, and more than anything, himself. He had had enough of it.

Then he realized that he was just going back to the life he was living for very long now. The Stranger. The Unknown Legend. The Traveller. The Man With No Shade. Would it be forever like that? Big deal. He was cursed, and he had better accept it. Not long after, he was planning his next adventure. What to do now? He had an idea.
For long, he had understood that he couldn't die (he had even tried to commit suicide, but amazing luck had always saved him). It meant that he would risk nothing by going where the Prince of Drakwald lived. He smiled to himself. He really wanted to know who was that other unknown legend."


When the Bard drank the last drops of his tankard of water, he looked at everyone who was listening. It was past midnight and no customer of the Neutral Zone had gone to bed yet, for they all waited for the rest of the story.
"Old Fred, you idiot," the Bard said. "Bring more candles. Those on the table are finished."
When new candles were lit, the storyteller asked for warm wine, not too strong please. He was more sober now than only an hour ago, but he didn't want to get drunk and not to be able to finish the Unnamed Tale. He was impressed himself by his own creativity. When he got his wine (a Red Castle, renowned brandy from Bretonnia), he continued his tale.

"Again, let's go far away from our hero, this time to the north. To the Chaos Wastes, the forever empty and dead territory where live the terrible barbaric warriors and merciless daemons. A few nights before the Stranger and the girl he had saved had slept in a cave in the Drakwald Forest, the powerful forces of Chaos did not rest. Especially not the fearsome Lord K'Drall, one of the minions of Archaon and disciple of Chaos Undivided. This night, the beast-like being (half human and half daemon) had a lot to do. He woke up from his sleep at evening (even though it was dark half of the year and day the other half at this latitude) and got up. The towering warrior, his unblinking red eyes forever burning with hate and anger, knew what he had to do today. It was his one chance to defeat Archaon and make himself master of all forces of Chaos, and he would better not fail.

He got out of his bedroom and walked to the dining room of his immense palace. Slaves bowed as he passed. He finally reached the gigantic cave where he had his meals and where he gathered his generals and champions for plotting. He sat on his black throne, called a slave and commanded two things: a large meal of raw meat with a huge tankard of purple ale, and that his most faithful men be brought here for an important reunion. Less than five minutes later, in the room lit only by a few torches made with human skulls filled with coal, the five most important officers of Lord K'Drall where there, waiting for their chief to explain the reason of this meeting. The Lord of Chaos did not waste time.

He got up and said:
"Welcome my followers, I am glad to see you here. As you have guessed, we must discuss, and this discussion is extremely important. I'm sure you understand that no word we will say shall get out of this room. Here's what I have to say: the time to throw Archaon down is at hand."
The generals tried not to look surprised, but they now listened with renewed interest. The Lord of Chaos Undivided put his hand in one of his pockets and took out a fragment of something flat. It was in gold. And it looked important.
"This," K'Drall said, "is the reason why I gathered you here. It's one of the four fragments of the Key of Dominion."
One of the generals choked with his meat. Another had an alarming glimpse in his one eye. A champion got up and came closer to listen more carefully. K'Drall had a hideous smile and said:
"As we know, the Key of Dominion is a lost artifact that some fools think only a legend. We all know it is not the case. Two of you did not react when I spoke about it, and it is forgivable since few know about the Key. I'll explain it then. The Key… is what can open a great gateway to the Warp itself. With this little object alone, we could save the world, destroy it… or rule it."

After a long silence, K'Drall continued.
"The Key was destroyed by the Old Ones themselves millenias ago. But it is said that if we can gather the same conditions as the day when it has been destroyed, it can be redone. One of my sorcerers examined my fragment of the Key and spent a few days calculating the movement of the stars. By what he says, all planets must be aligned at midnight during the shortest day of the year. This day… will happen in one month."
Now, everyone in the room was astonished. They started muttering to each other, until Lord K'Drall raised his immense right hand to command silence.

"We of course need the three remaining fragments of the Key of Dominion," he said, "and our time is short. Too short. They could be anywhere. But… my sorcerer has found an idea to help us. He cast a powerful and very complex enchantment on my part of the Key. This magic will reach all the other bits, wherever they may be. And it will make them gather. It's a little hard to explain, but the enchantment controls Fate to cause all fragments to go toward each other. For example, if someone possesses one part, he will have high chances to meet someone who has another. Or if a bit is buried into the ground, it will be likely to be found and dug out by someone who has another fragment. It will make our task easier."

Still no one spoke. K'Drall was glad of it: he liked to speak alone.
"I want every of you to take your best men and search for the remaining bits. You better not fail this mission, for it is the most important thing you will ever do. If we have this Key of Dominion we need to open the Warp, daemons will invade the world and pledge allegiance to us. With their help, we will vanquish Archaon and when we will have control of the armies of Chaos, nothing will stop us from conquering the world."

