"Rumor has it that Ostermark has a legendary White Wolf Paladin, a sage known as the Wolf Mentor. They say he purges evil, protects the land, and once helped the Elector Count cleanse an entire section of the Shadow Forest of corruption. I believe they're talking about you. A lone warrior who fought off five Chaos mammoths and mentored Oleg von Zhukov into becoming a legendary Saint-level warrior—that must be you, right?"
It was the Slayer King, Agrim Ironfist, who first broke the silence. Resting his massive axe, Dargo, on his shoulder, he looked up at the towering Leman Russ, the Primarch of the Space Wolves.
"That's right, it's me." Leman Russ raised his head proudly, his voice rough and aged but still brimming with vitality and wildness. "You guessed correctly, dwarf! Care for a taste of Fenrisian mead?"
"Oh, I see!" Agrim grinned mischievously, pulling out a crumpled piece of parchment. "So, you're the guy who ate eight whole cows in one sitting, raced a manticore through the Shadow Forest, spent a single night with twenty-five women, and locked a corrupt tax officer naked in a pen with a rutting bull to teach him a lesson? Let's not forget the time you tricked an entire group of pilgrims and ascetics into winter swimming, and stuffed a lizard into the armor of Leopold von Zhukov, the Grand Master of the Bull Knights, just to watch him itch so badly he almost fell off the walls! Talented but without virtue—yep, that's you, isn't it?"
Russ laughed heartily, placing his hands on his hips. "Guilty as charged! I won't deny a single word! You've got a sharp tongue, dwarf!"
Alaroth, the wood elf hero, watched this exchange with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. He was tempted to intervene but chose silence, mindful of his previous misstep that had angered Lileath. Secretly, he hoped for a brawl between the two larger-than-life figures.
Agrim, as blunt as ever, soon turned serious. "Ostermark is in its greatest crisis. Chaos brings untold suffering to this ancient land, and what are you doing? Training animals? Or basking in the glory of your ridiculous antics?"
"I was sent eastward on a mission to retrieve these ancient beasts," Russ replied, unfazed by the Slayer King's sarcasm. He pointed at the two black-and-white giant bears gnawing on chunks of meat nearby. "The journey took over a year. I returned late, but not too late."
"Late, yes, but we can still act." Agrim motioned for Russ to follow. "Good. You, me, and this forest elf here—let's see what we can do for Wolfenburg."
Russ grumbled low in his throat, his wolfish instincts bristling at the idea of taking orders from anyone but the Emperor. But Agrim wasn't treating him like a subordinate, and with the stakes so high, Russ nodded reluctantly.
"By the way, what's your name, elf boy?" Agrim suddenly asked, realizing they'd been traveling together without formal introductions.
Alaroth's face darkened with irritation. "Alaroth the Brave, chosen champion of Queen Ariel of the Eslyrian Woodland Council, and lord of Talsyn!"
"Alaroth? Never heard of you." Agrim rummaged through another slip of parchment, scanning it for famous elf names.
Phoenix King Finubar – 460
Eternal Queen Alarielle – 553
Tyrion, Warlord of Ulthuan – 616
Teclis, Archmage of the White Tower – 564
Imrik, Prince of Caledor – 326
"Nope, no Alaroth here," Agrim muttered, shaking his head. "Got it—nobody of note, that's you."
"I swear to..." Alaroth clenched his fists as the blood rushed to his head, ready to explode.
"Enough squabbling," Russ interjected with mild amusement, then turned serious. "Are you both here to aid the Empire?"
"Of course!" Agrim bellowed, raising his axe. "The dwarves never forget the Sacred Alliance!"
"Sort of," Alaroth muttered reluctantly. "It's Lileath's will—for now."
"Then let's move!"
Under Russ's guidance, the group's pace quickened. Familiar with the Shadow Forest, Russ led them through hidden paths and shortcuts. Both the dwarves and wood elves followed, despite their mutual distrust.
After hours of travel, they reached a snow-covered gorge as night fell.
