Tilea IC2401 (Campaign#8)

[Padre]

What Happened Outside Astiano
Battle Report, Part Two (Turns 1 and 2)

“They were whipping the draft horses something rotten,” said Aldo. “I could hear the beasts braying. Some moved a bit more quickly but others foundered so the wagons got strung out a bit. The women close by had stopped their screaming, but I could still hear the children crying. Then came the first bang and the room filled with dust. My ears went funny, but I managed to get my eyes to work again and saw one of the hairy monsters was rearing up. I reckon the shot had landed right in front of it, maybe even clipped it.”

“It didn’t slow down though, and I don’t think the other brutes even noticed.”

“Anyone would notice a cannon shooting at them,” said Fran. “You don’t miss a thing like that. We could hear it from the Via Strogsi.”

Aldo was shaking his head. “You didn’t see the brutes. They had cannons themselves, loads of them. Not on carriages with wheels - they were just carrying them. There were two gangs hefting them. Think about it, if you’re brute enough to carry cannons into battle, d’you think you’d flinch because one fired from hundreds of yards away?”

Fran said nothing. Aldo knew that all the boys had seen ogres before, even in the city: warehouse guards, bodyguards, and performers in the annual spettacolo. They knew full well the feats of strength the brutes were capable of, even the sort of domesticated ogre who lived among men. Boulderguts’ army was made of the real thing, however, as brutal as they get, from the wild east and beyond. They were surely stronger, tougher, meaner and cruel beyond human measure.

“When the brutes used their cannons it was like thunder rumbling in the distance. I think they killed some of the handgunners behind the wall around the hut, but it was hard to tell which ones were just hiding and which had fallen. The Trantian mob kept marching on, and I thought maybe they’re just going to march away, off to another gate, 'cos they were getting really far away from the wagons. The soldiers on the walls were shouting at them, angry words, so I wasn’t the only one who wondered what they were doing.

“Then I saw something bright out of the corner of my eye. When I turned to look I saw it was coming right at me, a burning ball as big as the sun at midday, and getting bigger. I ducked down as quick as I could to put the stone between me and it, and I still felt the heat wash over my back. It didn’t burn me, 'cos it wasn't really coming at the window - it was aimed at the battlement.”

Tommi was agitated. “That’s when the cannon blew up!”

Aldo shook his head. “No, not then.”

“You just said it was,” insisted Tommi.

“No, I didn’t,” denied Aldo. “I just said there was a ball of fire. It hurt the cannon crew – I know that ‘cos one of them was screaming. But another was shouting, ‘Cover the budge barrel’ and ‘Douse the carriage’. Then the screaming stopped and the voice said, ‘Make her ready’.

"When the smoke had cleared a bit, I looked out the window again. The wagons were slowing down now, the horses stumbling. Some women and old men had fallen and were being dragged up by the others. I could hear a strange chanting from the wall at the side of the chamber, then another voice almost the same from the other side, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It was the wizards, it had to be. They were conjuring up magic and it made me feel dizzy, but I had the window to hold onto so I watched to see what would happen.

“When the chanting stopped, at first nothing seemed to happen. Then I saw it. The giant bull monsters, which had moved ahead of the other brutes, were going much slowing, so that the brutes on foot were catching up to them. I knew it was the magic that had done it because the riders on their backs were thrashing the reins and beating at the heads, but the breasts were stumbling as bad as the horses on the wagons; not just the one that had reared up at the roundshot, but all three of them.

“Just when I thought they really were leaving to save themselves, the Trantian mob turned, swinging around to face the enemy. I think they were trying to get at the brutes from the side, maybe to lure them away from the wagons and the womenfolk. Way up ahead the little line of handgunners fired again, but the sound of it was nothing compared to the blast of the brute’s handcannons.

“It really looked like the wagons had a chance now, if the horses could be kept on their feet and pulling …

“… but they were so slow it was horrible to watch. When the gun above me went off again it made my head feel like bursting and it started my ears a-ringing. I had to rub my eyes hard to make them work this time, and now I saw one of the monstrous-bulls on the ground.”

Vitty was nodding. “Yes, yes! They killed it. I saw its corpse from the wall after the battle when I took wine up to the men on the wall, umpteen crows a-feasting on it.”

“It was the cannon," agreed Aldo. "I thought the crew would start cheering but I couldn’t hear a thing. Maybe they did cheer? And maybe they couldn’t even hear it themselves? I went back to watching and I saw the handgunners running away. They weren’t cowards, no way – they'd been up closer than anyone else – they just knew staying there was stupid.

“But they’d left it too late ‘cos a bunch of brutes in the middle of the line, the closest to them, were running too and they came on so much faster than the men. When the brutes caught up with them they just ran right on, right over them, the handgunners disappearing underneath. Then the brutes stopped, like they wanted to take a breath or two and have a look around.

“Those ones looked meaner than all the others. They had the biggest weapons, swords as big as the sails on a windmill, and a hammer that looked like it could smash the city walls down.”

“Could it?” asked Vitty, tears welling in his eyes.

Aldo expected to hear Tommi or Fran laugh but they didn’t. They were looking at him just as intently as Vitty.

“I dunno," said Aldo. "Maybe. But the brute carrying it would get stuck with hundred bolts if he tried.” This seemed to reassure Vitty somewhat. “The rest of brutes were someway behind this front lot now, all bunched up, getting in each other’s way.

“The Trantian mob were now the closest to the brutes. They didn’t charge though, they just stood there, waving their pitchforks and scythes about. They didn’t have a flag to wave; they didn’t have drums to beat; but they were doing their best to look like they meant business. They had to be brave men, ‘cos there were four brutes in front of them carrying those cannon barrels …

“… and they hadn't fired them yet!”

…………………………………………
Game Notes (end of turn 2):

When the Pavonan player whipped the draught horses, I made up a quick D6 chart favouring an increase in speed but with the possibility of hurting the horses too much. Two wagons went 2” faster, one went 1” slower. I had warned the player that next turn there would be another chart to reflect the consequences of this potentially cruel treatment, and that if the whipping continued there would be an even more potentially harmful chart. When the whipping stopped second turn, the player nevertheless rolled badly for all three wagons and they moved 2” instead of 4”. Overall, he had gained nothing, in fact one had fallen behind where it would otherwise have been.

In turn one, when the Firebelly ogre cast his fireball spell at the cannon, he miscast and went down to level one, losing the spell in question. (This was a sign of things to come.)

In turn two I got really excited when the Mournfang unit failed its first panic test, but it passed its second test (being 12” from the army standard) and the drama was not to be.

 

[Padre]

What Happened Outside Astiano
Battle Report, Part Three (Turns 3-6)

“The Trantian mob now went straight towards the brutes with the cannons. Not running, just walking. That big fella was shouting but he was too far away for me to know what he was saying, even if my ears hadn’t been ringing so bad. They kept together, packed tight, and there were so many of them I thought maybe they could beat the brutes.

“The women were close to the gate now - a few more steps and they’d be through. Some soldiers on the wall were shouting, ‘Hurry up,’ and stuff like that. I wondered if there was a prayer I could say to help them, but all I could think of was my Morrite prayers and it didn’t seem right praying for their souls like they were about to die. Then I heard a clackety sound - the Pavonans below the window were cranking the weird engine. One of the crew poured powder into a funnel and another blew ashes off a matchcord on a linstock. They were going to shoot it.

“I wondered if it would be louder than the cannon, what with all them barrels, but it was outside not overhead, and besides my ears were already ringing so bad I doubted it could hurt them much more. The wagoneers were whipping more cruelly than ever– there was blood on the horses’ hides.

“Another boom sent my head a-spinning again. When I looked out to see if it was the engine below there was no smoke and the crew were hopping about, agitated. I think it was broken, ‘cos they hefted it up and dragged it towards the gate, getting right in the women’s way. The boom must’ve come from the cannon on top, but when I looked I couldn’t see where their shot had gone.

“The ogres were really close now …

“… and the ones near the Trantian mob laid into them. It was horrible. I saw two men hurled through the air like nothing more than dolls - they hit the ground and didn’t move after that. One of the cannons went off right in their midst, which send more spinning out the back, and others staggering out like drunk men. None of the brutes fell, and in a moment the Trantians were running. The brutes went after them, their blood up. If it weren’t for their heavy iron burdens they would’ve caught them and killed more, but the Trantians outran them back towards the wall.

“The hairy bull monsters were close too. They had umpteen horns on their heads and their mouths looked like the gargoyles on the Church of Santo Anredo the Furtive. If my ears had been working I bet I could have heard them snorting. The brutes on their backs were riding so high I wondered what tricks they used to get up there.”

“Then it happened,” said Aldo, before going silent. He covered his face with his hands, and even though that meant they could not see it, the other boys knew he was scrunching it up.

Vitty put his hand on Aldo’s shoulder. “It’s alright,” he said. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to.”

“No,” said Tommi. “He does have to tell us. He said he would.”

Aldo wasn’t really listening to the boys, but he did notice they had stopped talking. He steeled himself and somehow the words came out.

“There was smoke coming up from under the window. I thought maybe the weird engine was on fire, but I was wrong. The smoke was coming from the crowd of Trantian women and children. It was as if someone had dug a fire pit all around them, set it alight and then dumped damp straw on it to make thick, white, heavy smoke. They stopped, wide eyed, like they didn’t know what to do. It all happened fast, I know that now, but it felt horribly drawn out. Sparks flickered in the smoke, then changed into flashing veins.

“I think the soldiers on the walls were shouting again, because some of the children looked up. One of them saw me. He didn’t look frightened, just bewildered, and he waved at me! Before I could wave back the smoke itself burst into flames, becoming a wall of fire. Even at the window it felt like a torch being held a foot from my face, but I had to keep looking. If I’d been down on the ground it would have been bad enough, knowing the women were inside that burning wall. Being above them, I could see them all. A few of those on the outside began screaming, batting and patting at the flames on their skirts and cloaks, or on other people’s clothes, and this made the others push inwards, forcing themselves backwards even though some fell underneath their feet. They were crammed together, trying to push past each other. It took them a moment for them to realise the fire was all around, not just on one side.

“Next to them, the Pavonan gunners pulling the engine just carried on. They were right beside the horror, yet just kept dragging their burden, even when some of the women tried to run through the flames and came out ablaze, collapsing at the soldiers’ feet. Then the gun disappeared under the window, through the outer gate, so I went over to the grate on the murder hole and looked down to see it below. I could hear the sounds coming up through the hole in the stone, even with my bad ears. Someone shouted, ‘It’s in!’ and then I heard the clang of the outer gates shutting.” (Aldo was shaking his head as he spoke.) “I couldn’t get my head around it. The wagons were still outside, the women and children, and so close. I thought it had to be some clever trick. But it wasn’t, and I knew it because the walls went quiet, and the men down below the hole stopped moving altogether. None of the soldiers were shouting any more. They’d closed the gates and weren’t planning on opening them again.”

Fran’s face screwed into an angry frown. “So, they decided to save the gun and not the people?”

Aldo nodded. “The Trantians were frantic, umpteen were already trampled, then they lurched, all of a sudden, to one side, which turned into a running leap through the fire and out the other side, where they fell, writhing and burning. Only two got past the mess of dying folk, a small boy and a man with his arm in a sling. I don’t know why they were so lucky.

“Outside the brutes had caught up with the wagons.

“They swatted the wagoners aside and even though the cannon sent a ball right into them and the crossbowmen on the walls showered bolts down, felling three of them, they just turned the wagons around and began lugging them away, as if they cared nothing for the shooting. I saw one who was dragging a dead wagoner by the leg turn around to come back and grab one of the dead women by the hair. He dragged them both away, the bodies jolting along behind him, the woman smoking, with three bolts hanging from his back and another in his belly.

“The smell was bad, like burning hair, and then there was another stink like brimstone, and flames curled through the window from above. A burning man fell right past, without a sound. I knew something bad was happening, and I wanted to get out the tower, but as soon as I went towards the steps there was a massive boom, maybe more than one, and the whole tower shook, and it knocked me to the floor. I don’t know how long I was down, but when I got back up I went to over the window – I’m not sure I knew what I was doing. It was like a dream. I couldn’t hear a thing by then, but I could see. Outside the brutes were moving away, but one of them stopped and turned. He was covered in paint, or tattoos, and he had some sort of mask on his face. He was dancing, his arms up in the air, and then he suddenly jerked to one side and … disappeared! He was gone, like he had jumped through a door. But there was no door.”

The other boys were all staring intently at Aldo. Vitty’s mouth was hanging open, while Tommi had has hands locked behind his head like he was holding it in place. Talking about it brought back the crazy feeling Aldo had felt at the time, and he now had to stifle a giddy sort of sob. He did not entirely succeed.

“That’s when I went up to see what had happened to the cannon. Like I said, it was like a dream and everything felt unreal. The cannon was there, all burned, and the crew were there, still burning, and the smell was worse than ever. So, I said sorry, and went back down again. Back at the window I could see that the brutes who weren’t stealing the Trantian wagons were standing their ground, shooting handgun sized pistols and their carriage-less cannons at the walls.

“Shots pinged at the stone around the window time and again. The flecks of stone kept stinging me.” As he spoke Vitty reached out at touched one of the scratches upon his cheek. Aldo didn’t notice.

“They shot again and again,” he continued, “and the men on the walls sent crossbow bolts raining back at them. Twice I saw flaming balls streak out from the wall and splash into the brutes.

“And then all of a sudden the brutes just upped and left. I couldn’t hear what was going on on the walls but then one of the soldiers appeared at the door. He looked right at me, so I jumped over to the stairs and ran down.”

“Did he chase you?” asked Vitty.

“No. He was too busy,” said Aldo.

“What’ya mean, ‘busy’?”

“Spewing his guts up!” answered Aldo.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Game Notes:
Three times Pit of Shades was cast on the ogre Tyrant and his unit. Twice it was dispelled but once it was successful. If the player (Jamie) had failed his test his own player character (Razger Boulderguts himself) would have been lost. The death of a player’s own PC always causes difficulties in my campaigns, in that the player then usually ends up getting a new character, who isn’t necessarily in charge, or, if they are, has a bunch of problems to contend with as a consequence of the previous character dying. The exact nature of the problems and difficulties to overcome depends on the circumstances and all sorts. (NB: The boy Aldo, our NPC eyewitness in the above story, didn’t notice the failed Pit of Shade spells (of course), but nor did he notice the successful one either – when that one occurred he was going up the steps to see what had happened to the cannon up top.)

The description of the burning crowd of Trantian women was my ‘take’ on the fulminating flame cage spell the firebelly ogre wizard was using. I know the 8th ed. book describes rods of fire shooting out and forming a cage, but (and I do know it is daft to say this) that sounded silly to me! So, I turned it into a wreath of smoke manifesting around the unit which then transformed into fire – which just happened to fit the photo of the cotton wool we used to represent the spell on the tabletop.

And yes, it does sound very cruel of the Pavonans to close the gate on the Trantian civilians and let all that horrible stuff happen to them but … the player (Matt) had his competition wargame campaign head on, filled with considerations of points and strategies etc. He always looks at the game this way, which is why his game-world alter ego seems aloof and heartless, which is why I describe him as aloof and heartless. The Trantian women were worth 0.5 Supply Points to him, a value which could be turned into 100 pts of troops. BUT, the helblaster was worth more. So when it misfired he cut his losses and had it dragged in. Then he closed the gate to ensure that there was no way this game would turn into an invasion into the city by the ogres. If they got in that would likely mean he lost the whole city plus all his forces there, and right now.

You might wonder why he played things in such a way that the wagons and men didn’t even have much of a chance to get in. He chose to place virtually all his fighting strength inside the walls (bar the handgunners, technically a detachment but house-ruled as allowed to be out at the hut, and the Trantian mob). The Trantian mob, however, cost him nothing – they weren’t part of his forces, and they weren’t carrying any Supply Points (unlike the crowd of women), and he couldn’t use them as soldiers at any other time, so he used them disposably. The wagons were worth 1.5 Supply Points altogether, but if he tried to protect them by having troops outside the walls the potential losses to his own forces would be much more expensive. Why save 2 Supply Points of loot (etc) from Trantio by losing more than 2 Supply Points worth of troops?

I think the following summary information should shed some light on who came out of this squabble best.

