Mordheim's Lost and Found

Our hunt for wyrdstone goes well. I've seen cart after cart sent back towards Altdorf, deep ruts carved into the ground from the weight of the cargo. But even as our mission progresses, the resolve of my Templars fades. The losses take their toll, and the men grow hollow-eyed from lack of sleep.

It only grew worse after our last encounter with the rat-things. They are innumerable, Sigmar damn them, skulking in every ruin and chittering beneath the streets. You can hear their footfalls echoing from the sewerways, rising out of wells, clicking up from drains. We killed I know not how many of them this time, but they kept coming. They would not scatter as before. And we were forced to leave the body of Rolf behind.

Our flagellants especially suffer. They seem to die as soon as they arrive, taking the brunt of punishment from Mordheim. It's as if the city itself is set against them....

It was some compensation the next evening when we encountered the walking dead. Chauncey missed his footing in his fight with the vampire, and only by luck did he miss his own demise. He was stabbed through in a dozen places, but the bloodsucker failed to hit our ogre's vitals. Grim Morton performed his ministration, and these lesser wounds closed in a matter of hours. Chauncey's first words upon awaking were, "Praise be to Sigmar." It did my heart good to hear.

We won the day in any case, spiriting away the Volfsterne family horde and keeping its contents from the zombies.

But as we lay around the fire that night, we found no joy in counting our wealth. We all of us were tired from battle and from loss of life. The zealots sang their songs for the dead, and the hounds lay silent and unmoving upon the ground.

Yet even in the deepest night, I find that the light of Sigmar has a way of shining through. We heard a familiar voice from the surrounding dark.

"Hail the Brand!" it said. And other voices joined in the same: "Hail the Brand." And stepping into the circle of firelight, leading a tattered band of aristocrats, Rolf's still-living face smiled round at all of us.

He explained that he'd lain unconscious after the battle with the rats. Finding himself alone when he awoke, he made his way through the ruins, trying to join with us but losing his way in the dark. That night, as he lay down beneath a smashed statue for shelter, he heard voices calling from beneath the rubble. Rousing himself to the task at hand, he began to dig. The voices grew louder. The layer of stone grew thinner. And finally using his flail to smash through the last--breaking both it and the statue's pedestal--he uncovered a secret compartment. Prying it wide, he found none other than the surviving Volfsterne clan, trapped within their own hidden chamber.

Lord Volfsterne made his thanks to the Brand, kissing my hand and making many bows. He told us to keep our hard-won gold, calling it a gift of the Volfsternes and praising his own magnanimity. I have no doubt that he'd more still tucked away in other cities and hidden upon his person.

Yet this is a time for celebration, and the vanity of aristocrats is of little concern to me. The men now are greatly heartened. With Rolf's seeming return from the dead, our flagellants are more determined than ever to raze this horrid place, tearing the evil from it brick by brick. The songs for the dead are changed to songs of joy, and our warhounds are howling in chorus. In the words of a good friend, "Praise be to Sigmar."

--From the journals of Augustus the Stern, Imperial Year of the Commet, 1999

Caged Rats

My faith is strong, stronger even than my sword arm. But still, it is good sometimes to see the effects of one's piety.

There was a sermon I preached at the fighting pits of Cutthroat's Haven. The phrasing escapes me now--it has been some years--but the essence was one of service. That all good men should fight against the wickedness around them. That the battle against Chaos is a righteous one, and that struggle in Sigmar's name is better far than the struggle for worldly gain.

We were at camp last night when a sound like thunder reached my ears. I thought nothing of it at first, but presently it grew louder. Then the ground began to shake. It seemed that the storm was itself was crouched at the bonfire with us, and then we heard its voice.

"Are you Augustus?"

The voice was deep as oceans. The face was ugly as sin. At the edge of our firelight stood a massive figure, club in hand and outsized teeth grinning like a nightmare.

The ogre introduced himself as Chauncey, and reminded me of my sermon. He said my words had reached him, that he'd decided to leave his old life as a gladiator and pursue a more righteous path. He said that the first step on that path was finding me.

Strange how our actions, for good or for ill, come back to us. I'm sure that Chauncey is a sign from Sigmar that our cause is a just one. He's quite the fighter too, having singlehandedly dispatched two of the giant rats yesterday.