He gestured to every of his men to quit the room one by one, except Gaarken, his most trusted champion. The man, an intelligent-looking warrior who didn't look as barbaric as most Norse men, bowed and said:
"Master?"
"I name you chief of my search team," the huge Lord of Chaos said. "And I give you my own fragment of the Key of Dominion to increase your chances of finding another bit. Don't worry: Fate will gather the four pieces before the month is over."
"Yes, my Lord."
"And when your men will be ready, come back here. I'll have more instructions for you."

The man quit the room. K'Drall smiled at himself. Soon the world will be his."


The Bard had drunk his wine for long, and now his throat was dry again. He commanded more ale, took his purse and paid a tankard for everyone. Old Fred brought nuts and dried fruits for everyone. They were all tired now, but no one would go to sleep as long as the Bard didn't finish the Unnamed Tale. The storyteller, chewing a handful of chestnuts, continued his story.


"Someone asked not so long ago what the characters I introduced at the beginning had in common, and what would happen for them to meet. But here is what I didn't say: they all had a piece of the Key of Dominion. I don't know in what hands the fragments went into from the day when the Old Ones destroyed the key, but what I know is that the Stranger found his part of the object long ago, in a cave where he had come to kill a dragon in his quest to change his fate. The dragon had a large treasure, but for some reason, the man's eyes caught on the piece of the Key. It was the only thing the Stranger kept of all of the treasure. No one knows why. But he carries it for years without remembering why he took that and not a diamond nor a jewel-encrusted sword.

Kereldin got his own piece from the corpse of a traveller he had killed while he lived in the Forest of Drakwald, ambushing and shooting down any living being who came too close from his territory. The man himself wasn't extraordinary, and I don't know where he found the bit of the Key. He was probably hunting in the woods or something like that. The young Kereldin, his bow at hand, remained hidden in a tree, waiting for him to come near. One arrow in the throat and the traveller was dead. Even though the Prince of Drakwald usually let the corpses rotting there without even examining his kill, he felt the need, for some reason, to see what the man had with him. An old bow, a big rusty knife, some water, a few bronze coins… and the piece of the Key. Kereldin was fascinated by the way it shone more than any gold he had ever seen, and he kept the fragment in his pocket at all times from then on.

Mordrok Hammerson's find of his piece of the Key was much more recent than the other two's. He was on his way to Nuln for a week now when, walking in the Moot where Halflings lived, he met an old poor-looking peasant who almost wept for something to put in his pipe. The old engineer, who had with him more tobacco than he would ever need, gave the little man-like creature a pound of his best herb. To thank him, the generous Halfling gave him the piece of the Key he owned. I think he had stolen it somewhere: even though his race isn't likely to steal or do anything illegal, hunger can sometimes lead you to do all sorts of things. Mordrok examined his fragment for the most part of the night. Dwarves love gold, and this one was unlike anything else the engineer had ever seen.

And as Lord K'Drall had predicted, soon Fate would lead the three of them to meet. Soon they would be fleeing for their lives together, pursued by Gaarken and his men, yet none of them would even know why.

The next day, the young Keledrin woke up early, as usual. He had had a nightmare about something. He didn't remember what exactly, but there was something about a Lord of Chaos and a key. He shrugged. A dream he couldn't recall didn't matter. His magical powers were still limited compared to those of the best sorcerers of his race, and anyway there wasn't any proof that this dream wasn't just… a dream. But he had dreamt about something else: a man without a shade walking in his territory. His face was fuzzy and its features were unknown, but for some reason, Keledrin knew that the traveller wasn't hostile. Not that it mattered, though. If the man really came in his territory, he would die. Like all others.

The young thirteen-years-old boy got up and put on his black leather clothes. He would be glad if someone came today. No one, not even the beastmen, came anymore in his territory, and Keledrin was seriously considering moving somewhere else. He loved to kill, like all Dark Elves. He was now a great archer and his yellow eyes saw even better at night than during the day. But no one travelled in the forest at night, so there was no point hunting after sunset. The young boy ate a bitter root with his sharp white teeth and took his bow from under his bed. He also had fifteen black arrows shaped to inflict the most terrible suffering possible to the victim, and each of them had mercilessly slain at least four or five men. Keledrin's hate of all that existed had no end.

