"Allow me to present myself. I am Archibauld Concreter the third, official scribe to the High Council of DHMC. What you are about to read is an accurate description of what would have happened." ### The rose and white marble columns of the palace of Valour gleamed in the sunlight, newly polished and cleaned for the grand festival. Pennants and banners depicting the orange and green colours of the PA alliance, dotted the battlements surrounding it, with a clear almost translucent light blue banner adorning the main castle and the gates themselves, showing the colours of the palace's owner, Frosty. Lying in fertile ground, the castle dominated the surrounding settlements and masked the palace completely from the people outside the walls, which was probably for the better; the decadence inside was enough to make some men cry out with physical pain. The dirty peasants, sweating lumberjacks and chained slaves toiling in the fields and forests didn't really care about the palace, nor the town and they especially didn't care about Lord Frosty himself. He and his cronies were just something to avoid the attention of, so they could live their lives in relative peace. Very few of them had ever ventured outside the fief and only a handful had visited the towns on the other side of Hightop, the mountain range to the South of the fief. If they had visited that area now, they would be in for a rude awakening. The forest had been full of strange noises for some hours, shadows moving in shadows, rustling sounds covering clanks of metal against metal and the occasional whispering voice emanating from nowhere or everywhere. Chairman Whytee looked out over his assembled war machines, his crews and the supporting Viking berserkers with pride. None of them seemed to be affected by the strangeness of the forest, or at least they didn't show any outward signs of it. The Vikings were grinding axes, drinking Meade or fighting among themselves. Some of them doing all three things at once. In the middle of the 200.000-some Vikings, Norse priests were cooking up a foul brew of red fungus and alcohol, the drink that made his Vikings true berserkers. His gaze flowed from the mass of red-bearded giants over to his other complement of troops and their war machines. Arrayed in lines for the assault, the blackened timbers of the catapults were adorned with spikes, skulls and charms to Tyr, Thor and Odin, emanating raw destructive power and menacing purpose. Equally menacing were the rams in multi-wheeled covered wagons, giant bronze rams heads staring out towards the horizon with polished unseeing eyes. The black-clad hunched-over engineers that tended to the machines were almost the exact opposite to the Vikings; silent, disciplined and orderly. Only the slow oiling of hinges and wheels, the stacking of firebombs and the soaking of leather on top of the rams showed that they were getting ready for battle. With no warning, the forest went silent and from the edge, a single person emerged as if created from the fog that still covered some part of the thickets. Chairman Whytee knew that figure from past engagements, but even if he hadn't ever seen her before, he would still have guessed and guessed right. The woman approaching was almost naked with only tattoos covering her upper torso, arms and legs. A translucent veil covered the lower part of her face, masking her mouth and nose. Her raven-black hair seemed to have a life of its own, swirling and caressing her, precisely covering the parts of her body that she wanted covered. The Vikings parted in front of her as if she was a flaming sword passing through butter, only to stand dumbfounded and stare as she passed them.
