The Wise Women moved swiftly through François's Second Army camp. They brewed herbal medicines with expertise, carefully applying balms to the sick and infirm soldiers.
Many of the Bretonnian troops reported feeling much better after their treatment.
But these soldiers were also terrified of the three Wise Women.
These Wise Women, wielders of a shamanistic form of magic distinct from the icy sorceries of Kislev's Frost Maidens, derived their power by invoking the Old Gods—ancient deities predating Chaos. Through this pact, they managed to wield small amounts of magic without succumbing to Chaos corruption.
But this power came at a cost. The Wise Women were not immune to Chaos entirely; instead, they sacrificed their youth and beauty to become unappealing to the Dark Powers. Once a woman set upon this path, within mere days, she would age into a hunched, decrepit figure—an ancient crone with a frail, ghastly appearance.
For instance, one of these Wise Women was brewing a pungent potion for a sick soldier. Her wrinkled skin clung to her skull like parchment, tufts of decaying white hair hung limply from her scalp, and her mouth was filled with blackened teeth. Her bony hands trembled as she held out a bowl of bubbling purple liquid that emitted a foul stench.
"Drink it, my boy, drink it all. Once you do, you'll feel much better," she croaked, her voice like the creak of old wood. Her red-rimmed eyes glinted as she grinned, baring her blackened teeth.
The knight turned pale, staring at the grotesque figure before him. His hand shook as he accepted the bowl, struggling to keep his stomach from turning at the sight of the glowing concoction.
"Drink up. This is your fate," the Wise Woman cackled, leaning closer. Her breath reeked, and she continued, "In this land, you foreigners must learn to respect the earth and revere it if you wish to survive here. Hehehehe!"
Muttering a prayer to the Lady of the Lake under his breath, the knight finally steeled himself. Pinching his nose shut, he tilted the bowl back and gulped down the potion. To his surprise, it wasn't bitter. Instead, it had a slightly sweet licorice flavor.
By the time the last drop slid down his throat, the knight felt a soothing warmth spread through his body. His fever subsided, and his aching joints loosened.
Elsewhere, a group of Kislevite Kossars wolfed down chunks of roasted chicken and soft barley bread. A bubbling pot of corn and vegetable soup sat in front of them. These men were starving—having been confined to their forest hideout for months to evade Chaos patrols, they had survived on frozen rations, melted snow, and the occasional lucky hunt. Cooking fires were a rarity, as even a thin column of smoke could betray their location.
François, observing the scene, turned to Vladimir, the Ursun Priest. "By the Lady, I can hardly imagine how you've managed to survive all this time."
"The Chaos armies didn't search thoroughly. Most of the time, they were simply passing through," Vladimir replied from atop his massive bear. The burly priest's voice was calm, though his eyes burned with hatred. "We know that now."
François nodded. He understood. While Mortkin's hatred for the Ostermen was absolute, his disdain for the Kislevites was more passive. The Chaos horde had swept across Kislev's lands, crushing everything in their path, but Mortkin's relentless push southward left little time for pillaging or thorough extermination. Many Kislevite refugees had taken advantage of this to retreat into forests and mountain hideouts.
Initially, Vladimir and his people had no intention of leaving their hidden sanctuary.
The Ursun Priest was adamant that Kislev did not need outside help. He proclaimed that he and his people would reclaim their homeland on their own.
François initially thought the thirty-something-year-old priest was jesting.
But after seeing Vladimir's militia, François quickly realized the man was serious.
The Ursun Priest had built a surprisingly organized force in the forest. His followers included retired veterans, Ungol tribesmen, southern Kislevite highlanders, forest hunters, Ursun monks, a handful of Kriegswacht guards, and even a small squad of Kossars.
Through Vladimir's leadership, several scattered camps and clans had united, creating a fortified haven deep in the woods. His militia numbered several hundred.
Vladimir's message was clear: Thank you for your offer, Bretonnians, but we don't need your help. We can reclaim Kislev on our own.
François, seasoned and cunning, had no intention of debating. Instead, he posed two simple questions.
"Well said, but how many years do you think it will take to reclaim all of Kislev? And once your militia grows larger, how will you feed them without drawing attention to yourselves?"
François continued: "You can choose to stay here, in the comfort of your little sanctuary, enjoying your rare peace and freedom, while we Bretonnians fight to reclaim Kislev's lands and drive Chaos from the Old World."
"And when others ask what you were doing during these dark times, what will your answer be?"
"When Mortkin's army swept across Kislev, where were you? Hiding in the forest."
"When the armies of the Empire and Bretonnia defeated Chaos at Wolfenburg and drove Mortkin's Chosen to suicide, where were you? Hiding in the forest."