After calculating recovery of troops according to the campaign rules the Pavonan player had lost their 2 Supply Points (worth 400 points of troops) as well as 230 points of troops. So, 630 points down on the start of the game. The ogres had gained 1.5 Supply Points (worth 300 points of troops) but had lost about 500 points doing so (including their Firebelly wizard and one of their Mournfangs). So they were technically 200 points down on the start of the game.

BUT the ogres are a long way from home, and they cannot turn the 1.5 Supply Points into reinforcements unless it is at one of their settlements. They can consume it as ‘upkeep’ (a game mechanic to keep troops existing supplied in the field) but their field strength is effectively down by 500 points, whereas the Pavonan player managed to save the bulk of his Trantian garrison soldiers (crossbow, two wizards, helblaster) and still has the Astianan pike militia. He also still has Astiano.

Who now gains the upper hand really does depend on what happens next, and upon the proximity of reinforcements and relief, as well as other strategic considerations. Razger Boulderguts’ force has been noticeably weakened, and his mercenaries ‘Mangler’s Band’ whereabouts are unknown (well, to everyone else, possibly not to him, and definitely not to me, the GM). Whereas if you don’t count the loss of Trantio (which was possibly un-saveable) the Pavonans have lost only a cannon, 6 handgunners and 6 crossbowmen, and the first two of those were part of a standing force and so could not have served in a field army.

So, tactically, sacrificing the wagons and women while chipping at the ogres’ fighting strength could have been a sensible move. However, Matt is going to have to employ considerable political and diplomatic savvy if he doesn’t want the Pavonans to get a reputation for being cruel and heartless. I suppose he is lucky that his own player character, Duke Guidobaldo, was not present. Then again, it is possible he doesn’t care about gaining such a reputation – fear can be a useful strategic weapon too!

 

[Subedai]

Great scenario, it made for a very tense game and a heartbreaking story. I'm looking forward to the next chapter!

 

[Padre]

Thanks for the comment Subedai. I am currently working on the next story (painting, scenery, photos, writing, re-writing) which will be in two parts. We've already played the assault on Astiano, but I won't be turning that one into a report mainly because I'd just written a long report about the same place and the same forces. I took a couple of photos which I'll probably use in the end of season report. I must move the campaign on some more asap, to work out where and what the next game will be but busy RL has me in its grip right now. I paint/write in 20-30 minute blasts, about once every second day!! I think I'll get more done from next week on. Some of the players are busier even than me, One likes to meet in the pub to discuss his orders etc, another hates e-mails and so discusses his actions etc over the phone. But arranging a meet up or a phonecall can be hard. Another player travels all around the world for his job and so is often unavailable. And nearly all have families and kids! Still, we knew what we were doing. The campaign isn't fast, but it won't stop.

 

[Padre]

Morr Divided
Near to Viadaza
Autumn 2402

Biagino had not at first thought it unusual that a fellow clergyman should wish to speak with him in private, but when he discovered it was to be a secret rendezvous with a Pavonan priest unknown to him, at the ancient ruins beside Lago di Scandarro, that struck him as odd. The young messenger carrying the invitation only further stirred his suspicions. Although the lad had looked like a gangly novitiate, barely able to stand still for more than a moment, he was tonsured and wore a cassock, and thus must at least have made his temporary vows. Perhaps, he thought, the purportedly schismatic Pavonan church had less strict requirements concerning the age at which brotherhood could be bestowed? Indeed, during the Trantian Sagranalian uprising (several decades previously) there had been a veritable army of boy-novitiates, and Biagino had heard it said on several occasions that the Pavonan schism was an off-shoot of old Father Sagrannalo’s theology, although of a kind that fortuitously permitted the noble and rich to remain in power.

Was he being drawn into some radical, Pavonan design?

Of course, he let none of this dissuade him. Considering all he had experienced, to now shy away from merely speaking with a fellow clergyman, even in secret, seemed ridiculous. If the priest had bad intentions, then it was best that Biagino learned of it; and if the man proved to be a true servant of Morr, then that too required his attention. Either way, he must play along.

It was late afternoon when Biagino approached the tumbledown temple. All was calm, the lake waters adding to the peacefulness. Were he still a boy the chance to sit by the water’s edge and skim stones would have been irresistible. The only urge that vaguely tugged at him now was to take advantage of the quiet, to lie down, to sleep. That would mean dreaming, however, which for him was not at all restful, for in sleep his mind ran fast and deep into realms removed in both time and place, there to reveal horrors. The urge to rest was a remnant of his youth, and no longer an activity his to enjoy.

There were four men waiting. The priest who had invited him, Father Claudio, was immediately obvious: a large man of many chins, clothed in a grey, course, woollen cassock, yet so well fed that he was likely to be a priest of some authority, standing ahead of the others and elevated a little by the lie of the ground. There was also the boy-brother Biagino had already met, and the others were either lay-brothers, flagellant-dedicates, or some Pavonan admixture of the two.

The boy-brother carried an axe, more tool than weapon, but held in such a way that it was clearly intended as the latter. One of the dedicates had a viciously barbed mace, and a lit torch in his other hand. It was not yet dark, and Biagino struggled to guess why it was lit. (Had they made their way here through some underground tunnel? Were they intending to burn something, or scare wild animals away? Neither theory seemed likely.) The other dedicate lurched drunkenly, his arm extended as if to steady himself against some unseen support. It occurred to Biagino that the man’s condition might be due to over-exuberance in his self-administered punishments – a common cause of injury (or madness) in flagellants.

Father Claudio had apparently been engaged in prayer as Biagino arrived, and now gestured the conclusion of his prayers by bringing his hands together.

“Good day to you, Brother Biagino,” he said. “Holiest Morr protect and guide you and yours. Are you alone?”

“There’s just me, brother,” Biagino answered cheerfully. “Why, were you expecting others?”

Father Claudio simply smiled, shaking his head so that his jowls wobbled. “You have the ear of the arch-lector, yes?”

Biagino had expected this, just not so soon. Ever since the raising of the Viadazan crusade army he had received appeals, requests and entreaties of all varieties, to be passed on to those in power, whether that be military, secular or clerical. It was rare that petitioners were so abrupt, however. He chose not to answer and instead asked, “You’ve come from Trantio?”

“Sadly, yes, we have,” said Father Claudio. “A terrible thing, the fall of such a great city to plundering brutes. It greatly shames Tilea that such can happen, yes.”

Biagino wanted to ask, ‘Was it worse than when the city fell to you Pavonans?’. Instead he said, “There are wicked foes all about. This is not an easy time for Tilea. Yet Khurnag’s Waagh has been defeated in the south, and the vampires in the north now face our holy army, having already lost a battle. If the princes in between would stop squabbling amongst themselves and deal with this Razger Boulderguts, then all would be put right again.”

“Squabbling? Ah, hasn’t it always been thus - the way of things in Tilea, yes? The goddess would diminish to nothing if it were not so. Yet it is one thing for Tileans to wrestle over matters of honour and revenge; another thing entirely for orc, vampire and ogre to loot, burn and murder. Our Duke Guidobaldo knows full well when it is time to put aside territorial disputes and slights against his family and his people, and instead make a stand against evil.”

The duke certainly took his time to come to this realisation, thought Biagino. “It is a great shame that the realm of Trantio had to fall,” he said. “Not once but twice, and the second time to be left abandoned and ruined. Where have its people gone?”

Father Claudio gave no indication that he recognised any implied criticism. “Those who did not perish fled – some south to Astiano, some west to Remas, and some – as you can see – north to Viadaza.”

“Come to join our holy war against the undead?”

“Come to ask the arch-lector to recognise the war is now made larger, and that he cannot leave central Tilea to its fate while he completes his vow to destroy the vampires in the north. To do so would be folly, yes, for there would be no home for his victorious holy army to return to, nothing left of what they are trying to defend.”

“So you want me to ask the arch-lector to commit forces to fight against the ogres?”

“He must. Not to do so would be folly.”

Biagino began to wonder whether Father Claudio was working entirely on his own initiative, as his words and the Duke’s actions did not sit well together. “But the duke himself has ordered that his son and the Pavonans force he commands continue in the service of the holy army of Morr.”

“As is only proper,” replied Father Claudio, “for Duke Guidobaldo is Morr’s truest servant, and his son has made a holy vow. The arch-lector has other forces, however: his garrison at Remas, a whole army of mercenary Arabyans already bound to his service, and plenty more mercenaries available for employment. My lord will do all he can to defeat Razger, that goes without saying, yes, but if his strength should prove insufficient it is not only Trantio and Pavona that will suffer. Boulderguts cannot be ignored by Remas, nor can the fight against him be delayed, whether that be until the war in the north is won, or until Razger is before the walls of Remas.”

“The arch-lector is guided by holy Morr,” said Biagino, “divinely inspired to know when and how best to act ...”

“… Yet you are right, he cannot know the desires of Tilean princes unless he is made aware of them. Holy Morr concerns himself with the fight against the undead, guiding us securely to his garden so that we may rest undisturbed for all eternity. To him it matters not when our end comes, only that we do not succumb to evil after our death. We, his priests, must also concern ourselves with the living, for we ourselves are living and cannot do otherwise. Yet it is not right to hasten our own end, for Morr wishes to take us when he is ready, not when the servants of foul gods’ desire our deaths.”

Father Claudio chortled. “I thank you for your sermon, brother, but I too am cognizant of the church’s teachings.”

The torch bearer raised his arm a little causing the flame to sputter audibly. His eyes were glaring, sunk deep into his face like that of a starving man, yet his bare arms revealed muscles a-plenty.

“When Morr tests us,” declared the man in a Trantian accent, “it is no easy thing. He doesn’t play with us, tickle us, tease us, like a loving mother would her infant child. He teaches us through suffering. We become strong through those trials, and so ready to thwart any necromantic curse upon our death. The undead are the enemy, Razger’s ogres are the test. To fight both is not easy because to serve Morr is not easy.”

Biagino now knew for certain the man was a flagellant-dedicate, for his words contained the mantra of such creatures. Besides, only someone filled with an agonising commitment to Morr would fail to baulk at interrupting the conversation of two senior priests. He was probably a captain amongst the flagellants.

“My companion Brizzio knows the truth of it,” said Father Claudio. “It is scarred into his flesh. We must indeed fight both undead and ogres. If we fail against the ogres then Tilea is burned, the dead are unguarded, and the vampires will work their evil more easily, raising wicked legion after legion to serve them. The fall of Trantio is most assuredly a sign of Morr’s displeasure. It is clear now that our lord’s removal of the tyrant prince was not punishment enough for the people of Trantio, and that Morr saw fit to allow the city to fall completely, despite our worthy attempts to cleanse it. All Tileans must work together to prove to Morr that they are indeed deserving of his love. We cannot rely on Morr's promises without obeying his commands, nor can we expect to enter his garden without accepting his wrath. You must surely recognise, yes, that Morr is not merely the king of gods but the god of gods? If the lesser gods think to test us, how much moreso the god of gods?”

Biagino looked at each of them. One dedicate with his crazed expression, the other reeling unsteadily; the boy-priest hopping from foot to foot as if upon a hot griddle, and Father Claudio staring down at him like a disapproving teacher. These were indeed disciples of Pavonan schism, Claudio had openly admitted it. They were strange in their belief as well as their ways. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell them this. Not when he was here alone, unarmed apart from his hidden stiletto.

“Your request would be taken more seriously if presented formally and with proof of Duke Guidobaldo’s agreement,” Biagino advised. And if you and your companions were not schismatic fools, he thought.

Father Claudio nodded. “That can be done, yes,” he said. “I shall speak with Lord Silvano for he knows his father’s wishes. If he knew also that the arch-lector was likely to listen, then he himself would present our case.”

Biagino now wondered who it was had most likely sent these men to speak to him. The young Lord Silvano had not shown his face at the army’s councils since the trial of his men for their ill-disciplined attack against the Campogrottan ogres. It had been supposed that he was wracked with indecision concerning whether to leave and return southwards or stay with the holy army of Morr. Perhaps instead it had been the youthful embarrassment at having to admit that he had lost control of his troops, while that they had lured him away so that they could do what they desired? Mind you, knowing the boy’s family, it might instead be that he was annoyed at himself for not having given the order for the assassinations. And if none of these, then it could be a matter of pride – the need to know his request will be taken seriously rather than risk being shamed by a brusque refusal. Whatever the truth, it seemed likely these men had been tasked with obtaining an invitation from the arch-lector to attend upon him, thus saving the boy’s face, and allowing him to present his father’s wishes.

Taking leave of the party, Biagino returned the way he had come. He decided that Lord Silvano’s inexperience must be to blame for the bizarre and round-about method employed to gain an audience with the arch-lector, if indeed that is what it was. It also occurred to him that the arch-lector, the very definition of experience, should perhaps have recognised the need to reassure Silvano that his presence was still desired at the council table. Once he began to ponder the request to assist the fight against the ogres, however, any clarity he was feeling slipped away to be replaced with a heady concoction of doubts, fears and frustrations, riddled with images from half-remembered, and less than half-comprehended, dreams. Was this the time, as Tilea faced doom at the hands of vampires and ogres, to pander to schismatics? Could this be a gangrenous rot growing at the core of the Tilean church of Morr? Was this the beginning of the end of the joint-rule of the lawful gods in Tilea?

 

[Padre]

Capitano di Ventura
Estalia, east of Solsona, at the western mouth of the Tramoto Pass

Ottaviano found himself pleased and thankful to be wearing the Compagnia’s livery once more. He could see Baccio was experiencing a similar satisfaction. The two of them now had a purpose beyond mere survival, a chance to prosper in the security afforded by an army of comrades. The wine was good too.

Their journey from Tilea had not been easy, nor pleasant, and their first weeks in Estalia were a time of hunger and doubt. When they finally found the Compagnia del Sole they cursed their ill-luck, for had they taken the Tramoto Pass instead of the sea route to Almagora they would have walked straight into their comrades’ arms as soon as they entered Estalia. But they were so happy to have arrived, to be made so welcome, that they put their troubles behind them.

Having delivered the letter they carried, and briefly sworn themselves into Capitano Bruno Mazallini’s service, the pair of them were permitted to sleep long enough to take the edge off the pain in their aching legs. Upon waking they were summoned to an examination by the capitano and his marshal Luigi Esposito. It was an unusually warm afternoon for autumn, so the meeting took place at an open-air table at the edge of the camp, with the foothills of the Abasko Mountains looming in the distance.

The capitano di ventura had spent the morning hawking, and was still fussing over his bird when they presented themselves. With a simple gesture and the word ‘Please’ he invited Ottaviano and Baccio to partake of the wine and fruit on the table. Serving themselves they drank deeply of the sweet, spiced Borgas, then Ottaviano noticed Baccio staring at the banner mounted behind the capitano - the Leon de Oro of Almagora. Technically the Compagnia were still in Almagora’s employ, having dealt with the last of the rebellious senors in Solsona, and now entering the last three weeks of the additional ‘ad beneplacitum’ term of their service. Ottaviano decided it was very unlikely that the Compagnia would, or even could, be ordered upon some further enterprise, which was probably why, having pursued the remnant rebels along the Tobaro road towards the Tramoto Pass, they had halted. From here they could make a relatively quick return to Tilea as soon as it was honourable, and had indeed already sent chancellors to secure transport from Tobaro eastwards across the Tilean sea.

“We read your letter,” said the capitano, still admiring the hawk. “Did you know of its contents?”

“We knew only what we were told it contained,” answered Ottaviano. The letter had been sealed with a particularly stubborn wax of dwarven making, and although Baccio had picked at it upon several occasions, Ottaviano had managed to stop him before he broke it.

“And you were told what?” asked the capitano, finally turning to look at the two of them, balling his fists to lean on the table.

“A dwarf called Boldshin gave it to us in Remas, after he had spoken with us at some length. It was plain he wanted to ensure we were what we said we were and that we were going where we said we were going. He claimed to served Tilean dwarven interests and that the letter was an offer of contract, well paid and well worth consideration.”

“He didn’t lie,” said the capitano. “It seems when you stir up some dwarfen bankers and miners, then add a very wealthy Bretonnian baron, you get a very tempting dish indeed.” He turned to address Baccio directly. “Tell me more about this Boldshin.”

The hawk suddenly squawked, almost as if the name meant something to him. The capitano turned to shush the bird. It settled quickly, so he settled his eyes on Baccio.

“Erm … a dwarf’s a dwarf,” said Baccio hesitantly. “Long beard – very long – brownish. He didn’t look old, not for a dwarf anyway. Had gold on his fingers and a mean looking guard with him. Talkative, with a Tilean accent. Not a mountain dwarf, but moneylender I reckon.”