Chairman Whytee waited for her and bowed as deeply as his heavy bearskin cloak would allow him. "Lady Novi. A pleasure," he growled in barely legible Norse. Not that he didn't speak Tradespeak, but because he liked speaking the guttural language of his ancestors. The dark eyes flashed amusement at him and she turned to look down at the assembled troops. "Seems like we are missing someone?" Her voice was low and melodic, but undeniably commanding. Chairman Whytee chuckled and opened his arms to encompass all of his troops. "These are the troops I was told to bring by Lord Marek. I trust you have brought your detachment along as well?" She gave a small flick of her hand and with that, the army of witches she had brought along in the forest became apparent. The cackling mass of mutated females emanated raw magical energy in bursts, as a geyser spews water. Here and there, ball-lightnings bounced merrily along the ground only to completely reduce whatever it touched, to ashes. "Very well. Then we are only waiting for Sir Percival Yves Escobar Rotcshild to show up with the knights. Or SPYER as I like to call him." She nodded slowly and pointed to the dust cloud that had appeared behind the war machines. The dust parted and from within the brown wall appeared, as if on a picture, a giant white horse with a silver-armoured knight on top of it, violet and pink pennant fluttering in the wind in the most fashionable way imaginable, the number 112 written on his chest in gold. The rider guided his horse over towards them, leading a squadron of likewise armoured heavy dragoons. The horse stopped in front of Chairman Whytee and the rider took his helmet off, displaying the latest in hair and beard fashion from the high court of Empress Boshsc4. Looking down along his straight nose towards Chairman Whytee, the rider saluted. "Ze cavalry iz here. Zo, let us attack, hmm?" Chairman Whytee ignored the face that Lady Novi pulled behind the knight, and nodded slowly. "Right Sir. I have drawn up a battle plan that allows us to makes best use of my scouting report from Lord Marek. I suggest that we let the Witches conduct the first assault followed by the Vikings. Then, when we have cleared the outer battlements, we can bring up the catapults and rams to destroy the castle walls and the town, allowing you and your men, Sir, to ride in and finish the town and its administrators off. We will leave no-one alive." "Pfa, where is ze glory in zat? We go in last? Nevah!" SPYER turned to his dragoons, put his helmet onto his head and bellowed in a deep powerful voice, "FOR SIGMAR."
The dragoons charged over the small hill towards the castle. The result was as predictable as it was spectacular. With a blast from the fifty trumpeters immediately behind Sir Percival Yves Escobar Rotschild 112, the dragoons levelled their lances and charged towards the open gates to the castle. Around halfway there, the giant oaken doors started moving on their hinges, as the city guardsmen scrambled to close the entrance. Fifty guards were pushing on each door and even then they were only barely capable of moving it. Chairman Whytee looked at the charge, and slowly shook his head before looking down at the papers in his hand. "What is it?" Again, the low voice that seemed to penetrate the noise of the galloping soldiers without problems. "I just wish he had read the scout reports," he said to Lady Novi. She snorted in contempt and they both turned to look at the castle again. The charge was about 100 metres from the gate, when the opening was filled with armoured figures wielding long pointy sticks. In rows of 15, they levelled the pikes and awaited the charge. On the battlements, frantic movement was evident as well, undoubtedly the regiment of heavy crossbowmen that the report mentioned. The charging dragoons impacted onto the pike-men with all the subtlety of a freight train dropped from orbit. At the same time, thousands of heavy bolts rained down on the dragoons, punching inch deep holes in the splendid armours, sinking steel into the magnificent horses and gouging holes in the glorious dragoons themselves. The first three thousand dragoons had valiantly impaled themselves on the pikes to make way for more dragoons. Only an armoured charge conducted with complete abandon could have any chance of overwhelming the defending pike-men, and the dragoons looked as though they might actually succeed. That is, until the defenders fired the ballistae they had kept hidden. Three metre steel-tipped spears ripped through the dragoons’ thick armour as if they had been made of cardboard, pinning rider and horse together or even several dragoons on the same deadly spear. The charge lost momentum and this was what the defenders had been waiting for. Another wave of bolts impacted on the dragoons and with a mighty roar the pikemen rushed the now stationary dragoons. With no space to move either back or forth, the dragoons were slaughtered to a man. Chairman Whytee turned to face his Vikings and motioned to his Norse priest to approach. He was going to call this attack off, even though it was going to be a bitch convincing his Vikings, that they would have to abandon the plunder and women in the town; no reason to attack now they had lost their primary offensive force. "Not so fast Why." He looked over at Lady Novi who had remained fixated on the carnage.
