Empire vs Khemri, 3999 Pts
The lad was no older than sixteen, his eyes were a mixture of terror and keenness and he was out of breath. He stopped running and coughed a few times spitting a bit of sand in the process.
“The dunes are moving, mylord. Moving like I am here, on me life… T’is thousands of the buggers about in front of that thing over there, milling like ants. I reckon they know we’re here…”
Didrik von Ulfskjold snorted.
“Aye. They know. About time as well, one more hour in this damned heat and we’d have been just ripe for being raised. After the heart attacks…”
A few of the men around him laughed. A nervous laugh, but still a laugh. Most were on the edge. Didrik gave the boy his bottle to have some water which was swiftly gulped and sent him behind the lines. That the men around him were on the edge, he could sense easy enough. It was normal before a battle, but it was more than usual. In his experience, especially with men from the frozen lands in the North of the Empire, alcohol featured prominently in the evening before a battle, many times even in the morning of the battle itself. It helped build up courage and drown the fears. But not now. He had been forced to prohibit alcohol consumption after several of his men had died of strokes, amongst them Rambert von Lokstein, one of the finest White Wolf veterans available to him on this expedition. The sun of these accursed lands was unforgiving and he needed every man he had.
His head was shaven clean and his skull glittered in the sun, drops of sweat dripping slowly down his face. He used his cloak to wipe his forehead and looked towards Bjorn von Stossau, holding the banner of the Todbringers of Middenland. Count Boris had financed this expedition and it would fight under his banner.
“Signal for deployment!” he said evenly. von Stossau waved the banner and spurred his horse to take up position at the front of the contingent of Teutogen Guard that the Ar-Ulric had sent. The men were forming up, stoically standing straight in the burning sun. They had not abandoned their wolf-trimmed cloaks, much better suited for the cold climate of the Sea of Claws than the deserts of Khemri. Their red banner bearing the leaping white wolf was slumped, as not even the slightest breeze could be felt.
Didrik surveyed the battle line forming and could not help feeling somewhat proud. His first full command as Seneschal of the White Wolves. He had been in many actions of course, and had his share of minor commands as well, but this was the first time he had an army. An army. And then the realisation struck him that this might very well become a curse. He might well join a gallery of failed commanders who had been trusted with an army and lost it. He had been given an army and he had brought it in a desert land to die fighting a horde of things that could not be killed. It could well be that none of them will ever reach home alive, that they would share the fate of so many other armies that had ventured into the desert never to be heard about again. And yet this was a soldier’s due, after all. He could not have asked for more, it was his chance, to make of it what he could. He was shaping his future right there at that very moment. And if death awaited, he could hardly have hoped to die in better company.
Around him were the best knights of the Empire, Inner Circle White Wolves. His brothers, his comrades, his friends. Their banner had been blessed by Ar-Ulric himself and they were veterans of many battles. They had survived Archaon’s horde and had bettered countless orcs and beastmen. He looked at Harald von Ravensheim, their champion, and was impressed by the resolve in those icy blue eyes. “Oh yes” he thought, “come and claim me old hag, and I will break your scythe to pieces…”
To his right were the Teutogens led by von Stossau and by Herfried Walk, a priest of Ulric. To his left was another elite unit of Middenland, part of Todbringer’s own Greatswords, led by Oswald Schramm, his champion. The count’s nephew, Siegfried von Malke, was in nominal command, but Schramm was probably advising him, along with another priest of Ulric, Eirik Grimm. The count’s blue banner was being waved above the Greatswords.
More to the left stood something like a mob, but they were being brought in line by one man clad in a wolf pelt and waving a huge axe. His name was Ragnar, people called him Ragnar the Red because of his red beard. He was the leader of a band of desperate men that had survived Archaon’s march south and had been hiding in the mountains and harrying the horde’s lines of communications. After Archaon’s defeat, they used to descend upon chaos warbands that had straggled from the retiring host and at times gave help to the forces of the Empire. But the truth was that many were deserters or outlaws, men who had no future in the Empire but that still refused to join chaos. Didrik knew of them and with the Count’s approval offered them a deal: join him in this expedition, get the right to keep whatever they could pillage, and upon their return to Middenland a full amnesty signed by Count Boris himself would be waiting. Ragnar took up the chance and so did most of his men. And here they were, criminals, murderers, madmen or deserters, ready to fight for their second chance.
To the right, beyond the Teutogens, were the Dwarfs. Led by Rorek Thorkelsson, Thain of Karak Baraz, they had been sent by Lord Dadrin along with a contingent of thunderers and 3 war machines, that were just being deployed on a higher dune, where some wooden platforms had been built to distribute the weight and prevent the warmachine sinking into the sand.
Two more contingents of White Wolf Knights made up Didrik’s army , each deployed on one flank. They were young brothers, most having joined the order to replace those that had fallen during the Chaos invasion. They were eager to prove themselves, but they also lacked the coolness and resolve Didrik so cherished in his veteran brothers.
What exactly it was that was discussed that night in Middenheim, Didrik did not know. Valten had just been murdered and everybody was talking about that and celebrating the victory. But a meeting was held in the temple of Ulric, between Karl-Franz, Boris Todbringer, Volkmar and the Ar-Ulric. An emissary of the Dwarves had also been there, and so had King Louen of Bretonnia. And of course, Teclis. And then the Dwarf and Louen and Teclis had left, but the men of the Empire talked on for almost three days. And then the Grand Master of the White Wolves and Boris Todbringer called him, who had distinguished himself in the defence of Middenheim and had just been promoted to Seneschal , and told him they had a mission for him of the highest importance. He had to go to Khemri, find the ruins of the ancient necropolis of Alal Amun and retreive something. He had been provided with maps of Elven origins and scrolls and amulets. He had been given some of the best troops and the Dwarves had sent an important contigent. Two priests were joining him, and the Count’s nephew. What he had not been given was one information: what it actually was that he was looking for. And the only one who actually knew this was now throwing up into a bucket somewhere behind the lines, because she had been taken ill with a touch of sunstroke. A young woman of pale appearance and dubious ability, who had been told what it was all about. He had nothing personal against Isabella von Lien, in fact he quite liked her, but the fact that she had been let in on the mistery of their purpose here and he, the commander of this expedition, had not, was not a reassuring one. He only hoped the girl could counter spells. He did not even dare to think about her being actually able to cast some.
“So it’s easy” he smiled. “We kill them all, we go inside, we take what we can, we go back to the ships and we sail home”.
“Sir…” a voice said to his left. “They’ve already been killed”.
“Yeah, well…”
The dunes moved. The sun was shining. The sky was clear. It was a good day to die. Again.
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Mod Liniar