“If you weren’t liveried, then how did he know you were Compagnia men?” asked the capitano.

“I can’t say for sure,” Baccio answered. “Well, we did tell him, but that was after he’d spoken with us for some time. Maybe he was talking to everyone at the docks, until he found what he wanted with us?”

The Capitano frowned. “He told everyone he was trying to get a letter to us?”

Ottaviano shook his head and jumped in before Baccio could answer. “No, capitano, I don’t think so. We weren’t keeping it secret that we were Compagnia men, not in Remas. He most likely just asked around and got pointed our way.”

“We heard a story,” said Marshal Luigi, “that the Compagnia were blamed for the death of a high ranking Reman priest. How come the Remans didn’t set upon you?”

“I don’t think the Remans believe that story,” said Ottaviano. “It was put about by Pavonans, giving them a reason to hunt down and kill as many of us as they could.

“Most Remans think the Pavonan duke makes up reasons to justify his actions; that the truth has little to do with it.”

“The Pavonans are not to be trusted,” Baccio chipped in. “Everyone knows they are liars.”

A muttered agreement came from the little knot of men standing nearby: a guard, a drummer and a sergeant. The capitano glanced at them and they fell silent.

“It seems we must tread carefully then,” the capitano declared. “Especially considering Duke Guidobaldo might well be our next employer.” He let that notion sink in for a moment, before explaining, “Apparently, he has invited other city states to join with him to hire us.”

Ottaviano had neither known nor expected this - he and Baccio had not exactly been moving in the same high circles as the Estalian Compagnia’s chancellors. But it made some sense.

“I did hear that Renzelli’s Compagnia men are already in Duke Guidobaldo’s service,” he said. “They weren’t at the Battle of the Princes, being garrisoned at Trantio. Despite the Pavonan’s hatred of the Compagnia, wily old Renzelli must have convinced them that he could be trusted, and that two companies of mercenary crossbows would be of good use.”

“We’d heard that too” said the marshall, his armour clattering as he shifted his stance. “Which was why we took the stories about the Pavonan hatred with a pinch of salt.”

“With respect, Marshal,” said Ottaviano, “Renzelli’s hiring was most likely a matter of simple pragmatism on both parties’ parts. Duke Guidobaldo needed a garrison for his newly conquered city, and Renzelli needed to live.”

Baccio sniffed loudly. Staring at his cup he said, “There is no doubt about what the Pavonans did. After the Battle of the Princes they hunted our boys down with deadly purpose in mind. Ottaviano and I were lucky, but many weren’t. I saw Ruggero’s head mounted on a stake like a common criminal. He was a soldier’s soldier.

“A lot of men died who did not need nor deserve to die. And as for our boys killing a Reman priest, that’s a lie. I said it then and I say it now, it makes no sense. If they wanted to rob him then they’d knock him down and tie him up. No-one kills a Morrite priest before his time. It’s a double insult against Morr.”

“If it was a lie,” declared the marshal, “then they chose the wrong people to lie about.”

“Let’s not make threats until we know what is best for us,” ordered the capitano. “Remember that General Fortebraccio did not command us, nor did we owe him any allegiance. Even before we parted he was not our commander. The simple truth is that he went his way and we went ours and the Compagnia was divided. All we shared was our past, and the name we went by. I mean no offence to you two gentlemen, for I know you played no part in the bitterness that divided the company, but Fortebraccio’s men were not our brothers-in-arms and it is not to be presumed that we should want vengeance for what was done to them.”

A silence fell over the company. No-one was going to argue. They were all mercenaries, not retinue men. They did not fight for vengeance or honour, but for pay and plunder.

 

[Padre]

General Report, End of Season 7 (Autumn 2402) Part One

Holier Than Thou
The City of Viadaza: Outside

The bulk of Gedik Mamidous’ mercenaries, the ‘Sons of the Desert’, had already marched by, an exotic collection of long-robed spearmen, black-clad swordsmen carrying curved blades and camel riders. Although few of those watching had ever before seen such far-southern warriors, the arabyans had taken so long to cross the river that their arrival was not unexpected. Many a campfire joke had revolved around the fact that this desert army had been brought to a halt so effectively by a river.

“An arab found himself by a river. Seeing a fellow countryman upon the other side he shouted, ‘How do I get to the other side?’ His countryman looked puzzled, and answered, ‘You are on the other side!”

“Why did an arabyan sleep for a month beside a river? To get to the other side.”

After weeks of delay while the few mouldering vessels remaining in the city docks were hastily repaired, there were finally boats enough to transport Mamidous’ soldiers, and now they had arrived at the city, observed by those on the walls, and those in the camps outside the walls (a not insubstantial number for the stench of undeath had still not quite quit the city). Unexpectedly, at the rear of the column, accompanying the baggage of camels and mules, came a company of Tilean mercenaries – the famous Captain Pandolfo da Barbiano’s galloper guns. It seemed Lord Alessio Falconi of Portomaggiore had felt very generous indeed when he employed this army to aid in the arch-lector’s holy war, for he had spent even more gold to compensate for the arabyans’ lack of artillery.

Captain da Barbiano led the brace of guns, wearing a surcoat of green and red, and riding a caparisoned and barded horse. Each gun and limber was light enough to be hauled by a single draught horse and its whip-wielding rider. The rest of the gunners and matrosses jogged alongside clutching rams, sponges and worms. Da Barbiano had fought for several city states over the last decade, demonstrating the worth of his company during lightening raids to despoil an enemy’s realm – burning crops, looting livestock and driving the populace to despair. Heavier guns would obviously be useless in such an enterprise, but these lighter pieces were capable of keeping up with a mobile force, and allowed a rather unexpected element to be brought into play whenever some sort of local resistance was mustered. “Guns of the Desert” they jokingly called themselves now.

Amongst the tents, watching the gunners, were several Reman soldiers and a company of Morrite dedicants.

These hooded fanatics were becoming a common sight in Viadaza – the first people to return in any number after the arch-lector’s soldiers had driven out the undead. Almost all wore robes and cloaks in the grey and maroon colours of the Morrite clergy, and all to a man had sworn themselves to the service of Morr. This did not, however (at least at first) mean they were unified, for Morr speaks mysteriously through dreams, and who can know whether they merely dreamt of Morr or were truly visited by him? Besides, there were many much more mundane reasons for their divisions. Some were lay brothers, officially accepted into the church of Morr, others were flagellant-dedicates recruited by unsanctioned demagogues and visionaries. There were Viadazans who had fought at Pontremola against the vampire duke’s horrid legions, grizzled veterans who had lived a hard life since the fall of their city, and Viadazans who had simply fled the city when the undead arose to live as refugees in the south for a while. There were both Pavonans and Trantians. Amongst the latter were some who shared a common cause with the Trantians, having been ‘favoured’ by them during Duke Guidobaldo’s short rule of their city, and others who hated their former masters with a vengeance. There were haunted Urbimans who had travelled secretly through the nightmarish realms in the north to spy upon the foe, Campogrottans serving their parole in dedication to Morr, and a good number from the far southern city states who had never-before smelled the stench of undeath until they arrived at Viadaza. What resulted was a somewhat tangled complexity of hierarchies, loyalties and intentions. While some Viadazans wanted to defend the city, never to be driven from it again, others yearned instead to march north without delay and repeat the victory gained by the first popular army of Viadazans. Many Remans meant to stand by their oath to obey the arch-lector’s divinely inspired will in every particular, while a handful of accomplished dreamers thought they themselves had a much better understanding of Morr’s wishes. Some Pavonans and Trantians wanted immediately to return southwards to defeat Razger’s Ogres, putting their own houses in order before continuing their fight in the north, whilst others argued that what was happening in the south was Morr’s punishment for the hesitation and delay that kept this great, holy army at Viadaza, and thus they should continue their march northwards.

Yet this wide disparity was on the wane, for as the Autumn weeks rolled by, turning into months, all non-noblemen in Viadaza found themselves pressed into compulsory service by orders of the arch-lector. Their labours included the burning of corpses, the hauling of stones to rebuild the walls and all required to make Viadaza habitable once again. And all the while waiting for the Arabyans to get a move on. Apart from a handful of Viadazans who vowed to make a stand here never to lose their home again, everyone else found this state of affairs somewhat frustrating. This was not the urgent holy war they were expecting. They were Morr’s warriors, not the Reman arch-lector’s labourers. The grumbling and complaints began to have a common theme, which in turn engendered a shared cause amongst nearly all of them.

Four Morrite dedicants, three being Viadazans by birth who had served at Pontremola and the fourth a Campogrottan archer who claimed to have killed two sleeping ogres during the famous 'Incident', scowled as they watched the galloper guns trundle by.

All were hooded, two with only partially concealed faces (as was becoming popular amongst the more fanatical dedicates). Azzo was doing most of the talking. Up until now he had commented on every company that marched by, each and every time pointing out how these men worshipped different gods and so were not really suitable to do Morr’s work. Now that Captain da Barbiano’s company had appeared he fell silent.

“That lot look Tilean,” said another, called Jaco. “I bet they pray properly.”

Azzo scowled. “They might well do, but they’re nothing but a fly sitting on this army’s arse. The rest ain’t fit to serve in a holy war such as ours. The desert gods are little more than demons, not even divine.”

“They have but one, true god,” declared the largest of them, Guido. “He’s golden, and his name is Lucre. Give them their god and they’ll fight as well as any Tilean soldiers. They’d not be here if it had not been promised plentiful.”

“Fighting’s not enough,” said Jaco through his teeth, his gauntleted hand clutching his sword hilt tightly. “We fought, fought well, at Pontremola. Won the day. Hurray! For all the good it did us.”

Azzo rolled his eyes. “We all know who’s to blame for that. Lord Adolfo’s corruption alone brought ruin to Viadaza. He bears all the blame. Besides,” he said, gesturing back towards the city walls as if were helpful, “we’ve taken it back now, with Morr’s holy blessing.”

Guido nodded. “We have that. But the work’s not done, and we’ve tarried here too long. Now that these southerners are here, the arch-lector will order us northwards. If Ebino and Miragliano are not cleansed, and quickly, then the enemy’s strength will double and double again. You cannot win by wounding the undead. You must obliterate them and grind their burned bones to dust.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of his holiness’s plans, Guido,” doubted Azzo. “There’s a new proclamation going out to all of Tilea about how he intends to repopulate the city, make it a Reman protectorate, and wants worthy folk to settle here. Maybe this is where he intends to make a stand?”

“Make a stand!” spat Jaco. “That won’t work. They got ‘round us even when we killed the vampire duke. If we just sit here on our arses they’ll march right by and …” His words petered out as his face set into a grimace of anger.

“I know that,” said Azzo. “You know that. And all too well. But the arch-lector is a Reman and this might well be far enough north for him.”

Tullio the Campogrottan, who had until now stood a little apart from the others, leaning on the shaft of his viciously tipped spear, sniffed. “If this is where we’re gonna stay, and that lot have just arrived, then I hope the arch-lector has arranged for a fleet of ships to bring some grub. There’s nothing to harvest here and nothing much alive but us. I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy camel stew and pickled Arabyan for supper.”

The four of them fell silent and watched as a rag-tag crowd of stragglers and camp-followers brought up the rear of the Arabyan column.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Several days later) The City of Viadaza: Inside

This was Father Agostino’s third visit today, all made to examine petitioners requesting an audience with the arch-lector. It seemed nearly everyone in Viadaza had an opinion regarding military or political matters, which meant his holiness’s second secretary was being kept rather busy. The first visit was to an official embassy from Urbimo requesting reinforcements for their own garrison in case the undead send a naval force from Miragliano to attack them, the second was a distant relative of the Duchess Maria offering written proof of his inheritance of the dukedom. This third visit involved a much more sinister group, being the leaders of the most substantial (and fanatical) faction of Morrite dedicants in the city.

Upon arrival, he discovered they were somewhat more worrying than he had envisaged. He was himself unescorted as it had seemed an unnecessary waste of manpower in a city populated by none other than the arch-lector’s soldiers and professed followers of Morr, especially now that the only truly rebellious element, the Campogrottan Ogres, had been destroyed. Logic told him that whichever soldiers might provide a guard were no more or less likely than every soldier in the city to be trustworthy. Now he regretted that decision, for he found himself escorted into an ancient chapel by hooded spearmen, passing more and more guards on the way in. These men might garb themselves in the colours of Morrite clergy, but they did so in a fashion that nevertheless marked them out as both distinct and threatening. Agostino found himself wondering whether Morr would grant him a prayer-spell if it was to be used to harm those who also proclaimed themselves his loyal servants!

As he entered the chapel’s nave, the ironbound door clanged shut behind him, closed by one of another pair of guards standing upon either side. The two men escorting him came to a halt with a clunk of their spears on the stone floor and the dedicants there to meet him stood up from the tables they had been seated at and made the sign of Morr, which Agostino answered in kind.

The dedicants introduced themselves as the leaders of the Vaidazan Disciplinati di Morr. Azzo, who named the others, was a peculiar looking fellow, for instead of robes he wore only a mask-like hood and a small cloak over his ordinary clothes, which made him seem both slight and awkward amongst his comrades. Guido was a brutish sort, a big, bald fellow carrying an axe, but obviously not with wood-chopping in mind. Azzo named the others as Jaco, Cordill and Galeb, but too haphazardly for Agostino to know who was who, apart from the fact that the one with overgrown teeth was not Jaco.

Without any further formality, Azzo began to speak. “Father, my dreams are blessed with Morr’s wisdom. He has shown me what must be done. Last night I rode a horse upon a long journey and thought to let it lie down and rest a while, but this and that distracted me until my mount’s legs grew weak and it could not get up. The night before I baked a loaf and thought to save it for a special occasion, but I left it too long and it grew mouldy. A dreamt the wheat in the field was ready for harvesting …”

“I understand,” interrupted Agostino, raising his hand. “You fear we have stayed here too long. It is a common concern, and it must indeed weigh heavy upon many consciences. I am sure a whole host of sleepers dream of such things, but whether or not Morr has any part to play in those dreams I am not so sure. I can assure you his holiness also dreams …”

“I know when holy Morr speaks to me,” said Azzo angrily. “And even if he did not, it would yet be true that further delay will likely ruin our cause.”

“The army’s council of war believe that winter is not the season to be marching to war,” said Agostino.

“Do you think the undead care about the cold?” asked the hulking Guido. “They have no need to scour for firewood, or find thicker blankets, or preserve the harvest. Snow and ice will hardly slow them at all.”

“The frozen ground will make it harder to raise more undead,” countered Agostino.

“Morr’s blood!” cursed Guido. “Do you think, father, that the undead grow tired because the ground is harder to dig? Do you think they break from their labours when it falls dark?”

“It is plain to all that have eyes to see that we must march on, and now,” said Azzo. “We have stayed here all Autumn. If the arch-lector wishes to linger, let him do so, but that does not mean he can keep the rest of us with him. Morr watched over us at Pontremola, and will do so again. Viadaza was lost because of Lord Adolfo’s failings, but that would not happen again, for the arch-lector cannot be so tainted. So, why not have the arch-lector and his guard provide a safe haven here, a place from which to send supplies and reinforcements, while the rest of us go now to finish our holy work. We shall complete what we began, with the arch-lector’s aid, with whatever forces he will grant. I am sure General d’Alessio would be pleased to command us, as he did before. There’s no soldier more blessed in the eyes of Morr.”

Agostino was flabbergasted, but he did not show it. Instead he nodded as if in contemplation. Then, with no sign of displeasure in his voice, he said, “I will return to the arch-lector and put this to him. If it pleases him then he will wish to speak with you, I am sure.”

Guido sniffed. “And if it doesn’t please him?”

“Then he will pray for guidance.”

…..........

(An hour later in the outer yard of the Lector’s palace.)

It was already growing dark when Father Agostino arrived at the palace forecourt. There he met with the restored lector of Viadaza, Bernado Ugolini, returning from his afternoon constitutional. The lector, recently made secular governor also by the orders of the arch-lector Calictus II, was accompanied by his gnomish clerk (who had no doubt been speaking with his master of both church and state matters). Even as the lector took exercise he was kept busy with such things. Father Biagino was with him too, having been appointed the lector’s adviser.

Immediately upon spotting Father Agostini, the lector and his companions halted.