"What do you mean? This is a dead cause." "I do not think so. While the foppish moron might have thrown his entire force away, we might salvage this. If we attack now." She pointed to the miasma of destruction and laughed softly, a sound like delicate glass beads in the soft evening wind or nails down a blackboard. "Their bodies of the dragoons and their horses are blocking the entrance, they cannot close the gates." She turned to him and looked him directly into the eyes, fire leaping from the black orbs directly into his adrenaline centre. "Sound the attack. My witches will take point. Skulls and Honour Why." Chairman Whytee nodded at the order and clenched his fist. He raised it high into the air and roared the battlecry of the Norse. "For Valhal, lad blodet flyde!" The Vikings responded eagerly and grabbed their axes. The leader of the engineers looked to Whytee and he nodded back. With a crooked smile the man nodded in acceptance and turned to his war machines. A single order rang out and the readied catapults unleashed their deadly cargo of flame pots towards the defenders. Satisfied that his troops were engaged, Whytee turned back to Lady Novi. "Strength and Honour Novi." But he was talking to the air; the witches and their mistress had already charged off towards the city, fireballs and phantasms impacting on the walls. With an almost audible whoosh of air, his men charged past on both sides of him, on the heels of the witches. Grinning madly he hefted his massive mattock and charged with his troops, abandoning the general and embracing the Viking. ### Lady Novi had been right. The combined artillery barrage and the magical bombardment had killed off most of the defenders around the main gate. Everywhere inside the bailey, pike-men, crossbowmen and guardsmen had been burned, frozen, impaled, crushed, imploded, electrocuted or worse. The witches had made room for the Vikings after the initial killings and with no delay at all, the marauding horde had ripped through the town pillaging and plundering everything and everyone. The last defensive troops of Frosty's, before so proud, army had retreated into the citadel itself, to wait for the reinforcements that undoubtedly would be coming any time soon. But not soon enough. The engineers had rolled the war machines up to the city itself and were now busy reducing the citadel itself to a thin paste of grey rubble. A process that had started, as soon as the Vikings had cleared the town of anything valuable. ### Chairman Whytee tried to wipe the blood and gristle of his face with the backside of his hand. It didn't work; the hand was covered in the same gory
paste that was all over his mattock, his bearskin cloak and, well all over him really. He knelt next to a puddle of water that was filling a wagon wheel hole and used it to wash his hands and face. A shadow appeared over him and he looked up at the person that was contoured against the sun. He squinted and could just about make out the features of Lady Novi. He nodded in recognition and finished wiping his face before standing up. He looked at Lady Novi again and grinned toothily. She was covered in even more blood, gore and brains than he had been and even so, the black hair had remained clean and still worked its concealing magic. In her right hand, she was carrying the decapitated head of SPYER 112 by the still stylishly looking hair. He nodded in the direction of the head. "What do you wanna do with that?" She smiled. Or he assumed she smiled, the small crow's feet at her eyes contracted but her mouth kept well hidden behind the veil. "Put it on a stake. Do you have other suggestions?" she purred. "I'd assume that Sir Percival's family wants him back to bury with the rest of him?" She laughed softly, again that elfin sound of pure delight and absolute terror. "You are telling me that you do not know?" Whytee frowned in puzzlement before shaking his head slowly. "Surely you noticed that Sir Percival has a number? In this case number 112. Now, if you ever get invited to the Imperial Court, you will probably run into SPYER 116. Or even SPYER 88." Whytee looked more confused than before and Lady Novi slowly shook her head in amusement, a smile definitely on her face by now. "Why, they are all purpose bred clones. 116 is the Grand Vizier. 88 is the leader of the household bodyguard. And 112 is the moronic cavalryman that charges in spite of opposition. If any of them die, the Empress will just let a new one grow. I have nineteen 112 heads back home adorning my tower. This one will make number twenty." Chairman Whytee grinned at that, "All right then. Pyramids or pikes?" "Always pikes Why. My witches are already working on it." Chairman Whytee nodded in acceptance. He preferred to stack the heads of the vanquished foe in small pyramids outside the crushed gates, but this had been Lady Novi's victory. "Guess we'll just toss salt on the rubble and leave. Until next time we are summoned my Lady." He bowed as deeply as his bearskin cloak would allow him and turned away to his men. They needed to go back the castle and regroup. Tomorrow would surely be another task, another town, and another victory for the Empire and his Empress.