INTERLUDE: Mordian Blackgrip
The city of the puny manlings had fallen long ago. The first few days following the sack could have been called a success. The Dawi-Zharr raiding parties, far superior in discipline to the Northmen warbands, easily ran down the fleeing humans.
There were hundreds of captives, but Zharr-Naggrund required tens of thousands. It was for the sake of such a grand prize that Drazoath the Ashen had agreed to this expedition. Thus far, it had not justified the costs, investments, and agitations. Tamurkhan's host acted no better than an Orc waagh or a Beastmen herd. A mob, not an army. The necessity of collaborating with the Chaos-worshippers filled Mordian with a mixture of irritation and contempt—especially when that bloated, rotting carcass at the head of the horde effectively went into hibernation. Tamurkhan was stuck in Pfeildorf.
According to Drazoath the Ashen, the Maggot Lord had locked himself within the defiled temple of the manlings' pathetic godling, where he did nothing but sleep, eat, and soil himself, having ceased to issue commands. The Northmen bands scattered across the countryside in search of loot. The unified host had ceased to exist. Only the mighty Dawi-Zharr maintained order within their ranks. Mordian Blackgrip had ensured this with his own hand and his own lash.
Days passed, and the accursed filth continued to wallow aimlessly in the temple. The surrounding lands grew lean of trophies. Raiding parties returned empty-handed with increasing frequency. Slave-takers had to be dispatched further and further afield, yet even that was no guarantee of a good haul. The local manlings had grown bold. They set patrols upon the roads and along the rivers to intercept the raiders. It became clear that things could not continue this way. Drazoath was livid. The other Daemonsmiths grumbled.
Mordian, however, remained calm. He had work to do. Every day, the Hobgoblins and warriors brought him new victims. Captive southern manlings, Northmen who had somehow offended, useless Beastmen—all available resources were put to use. Every day, one, two, or even three sacrifices to the Father of Darkness.
Taking over the building of a primitive human smithy, Mordian installed a field altar. In a brazier forged of meteoric iron, gromril, and gold, the Sorcerer-Prophet evaporated sacrificial blood, inhaling the mixture of smoke and magical incense. His spirit soared above his powerful body, striking out in search of the enemy. The one who had dared to shame a Daemonsmith by taking the life of his nephew, Kolgar. A life that belonged to Mordian and Mordian alone!
During the battle for Pfeildorf, the Dawi-Zharr had already attempted to settle the score. He had granted the foe the merciful opportunity to die swiftly from a Hellcannon shell, which Mordian had guided with his own sorcery. All that remained was to reclaim the enchanted dagger, Ash-Lash, from the charred remains. However, the unforeseen occurred—the enemy survived.
Initially, Mordian thought the dagger had simply been snatched by some fleeing manling dragging it away from the city. After all, anyone with eyes would appreciate the magnificence of a Dawi-Zharr weapon. But Mordian quickly realized he was dealing with the very same enemy who had slain Kolgar.
The magical signature of the dagger, which the Daemonsmith tracked from afar, would manifest and then vanish. Likely, his adversary possessed cloaking spells, attempting to hide the blade from the sight of its true master, which complicated the search. But Mordian was persistent and stubborn, as befits a true Dawi-Zharr when vengeance is at stake. Spending time and the lives of victims, he drew closer and closer to the image of the unknown foe. He was literally tracking the footsteps of his destiny through the Immaterial.
Vivid images flashed in the sorcerer's mind. A burning Pfeildorf, through which the enemy picked his way. A house drenched in human blood where vile Skaven slaughtered southerners. A misty hill at whose foot a battle unfolded. Manlings, an Ogre, and an Elf fought against Skaven and Fimir. In that skirmish, one of Tamurkhan's closest lieutenants had fallen: the Shadow Caster Ketzak Fimdirach. This event Mordian could easily verify. The Daemonsmith received confirmation of his visions. He was on the right path, but he could not quite seize the adversary himself. The man appeared only as a void—a black silhouette without face or voice. A hole in space that offered no purchase.
To the stubborn wrath of the Dawi-Zharr was added curiosity. Mordian began to suspect the opponent possessed some powerful artifact that shielded him from sorcery. That would explain how he managed to finish off Kolgar.
With every failed attempt to seize the enemy's image, the sorcerer's curiosity burned hotter. What manner of artifact had fallen into the foe's hands? It was clearly a trinket far more potent than the obsidian amulets of Cathayan spellcasters. Even they could not mask an image so thoroughly. Mordian desired this item. The sorcerer's mind already painted ambitious prospects that would be open to him once he possessed such a mighty relic.
In Dawi-Zharr society, magic was the measure of power and the indicator of Hashut's own favor. Protection against it promised Mordian ascension. Even Drazoath the Ashen would have to reckon with him. And so, the sorcerer did not cease his attempts, squandering sacrificial blood upon them.
Having expended more than fifty captives, Mordian decided to change his tactics. He no longer attempted to reach the image of the enemy himself, but instead sifted through all past visions, seeking a different tether.