Strange how it happened. There were only a handful that came out to fight, but we could all hear the rest chittering nearby. Perhaps they were frightened of Chauncey? In any case, we managed to capture one alive, and though we only scraped a handful of gold selling the creature to a travelling show, we were able to claim a tidy sum for the weapons it carried. Everything to the greater glory of Sigmar I suppose.

--From the journals of Augustus the Stern, Imperial Year of the Comet 1999

No Good From Evil

That poor fool....he believes in his heart that there's good to be had from Mordheim. That the power of the wyrdstone shards will cure disease, create wealth, serve the Empire....That they can benefit mankind.

He is but new to this accursed city. He does not know. Sigmar have pity, I'm sure the fool will learn.

Our first meeting was at the old Executioner's Square. The gibbet creaked and its rope swayed, but there was other movement. We saw his band first, the gaily colored silks of Marienburg stark amidst the ruin. I called the halt and hailed the other men.

"Well met in an ill place," I said. They pointed towards us and glanced about nervously. They seemed ill at ease. They seemed guilty. I shouted again, "What is your business here amongst the dying and the damned? Are you loyal sons of the Empire and of Sigmar?"

"We are that," came the reply. "As well as men of science from the academy in Nuln. Are you witch hu--" he stopped himself. "I mean to say, are you of the Order of the Templars of Sigmar?"

Witch Hunter. I've always hated the name. It sounds as if we're meant to harrass old ladies for cooking stew and keeping cats. It sounds as if we didn't fight demons. I told the man aye though, and asked again after his business.

"We are here," he said, "To research processes both chemical and biological. Specifically, the properties of wyrdstone and its affect on living tissue. The experiments are barely begun, but I must say, the initial results are tremendously exciting."

At my side, our warrior priest Grim Morton spat upon the ground. The hounds began to growl.

"Do you now," I said, "Have in your possession shards of wyrdstone?"

"Oh my yes. We've come across rather a lot of it today. This batch alone should make for a solid week's worth of study."

I closed my eyes then, and whispered a quick prayer to Sigmar. I kissed the icon about my neck, raised my voice, and said, "Then I order you in the name of his holiness Grand Theogonist Magnus the Pious to hand over to us, his representatives here, whatever amount of wyrdstone you have. Should you refuse, you place not only your souls but your physical well being at risk. We are empowered to take it from you by force."

There was a moment of stunned silence from the Marienburgers. Then we heard the cranking of crossbows. Then the fighting began.

*****

It was a victory for no one. That men should fight against men when so much horror thrives beneath our very feet.... Doubtless the dark things of Mordheim are laughing at our folly. I chose to call the retreat first, with our fighting hounds suffering terrible losses. They are hard to replace in the camps about Mordheim, and their injury is not worth the risk. We at least managed to wrest away one of the Marienburgers' shards, but who can say how much more they carried away? Who can tell how dearly they sell their souls?

Their leader says he's come for science and for learning. But I speak to Sigmar and I hear his voice, and I know that Marienburg is misguided. He's not yet seen the lurking hulks in the ruins. He's not faced the walking dead in battle, or breathed the stink of their flesh. I will show him the error of his ways. I take it upon myself to teach him.

--From the journals of Augustus the Stern, Imperial Year of the Comet 1999

Dear Diary: Today we shot at zombies...

This is a dark place, and full of secrets. Rumor hangs in the air, a palpable miasma, and greed is itself a stink. Everything I've heard is true. The living dead walk unchecked through the streets, and the rats here are large as men. They stand on two legs and speak in hisses to one another, and the green glow of abomination jets from their eyes.

Brother Ulf gave up his life in dispersing the rat-things, a faithful servant even unto the end. But still it troubles my heart. No man should die like that, a hundred small bites on every part of his body.

We are, by the grace of Sigmar, thusfar succesful. Myself and the Burning Brand have sent fistfuls of the green stuff back into Altdorf for the Theoginist's safekeeping, but shards of it lay upon the ground like gravel. The reek of Chaos is heavy when it's near, and the shards shed unwholesome light when touched by bare skin. Everywhere here there are depraved men, men bent to the service of gold, not gods. Men who murder unjustly for this vile stuff, this wyrdstone, and a few more crowns in pocket.

Sigmar give me strength. By the hands of the faithful and by the righteous fire of my Burning Brand, may we purge the corruption from fallen Mordheim. I must pray....

--From the Journals of Augustus the Stern, Imperial Year of the Commet 1999