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Kaldezeit-20-31-2492
My pistol thundered, and the bullet found its mark in the face of one Kislevite rider, who wielded a lance far too long to use properly in the chaos. Behind me, hundreds of shots rang out at once. The echo split the frozen air, and with it dozens of riders and horses crashed into the snow, painting it with a thin layer of blood.
I raised my runic mace, glowing with a fierce aura, and drew another pistol from my holsters. The Kislevite riders began to topple from their mounts, trapped among the bodies of their own comrades. Their horses neighed wildly, unable to leap over the growing mountain of corpses before them.
I fired again. This time the shot shattered the face of another warrior, who fell backward like a sack of stones.
The formation of Kislevite lancers had lost all momentum. They tried to regroup, but their vanguard was annihilated, and the river had become their grave. I tossed the pistol into the snow and raised my mace for the final clash.
Horse against horse, steel against runed steel. The impact was brutal, sharp, and the battle turned swift and bloody. I struck with all my strength against the torso of a boyar who had managed to cross the river. I felt his armor and bones break like rotten bars under the weight of my weapon. The man collapsed into the snow, lifeless, while the Kislevites began to retreat, fleeing like rats after losing hundreds without even breaking our line.
"Take prisoners! They'll serve us later in negotiations," I ordered. My men dismounted to drag the wounded riders out, trapped beneath dead horses or entangled among their comrades' corpses.
I watched as dozens of Kislevites were hauled to our side of the river, while the rest lay buried little by little beneath the constant snow.
"My lord, the priest of Morr has arrived for the rites," one of my captains reported."Let him begin. The rest, with me. We're crossing the river. It's time they learned what happens when they meddle with the Empire."
While the infantry cleansed the battlefield, ensuring the dead received Morr's rites so their souls would not feed demons or necromancers, I pushed my troops forward. We crossed over the improvised bridge the Kislevites had built for their raids. Their own work now became the path to their punishment.
Our destination was Polotsk, a town of commercial importance in the region, though not especially fortified. We rode fast, following the trail of the retreating Kislevites. At my back, fifteen hundred riders: a mix of my elite guard in runic armor and my men-at-arms, wielding swords, axes, and Dawi-forged warhammers, though without the same protection.
The charge into the town was unstoppable. There was barely any resistance. We entered through the main streets, our horses trampling those who dared stand in the way. The Kislevites scattered in panic toward the fortified tower, the only refuge worthy of being called a defense.
"That wasn't too hard," one of my men said, panting, his breath turning to vapor in the frozen air.
"They're used to finding no resistance. The League doesn't defend the frontier, only their own houses. The nobles hide behind walls, leaving the villages to suffer alone. No wonder they flee at the first clash."
"What now, my lord?" asked a rider, eyeing the crowd pushing into the tower.
"Burn it all. We don't care for the loot—it will be scarce anyway. But let them die of cold and hunger… that is the message we'll send. Nothing must remain that they can call home. The food stores they worked so hard to gather will go up in smoke." I spurred my horse forward.
"Yes, my lord!" came the chorus of replies.
Torches flew onto roofs, houses, and stables. At first the fire spread slowly, checked by the snow, but soon the dry materials caught, and flames roared to life. The town blazed, lighting the night with an infernal glow.
We found one of the main granaries—stuffed with grain. We emptied it immediately into our carts before setting it aflame. Little by little, Polotsk was consumed down to its foundations. Only the stone structures blackened by heat remained, along with the fortified tower crammed with soldiers and civilians alike.
As I watched the flames devour Polotsk, I wasted no time. I spurred my horse on in search of more villages to reduce to ashes. The next victim of our wrath was Vitebsk, a nearby settlement. The story repeated itself: we stormed through blood and fire, cut down the warriors who dared resist, stole their horses, and set every building ablaze. Even inns and stables burned without mercy. When we left, Vitebsk was nothing but blackened stone husks and smoke.
With two towns reduced to ashes, we began our return to safer ground. Our carts were heavy with grain, dried meat, and other foodstuffs seized from the Kislevites. With luck, those supplies would feed our army for another week, perhaps two.
On arrival, I saw the progress of the dawi. They had dug vast quantities of frozen earth and were already laying the foundations of what would become the largest fortress in the region.
We had won the first battle of many, but I knew danger did not only come from the Kislevite riders. The local nobles were growing increasingly uneasy. They had lost the autonomy Talabecland once allowed them, and now they saw an Imperial general imposing the Emperor's authority in flesh and steel. That was the greater problem. The question was no longer if they would resist, but to whom the troops would remain loyal: to their natural lords, or to me.
That is why, in recent days, I reinforced vigilance. Groups of my men controlled the roads and the communication posts of Ostermark's nobles, watching for any suspicious move. All I needed was for them to make a mistake: a plot, a betrayal, a gesture of defiance. Then I would have the perfect excuse to accuse them formally, strip them of everything, and assume absolute authority.