Below, a massive Chaos army was advancing. The force stretched endlessly into the distance, a sea of marauder warbands, Chaos war hosts, and demon legions. Hundreds of Chaos champions marched among them, alongside monstrous beasts and siege engines.
"By Grungni, how many are there? Fifty thousand? Eighty thousand? A hundred thousand?" Agrim stared wide-eyed at the sheer scale of the enemy. "A glorious day of battle is upon us!"
"There's no way the defenders can hold Wolfenburg," Alaroth said grimly. "We're only three hundred strong against an army ten times that size. We should advise the defenders to abandon the fortress."
"A real man wouldn't suggest retreat, you coward!" Russ snapped, his amber eyes blazing. "You elves are always so pathetic, always thinking about running. I learned that during the Great Crusade."
"Then what's your plan, oh wise one?" Alaroth shot back, barely containing his frustration.
"We can't do much," Russ admitted, his tone darkening. "I could handle three hundred, five hundred, maybe even a thousand Chaos warriors. But this... even I can't face this horde alone. A wolf must pick its battles wisely. Right now, our priority is to get back to Wolfenburg and warn them. Damn it—if only my Wolf Guard were here..."
"They'll reach Wolfenburg in three days at most," Agrim agreed.
"Then we must leave immediately. No rest, no delays. The sooner we reach Wolfenburg, the more time we'll have to assess their defenses and prepare."
"Fine, but there better be decent food there," Agrim grumbled. "I'm not eating soggy rations again."
"You'll eat well enough," Russ said with confidence.
The group reached the outskirts of Wolfenburg the following evening. As the city's gates loomed ahead, Alaroth and Agrim were taken aback by Russ's casual remark.
"Ryan-Malcador, the Knight King? He's your brother? Your real, flesh-and-blood brother?"
"That's right," Russ replied nonchalantly. "I don't know why Father decided to give me another brother, but if He says it's so, then it is. At least Ryan's rise hasn't disgraced our family. He's still got a long way to go before he's truly worthy, though."
"How many brothers do you have?" Alaroth asked, dumbfounded. "That Angron guy? Or Fulgrim, the Phoenix? Or those demigods at Ryan's wedding?"
"All of them," Russ replied with a toothy grin. "Originally, there were twenty-one of us. Now, with Ryan, there are sixteen left."
"Sixteen..." Agrim muttered, hastily pulling out his parchment again to cross-check.
Fulgrim – 666*
Angron – ???* (insufficient data)
"Forget the list, dwarf," Russ growled, his voice filled with wild authority. "We're here—Wolfenburg."
"You're short! Your whole family's short!" Agrim shot back indignantly.
Ignoring the bickering, Russ slapped the flank of his black-and-white bear mount. The massive beast growled and sprinted toward Wolfenburg's gates, followed closely by the pack of wolves.
As the gates opened, citizens and refugees alike flocked to greet Russ. Cries of joy and hope filled the air.
"He's here! The Wild Wolf is back!"
"By Sigmar, he's come to save us in our darkest hour!"
"Lord Wolf, Ostermark needs you! Wolfenburg needs you!"
Russ accepted the adoration calmly, spreading his arms to quiet the crowd. "Where's that rascal Oleg? Get out here!"
Oleg pushed his way through the throng, trembling at the sight of his mentor. The Conqueror of Norsca looked utterly defeated, shame etched across his face. "It's all my fault... My expedition caused this disaster..."
"This isn't about the expedition, Oleg," Russ said coldly. "You did well with that. But you let arrogance and complacency cloud your judgment. A true wolf is always vigilant—even when feeding, one eye watches the shadows."
Then, with a growl, Russ turned toward the Bull Keep. "Where's your father?"
"In the inner keep," Oleg answered.
"Good. Let's move."
Inside, Elector Count Vamir von Zhukov awaited them. Upon hearing Russ's report, he gripped his rune blade tightly and declared:
"Let them come.
Wolfenburg will be Mortkin's grave.
Or ours."
______
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