A few minutes after, he was walking through the trees with more agility than a cat. The woods were his domain and no one else was a greater ambusher than him (except the Wood Elves of Athel Loren, even though Keledrin didn't know it). He heard steps far away and immediately knew that it was an human. He climbed into a tree and waited, the string of his bow already taut. It didn't take too long for the man to come. He was tall and, even though he was slim, he looked strong. His face was so plain and ordinary that it couldn't even be described. It was the kind of face you forget as soon as you saw it. The traveller wore common clothes and shoes. And… for the first time for a year, a chill ran down Keledrin's spine. The man had no shade. Just like in his dream.

Following the instinct he had developped, the Prince of Drakwald aimed at the traveller's throat and shot his arrow. And… missed! How could that be? The man wasn't a hundred feet from him!
"Hello," the stranger said. "I suppose you are the one they call the Prince of Drakwald."
The man's confidence ignited the young Keledrin's anger. How dared he? Vowing to send this arrogant creature to his stupid god (whoever that may be), the boy shot another arrow with a move too fast for an human eye to understand, aiming the forehead of his prey. Again, he missed and barely grazed the man's left temple. Now, the young Druchii felt cold fear through every of his veins. How could he miss two shots at such a short range? He shot again, and again, and soon his anger was replaced by sheer terror when he saw that the man was still standing.

"You waste your arrows," the man said. "It's a bit difficult to explain, but none can kill me."
The man's voice was calm, almost friendly. Keledrin had not heard such a voice for more than a year. In the world of hate he lived in, there was no place for friends. Still, he decided not to slay the man now. There was something about him that reminded him his parents. The young boy didn't realize before this day how he had missed the time when he lived with his family. His only concerns were now blood, revenge, killing people, revenge, fighting and revenge. He began lowering his arrow. The newcomer had caught his interest.
"I don't want to hurt you," the human said. "I'm only a traveller. Just yesterday, I saved a young girl from the beastmen."

Keledrin was beginning to think that this man, this one man and none other, deserved to live. He was friendly. The young boy then used his magical power to read the traveller's soul and found that he wasn't cruel nor violent. The stranger was not his enemy. He wasn't here to kill or torture Keledrin.
The boy suddenly felt as if he woke up from a dream. Trust someone? Never. Everyone was his enemy. All living things deserved to die. So did this man. Keledrin raised his bow and shot another time, then another. And still he missed. No matter. He summoned his inner powers and created before him a ball of purple fire that came from the depths of Warp itself. It always felt good to have the great strength of Dark Magic grow within him. He threw the fireball that he knew powerful enough to shatter a stone house… but the spell went right through the man and didn't harm him. Impossible!

Keledrin was now fighting out of fear, for he knew that anything that could survive to six arrows and a fireball had to be protected by an evil power. Exhausted by the energy he had to use to cast his first spell, he gathered his remaining strength to cause lightning to fall on the enemy. From the cloudless sky, the pure strength of Khaine fell upon the traveller, attempting to scorch him… but failing. Roaring a war cry, the young boy took out his dagger and jumped off the tree. He landed on his feet with ease and ran toward the stranger, his blade shining in the morning sun. The man didn't even have time to draw his sword before Keledrin stroke… and missed. Yet the traveller hadn't tried to dodge the blow.

The young Druchii, for the first time of his life, understood that the only option was to flee. His adversary was invincible. He was no coward, but he knew that it was foolish to try to confront someone who couldn't even be hit. He turned and ran. Behind him, the enemy was pursuing him, saying:
"Wait! I just want to help you!"
The boy was too fast for the man. He was used to run through cover terrain. But in the terror he felt right now, it didn't occur to him that his adversary was not going to catch up with him. But the boy stopped to run abruptly when, stumbling on a root, he was thrown five meters ahead, hit his head against a rock and fell into unconsciousness."


The Bard stopped talking. In the Neutral Zone, everyone waited for him to continue.
"First," he said, "I need a pause. I drank a lot, which means that I sometimes need to make get out what has gotten in. I won't be long. And discuss a little: I don't continue the tale for at least a few minutes. I need to find more ideas. I'll come back soon, friends, don't worry. I trust you to wait for me."
When he left, everyone took the liberty, for the first time for two hours, to talk. Everyone was eager to know what would follow. The Kislevite continued his fruitless attempt to seduce the young Bretonnian lady, the barman served some illegal hallucinogenic fungus beer to the Druchii pirate, the Dwarf slayer Gotrek and his young Imperial friend Felix examined a big map to decide where they would go next and the vampire ordered a chunk of raw Orc flesh. But the activity was now slower than before the Bard's arrival. Everyone waited for the storyteller to come back.

Which he did, after a moment that felt like a thousand eternities. He sat and demanded that another candle be brought on the table. He took his pipe from his pocket and asked for some herb to smoke. When he had what he wanted, he lit his pipe, took a great puff and continued his tale.