For now, I had to keep appearances and move within Imperial law. I had done nothing outside the rules—only enforced them with greater strength and no tolerance.
Meanwhile, I deployed constant patrols. My recruits moved through the villages of Ostermark, ensuring that the frontier remained guarded. They cleared forests of bandits and hunted down raiders, sending a clear message to the peasantry: their villages were safe because the Empire—through me—was willing to defend them. If I could make the common folk see my soldiers as their protectors, it would not matter how much the nobles growled. The loyalty I sought would be mine.
Each passing day I made sure my forces moved from village to village. The constant military presence made recruitment easier: patrols often returned with new volunteers, men who swore the oath on the spot and joined the marches and basic drills. The army grew with each passing day.
But the news about Ostermark's nobles and their correspondence troubled me. The messages they sent and received were multiplying, so I gave the order to intercept and capture messengers. In the Empire it was not unusual for one or two letter-carriers to disappear; no one would suspect much. I needed to know what they were plotting.
While waiting for results, I decided to punish Kislev once more. Recently we had stopped their attempt to build another bridge across the river; their workers were shot dead before finishing it. I could not let the chance for retaliation slip away.
I gathered my riders and bought riverboats at a ridiculous price. On a frozen night we crossed in total silence, ignoring the cold that bit down to the bone. We sailed to a nearby forest and, guided only by the moon, advanced toward Rakhov, a trading town of great value to Kislev. Goods of high worth passed through there, and it was not far from the capital.
The woods shielded us until the last moment. Only when we reached the first houses did I see the flicker of torches in the guards' hands. Everything seemed still, asleep, silent.
"A large town… there will be plenty to plunder for us," muttered one of my riders.
"Forget the castle. Bringing cannons here would've been impossible. Burn it all, and quickly," I replied, pushing my horse forward.
We got closer than we should have. Suddenly, I noticed the guards shifting uneasily. They had sensed something. Our cloak of night was torn.
"For Sigmar and for the Eternal Empire!" I roared, spurring my horse and raising the runic mace high.
"For Sigmar!" my men shouted in chorus, charging with me toward the gates of the town. The guards fled inward, with no time to organize.
We crushed the first defenders in the streets. Three fell beneath my mace, their bodies smashed against the frozen snow. Soon we were inside, fighting house to house, street by street. Thousands awoke in terror, caught in the chaos of fire and blood.
That was when I felt it. At the end of a street, in the darkness, a spark of magic flared like an invisible bonfire. Only my arcane senses could detect it. The energy swelled rapidly.I spurred my horse, shoving aside defenders with crushing blows that left pools of blood in my wake, driving straight at the sorceress.
I saw her. Barefoot in the snow, hands raised, fingers surrounded by a frozen glow. Colossal shards of ice materialized around her, and with a gesture, she hurled them at me.My runic ring blazed so intensely the entire street shone like daylight. The ice projectiles disintegrated midair, turning to vapor under the rune's power, drawing cries of astonishment from Kislevites and my own men alike.
I galloped hard, breaking through the line of defenders who tried to bar my way. The sorceress turned at the sight of me and began to run."Coward!" I roared, raising my mace as the ring pulsed with blinding light.
I charged with fury, ready to crush her skull. She hurled herself into the snow, dodging by mere inches as my runic blow shattered the ground where her head had been. I spurred my horse forward and drove the beast into her. The animal bowled her over, then its hooves trampled her again and again. Skulls and ribs gave way under the pounding until her head burst in a spray of blood and ice. The Kislevites nearby froze, stunned. Then, like terrified rats, they broke and fled in every direction. The death of their witch had sealed their defeat.
The town's resistance collapsed within minutes. With the mage dead, nothing remained to hold the defenders' morale. My men, armed with runed steel, tore through every street and makeshift barricade.
Torches flew, and soon Rakhov was engulfed in fire. People ran in desperation, escaping into the frozen woods, where winter would finish what my soldiers had begun. From the fortified tower, the local boyar and his guards watched helplessly, their eyes burning with hatred as they saw their town consumed. I did not bother with forcing the gates open with magic or storming the keep. Burning the entire settlement was victory enough: sooner or later, that boyar would crawl to his Tzar to beg for food and aid.
Among the prisoners captured was a priest—yet, to my surprise, not of Ursun, but of Ulric. In a coarse dialect he told me the latest news: Tzar Vladimir had recently died in a campaign against goblins, and Prince Boris had vanished, later found in dreadful health. Kislev was mired in succession chaos, and to worsen matters, the cults of Ulric and Taal held more influence in the region than I would have ever expected.
I chose to leave the local temple intact as a gesture. Burning everything else was my plan, but letting that priest keep preaching was a way to sow further discord among the Kislevites.
After this, we withdrew back into Ostermark. The raid had been swift and brutal, but I could not linger longer than necessary. Among the intercepted messengers of recent weeks, one carried a particularly interesting letter: a plan by the nobles of Ostermark to try and expel my garrison from Bechafen.
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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