Agostino bowed, and the lector spoke, “Good father, you met with the Disciplinati?”

“I did, your excellency.”

“And is it as his holiness feared?”

“In some ways, yes, I am afraid so. He will be happy to hear that they gave no sign of being schismatic in their faith, but they do not accept the arch-lector’s military command. The spirit of the Viadazan crusade lives on in them. They would march northwards themselves this very hour, made brave by their devotion to Morr and their memory of the glory of Pontremola. They expect d’Alessio to lead them, as before, and believe the arch-lector will supply them with soldiers and supplies.”

The lector frowned. “When they marched before they did so with the arch-lector’s blessing, and mine, which to my shame I was late in giving for I was fooled by Lord Adolfo, may Morr curse him for what he did in life and what he is now. But they had not Lord Adolfo’s blessing and I think that necessarily rebellious deed, along with the victory which followed and Adolfo’s subsequent treachery, has made them irreverent of all worldly authority, even that of Morr’s holy church.”

“Yet they’ll fight?”

“They will fight,” said Father Biagino. “I know that. I know them. I marched with them; thought like them. I was with them when they gained their victory, despite being battered hard. They now believe Morr truly guides them. But we lost Viadaza. Faith alone is insufficient. It is an ace card, granted, but a full hand is needed to win this game. If they’re allowed to leave it will divide our strength, and the enemy might devour us piecemeal.”

“What you say is no doubt true, Father Biagino,” agreed the lector. “But how do we convince them to act as one with us?”

“We can’t,” said Biagino. “But with Morr’s blessing, his holiness might.”

 

[Subedai]

Great to see the story unfold and the tensions rise. Nice take on the Morrite faction using the Frostgrave cultists. That's a kit GW should have done long ago, in the Mordheim years.

I can imagine it's difficult to keep such an ambitious campaign going, kudos to you and your group.

 

[Padre]

You are correct, Subedai - the big issue is the sheer amount of time that passes between events, due mainly to all the player's real life responsibilities.

Now to head right down to the bottom of Tilea ...
............................................................................................................................................................................

End of Season 7 (Autumn 2402) General Report, Part Two

The Once Mighty Monte Castello
Southern Tilea, on the western shore of the Bay of Wrecks
(This next co-written with Valckenburgh’s player)

As his scouts gave their report, Lord General Jan Valckenburgh considered the maps they had provided and carefully assessed all they told him. They were good men, ritters from the Wasteland and seasoned scouts in good standing with the company, so he knew to trust their account.

"Lord General, the walls already have a number of breaches,” explained Thomel, who had drawn the map. “Even the gate tower is thrown down …

… There is no sign of the engines that did the damage, but the remains of the goblin’s siege-works can still be seen around the citadel." Thomel’s finger gestured to the lines on the sketched map as he explained. The castle walls themselves were drawn thick, while thinner marks traced a vaguely crescent-shaped circumvallation of earth forts on the outside. The scout now indicated the gaps in the walls. “The repairs to the breaches are mostly double-timbered walls, filled with rubble, and not all completed. They’re being worked on right now, but idly, and only by a few runtish looking goblins"

Captain Singel, the company’s captain of works, broke in, eager to give his help. "Sir, their works are quick and shoddy, nothing more than deal board and old timbers filled with rubble. They might repel an assault without any artillery, but would burn very easily..."

Nodding, General Valckenburg pointed in turn to each of the breaches illustrated, then gestured to Thomel that he should continue the report.

"While they do not seem to have artillery pieces,” the scout went on, “there are bolt throwers on at least three of the towers and a stone thrower oddly positioned forward of the gate. Most are crewed by goblins but we saw some larger orcs too.”

“How strong is the garrison?” asked Valckenburgh.

“It seems to be not overly large, Lord General, but who knows what else lies hidden? Goblins can be sneaky like that."

The Marienberger general was still running his fingertip over the map, mentally placing the forces at his disposal. Assuming the greenskins had no proper artillery his guns could pound the walls with impunity. The great siege piece would certainly make short work of any defences, no matter how well made, and should very quickly smash through a patch-work of rubble-filled planks, although this did not mean it would necessarily be an easy or quick fight, especially if the goblins could defend the re-breached sections in strength. He knew from experience that fighting over defended piles of rubble was often a brutal and drawn-out affair. The year had turned, and he could not afford a protracted siege. Captain Singel had earlier suggested that only the insane would venture to sea in a supply-laden ship in the autumn storms that lashed the Black Gulf. The problem was that greenskins were not known for their sanity, and Valckenburgh currently had no means to blockade the sea lanes.

The men around him were waiting in silence while he deliberated. He approached the decision something like his brother might have weighed up the pros and cons of an investment, balancing his long-term plans, the available options and both the factors that he could and could not control. Finally, he addressed the scouts.

"Well done. Take your troop and range out. Make sure there are no hidden bands of goblin scum hiding hereabout. I want eyes on the castle too, just in case they are concealed within in strength. If you hear battle, fall back to the reserve position.” Then he turned to his officers. “Captain Singel, move your train into range of our largest pieces. If you use the abandoned works – for they should be very well placed to target the repaired breaches - then first ensure they are safe, then make all necessary improvements with gabions and works. I doubt the greenskins did a good job. Colonel Van Hal, order your men to invest the castle and Captain van Rooyen, prepare your rodelaros for the attack. You will follow the ogres in as soon as a suitable breach is made. The firelocks will provide cover."

The company snapped to attention, the officers giving stiff bows. This was not as sign of naïve eagerness, however, for all of them were professionals, and they knew their trade well.

……………………………………………………………..……….

Hunched behind some rocks, the three of them had a good view of what remained of the castle gate, or at least they would have done if they had the eyes of hawks. Luckily Thomel had a spy glass to compensate. He scrutinised, while Rutiger and Halmut squinted.

“Definitely some coming out now – carrying pikes,” Thomel said. “They’re marching, and being neat and tidy about it.”

“So they’re not goblins then?” asked Halmut.

“O’course they are,” said Rutiger. “What else would march out of there?”

Thomel shifted himself, and wiped the end of the spy glass with his linen kerchief. “They’re goblins alright. Lots of them. Came out in a column of twos on account of the timber hoarding making the gate so narrow, but now they’re doubling their front. Like I said, neat and tidy. We’ve seen it before, at Pavezzano and Capelli.”

“At Pavezzano they just walked into our guns. They weren’t so tidy then,” laughed Halmut.

“Guns’ll do that,” said Rutiger.

“Wait!” blurted Thomel, surprising the other two men. Halmut stiffened, while Rutiger got part way through drawing his blade. “They’ve stopped,” Thomel added.

“And so did my heart there for a moment,” complained Halmut. “Why not save your sudden shouts for the moments that matter?”

“What are they doing now?” asked Rutiger.

“They’ve divided into two columns, each turning to face the flanks, and then stepped forwards doubling from the rear to form one rank upon either side of the road. Someone’s been teaching them how to look like real soldiers.”

“You’re like a living drill manual today – it’s very educational,” said Halmut.

“I think the general’s recent praise has gone to his head,” added Rutiger.

Thomel ignored them. “One of them has split off - he’s the one shouting orders. They’ve about-faced to line the road upon either side.”

“I can see that much myself,” said Thomel. “They must be planning on a parade.”

Rutiger laughed. “You’re not far wrong. I reckon they’re doing this for our benefit. They’re showing strength – in numbers and discipline – as well as how unperturbed they are by our presence. You have to admit, it’s impressive for goblins.”

“Anything beyond farting is impressive for goblins,” said Halmut with a snort. Then his brow furrowed. “Why are they doing all this though? Why don’t they just man the walls and wait for us to make a move? That’s what we’d do.”

“I see why,” announced Thomel. “Come on, follow me. Let’s get us a closer look.”

“Makes sense,” said Thomel sarcastically. “Three men should do well against a greenskin army!”

“Ha!” snorted Thomel.“They’re not sending an army out. They’re coming out to talk.”

…

On lower ground, the three of them could get much closer while remaining concealed. They now saw a little band of banner bearers and horn-blowers had emerged, led by several meaner-than-average looking goblins.

“This wasn’t the best idea you’ve had Thomel,” complained Halmut. “They could be at the head of an army, and if they have wolf riders amongst them then I reckon we won’t be having supper tonight.”

Once again Thomel was playing his eyeglass upon the scene. “No,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s no army behind them. There’s just what you see – a bunch of bloody banners and bosses. I knew it! They’re coming out to parley.”

Thonel could make out leering, green faces peeking over every wall and tower, watching the party as it processed between the arrayed pike soldiers.

“Best be off to warn the general then?” suggested Halmut. “He’ll want to give them a suitable reception.”

Thomel raised his hand to signal that they should wait a moment. He wanted a better look, and focused the spy glass upon the lead goblin. “Now he IS ugly,” he muttered.

The great goblin in question sported a ridiculous grin, his teeth widely spaced as if he had plucked every second one out. A spiked helm, too small for his bulbous head, had been thrust down onto his chain-mail hood. His mail, extending down to his waist, was also insufficiently sized, so that it could not be fully fastened. His belly burst from the gap, which made the wearing of mail a somewhat pointless exercise (unless what he really feared was being stabbed from behind). As he lumbered along, he clutched at both the hilt and scabbard of his sword, it’s black blade just visible, as if he was ready to draw it on the shortest of notice.

Next up: The last section of part 2, currently also being co-written by myself and the player playing Valckenburgh.

 

[Padre]

End of Season 7 (Autumn 2402) General Report, Part Two Continued

The Once Mighty Monte Castello
Southern Tilea, on the western shore of the Bay of Wrecks
(This piece co-written with General Valckenburgh’s player, commander of the forces of the VMC)

Several of the VMC’s officers had gathered to await the goblins’ arrival. All within easy distance of General Valckenburgh had been sent for, the exceptions being those busied with their military responsibilities in preparing for the siege. Captain Singel, for example, was wholly occupied with siting the siege pieces, and most of the other field-captains were with their own companies, directly commanding them. But most of the general staff were present.

General Valckenburgh was fully armoured, apart from a helmet, wearing instead the dark skull cap he most often favoured. Over his armour was an orange surcoat, which along with blue was the VMC’s usual livery, and in his right hand he clutched the baton de commandement. Closest to him was Luccia la Fanciulla, carrying her blessed, Myrmidian standard. She too was armoured from the neck down and wore a liveried surcoat. There was enough of a breeze to reveal that the holy standard bore an image of the goddess’s shield and spear.

Upon the general’s other side stood the scholarly linguister Pieter Schout, looking nervous as he clutched and unclutched the hilt of his sword. More at ease moving in courtly circles, even conversing in Arabyan or Elvish, it was hardly a surprise that he might feel a little discombobulated at the prospect of an interaction with goblins from beyond the Black Gulf. He was praying to Myrmidia that they might speak at least some Old Worlder, which was likely if at least some of the commanders had served in the Border Princes where it was not uncommon to employ even greenskins as mercenary soldiers. Next to him was the long-bearded Johannes Deeter, looking somewhat incongruent in his long black cloak, curl-toed shoes and clutching a set of brass scales to allow the channelling of a subtle spell he claimed could help the parley proceed smoothly.

Several little companies of soldiers were present too, all the better to ensure the goblins could not play any murderous tricks, but not so many as to make the goblins unwilling to approach. The scouts had already counted the enemy party, and so it was easy to judge what would be exactly sufficient for safety. On one side a single rank of Captain van Luyden’s handgunners stood with loaded pieces at port …

… while on the other Pieter Schout’s pistolier guard were also made ready with weapons drawn.

A little way behind, guarding the rear even though it was hard to see how the goblins might scramble over the rocks there, was another file of handgunners (mercenary Estalians), a dozen Marienburger pikemen from the Meagre Company, and in between them two sergeants guarding the bearer of the VMC’s company colours. There were no army scouts present, however, for the general had ordered every one of them to scour the army’s entire periphery and beyond to forestall any attempted surprise. Valckenburgh knew of many supposedly honourable men who would not baulk at using the distraction of a parley to launch an attack, and so certainly would not be so foolish as to trust goblins.

The wizard Deeter broke the silence, his curt question unadorned by social niceties such as using the general’s proper title. “What could these creatures possible want to discuss? They must know what we’ve done to their kin, and what we will inevitably do to them. Why waste time coming out to babble their inanities at us?”

“They know full well what we have done,” said General Valckenburgh. “Which is why they come to talk with us. They’ll bluster, no doubt, and threaten, and their wilful stupidity will be painfully evident, but in truth they’re hoping to save their skins. Perhaps they hope to spin out time, or believe they will learn something of our disposition and strength.”

The general scanned the distant outline of the castle’s towers, and what he could sea of the waters of the gulf to the south of it.

“Most likely they have no means of escape; no ships and no allies to come to their aid. We shall see. It should not prove too difficult to guess what truth is masked by their attempts at deceit.”

The flags flapped and snapped in the wind, while the VMC’s welcoming party fell silent as they waited.

After a little while a knot of greenskins appeared through a gap in the rough ground ahead. They too had standards, ragged and dull-hued flags hanging from yard-like supports and adorned with beasts’ skulls. One standard appeared to be a ship’s wheel which had the skulls but no rag. Somewhere amongst them a goblin was playing bladder-pipes, sounding a high-pitched tumble of notes accompanied by a wheezing drone.

“Not the most imposing of parties are they?” quipped Deeter.

“My lord general, surely it would sully the honour of Myrmidia to let such base creatures approach her holy standard unchallenged,” said Luccia.

“On the contrary,” said the general. “The goddess teaches wisdom in war - strategic prowess and tactical cunning over brute force and wild rage.”

“I have seen them try to fight,” said Luccia. “Tactical cunning is not necessary to beat them, just numbers and a little discipline.”

The general glanced at her, reminding himself how young she was and that all she had seen of war was the battles at Pavezzano and Capelli. “They are now behind walls, my Lady, and I do not have time to waste. I want this fight over and done with as soon as possible. I want this land made safe, and productive. There are greater threats to the north, and we have spent too long already chasing goblins hither and thither. If I can gain victory one single day sooner by listening to what these foul creatures have to say, then I am happy to do so. Here I risk wasting one hour, against a potential gain of days if not weeks.”

“If these are their leaders,” suggested Deeter, “then I say let us kill them now. Would that not almost certainly mean the rest either flee in disorganised panic, and if not that, then set upon each other, squabbling over who should command? Either is a more likely outcome than hoping a talk will make them simply lay down their arms and hand us the castle.”

“I never said we shall not do just that,” said the general. “Only that I would hear them speak before deciding upon a course of action. We got the name Big Boss Grutlad easily enough out of the petty goblin we caught yesterday, and a veritable volume of sordid stories concerning who had lopped bits off whom. I want to see what we can get out of Grutlad himself.”

The greenskins had halted whilst the general spoke. A horn sounded a pretty trill of notes from the hills behind the VMC soldiers. General Vlackenburgh knew this signalled the all clear, that there was no sign of goblins approaching from elsewhere.

“Well,” he declared, “unless each of them conceals a grenado, it looks like they are indeed here to talk. We could yet fight this battle with words and have them surrender without the loss of one of our men. Despite the honourable Luccia’s misgivings, I might even have a use for them.”

“My lord general, you cannot mean that?” asked Luccia.

“I do, brave Lady. If I can convince one enemy to fight another enemy then I shall have a lot fewer enemies as a result, and yet as many men to defeat them with when it finally becomes necessary.”

The goblins had been halted for some time now, and could be seen to be engaged in their own conversation.

Eventually, three of the goblins began to approach, leaving the tatty banner-bearers and musicians behind. Captain van Luyden’s handgunners stepped forwards too, closing the gap between them and the goblins so that any shots they fired could not fail to meet their mark.

The large goblin at the front, presumably the leader, was obviously the one Thomel the scout had described earlier. He gripped his sword hilt in a manner the general recognised from historical etiquette – neither quite drawn nor left to rest, symbolic of an undecided outcome. This seemed to be a good sign, for he had not expected etiquette of any kind. If the goblin thought there were rules to this game, then there was indeed a game to play. The other two consisted of a similarly paunchy goblin with a blood-stained sword resting over his shoulder like a soldier might carry a handgun or pike, while the second grinned widely whilst clutching an axe almost as big as himself.

The goblin leader spoke first. “I’m big boss here. This castle’s mine, this army’s mine and you can get lost.”

“We’re not leaving,” said the general. “But you know that, because you’re here to talk.”