— Elgi... Long-eared filth.
The image of the Elf flickered in his visions time and again. It proved to be a female, and she likely accompanied the unknown foe. Was he himself of the vile race of long-eared weaklings? Mordian had to discover this as soon as possible.
The following night, he and three of his apprentices, escorted by a company of Hobgoblins, left the district of the ruined city occupied by the Dawi-Zharr. Moving through the darkness, Mordian felt the watchful eyes of other sorcerers' spies upon him. They suspected he was plotting something significant.
Mordian merely smirked into his beard, imagining the Daemonsmiths racking their brains to divine his plans. Not long ago, they had mocked him behind his back, gloating over his shame; now they scrambled to learn why Mordian had liquidated so many valuable slaves.
Another ten manlings were currently being led on ropes by the Hobgoblins. Choice material. Not the pathetic wretches the raiders had brought in recent days, but prisoners of war—sturdy men, each of whom had spilled blood. A worthy offering to the Father of Darkness.
As midnight approached, the procession reached a suitable hill, scaring off small packs of Northmen and Beastmen along the way. The sloping summit was scorched. Charred trees were decorated with human and animal bones. Devotees of the Dark Gods had performed their primitive rituals here. In a way, this was even beneficial; spilled blood stirs the Immaterial.
Dawi-Zharr servants placed a portable metal altar in the center, bristling with spikes, and Mordian mounted his sorcerous brazier upon it. Then the Daemonsmith began to recite hymns to the darkness while the Hobgoblins bound the prisoners to pre-installed wooden stakes.
With every spoken word, the sorcerer felt his mighty spirit enveloped by the gloom of the Father of Darkness, granting him immense power. The world around him dimmed. For Mordian, there remained only the rising flame of the brazier, in which the outlines of lesser daemons swirled, and then...
— Who dares! — roared the Daemonsmith, torn from his sorcerous trance.
The cause was simple: the Hobgoblins had bungled. Three captives had managed to loosen their ropes on the way and broke free, attempting to escape. The greenskins gave chase, howling and whooping.
— Miserable worms... — Mordian hissed through gritted teeth, waiting for the Hobgoblins to rectify their error.
Two prisoners were returned almost immediately, dragged back to the hill by force, poked with spear-butts. But the third...
— What is the meaning of this?! — Mordian barked, watching two Hobgoblins haul a barely twitching human by the arms.
Several arrows protruded from the prisoner's back.
— Humie almost got 'way, but we caught 'im, boss, — the greenskin whined in a vile voice. — Still alive, still kickin'! Look, boss.
The Hobgoblin yanked the prisoner's head up by the hair. The manling's eyes were already dulling. His death was a matter of minutes. Mordian possessed enough knowledge of human physiology to know this.
— His blood was intended for the Father of Darkness, you green mold! — the sorcerer flew into a rage.
— But boss... — the Hobgoblin wailed piteously. — Sorry, boss! We'll just... Aaai-ee!
Mordian made a gesture with his hand, and one of the greenskins was broken by an invisible force with a loud crunch. The second turned to run, but a long ashen lash coiled around him and flung him toward a sacrificial stake.
— Bind him in the manling's place! — Mordian commanded, and the remaining Hobgoblins gleefully rushed to obey.
— Hey, lads, boys, wait! — the sacrificial Hobgoblin shrieked. — I'm your mate!
Having dealt with the annoying distraction, Mordian resumed the ritual. Soon the flame in the brazier changed color to a deep crimson, and smoke blacker than the night sky billowed from it. The Hobgoblins departed, save for the sacrifice. Only Dawi-Zharr were permitted to be present for the main part of the ritual.
Likely for the first time in history, the sacred incantations of Hashut resounded so far to the south. The brazier threw out sheaves of sparks three times while the assistants took the victims' lives and poured their blood into the flame.
Mordian closed his eyes, his will penetrating into the deeper layers of the Immaterial. The unearthly Realm of Chaos sprawled before the sorcerer's sight. A single fleeting glance at it could drive an ordinary mortal mad, but Mordian Blackgrip possessed the necessary power and the grace of Hashut to endure such a thing. The sorcerer mentally recited the spell, awakening the image of the long-eared female's face from memory.
"In the name of the Father of Darkness, let the sacrificial blood reveal the truth. My will is a whetted blade. I shall carve out the heart. I shall lay bare the soul of another. Show her to me!"
Mordian's vision flew through dark clouds of smoke illuminated by molten lava. From the Immaterial, he returned to the crude reality and...
It worked!
The sorcerer managed to establish a mystical link with the target. He saw the long-eared one standing guard at a human camp. Now it was time to attack. With all the cruelty and greed of a Dawi-Zharr, he crashed into the female's mind, attempting to rip as much information as possible from it. To gut, to suppress, to crush.