"When the Bretonnian knights began their northward march to help reclaim Kislev's land and drive out the wicked, what were you doing? Still hiding in the forest."
"And when our army enters Erengrad…" François trailed off as Vladimir's face turned ashen.
"Enough! You need not say more," the Ursun Priest snapped. "I will ask only one question—do you Bretonnians truly intend to help us rebuild our nation?"
"By the Lady's name, I swear it. That is our intention. Though our resources are limited, we plan to reclaim Erengrad at the very least. As for the rest—time will tell."
Vladimir hesitated briefly before nodding. "Then we will fight alongside you."
With the support of the locals, François's Second Army was revitalized. Guided by Kislevite hunters, the army relocated to a better campsite. The locals shared their knowledge of hidden trails and shortcuts, improving supply lines, while their herbal remedies aided the sick.
In turn, François shared a portion of his supplies and weapons with the Kislevites, helping Vladimir equip his militia. The two groups quickly forged a bond, united by necessity and shared purpose.
But just as François was preparing to relocate his camp, Kislevite hunters returned with urgent news: a Chaos army was marching toward the forest.
Something had gone wrong with the patrols. François immediately ordered the Quenelles Champion Knights to convene and discuss how to counter the advancing Chaos forces.
Vladimir, equally enraged by Chaos, decided to join François's army after careful deliberation.
At that moment, the Chaos vanguard was less than 20 kilometers from François's camp.
The first to approach François's position was Wenne, a Norscan chieftain leading a warband. Other Chaos contingents were still kilometers behind.
The death of Mortkin had left Chaos leadership fractured. Changer of Ways Chosen Harald the Ever-Eye had managed to gather around 13,000 troops, but only by exhausting his authority and influence. Worse, his army was undisciplined and disorganized, as many champions and warlords refused to cooperate.
When Harald's lieutenants learned of François's camp, they ignored orders to regroup and instead raced to claim the spoils for themselves.
Wenne's warband arrived at the abandoned Bretonnian camp, exhausted and famished after their forced march. Though Chaos warriors and daemons required no sustenance, many Norscan marauders still craved real food and drink to maintain morale.
Upon finding the seemingly abandoned camp, Wenne's warriors erupted into cheers. The Bretonnians had left behind supplies—barrels of wine, no less!
Drunk on victory, the marauders dropped their guard entirely. They began looting the camp, stuffing themselves with whatever food and drink they could find. Wenne himself smashed open a frozen wine bottle and licked at the shards like a starving dog.
In their frenzy, the hunters became the hunted.
With an enraged battle cry, François and his forces emerged from the surrounding woods. The Bretonnians fell upon the unprepared marauders with devastating fury.
François, astride his pegasus, descended like an avenging angel. Wenne could barely react before François's Unicorn Blade unleashed a searing light that blinded him. As the chieftain staggered, clutching his eyes, François decapitated him with a single swing.
The Quenelles Champion Knights followed their lord, cutting through the Chaos forces like wheat before a scythe.
Caught between overwhelming numbers and a surprise assault, Wenne's warband was annihilated.
The pattern repeated itself over the next several hours.
A second Chaos warband fell when their leader, Igor the Mariner, was slain by Gérard.
A third was obliterated by an ambush involving pre-planted explosives. The Kurgan chieftain Vargar lost both legs in the explosion and was subsequently hacked apart by Vladimir's axe.
Finally, Harald the Ever-Eye himself approached with the main Chaos force. Upon seeing the carnage and the abandoned Bretonnian camp littered with marauder corpses, Harald ordered an immediate retreat.
François, however, had already anticipated this. With the help of Kislevite guides, his forces crossed an icy ford and intercepted Harald's army at the banks of the Lynsk River.
The ensuing battle, known as the Battle of the Lynsk River, raged for three days and nights.
Harald's remaining forces mounted desperate charges to break through the Bretonnian lines. Unit after unit—Chaos Knights, marauder champions, war beasts, and even a few warbands infamous across the Old World—threw themselves at François's army, only to be repelled.
By the end of the third day, Harald's army managed to punch through François's defenses. But their victory was pyrrhic. The Changer's Chosen limped into the forests of Grovod with just 800 survivors out of an original force of over 13,000.
François, too, had suffered heavy losses. Over 2,000 of his men perished, most to the relentless cold and disease rather than combat.
Nonetheless, the Bretonnian victory was decisive. François's name would be forever etched into the annals of Bretonnian history.
In early April, François's Second Army and Vladimir's militia entered an abandoned Erengrad.
The Gryphon, Unicorn, and Fleur-de-Lis banners were raised high over the city, signaling its liberation from Chaos.
For the first time in years, Erengrad was free.
The lion roars. The unicorn rises. The fleur-de-lis blooms.
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