“If you’re staying it’ll be long wait for ya, ‘cos I got lots of gobs, and you ain’t getting in. Might as well bugger off now than sit here hungry while we eat salt-fish and man-flesh a-plenty inside. We ain’t intending to share, and if you tries to take what we have, then we’ll salt you up nice and tasty too.”

General Valckenburgh laughed. “You took the castle. What makes you think we cannot? We have bigger guns and better powder than you had, and you’ve got a wall patched with wooden planks instead of unbroken stone. However long it took you to get in, we shall do it ten times as quickly. You’ll be dead long before you’ve even made a dent in your stock of food.”

“If you try, then men’ll die, lots an’ lots. Smash up the timbers if you like. You still has to get over the mess you make, and then you’ll pay dearly for every inch, ‘cos I’ve got plenty o’ gobs who don’t mind sticking spears into men as they scrabble and scramble on rubble and splinters. Why put yerself to so much trouble and lose so much to gain this broken castle?”

“We know your true strength is nothing compared to what Khurnag’s commanded. We batted that army aside without breaking a sweat. Warlord Khurnag had not even ordered the advance when he took a four-pound roundshot to his belly in our first volley. And that came from one of our smallest pieces.”

The goblin glanced over at the one on his left, who nodded briefly as if to confirm Valckenburgh’s words. That one was obviously there that day, thought the general. That’s why they’ve come out – they know full well how badly it has gone for them so far.

Big Boss Grutlad sniffed in a horrible gurgling manner, and Valckenburgh spied glistening beads of sweat forming on his brow. When he spoke, however, it was with the same apparent confident disdain.

“Place is ruined anyway. We squeezed all we can from it. ‘Taint much use to us now. Might be we could sell it to you, then you don’t have to suffer in the taking of it. If you’ve got enough of the shiny stuff then I reckon you’d save yourself a lot of nastiness.”

General Valckenburgh smiled, thinking that they had now reached where the goblin always intended to go. It was not far enough for him, however.

“We both know who will really suffer in the taking of the castle. And you know that our attack will be the end of your command, one way or another. I didn’t drag all this artillery here just to turn around and go back. I killed Khurnag and now I’m sweeping up the mess he made. You think the latter task will be more difficult than the former? I’ve done the hard work, now I’m just tidying up the loose ends. I have already defeated my enemies, all that’s left is to kill them too.”

Grutlad’s eyes narrowing and lips twisting as it all sunk in. The goblin’s bluster had turned to fluster. Both his companions stared at his back, as if they did not know what to make of his silence.

“See now,” said Grutlad, “I would’ve sold cheap, but I’m willing to let you have the pile for nothing more than letting us go. We never wanted to stay here, not since Khurnag copped it, and was just waiting for ships to take us. You give us yer word that we can leave without bother and you’re welcome to the place.”

General Valckenburgh said nothing, but just stared at Grutlad.

The big boss twitched, an involuntary motion he attempted to turn into a shrug. “It don’t even ‘ave to be all of us. I don’t care what you do the rest of them, just let us lot and a few others go. Bugger the rest. I’ll take only what’ll fit in a ship.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Between you an’ me, I can get the rest to come out so it’s easy fer ya.”

“No,” said Valckenburgh, revelling a moment in the obvious fear now writ upon the goblin’s face. “That’s not what I want. You can keep your mob, but not the castle. And you can buy your lives, all your lives, by serving me as mercenaries. That’s the deal: You die, all of you … or you serve me, all of you.”

The grinning goblin with the axe surprised the general by somehow widening his already impossibly large grin, while the other companion looked at him as if taking the measure of him – which was equally surprising. Grutlad slid his sword fully back into his hilt, and said, simply: “You’s got some more soldiers, then.”

 

[Padre]

End of Season 7 (Autumn 2402) General Report, Part Three

A Letter to Lord Lucca Vescucci of Verezzo

This to my most noble lord, from your loyal servant Antonio Mugello. I pray this missive finds you blessed by all the gods, and that the realm of Verezzo lies both happy and secure. I hereby and in all modesty present that which I have discovered this Autumn, having made every effort to ascertain what is true from the chaff of tittle tattle and rumour. If I have been misled then I humbly assure you it is due to the mortal frailties I share with all men rather than any idleness or carelessness on my part.

First, I must explain that my movements have become curtailed by force of circumstance, as I have been trapped in Pavona for over a month due to Razger Boulderguts’ double-army of ogres rampaging all around Duke Guidobaldo’s city. Anyone foolish enough to venture out from the security of the stones would certainly suffer a terrible fate. In the face of this dire threat, when one might expect the Pavonans’ martial aspirations to shine, instead they have dimmed, for rather than fighting for what is theirs by right of conquest, they have retreated at every opportunity. They have even gone so far as to raze their own lands, thus hoping to disappoint the ogres’ expectations of loot, as well as deprive them of subsistence, and thus encourage the starving brutes to cease their encroachment and look elsewhere for satisfaction.

As I travelled upon the Via Aurelia I encountered many poor folk fleeing from Trantio, and so learned how the duke’s garrison soldiers had stripped the city itself and the villages and farmsteads of Preto of every moveable of value. Indeed, as they departed, they fired the city so as to deny even its roofs to the ogres. Boulderguts might be responsible for Scorcio’s destruction, but the Pavonans chose to deny the rest of the Trantine principality to him by themselves destroying it first. Many a poor Trantian curses the Pavonan duke’s name, and swears that Prince Girenzo, for all his pride and youthful ambition, could never have turned upon his own realm in such a way. The Pavonans bashed their way into Trantio, then burned their way out, and their rule was as short as it was cruel.

At Astiano it was plain to me that the walls could not possibly withstand a sustained attack by an army of brutes. Only last year the Pavonans had captured the city quickly and with a relatively modest force, battering the walls in doing so. Now those weakened walls faced a much greater threat, bigger in every meaning of the word, and would surely fall within days of the tyrant Boulderguts’ arrival. Consequently, I decided to continue onwards to Pavona itself, being the place in which I could best serve you by learning of Duke Guidobaldo’s plans. So it was that I found myself passing through the ruins of Venafro, destroyed by the Compagnia del Sole during the War of the Princes, and then through Casoli, which was being stripped by the Pavonan soldiery of all goods and stocks in a manner exactly like Trantio. It seems the duke has grown so timorous as to order the dismantling and destruction of his very own hereditary estates! Some said it was a sign of his strength that sentimentality and mercy did not stand in the way of his calculated strategy, yet to mine own eyes it appeared most strange to see the mighty army of Pavona become little more than a band of armed bailiffs collecting goods and chattels, while the people of Casoli wept and pleaded as if they too were a conquered people like the Trantians.

It became common knowledge, advertised by heralds in Pavona’s main piazzas, that the Duke had dispatched letters to all Tilean principalities to the south and west - including the boy king Ferronso, Lord Alessio Falconi, Conte Gabriele Mastroianni and your noble self. You, my lord, will of course know the truth of this, and indeed the actual contents of the letter. All I know is what was announced: that these princes had been asked to provide military aid in the war against Boulderguts, before the heart of Tilea was burned and the ashes consumed. I was surprised to hear nothing said in the declarations concerning any alliance betwixt Boulderguts and the vampire-duchess, for this remains a commonly held belief, especially in Pavona. It is said to explain why even in this hour of dire need the duke has not recalled his son and his ‘old army’ from the arch-lector’s holy war - if the ogres and undead are indeed allies, then Lord Silvano is already engaged in the fight for Pavona.

And yet it is rumoured throughout the city that in truth Lord Silvano has not fought for many months, instead being forced to bide his time in Viadaza, due to need to transport Gedik Mamidous’ mercenary army, the Sons of the Desert, over the swollen River Trantino. When this was finally done, arch-lector Calictus is said to have ordered the formation of a garrison from his now massively swollen forces, to remain in defence of the city, while declaring that he himself, Lord Silvano and the newly arrived arabyans, would soon march northwards to face the vampires.

Whether it is giddy fear brought on by Boulderguts’ threatening circumambulation of Pavona, or the schismatic Morrite tendencies rooted here, or simply their old bravado, I know not, but I have often heard it said (and I report this only so that you will understand the depth of the people’s impudence) that a priest like Calictus is not fit to lead an army, for it takes nothing but the thought of the winter’s wind to make him huddle by the fire in Viadaza, nursing hot, spiced wine and prayerfully contemplating how he might, when it is warmer, perhaps, should the rain cease and the winds diminish, possibly consider engaging the foe. Letters sent home by Lord Silvano’s soldiers reveal that there is considerable faction and strife in Viadaza concerning the best course of action. Fanatics preach either caution or action, but mostly action, and the soldiers grow frustrated that they are being employed as mere labourers, clearing streets and repairing walls rather than bringing the war to a swift conclusion.

I fear the vampire duchess does not share such a tendency for tardiness, and her forces are unlikely to suffer such divisions. The arch-lector’s delay allows her to grow even stronger, when she was already strong. Having been forced by my confinement into close quarters with all and sundry, I discovered more than just native Pavonans in the city, and by chance spoke on several occasions with a Viadazan who was present when Lord Adolfo’s curse was revealed, and his murdered-and-raised army began their terrible slaughter. This man escaped death first by hiding and then by fleeing. Being of a sombre and sober disposition, and not one for fanciful talk or ill-thought assertions, he told me how the vampire duchess marched from Viadaza with a much greater force than that which remained with Lord Adolfo. While Adolfo corrupted his living soldiers to forge his foul horde, he also desecrated every Morrite shrine and gateway, allowing the vampire duchess to reap all the graveyards had to offer, harvesting corpses by the thousand. In the Cerverozzi necropolis north of Busalla, and many other graveyards and burial pits, she unquieted long dead legates, luring them from the dry earth. These then issued their own commands, adding potency to the magic she channelled through them, calling upon their centurions and signifera to attend them, who in turn demanded their cornicines and drummers …

… whose eerie reveille woke the rank and file, until lines of long-dead legionaries snaked along the funerary paths.

…

Only a day after I had passed by Astiano, I learned of the cruel fate of the main body of Trantian refugees. I doubt there is a Tilean alive who has not heard the tale, for it must have spread like wildfire. It is possible that because I was so close to the source, the account I heard might well be nearer to the truth than the jumbled stories that pass between travellers, and which might be all that has so far reached your own ears. Put plain, the Pavonan soldiers and even their artillery pieces managed to enter the city gates to safety, given precedence by the garrison who held back the Trantian crowd to ensure said passage, but then, because Razger’s brutes were so close, the garrison commander ordered the gates shut before the refugees and their wagons could themselves enter. Some say that one Pavonan wizard even conjured a fire to hold back the mob, although others say there was a fire-mage amongst the foe. The Pavonans do not speak of this event with sadness or disgust, rather they more commonly describe it as a clever ruse, adding, ‘More fool the Trantians for not moving quicker’. It is claimed that many an ogre perished from the withering hail of missiles launched from the walls, so keen were they to drag off the wagons and people of Trantio, the first to add to their ill-gotten plunder and the second to feast upon. I cannot believe such a deed has improved Duke Guidobaldo’s already bruised reputation, for he first conquered the Trantians, only then to allow this horrible fate to befall them. But of all the complaints muttered against the duke’s decisions in the streets of Pavona, this deed is not included.

Boulderguts’ army proved true to its reputation and set about ravaging the land for sport as much as food and plunder, then, as if perhaps they suddenly remembered why they were there, they assaulted and captured Astiano just as quickly as I had feared they would. Much to the surprise of his own people, Duke Guidobaldo chose not to march to Astiano’s aid, despite the army he had at his command. I suspected this was due to his lack of knowledge concerning the whereabouts of Bouldergut’s hired allies, the mercenaries from the Border Princes known as Mangler’s Band. If they had been close to Razger’s force, the Duke may have found himself greatly outnumbered in the field, and if instead they were hidden among the Trantine Hills to the north, then the duke’s departure would leave Pavona itself insufficiently defended to withstand their attack. So the duke chose to stay behind the city walls, and turned his entire army into a garrison.

Astiano was, of course, brutally sacked by Boulderguts’ army, and the small Pavonan force guarding it was lost entirely. Thus began Pavona’s time of waiting, which continues even now. Each and every report received has been bad news. First came word of sightings of petty-goblins near Casoli, and even within sight of the city walls, being the sort of slippery little creatures who often serve as scouts for ogres. No-one knew whether they belonged to Boulderguts or Mangler, but the question proved academic when word came that both tyrants had rejoined their forces and now marched as one through Casoli. The only source of solace in the city was that Casoli had been stripped completely bare - even crops only a week or so from harvesting had been burned. The brutes would find little sustenance. Yet even this source of reassurance was tempered by the fact that the brutes’ hunger might drive them on more violently.

Most recently, it was reported that both enemy armies had swept around the city to the north, heading eastwards. This came as a surprise as many had presumed they had left off an immediate attack upon Pavona in order to take the less-solidly walled town of Scozzese. I cannot know the truth, and have heard conflicting accounts concerning this turn of events. Some claim that the bridge at Casoli has been destroyed thus preventing the ogres’ passage, others that the Duke has fortified it to achieve the same end. Some claim that the ogres are afraid to put themselves on the southern side of the river in winter, so far from Campogrotta, while others laugh at that idea and suggest the ogres are simply saving Scozzese until last. Montorio tower fell quickly, it’s garrison butchered to a man, and yet still the duke ordered no sally from the walls.

At the end of Autumn, even though the ogres threatened the routes to the north, Morrite priests delivered a letter from the arch-lector himself, sent to all Tilean lords, both clerical and secular, and ordered to be read aloud in every Morrite temple and church. I cannot know if you, my lord, received exactly the same, so I will include a transcript here for your perusal and comparison.

…
This to be read to all the faithful servants of Morr and the lawful gods. His Holiness Calictus II wishes it to be known that the city of Viadaza has been rescued from the vile clutches of vampires and their unholy servants. Morr’s holy army has driven them northwards, beyond even the River Tarano, and has already completed the work of cleansing the city of all corruption. I have ordered a strong garrison formed to defend the city from further attacks, so that even while our most holy war continues, the city of Viadaza need never again suffer the horror that once befell it.

Lord Adolfo, who ruled Viadaza in life, and who now serves the wicked vampire Duchess Maria in unlife, left no living heirs, and so it is that I have declared the city and all the lands appertaining to it to be a protectorate of Remas. The Reman church of Morr will hereafter provide safe sanctuary to all Morr-respecting and law-abiding souls who wish to return and settle therein. As long as empty dwellings remain they will be made available to those who desire them. All skilled labourers and artisans who present themselves, and prove their worth and skill, will be allowed to freely practise their trade for the betterment of both themselves and the city, without redemption demanded of them. All taxes will be fair and equitable, and all appointed officers and magistrates will be required to exercise the laws in a just and decent manner. Hourly prayers will be sung in temple and church to the glory of Morr, and to beg his protection from all evil.

Come all ye who wish to prosper.

Sing hymns of thanks and praise, for Morr is good and his church likewise. Let Viadaza thrive and share a happiness and prosperity ne’er known before to its denizens.
…

Despite my confinement here in Pavona, I have learned what I can of the rest of Tilea. Due to the restricted nature of my sources, I suggest, my lord, you take this information with a pinch of salt, but I offer it nevertheless so that you can balance it with that which you have learned from elsewhere.

Over the summer several merchants had reported that the dwarfs of Karak Borgo were growing unhappy, disgruntled by the failure of their previously profitable trade with Tilea. The wizard Lord Nicolo Bentiglovio’s tyrannical rule in Campogrotta, the city through which both the Iron Road and the River Astipo access all other Principalities, has effectively closed the gate by executing, imprisoning or levying exorbitant fines upon the city merchants, then requiring ever greater taxes and tolls from anyone left attempting to carry out the dwindling trade. This account quickly transformed in the taverns of Pavona, inevitably infected by the Pavonans’ own prejudices, intertwining with another rumour concerning the dwarfs. As soon as the first reports of Boulderguts’ attacks came in, it was quickly put about that the Pavonan dwarfs exiled by ducal decree were behind the ogre tyrant’s choice of target! This was revenge for that which was done to them. Some few have pointed out that the Pavonan dwarfs would thus be allying with the enemies of their mountain cousins, the ogres, yet this argument was rebutted by the claim that the Pavonan dwarfs have used their urge for revenge to draw away the ogres’ main strength from Campogrotta, probably in preparation for an attack by a force from Karak Borgo. If this were true then it would be a false alliance made with one enemy to gain revenge against another, and lead them both into ruin in the end. I myself doubt this theory, for I have visited the mountain mines and found them a mostly empty place, worked by only a few stubborn dwarfs and surely not enough to muster a force of any size. And it seems to me the exiled dwarfs are also too weak, too scattered and insignificant, to achieve such influence. Furthermore, if the Pavonan dwarfs had a hand in advancing Boulderguts’ power, then this would by default mean they were allying with the vampires (if, as is still generally supposed, the ogres and the vampires do have an unholy agreement). Make of these rumours what you will, my lord.