For a few seconds, he succeeded, but then Mordian felt resistance. His victim proved not to be so toothless. The Elf had been trained to counter such magic, and someone in the past had laid protective wards upon her. Mordian struggled, trying to overwhelm the foreign will. Several times he nearly succeeded, but acting at a distance was immeasurably harder than in person. Had the Elf been before him, he would have crushed her into the earth with a snap of his fingers.
The struggle continued for three long minutes, and then the connection between them began to fray. The Immaterial was consuming Mordian's strength. Daemons flocked to feed upon the sorcerer's spell. It was dangerous to continue.
Cursing the Elgi and their entire foul race three times over, Mordian opened his eyes. For several seconds he breathed heavily, baring his teeth. Then the Dawi-Zharr composed himself and mentally immersed himself in the few images he had managed to steal from the victim's memory. They were pathetic scraps—shreds of information the sorcerer had to stitch together like a mosaic, trying to understand anything at all. But Mordian was persistent.
Like a predator scenting blood, he felt the echoes of her ambition and strivings in the Elf's thoughts. She had been in despair, but then she met someone very important. Mordian seized upon this emotion. He forced the shreds of thought to coalesce around it. From the darkness, the image of a human face formed. A shaved head, a strong neck, pale eyes. He looked like a typical manling, but something in his gaze was particularly unpleasant to the Dawi-Zharr. Some clarity quite uncharacteristic of humans. No doubt remained. It was him!
Now Mordian saw his face. Now Mordian knew his name.
— Fear and tremble... — the sorcerer hissed through grinding teeth, raising a fist toward the night skies where his brazier still smoked. — For my shame, you shall answer with your life, Guilliman!
---
— Look-y here, look-y here... — Magg grinned, baring horrific teeth and squinting one eye. — Haaa!
And the thunder roared.
First once, then twice. The intimidating double-barreled pseudo-rifle bucked with recoil even in the ogre's massive hands. A falconet was the name for a long, small-caliber cannon. Usually, such pieces were mounted on ships or city towers. While not possessing the most formidable destructive power compared to great cannons, falconets were noted for their accuracy. It was no long-barreled Hochland longrifle, but with enough skill, one could put a small ball into a circle with a thirty-centimeter radius. Magg had already demonstrated this to us repeatedly. He took immense pleasure in firing the double-barrel. However, he wasn't particularly fond of reloading the weapon—or rather, the ordnance.
— Make it quick, — the ogre dropped magnanimously, handing the double-barrel to Stefan and Karl from our squad.
— Do as he says, — I added sternly. — Magg is practicing his aim; you are practicing reloading this thing for speed. When the Chaos filth comes at us again, you'll want to reload that double-barrel as fast as humanly possible.
— Yes, yes, Herr Captain, — Stefan replied reluctantly, cleaning the touch-hole. — As you say, Herr Captain.
Meanwhile, Magg and Erik walked toward the target, which was a large stone. We were training on the site where we had once fought against the Skaven and Fimir. Several weeks had passed since that glorious battle.
Master-Lord Gorttri had not bothered me since then. Only once was I visited by the Yellow Claw cultists. They delivered some unpleasant news: the missing Witch Hunter Waldemar was being searched for. I hadn't been linked to his disappearance yet, but the danger remained. However, I had the patronage of Rudolf Hoch and the contacts of von Bickenstad on my side. I carefully avoided the latter, not wishing to shine too much light on my exploits, but if push came to shove, I would have to turn to him for help.
And the playwright could provide very substantial help indeed. Despite his shameful loss of consciousness at the Countess's reception, von Bickenstad had not lost his reputation at the Nuln court. Quite the opposite: after the battle with the Fimir, he had gained entry into high society. A playwright and a warrior—such a curiosity. And curiosities were loved at the Nuln court.
In short, I had acquired noble cover. I could afford to stop fearing pursuit for a while and train in peace. Of the unpleasant incidents, only one situation had cast a shadow over my quiet days.
Liandra told me that someone had attempted to influence her remotely with magic. She was hardly joking. I took the Elf's words with the utmost seriousness.
— Could it have been one of the Nuln wizards? Or the Chaos-worshippers?
— I don't know. I cannot say for certain, — the girl replied, looking paler than usual that night. — I was taught to resist magic that penetrates the mind, but one cannot always overcome such an attack.
— Do you think there will be another attempt?
— Possibly. I should stay closer to you.
I almost let slip some flirting jest on the matter, but I kept it inside like Geralt holding back elixirs at maximum toxicity.
— Hit it! Hit it! — Magg cackled joyfully, then pointed at Karl and Stefan. — You skinnies owe me another mug of beer each!
— We didn't even bet him... — Stefan groaned.
— It's fine. We'll pay from the treasury, — I replied in a half-whisper. — Just reload faster. Like I said, this is your training.
While I was instructing the personnel, I noticed a messenger out of the corner of my eye, moving toward us and waving a piece of paper. Liandra moved to meet him.
— What is it? — I shouted.
— You're summoned to the council, Captain! — the messenger yelled back. — They're coming! They're coming!
That phrase could mean only one thing: the respite was over. Tamurkhan's horde had begun its march on Nuln.