Robert Earl - Ancient blood

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage. At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. It is a land riven by uncertainty, as three pretenders all vie for control of the Imperial throne. But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

We walk ragged amongst many peoples of many lands

So that their scorn will make us harder

We thrive on the speed of our wits and the sleight of our hands

And on skill and luck and murder

We face the depths and the darkness of the world alone

So that we may become ever brighter

We live hunted and hated by all but our own

So that the bonds that bind draw ever tighter

We wait for the time of the storm that will call us home

To the birthright of our once and future lands

We pray for our rebirth in that fresh crimson dawn

But until then we trust ourselves to Ushoran’s hands

“Only a fool calls a wind good or ill. The greatest fortune can be brought by the most terrible storm, and the most lethal thunderbolt can fall from the clearest of skies.”

– Strigany aphorism At the crest of the hill the Elector Count of Stirland reined in his mount. After the gallop, his horse was breathing heavily, its sides bellowing in and out, its breath steaming in the morning air. As it recovered, the elector count, also breathless, smiled the smile of a truly content man.

Apart from a ready supply of women and drink, he didn’t demand much from life, and that which he did demand awaited him below.

The patchwork of pastures and forests that lay beneath his vantage point contained all that a hunting man could desire. Savage boar, fleet deer, wild goats to tempt a man up onto the most windswept of crags-the barely tamed lands of his estate held them all.

Stirland, fit after a lifetime spent in the saddle, was already catching his breath. He turned, with a squeak of leather, and peered down the path behind him. When he saw how far back his companions had fallen, his smile disappeared, replaced with a scowl of impatience.

He didn’t blame the hunt master or his lads for their slow pace. After all, as commoners, their horses wouldn’t have looked out of place in the yoke of a plough. He didn’t blame his dogs, either. Bull hounds were a strong-winded breed, but no match for Stir-land’s galloping steed.

No, the elector count was a fair man. The only person whose slowness tried his temper was the one who should have been able to keep up: the skinny, pallid man who was riding his second-best horse, the man who he was trying to befriend.

“Averland!” Stirland roared, his voice sending a flock of ravens squawking from the trees. “Don’t bother waiting for them, old man. Stick by me.”

The Elector Count of Averland started at the sound of his host’s voice. Then a look of fresh misery crossed his gaunt face, and he spurred his horse unenthusiastically forward. The animal broke into a canter for a dozen hoof beats. Then, content that it had gained the measure of its rider, it slowed back down to a walk.

Stirland’s moustache tips twitched with exasperation. Averland had been his guest for the past week, and although they were not friends they both knew that a friendship was worth cultivating. In these troubled times, an elector needed all the political allies he could get. Things had been bad enough when there had just been one Emperor. Now there were supposedly three.

Yet, as hard as Stirland tried, he was finding Averland damned difficult to like.

“Don’t be afraid to use the spurs,” he bellowed to his guest. “She’s a fine horse, but you have to let her know who’s the master, like all women, hey?”

Averland smiled weakly and twitched his heels. His mare, who certainly knew who the master was, obliged by shuffling into something approaching a trot for a while.

The problem with his fellow nobleman, Stirland decided, was that he thought too much. He spent too much time indoors, whole days, sometimes. He didn’t like getting drunk, or singing, and, as far as Stirland’s spies were aware, Averland was so weak-blooded that he didn’t have even a single mistress.

Yesterday, Averland had even claimed to dislike hunting, at which point Stirland’s patience had almost snapped. The gods had built all of Sigmar’s sons to be hunters, and as far as Stirland was concerned, claiming otherwise was tantamount to heresy.

Hence, he had insisted that Averland accompany him into the glorious carnage of today’s sport. After all, what could be more likely to spark a friendship with the bandy-legged fool than to show him the pleasures of the field?

If they ever got there, of course.

“Come along, men,” Stirland snarled, venting his impatience on the party as a whole. Men and dogs obediently raced to join him at the top of the hill, and even Averland’s horse quickened its pace to keep up with them.

When they arrived, Stirland gave Averland a moment to appreciate the way that the rising sun lit up the hunting grounds beyond. Then he leaned over and slapped him on one shoulder.

“Damned fine view, isn’t it? Look at the way those hills close in onto that forested valley, just like the cross of a virgin’s thighs.” Stirland, lost in the poetry of the image, didn’t see Averland wince. “Just imagine what beasts we’ll find down there,” he continued, his eyes shining. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a hankering for boar. Can’t beat the taste of meat reared on blood and acorns.”

“Boar, yes,” said Averland vaguely, and shivered. His eyes were watering in the early morning sunlight, and he turned to look longingly back down the path to the hall. “How long will the hunt last for?”

“Until we’ve tasted the quarry’s blood, or until they’ve tasted ours,” Stirland said, grinning. His men grinned too. They might be servants, but on the hunt they and their lord adopted the easy familiarity of a pack of wolves.

Averland looked at them, his mouth tightening into a ring of petulant disapproval. Then he frowned.

“Don’t worry,” Stirland said, winking at him. “It’s almost always us that tastes the quarry’s blood first.”

“Unless we do find boar, your lordship,” the hunt master added. “Remember what happened when we found that herd last summer? What happened to your cousin Rudolph? The carpenter had to take his leg clean off, and even then it was a close-run thing.”

Stirland nodded as if at some happy memory.

“That was a good day’s hunting,” he said. “Got an even dozen of the beasts before Rudolph got caught. He’s just lucky that leg was all he lost. The beast almost got his acorns too.”

The party roared with laughter. Even the dogs joined in, yelping with excitement. Averland shuddered, and looked miserably at the wilderness below. The trees looked as dark and treacherous as… well, as dark and treacherous as them, the people who haunted every shadowed corner of his troubled mind.