In the far south it seems the VMC is very close to finally ridding Tilea of the last remnants of Khurnag’s Waagh, and its army is even now marching against Monte Castello to drive out any greenskins remaining there. I also heard a tale concerning the ratto huomo in the far north, concerning how they have mustered a force in the Blighted Marshes and intend to press an attack on their ancient enemy Miragliano now that the Vampires are distracted. If this were true, then it would provide an unlikely (if temporary) ally for the arch-lector in the war against the undead. Yet, what with the Reman church of Morr’s clouded history of dealings with the rat men - arch-lector Frederigo Ordini’s supposedly ‘false’ Holy War and secret alliance with the rat-men causing the ruination of the north half a century ago - this could prove a harmful political complication for the current arch-lector. Again, I do not claim to speak the truth here, but simply impart what people are saying.

I eagerly await your further instructions and remain your obedient servant.

Post script: I will attach to this missive a short report concerning what I have learned from the soldiery of Pavona.

 

[ardyer]

I will say this, you're my oldhammer hero. You do everything with oldhammer I want to do, but lack the time and players to accomplish. Bravo!

 

[Padre]

Thanks Ardyer - it's very encouraging to hear. I hope the writing is good too!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Second Letter to Lord Lucca Vescucci of Verezzo

Further from your servant, Antonio Mugello.

This is to impart to you, my lord, something of Duke Guidobaldo’s army, concerning the common soldiery rather than the plans and purposes of the duke himself, or his captains. I present this to reveal unto you something of the nature of the force at the duke’s disposal, and also because I cannot access the Duke’s mind, being myself neither ambassador nor emissary, unable to visit lordly palaces, but instead having eyes upon the streets, so to speak.

I have spoken with several soldiers, acting the part of an amenable drinking companion, being generous with my gold and agreeably attentive to their opinions. Among those I befriended is a sergeant named Antabio, a veteran of many years’ service, a born and bred Pavonan. He is a gruff fellow, heavy browed, who often wears the hint of a pained scowl much, which only occasionally blossoms into its full form.

To understand much of what he says required careful consideration, for his words must be untangled, and much that he has not said needs be ascertained from what he has said. Not that he has guile in him, nor loathes to reveal his inner thoughts, only that he struggles to do so with any clarity. I was able to learn that he held Morr to be the God of gods, having been taught as much from his youth. For him the world is divided not between good and evil, nor between chaos and law, but between those ‘enlightened’ souls who accept Morr as supreme, and all those who do not. The latter, even including the Reman Morrite clergy, are his enemies! When he fought against the Astianans he fought against sinners, when he marched against Prince Girenzo’s forces he faced wicked heretics. He holds no doubt concerning this, nor questions whether Duke Guidobaldo is in full agreement with these beliefs. He speaks in awe of the duke, even praising his lord for sacrificing his own son in the taking of Trantio; and he curses all who voice fears or doubts concerning the duke’s actions. He even described the fall of Trantio to the ogres as a final cleansing brought about by Morr’s will! When I asked why Morr’s will had not then stopped the Ogres razing Astiano and was now allowing their close approach to Pavona, he said simply that they were being drawn in for the kill. I thus learned that the expression he so often wears belies his simple satisfaction that nothing at all is wrong, and that Pavona cannot fall. One might take one look at his face and think him a man tortured by doubt, but no, it is disgust for the rest of the world that pains him, driven by conviction not doubt. I suppose even now, as he stands at his post in the defensive earthworks that ring the entirety of the city walls (making a double layer of defences), he expects the brutes’ bodies will simply pile up before the Pavonan guns and his great sword.

I do not claim that many Pavonans have Antabio’s child-like conviction that the duke cannot fail, but I can report that those born in the city do for the most part share his complete devotion to the one god, Morr, and believe only the priests and rulers of Pavona truly know Morr’s will. Until recently, however, Pavona was a growing Empire, and many of the more recent recruits to its army are not natives of the city, but hail from one of the newly conquered states. On the whole I would describe these soldiers as the worst sort of men, base rogues who have been lifted from deserved misery in their own homelands to become swaggering and proud in their livery of blue and white. Some were released from gaols, others being brigands who sought to enrich themselves from their own countrymen by serving their conquerors. Their conceit is made all the more hateful by the fact that their own homelands have been destroyed either by the brutes or by Pavonan soldiers attempting to deny the brutes the pleasure of doing so, and yet they still serve their new masters and count themselves among the best of the Duke’s men.

One such fellow is a young Astianan called Goldoni. He serves with the most recently formed company of handgunners and yet to hear him speak you would think him a member of one of the oldest and most famed military institutions in Tilea. Upon first encounter, he appears to be the very model of a soldier, deporting himself with the confidence of a disciplined fighter, and careful to ensure his clothes and trappings are kept pristine and in good working order. But as soon as a degree of familiarity has been established, his course wit begins to manifest, brought into play to decorate his malice and embellish a litany of tales concerning his past cruelties.

There is no religion in him, and it might seem that nothing more than brutality fuels his fastidious service as a soldier, but when one probes a little deeper it is plain that his new but steadfast loyalty to the Pavonan cause arises at least partially from his fear concerning what fate would have in store for him if he were to leave his current profession. His cruelty, although entirely sufficient in itself to make him do what he has done, conjoins with his desire for self-preservation and the fear it instills, to produce the vile creature he is.

Much work has been done to circumvallate the already strong city walls with earthwork defences, each bastion bristling with stormpoles and many containing very modern, low, stone-built gun platforms. Most of the Pavonan handgunners have been stationed there, and drill daily to prepare themselves for what is considered the inevitable (if delayed) assault by Bouldergut’s huge army.

Perhaps Boulderguts already knows of these formidable double-defences, and this is what delays him? Or perhaps he is happy to plunder everything else that the city state of Pavona has to offer, satisfied that Duke Guidobaldo’s army is afraid to move away from said defences?

Pavona’s army thus remains a mighty force, perhaps being greater than ever before? And yet although at the height of its military strength, nevertheless the entirety of its newly conquered possessions have been razed to the ground, and its own homeland is even now being destroyed in a piecemeal fashion. Despite the soldiers' pride, conviction and determination, they are but men. None can tell me why their previously undefeated lord has become so timorous that he refuses to order his vast army to battle, yet none complain either, for what sane-man rushes to face a horde of brutes?

 

[Padre]

Sub Sigillo Confessionis
(‘Under the seal of confession’, therefore to be kept secret.)
Near the city of Viadaza, in the rear gardens of the Palazzo Sebardi, at the close of Autumn 2402

Lector Bernado could see that Lector Erkhart was ill at ease, stilted by the need to suppress some species of twitch afflicting his arms and head. It made him appear furtive, although upon closer inspection his eyes seemed to reveal it was more a consequence of fear. Unlike Lector Bernado, who wore the traditional vermillion robes of his office, Erkhart was dressed very humbly in the course woollen cassock of the lowest orders of priesthood. Bernado had not asked him why, assuming it was because Erkhart had lost his see when the city of Trantio fell, and so thought it either improper or unreasonable to don his robes. Each to his own, thought Bernado, musing on the fact that when he had lost Viadaza if never occurred to him to alter his own wardrobe.

There was little colour in the palatial gardens, it being so late in Autumn, but a lay-brother was busy tidying one of the circular beds of herbs and flowers. Bernado was pleased to see that another part of Viadaza was rid of the stench of corruption and the lingering sense of horror, thus recovering a sense of normality and peace. Apart from the two Lectors, the only others present were two armoured guards (who accompanied Bernado everywhere now), his secretary Father Piero and one of his little staff of gnomish clerks.

Erkhart, like so many others, had begun by asking when the arch-lector would order the army to march again. Then, again like so many others, quickly turned to begging Bernado to encourage the arch-lector to delay no longer. This surprised him, for he had expected the ruined lector to ask that a force be sent to recapture Trantio. He knew Erkhart had been in conversation with the Disciplinati di Morr and the spiritual leaders of the several flagellant-dedicate congregations, so it was possible he had been won over by their fervour. But then, Erkhart’s exaggeratedly nervous state suggested something more.

Perhaps if Erkhart had joined the dedicates in their self-administered scourging then that would explain his tortured twitches? The truth came to light when he spoke further, describing the flight from Trantio before it’s fall, his own weakness in the face of the Ogres’ advance, and the impossible dilemma of choosing whether to go north with the few or south with the many. Having chosen the north, for that was where the arch-lector was, he was then wracked by guilt when he heard what the terrible fate of those who did go south. Here Erkhart’s speech faltered, and he spoke more quietly.

“I know now going north was another part of my penance. I should never have left Trantio at all, and only added insult to injury by doing so.”

Bernado could not think what Erkhart meant by this last comment: ‘Insult to injury’ implied two faults, that his leaving of Trantio was not his only sin.

“But surely you see that without sufficient strength to defend the city, it would have been madness to stay?” he said. “How can you accept blame for what was a necessary action brought about by forces beyond your control? If you will not blame the ogres – and I cannot see why you do not lay this evil deed upon their shoulders – then perhaps the blame lies upon Duke Guidobaldo for not providing sufficient forces to defend that which he had himself so violently taken? He had been victorious and taken his prize - with that came the responsibility too.”

“No, I cannot blame the duke,” answered Erkhart. “For I bear the burden of sin. I should have accepted my punishment, and stayed regardless of the threat. My advice, if you will take it from such as I, who promised so much to so little effect, is this: Do not leave Viadaza. You lost it once and it has been returned to you. Be not so careless, nor regardless of Morr’s will.”

Bernado nodded. “I myself want to stay, and have petitioned his holiness to allow me to do so. But I do not think my wish will be granted for the arch-lector has left Remas to pursue Morr’s will, and so why should we not also be expected to go wherever we are needed?

“Still, I do not see why you blame yourself,” he added. “This talk of punishment and multiple sins. We all make mistakes, for which we ought to be penitent, but to heap such blame upon yourself for acting as you thought best at the time, this I do not understand. I myself delayed giving support for the Viadazan crusade, and although I did finally march with them, fighting upon the field at Pontremola, when I heard the city was lost to the armies of the undead, I did not return. It was not fear that prevented me, although I was afraid, but rather the knowledge that the city was already lost and that my immediate return could not change that. Surely it was just the same with you? What great fault do you believe you bear?”

Lector Erkhart fixed Bernado with an intent gaze, then his eyes unfocused as if to look upon some imagined object.

“Might we take leave of the others, to talk privately?” Erkhart asked.

Bernado nodded his consent, gesturing to the guards and servants to wait. The two lectors then turned towards the grassy gap between the hedged enclosures, leading towards a statue of Myrmidia in the centre of the gardens.

They walked in silence until they reached the foot of the statue. No-one could hear them now.

“I take it you are not offended by the statue?” asked Bernado, wondering if a man promoted to lectorship by Duke Guidobaldo might share the schismatic Pavonan Morrite monotheism. Capolicchio, lector of Pavona itself, was very much a schismatic, and indeed the highest authority behind the sect.

Erkhart shook his head in a manner that mirrored the twitches he had exhibited earlier. “That is not my sin. I have never had Sagrannalian leanings, nor have ever given the impression I do – not even to gain Duke Guidobaldo’s favour. No, I gained his favour by other means.”

He fell silent, and Bernado knew he was preparing to give his confession.

“Go on,” said Bernado, making the sign of Morr’s blessing. “Sub sigillo confessionis.”

Erkhart’s hands twisted together before his waist, as if each was trying to restrain the other. “My sin was not schism. Nor was it leaving Trantio - that was merely my failure to accept my penance. I should have stayed to be butchered by the brutes.” Here, momentarily, he faltered again.

Then, fixing Bernado with his gaze, perhaps to make it clear that he was hiding nothing, that this was a full and frank confession, he continued. “I was sent to correct Duke Giudobaldo, to deliver the edict for peace between all princes, to directly order him to cease his vainglorious war at a time when greater Tilea was in need of defence against the true enemy. I personally swore to the arch-lector that I would apply myself body and soul to that task, yet I was lured from that straight and true path by offer of the gift of lectorship of the cruelly conquered city of Trantio. I grasped the tainted office with both hands, and even wrote to the arch-lector to inform him how all that was done, by both the duke and myself, was good, proper and for the greater glory of Morr. I told his holiness the duke was a righteous lord, who had sacrificed his son for the good of the people of Trantio, and by removing the tyrant Girenzo could now set about protecting them from the undead threat.”

“I saw the letter,” said Bernado, remembering how at the time he had wondered if there was something more to the story, something that had not been said. He spoke sternly, “Continue.”

“From that time the knowledge that it was not truly so, that I had succumbed to greed and a lust for power, gnawed at me. And still my own greed was so great that I lied to the arch-lector.”

“How so? Confess fully or not at all, for a partial account is tantamount is merely another lie.”

“I told the arch-lector that I arrived after the fall of the city, and so Duke Guidobaldo knew nothing of the holy edict ordering peace among the living until after the war against the vampires was won. That was my greatest lie, for I had arrived at Trantio two days before the assault. The Duke promised me the reward of high office to buy my silence. More than that, I was to mislead the arch-lector so that it would appear the duke had completed his war before the inconvenient edict was shown to him.”

This is the sin that makes him ashamed to wear his robes of office, thought Bernado. When he looked at Erkhart, however, he could see there was yet more to know. He decided not to press his penitant further, for the man’s agony was plain enough, and it was merely a matter of waiting.

“Even as I took up residence in the palace it became plain that my sin had spawned more evil in its wake. When I asked what had become of Lector Silvestro, I was met first by silence, then later by the story of a mob who burst into the palace to murder him for being the friend of, and counsellor to, Prince Girenzo. But although there were plentiful signs of disturbance in the palace, and all of worth had been taken, I never found any of Silvestro’s servants who had been present that day to witness the event. I cannot say what was done, but I wondered just who had goaded the mysterious mob to murder a priest of Morr, when all would surely know they were damned for doing so.

“Then, just as I began to wonder if the duke would allow the Sharlian Riders who had accompanied me from Remas to return there, knowing as they did that we had arrived before the final battle, I learned that their service had very conveniently been bought. They were promised increased pay to enter Pavonan service. I spoke to Captain Presrae and he seemed blissfully unaware of the whole affair, either because he cared nothing for such things, or cared too little to question the matter. He knew I was carrying the edict, but not its full nature, nor what I had written in return.

“But worse, much worse, was yet to come. I had suspicion enough to be concerned, and yet I did nothing to prevent it. My sins were multiplying and I was becoming crushed under the weight of them. Although I had allowed my silence to be bought, another priest-emissary, Father Franco de Pistoni, was of course carrying the edict to Prince Girenzo of Trantio: the arch-lector had sent priests with letters to every Tilean prince and ruler. Father Franco, of course, had been unable to enter the city because of the besieging Pavonan army, and he also knew, of course, that I had arrived before Duke Guidobaldo ordered the assault. I was afraid he might return to the arch-lector to reveal the truth, and in my weakness, I expressed this fear to the duke.”

Bernado was beginning to comprehend the full horror of what had been done, and yet he still hoped that it might not be true. “I heard that Father Franco was killed by brigands, a party of Compagnia del Sole soldiers fleeing from the Battle of the Princes, who were later killed by Pavonan soldiers for their crime.”

“Yes, the murderers were killed, and without trial,” said Erkhart, “three days after I spoke to the duke of my concerns.”

“Do you know whether the murderers were in fact Compagnia men?” asked Bernado.

“Most likely. But whoever they were, none could now reveal what really happened. Were they made to do it? Ordered? Tricked? And if they were not Compagnia men, who were they? Why did they so conveniently kill that particular priest, when there’s no sane Tilean alive who would not baulk at committing such a heinous crime?”

“But you have no certain proof of Pavonan wrongdoing,” pondered Bernado. “Unless … Did you speak to Duke Guidobaldo about this?

“No, I confess I dare not do so. He would have thought it an implied accusation, and I was clinging to the hope that some greater good might result from my sins and the duke’s transgressions. Now that Trantio has fallen I know that nothing good came of it, only righteous punishment.”

 

[Padre]

Prequel: The Battle for Ebino
Winter IC 2420-3. A short distance south of Ebino

It was less than half an hour since first light and already the burgeoning camp was a hive of activity. Many within had laboured through the night, attempting to satisfy the arch-lector’s demand that the earthwork circumvallation be completed within two days. Considering the proximity of the vampire-ruled city of Ebino, there were very few who begrudged this hurried deadline and even less who yearned for sleep. What mortal man would relish the prospect of being unconscious and undefended as a force of undead monsters sallied out from the deathly quiet walls?

Having finally shrugged off the queasy terror gifted by yet another night-long torrent of nightmares, partly achieved by the ritual of his morning prayers and partly with a practised effort of will, Father Biagino decided he ought to take the air and stretch his legs. He was keen to see how the camp’s defences were coming along, not least because of the future horrors suggested by his nightmares. The dreams he remembered, despite his urge to forget, had revealed to him a grand yet grisly army much greater and more terrible than that he had faced at Pontremola. He told himself that it could not be so – only yesterday the scouts had confidently reported a weak force garrisoning Ebino – and yet there it was. Before the dream army, and quite unable to escape due to some mysterious thickening of the air, he became as a mouse in the way of a bull - an old, diseased mouse with legs stuck in glue-like mud facing the snorting, red-eyed king of all demonic bulls. As the mighty foe came on relentlessly, he turned in desperation to see what safety his comrades could provide, only to discover that they too were living-dead, their eyes empty of all life apart from hateful hunger. The enemy was on all sides. He had not a friend in the world. When he threw his hands up to block out the sight, which was all he could think to do, pain seared into his palms. Tearing them away again, he saw blood pouring from ragged holes. From then, the nightmare took a turn for the worse, becoming the part he could not bring himself even to think about.

He was accompanied by the guard who had replaced the one outside his tent through the night, a veteran Reman crossbowman called Fazzio. The guard proved to be a talkative fellow, a quality Biagino much appreciated for the distraction it gave, and which therefore he was happy to encourage.

“Quite a difference already,” said the crossbowman pointing ahead. “I saw this gate just after dark and it was little more than a few marker posts.”

Biagino stopped a moment to look the earthworks over. Without a doubt much work had been done, for it was no small feat to enclose a camped army as large as this Holy Army of Morr, but it was still far from a reassuring sight. Small sections of earthwork were in place, but most were little more than low piles of earth, the traced beginnings of a defence achieving little more than marking out where the completed circumvallation would sit. He pointed at a finished section by the gate and asked, “Will they make the whole circuit as high?”

“I should think so, father,” said Fazzio. “As per the general’s orders: an outer ditch with an earthen bank no less than four feet high, parapeted throughout, with gabions at the gates. O’course, if we stay any longer than a few days, it’ll grow much bigger than that. This is just for starters.”

They had stopped at the spot where the elaborate volley gun had been emplaced. It had been taken from maestro Angelo’s steam engine, and thus had no wheeled carriage. Just as Biagino pondered the consequences of this, Fazzio spoke.

“Well that’s not going anywhere soon,” he declared. “If it comes to battle here at the camp, I hope this is the spot it’s needed. Seems to me to be a distinct lack of artillery in this army, considering what we’re up against and where they’re at.”

Biagino simply nodded. He had passed the maestro’s steam engine as he made his way to his tent last night. The entire upper platform had been torn away (removing all its guns, big and small, in the process) so that in its stead a huge ramp could be fabricated upon its back. This was the result of one of the maestro’s suggestions concerning how to assault the city, what with both walls and a moat stubbornly obstructing the army’s passage. He had made the idea sound so simple: remove the gun-platform and in its place mount a flat bridge of roughly-hewn boards obliquely rising from a little way above the ground at the rear, while extending out beyond the front until reaching the same height as the crenellations. Then, using the engine’s proven strength, roll on up to the wall until close enough to allow soldiers to run up onto the battlements. Of course, the maestro had added, if the enemy were living Tileans the enterprise would be severely compromised by artillery fire from the towers, but in this case, it could be assumed there would be no such danger. Biagino had marvelled how the maestro could make the prospect of fighting the living dead sound like an advantage.

Several soldiers were attending to the multi-barrelled piece, while others were filling the gabion beside it with rocks.

A large, rubble filled wagon filled stood nearby, with a sweating soldier aloft hurling the contents to the ground …

… whereupon two labourers wielding pick axes broke the stones into manageable chunks.

If this was the effort required simply to place an engine of war in some earthen defence-works, thought Biagino, then surely the maestro’s breezy description of what was required to make an entirely novel, massive and mobile military amalgamation of bridge and ramp had been somewhat rash?

Biagino turned to his companion and asked, “Do you think the maestro’s plan to mount the walls will work?”

Fazzio grinned, making himself look a tad foolish in the process, and answered, “Why not? As long as the engine moves, and the bridge upon it is long enough, and strong enough, and the enemy does nothing to impede its progress, then yes, it should successfully deliver our lads into the arms of the foe.”

“Besides,” he added, “if it doesn’t work, then there’s the petard. Maybe all the maestro’s engine really has to do is draw the enemy’s attention away from the petard?”

Biagino said nothing, but he had been even less convinced by the maestro’s (second) proposition to construct the ‘biggest petard Tilea has ever known’. The proposed components were lying next to the area where engine was being converted, little more than a rusty, old cannon barrel brought from Viadaza and a battered, spare boiler for the engine, to be fastened together somehow and mounted upon a carriage so that the whole could trundle right up to be placed against the gate, there to blow it apart. Biagino’s doubts were not the of the usual kind regarding petards, which tended to concern the difficulty in finding a petardier, a volunteer mad enough to attempt the placing of it. There really was no difficulty there, what with scores of fanatical flagellants and dedicates committed to sacrificing themselves for Morr in any way necessary, perhaps the messier the better? Rather, he worried about how the petardier could possibly hope to reach its destination without deadly interference from the enemy. The undead might not have missiles to shoot, but they could surely hurl rocks, even just tip them over the parapet? And worse, in his dreams he had watched ghastly spirits swarming through stone and wood as if there were nothing there at all, which meant they could sally out without even opening the gate.

Looking back at the volley gun, Biagino watched a matross ramming home an iron ball into one of the nine barrels, while yet another rock was tumbled into the wicker-weaved gabion beside him.

The two of them then left the soldiers to their labours and walked a little further to a stretch of earthen barricade heaped so low it allowed easy access back into the camp’s interior. Biagino led and Fazzio followed as they headed towards the very heart of the camp, where a second, much smaller ring of earthworks had been quickly thrown up, the beginnings of an inner defensive circuit to surround the army’s carroccio. This time, however, the work had apparently already halted. No-one laboured here, as if the pathetically low mound was already considered sufficient for purpose. Instead, a congregation of clergy and dedicates had gathered within, completely surrounding the holy wagon, being joined in ominous chanting, part prayer and part summonation of Morr’s divine presence.

Biagino heard Fazzio gasp at his side.

The physical cause of Fazzio’s audible surprise was nothing more than the barest rippling of a breeze rolling out from the enclosure, but it was laced with a hair-raising and gut-wrenching sensation of powerful intent, like one might suppose a god’s breath would feel as it washed over you. Biagino had sensed it too, perhaps more forcefully than the crossbowman, because for him it evoked memories of rituals and rites, of prayers he himself had employed to conjure curses and blessings in battle, and especially the terrors inhabiting his dreams. He did not gasp, but for a mad moment he yearned to throw his head back and scream, allowing the spiritual potency to penetrate his being and set his soul alight. He held the compulsion in check, for he knew if he were to give in to it, he would surely and immediately slide into a new kind of madness - the same divinely gifted ecstasy that coursed through the bodies and souls of flagellants as the pain of their scourging reached an unbearable peak.

The congregation had arrayed itself in a ring around the large wagon, consisting of both ordained priests and avowed lay brothers, as well as fanatical cultists and dedicants. A flagellant prophet stood by the carroccio, waving a holy book in one hand and a heavy, studded club in the other.

Upon the wagon-shrine’s lower level a cleric spoke prayers over the gilded tabernacle containing a carefully selected collection of holy Reman relics brought by order of the arch-lector. Upon the upper platform two priests, somewhat incongruously framed by brass-barrelled swivel guns, gestured with raised hands to lead the prayerful chanting of those gathered around. Fluttering above their heads was the cross-keyed standard of the Reman Church of Morr, showing both the gold and silver keys to Morr’s garden

Biagino had to look twice before he realised that one of the officiating priests was none other than Erkhart, the lector of Trantio, the very same man who only weeks before had arrived wretched and broken at Viadaza, assailed by doubts and the guilt of having abandoned his city. Now, dressed in a humble woollen cassock, he had the steely glint of a fanatic in his eyes, and looked every bit like the sort of man who could successfully channel mighty Morr’s divine will.

“In manus tuas, Morrus, commendo spiritum meum,” prayed Fazzio. ('Into your hands, Morr, I commend my spirit.')

Biagino raised his hand to bless the crossbowman, to reassure him. The power of prayer was indeed evident here, even to a layman. The arch-lector himself had ordered the holy ritual, intending that its potency would crescendo into a force sufficient to wash over the entire city of Ebino, unpicking the dark-magics animating the undead. While the maestro Angelo was to use mathematics and mechanical skill to forge his ingenious weapons of war, the church would call upon divine power to strike at the foe. Biagino, however, was not reassured. In his dreams the vampires were unstoppable, their will undeniable, their servants relentless, and inevitably their curse swallowed up the whole world. Even if his dreams were only half right, then this ritual was still not enough.

Suddenly a new voice, an ululation more strained and crazed than all the rest, surged up to dominate. It seemed to contain no words, but in truth was just one name, sung without ending: Morr. And it emanated from the mouth of the wild-haired fanatic with the club. His hair blazed from his head like black fire, and his waist was wrapped in penitential chains upon which iron balls swung to bruise his shins.

“ … oooor … oooor ... oooor” went the wail, the sound of the crowd’s chanting undiminished and yet seeming so. Then the wail began to split and fragment, multiplying into a crazed choir of sound. Biagino peered at the fanatic, wondering how such a thing was possible, his bemusement only ending when he caught a glimpse of motion upon the other side of the sacred compound. More fanatics had appeared, racing around the periphery, their weapons brandished, their mouths agape as they too cried out Morr’s holy name.

Fazzio flinched when he too saw the motion, his crossbow falling from his shoulder and his other hand reaching for his sword. Then he too saw what it was. He exhaled, then sniffed. “Here they come,” he said, as if the scene were something tired and familiar. “Father, forgive me, but with a battle brewing I can’t decide if we need more or less of their kind.”

Biagino said nothing. At Pontremola he had witnessed almost every regiment on the field flee from the foe – the battle having been won by General d’Alessio’s slaying of the vampire duke alone, not by any resoluteness or courage in the massed ranks. When the vampire duke fell, his army weakened across the field, some stumbling, others crumbling away, until those left retired under the command of a lesser vampire. There was little the broken Viadazan army could do to stop them leaving, but at least they had won the battle. The Holy Army of Morr could not rely on such a stroke of luck to win its battles, especially as it was unknown whether the vampire duchess would even put herself in harm’s way. Instead they needed fighting men who could and would stand their ground against such a terrifying foe. These flagellants were those kind of men. Once they had whipped themselves into a crazed frenzy, they would fight to the last. Whether or not a general could ensure they did so to some purpose on the field, that was a different matter.

“Hello!” said Fazzio all of a sudden. “Now there’s a leader made to inspire warriors!”

Biagino broke from his reverie and saw immediately who Fazzio had meant. At the head of the column of flagellating fanatics, sword in hand, cassock hoiked up to allow him to run unimpeded, chins and belly a-wobbling, was the Campogrottan priest Peppe di Lazzaro.

“If he carries on like that he’ll do himself an injury,” said Fazzio.

“Isn’t that the point?” quipped Biagino as the crazed priest hurtled passed them pursued by a large gang of much more fearsome followers.

There was little either of them could do while the frantic procession cavorted by them, swinging around the sacred compound and heading off back to the place from which they came. No doubt they would re-appear in a little while as their violent dance circumnavigated whatever other part of the camp they had chosen to navigate by. Once they had gone from sight Biagino suddenly felt as if he was being watched. Glancing off to the side he saw the arch-lector’s colourful tent, attended by his Reman guards. It was not them who were looking at him, however, but the arch-lector himself, from within the shadowed interior.

Biagino supposed the arch-lector would surely beckon him over or at least make some other sign of recognition, as he had done on most other occasions. But no, he just stood motionless, staring.

It made Biagino wonder what his holiness had dreamt last night.

 

[Padre]

The Battle for Ebino, Part One
Winter IC 2420-3. A short distance south of Ebino

As Biagino looked away, lest the arch-lector notice his stare and take offence, a sound erupted from the other side of the camp - drums, the call to arms, and shouting. The chanting ceased immediately as all the gathered clergy and dedicates turned to look. Soldiers were tumbling from their huts and tents, joining the throng running towards their colours and ensigns.

“I think that means they’re coming, father,” said Fazzio. “And there I was a-thinking we were to do the attacking.”

“But the scouts said they were only a small force,” Biagino. “Why would they leave the walls?”

“Either the scouts were wrong, or the enemy doesn’t care about being outnumbered.” He sniffed, then added, “My money’s on both.”

Biagino recalled how he had thought it strange when the scouts corrected their earlier estimations of the enemy’s size, reporting that the defending force had greatly diminished. It was suggested a large part of their strength had marched away towards Miragliano, although many present had simply assumed fear was the cause of the scouts’ original overestimation. Perhaps instead the contradiction was part of a ploy to lure the Holy Army of Morr into a false sense of security? Perhaps what he had seen in his dreams - an army with a front stretching at least as wide as their own - had been closer to the truth?

Suddenly he was jostled and Fazzio had to catch him so he did not fall. The fanatical dedicates were pouring past the pair of them. Instinctively Biagino put his hands over his head, for he knew that they carried every conceivable sort of armament, including the sort of clumsy instruments that no sane man would call a weapon. Once they had passed he wondered why they had abandoned the carroccio, when their ritual had been so obviously working, but when he glanced at it he saw they had not entirely done so. Several remained with the wagon, Lector Erkhart and Father Peppe di Lazzaro amongst them.

“Best be off, father,” said Fazzio. “I reckon we’ll both be needed in this fight. In our own ways, that is.”

Biagino nodded and the two of them joined the general mass of soldiers heading off towards the camp’s periphery.

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Some Mechanics: Battle Scenario Rules

Deployment:
The Holy Army of Morr deployed in a semi-completed earthwork-fortified camp, with some restrictions on space. The Undead Army of the Vampire Countess Maria were to deploy 24” away from the earthworks.

Missing units:
One unit of the Holy Army of Morr had already been destroyed by a (‘paper battle’) sally by the Vargheists – the arabyan horse were no more. They did manage, against the odds, to get a countershot off, killing one of the monsters, but then they got cut to pieces, losing eight of their number to the charge, then the rest being charged again before they reached their camp. The undead player had one Vargheist missing. Sad.

Helblaster (Removed from steam tank platform)
This is already set up on the defences somewhere fixed - it has no carriage.

Carroccio
This began kind of ‘stuck’ within its compound, but could become moveable with effort.

* To move it the order must be given. A D6 was then rolled in subsequent player turns, allowing it to move the next turn on 6+, the turn after on 4+, then the next and subsequent turns on 3+.

* It had a number of ‘free’ (no points paid) flagellants with it - 6D6 rolled before battle starts. These could not move more than 6” away from the carroccio, unless they were pursuing a fleeing foe.

The carroccio could, depending on what was done with it, and some die rolls, increase the range of its immune to fear & Battle Standard effect, or perhaps have a weakening effect on necromantic magic. To do either there needed to be a minimum of a dozen flagellants present.

* To increase the range of the carroccio’s immune to fear and battle standard effect by 2D3”, the attendant flagellant fanatics must not move or be in combat, instead spending the turn praying. In the magic phase they must pass an Ld test. This would be an increase lasting throughout this battle.

* To affect the undead enemy’s magic pool, the attendant flagellants must not move or be in combat, spending the turn flagellating themselves, and thus apply rules for the ‘End is Nigh’! If at least one model was removed as a casualty of this self-harm, the undead enemy player’s magic pool would be reduced by D3 power dice in their next magic phase.

Steam Tank
This was currently being converted to carry a large ramp, and now had scaffolding all around it. All its artillery pieces had been removed. In order to move it must spend 2+ steam points: the first steam point didn’t generate movement, but rather allowed the engine to break it free from the scaffolding (etc) around it.

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Holy Army of Morr @ 4854 pts

Arch-Lector’s Own troops (plus the Viadazan clergy & fanatics) @ 2195 pts:
Arch-Lector of Morr Calictus II @ 201 Tilean Noble
Urbano D’Alessio, Condottiere General @ 172 pts
Priest of Morr, Fr. Federico Tinti)@ 55 pts
Priest of Morr, Fr. Peppe di Lazzaro, Obsidian amulet & Gold Sigil Sword @ 100
Priest of Morr, Fr. Biagino @ 85 pts
7 Knights with full armour and command @ 186 pts
36 Condotta Pikemen (Estalian Mercenaries) @ 399 pts
8 Dwarf Sea Ranger Skirmishers @ 112
30 Flagellants with leader @ 370 pts (this group possibly having swollen to a greater size)
Carroccio @ 265 (counts as Army Standard @ 18” effect) + 3D6 Flagellants
Magic standard (Home-rules): Standard of Morr: All Tilean/Estalian troops within range of its battle Standard effect are immune to Fear (+85)
Maestro Angelo da Leoni’s Steam-Tank @ 250 (From which 3 swivel guns and a helblaster volley gun have been removed and placed elsewhere.)
2 Baggage wagons

The young Pavonan lord and his guard @ 328 pts
Lord Silvano
8 Mercenary Elven Knights

Arabyans gifted by Lord Alessio Falconi of Portomaggiore @ 2331 pts
General ‘Caliph’ Gedik Mamidous
Two ‘Emirs’, Sakhrrif and Immeed (one with Battle Standard)
Vizier (wizard) Jafhashua al Hadi
9 Arabyan Camel Riders
30 Arabyan Spearmen
25 Arabyan Elite Spearmen (Heavy armour, corroding standard)
24 Crossbowmen (two companies of 12)
12 Border Horsemen
10 Arquebusiers (30", S5, armour pierce, move or fire, prepared shot - after firing, spend next shooting phase reloading before fire again, may move while doing)
25 Black Guard Swordsmen (Stubborn, WS4)
2 baggage wagons
2 Galloper Guns commanded by mercenary artillery captain Pandolfo da Barbiano

Here’s a pic of some of the above army set up in readiness for transferral to the table. Several things were already placed, as per the scenario. The 6D6 flagellants with the carroccio would be determined at the start of the game. I had the 36 figures ready, but should have known we wouldn't need anything like that many!

The arabyan horse in the middle of this lot were destroyed before the battle! (I had allowed the player of the arch-lector to order ritual prayers to deleteriously affect necromantic magic and to turn the steam tank into a mobile ramp (like a 'Hobart’s funny’ from D-Day), so when Daz (the vampire player) wanted to try a dastardly surprise attack versus a random scouting unit by flying vampire-monsters,I had to allow that too. The randomness came from the fact that Vargheists are frenzied, and I reckoned that meant it was pretty random which one they attacked – whoever they happened to see first! The arabyan horse were the unlucky ones - first for being rolled as the target, second for being too weak to defend against such horrors!)

The Undead Army @ 4320 pts total
Vampire Lord (Maria)
Strigoi Ghoul King
Vampire Hero
Tomb Banshee
Necromancer
60 Zombies
10 Dire Wolves
43 Crypt Ghouls
30 Skeletons
30 Skeletons
Corpse Cart
29 Grave Guard
20 Grave Guard
6 Crypt Horrors
6 Vargheists
6 Hexwraiths
8 Black Knights
3 Spirit Hosts
Terrorgheist

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The Tabletop
(This was effectively a simplified version of the Holy Army of Morr's camp, suitable for game-play purposes.)

Actual battle report to follow asap.

 

[Padre]

The Battle for Ebino, Part Two

The Holy Army of Morr rushed to deploy its entire strength along the partially completed defences. All three heavy cavalry regiments took a place on the far left of the line, with the mercenary elven riders on their bright, white horses acting as Lord Silvano's bodyguard on the extreme end of the line. The Caliph Gedik Mamidous' camelry rode behind, with the Reman knights, led by the hero of Pontremola and commander of the army in the field, General d'Alessio, to their right. Captain Pandolfo di Barbiano's brace of galloper guns trundled up behind the knights, hoping to find a spot from which to fire after the knights advanced.

The Arabyan Black Guard swordsmen massed in the rear of the cavalry, upon a little hill from which they could look down at Carroccio and its little guard company of flagellants (Note: The 6D6 roll for to ascertain the flagellants’ actual number came up a measly 12!) The large regiment of Estalian pikemen took up position near the centre of the line, with the arch lector Calictus II himself by their side. Several swivel guns and the volley gun were placed in the very centre of the line, and stretching out to the right of them stood first the Arabyan musketeers with their impressively long barrelled pieces, and then in succession the Arabyan light spearmen, the main body of Morrite flagellants and the Arabyan heavy spearmen.

Behind these foot regiments, two companies of crossbowmen occupied each of a pair of hills, while in the little dip between stood maestro Angelo da Leoni's wooden-armoured steam engine surrounded by scaffolding and topped by the uncompleted ramp (intended to overcome the moated walls of Ebino). The maestro himself stood upon the scaffolding, shouting down to the already sweating crewmen within the workings, issuing a complicated combination of instructions concerning how to build up steam, which parts of both the scaffolding and the supports for the ramp needed removing, and what alterations in driving and steering procedures would be necessary now that the gun platform was missing. Glancing again and again towards the front of the battle-line, he interspersed his orders with "Hurry now!", "Make haste" and “No time for that”.

A wheeled contraption of rather a less elaborate and ingenious design trundled up at the flagellants' fore, its cacophonous bronze bell swinging erratically. 'Fighting' Father Antonello, who nearly died leading the poorest of the Viadazan militia at Pontremola, and who had spent his time in Remas forging the very band of fanatics he now led, walked barefoot next to the bell, his sword held aloft as he sang of the painful, purging ecstasy of serving Morr's will to the death. At Pontremola his voice had been clear and strong, but here it had become the pained and wheezing cry of a man who had bloodily scourged himself of every thought but battle.

For a moment, once the army was arrayed as best it could, there was almost complete quiet. The peeling drums ceased their instructions, the sergeants and captains gave rest to their voices, and every mercenary soldier upon the field, Tilean or Arabyan, fell silent. Even the flagellants ceased their loud chants, and instead spoke their prayers in growled whispers through clenched teeth. The only other sounds were the jangling of the mounts' harnesses and the snapped flutters of silken flags.

Not one living soul present could help but fall quiet, for it was in that moment the enemy hoved into view, surmounting the ridge between the camp and Ebino.

Every single thing that moved among their ranks was foul, and many were truly terrible to behold. Several large companies of skeletal warriors, wearing only the remnants of ancient armour and rags, with not a scrap of flesh to clothe their bones, made up their right, including an ancient head-hunter's chariot piled high with the skulls of those he had taken in life and (presumably) in death also. Closer to the centre of their line, being the first thing all living eyes were drawn to, was the un-living corpse of a huge dragon-beast. Its motion seemed impossibly easy, considering it was nothing more than bleached bones and the thinnest, taut tatters of leathery flesh. When its long neck came curling down to thrust its monstrous head forwards, a sound issued from its gaping maw - the echo of a cry from some hellish realm beyond the seam, twisted then amplified as it found its way into the mortal world.

Behind this flew some smaller, demonic creatures, although as they would tower over any mortal man their smallness was only in comparison to the dragongheist.

In the very heart of the line came a monstrous amalgamation of unliving parts, held as one by a blue-hued miasma, the whole like something plucked from a nightmare, perhaps several nightmares. It appeared to be hauled by skeletal riders, although the mounts' hooves struck nothing but air as the ground was several yards beneath them. Limbless corpses with chattering teeth were impaled upon a shrine-like balcony, upon which stood a crooked figure robed in a cloth woven from shadows.

This horror alone proved the vampire duchess's corrupting power had grown greater than that which Duke Alessandro ever wielded, and that in the passage of time since she left Viadaza to return northwards, she had been diligent in her work to make a very hell of the north. The like of such an 'apparatus ad mortem', such an 'ammasso dei cadaveri', had not been witnessed in Tilea for many a century. But nor had an undead army the size of which surrounded it. Ahead of the horror loped a band of undead brutes, and beside them a regiment of ancient palace guards led by the vampire Lord Adolfo (the tales of his death at the hands of the duchess, punishment for the loss of Viadaza, were thus proved false). Next in line were two huge bands of ghouls and zombies, with a barely visible ghostly host of troubled spirits lurching ahead of them.

Upon the very far left of Duchess Maria's army there rode a deathly hunt, with flail-armed riders galloping in eerie, ethereal silence behind a pack of slavering hounds.

They were not the only riders upon the field, for at the very centre of the line, beside the monstrous dragongheist, was a company of skeletal men at arms, their mounts' caparisoned carcasses enclosed in carapaces of iron. In their midst rode the vampire Duchess Maria, with a gaze every bit as piercing as her bared fangs could be.

As the Holy Army of Morr took in the full horror of what faced them, the arch-lector's long serving company of mercenary dwarfs jogged up towards the side of the steam engine, having been ordered to move whither it went.

Most of the vampire duchess's horde momentarily slowed as she surveyed the foe arrayed before her, but out on the left the ghastly hunt did not break its stride, outstripping all the rest and closing upon the enemy with palpably cruel intent.

Note: Deployment and Scouting Moves completed. Battle proper to follow asap. To those who weren't there, does anyone care to hazard a guess as to which side will be victorious, if indeed either?

 

[Padre]

The Battle for Ebino, Part Three

The near-silence was broken by the sudden blaring of horns ordering the riders to advance. The young Lord Silvano, the only soldier upon the field to sport the blue and white of Pavona, was the first off the mark, accompanied by his Sharlian Riders. The irony that they had been bribed generously to leave Reman service to serve the Pavonan duke, yet now they had been sent by that same duke to serve his son in Reman service, was lost on Lord Silvano (although they themselves knew).

To the young lord's immediate right the mounted nobility of Remas - a visconte, a barone, and several-many Cavalieri, led by General d'Alessio, his shield bearing the hourglasses of Morr - spurred their own mounts to keep up as close they could to the young lord's flank.

The veteran general forgave young Silvano his impetuousness in being the first to advance, though by right that honour should not have fallen to him. Silvano was burdened with an irrepressible need to prove himself, born of all that had happened in his young life: the death of his brother in single combat, the mutinous conduct of his own soldiers at Viadaza and the recent fall of the city he had been granted governorship of by his father. He also yearned to placate his father for his perceived failings by proving himself in battle. Where and when better to do so than here and now, against the greatest and most wicked threat facing Tilea? Most of all, he wanted to beat the vampire duchess and her foul horde as soon as possible, thus releasing himself from his vow and allowing his return to Pavona to aid his father in the war against the Ogres threatening to destroy his homeland.

Behind the Sharlian riders came the Sons of the Desert’s camelry, carrying lances almost the length of pikes. It had been noted that the desert mounts scared the horses, and so their position in the rear was no accident. Thus it was that the entire left wing of the Holy Army of Morr's vanguard, wholly consisting of riders, crossed the nascent defences to move directly towards the massed ranks of the walking dead.

On the far right of the army the steam engine's workings juddered into life, emitting several bouts of sooty steam, then after the squeal of grinding gears and the strained creak of stressed timbers, it broke free of the scaffolding enclosing it and jolted forwards leaving a trail of broken planks behind. The maestro Angelo watched it trundle away, cursing at its lack of armament. At Viadaza it had thundered aimlessly about unable to effect any real damage upon the walls or the foe shielded behind them, whereas now, part-way through the transformation intended to put right this specific deficiency, it was going into open battle without the guns that could make it truly effective. He was more than a little vexed at the constantly changing circumstances that prevented him from proving himself as a military engineer of genius. Had he just sent his greatest creation to its doom?

The dwarfen rangers watched the engine go by, waiting for their chance to move up in its wake, all the better to provide some support for it during the battle.

While the famous Captain da Barbiano's galloper guns positioned themselves behind the beginnings of the earthwork vallation ...

... the regiments of foot soldiers stood their ground. The Arabyan light spear regiment looked on nervously over the piled timbers gathered for the parapet, while the black robed vizier in their front rank began the dramatic gestures required for a conjuration.

But his efforts evidently came to nought, for when his hands came together in a conclusive clap and nothing at all happened. He cursed in some archaic tongue only half understood by the men around him. No other magical manipulation of the etheric winds had any obvious effect, but several of the slavering death-hounds did fall to crossbow quarrels and the shambling blue-skinned horrors in the centre of the duchess's line were bloodied by musket shots. At the carroccio, however, the fanatical clergy and dedicants were singing potent prayers with gusto, and as every Estalian and Tilean who could hear them took heart from the parts they recognised, their fear of the foe began to fade away. Game note: As per the house rule, they now had +4" range to the carroccio's 'Hold your Ground' & Immune to Fear effect, making it 22" in range.) The black robed spearmen above the carroccio, who knew little of the foreigner’s gods and had certainly never prayed to them, simply looked down in confusion at the fuss, and wondered why such supposedly fearless warriors would give themselves over to song when there was a battle to fight.

The Duchess's unholy army came on slowly but surely , and apart from the ghostly-hunt out upon the far left flank, only the dragongheist seemed to be in any hurry to reach the foe. Its huge wings flapped but three times, and with little swiftness, yet lifted it sufficiently far to land before the Reman nobility. Upon its arrival, however, it did nothing more than hiss with mean intent. (Game Note: Its 'Death Shriek' had no effect.)

Still, although its threatening display caused no physical harm, the beast's mere proximity was no easy thing to endure. Only the tiniest scraps of glistening muscle still connected its bones (what remained being as tough as buff-leather armour) and its grey flesh was also very much an incomplete covering, nevertheless a long, sharp tongue, the colour of dried blood and as whole as that a master butcher might display with pride upon his stall, thrust stiffly between the massive teeth of its gaping maw. The fleshless talons upon the joints of its wings flexed and curled with intent, and every motion its flinching tail made produced a clackety eruption of sound as bone struck bone along its entire length.

Much louder was the hate-filled howl delivered by the vampire Adolfo, as if he could barely contain the lust for battle broiling within him. His elite guard made no sound, perhaps heard no sounds either, as they halted a moment, several of their blades glittering with an unworldy green glow. Their master raised his hand to shield the sun from his eyes and so better descry the enemy who had driven him from the city he ruled in both life and undeath, and so shamed him before his beloved mistress the duchess Maria. He believed his devotion to her knew no bounds, and he intended that the enemy would learn this the hard way. And yet, deep down, buried beneath the fury, pride, lust and brutal cunning, there was some part of him that wanted his own unlife never to end, whatever became of the duchess. This was what had allowed him to flee Viadaza as it fell, and was why he could halt here to scrutinize the foe even though he could see several of the duchess' other servants had already advanced much further.

The hunters and their hounds were the keenest of the undead forces, heading straight towards the Arabyan heavy spearmen, entirely unconcerned by the fall of several of their number.

Watching their approach, the spearmen's amir simply kept repeating, "Steady ... steady ...!"

The situation was both reversed and magnified upon the far side of the field, for there it was the living riders, much greater in number, who were rapidly closing the gap between themselves and the foe. Their blaring horns suddenly gave vent to a new, more urgent flurry of notes - the charge - and all three bodies of riders crashed headlong into their skeletal opponents. So many were they and their foe, and arrayed so widely, that the arabyans and elves found themselves taking on not two but three regiments of foot soldiers, while the Reman nobility levelled their lances to attack the great and monstrous dragongheist itself!

Lord Silvano held his own in the subsequent fight, which the elves around him thought was as much as could be expected from such an unblooded youth, and several skeletons were felled by the riders' lances.

The mercenary Caliph Gedik Mamidous found himself locked in combat against a vampire, and the two of them drew blood (much to the vampire's distraction) but neither could fell the other. His emir and camel riders brought down many skeletons in both the regiments they faced, even the camels breaking several of the enemy into pieces under their heavy, splayed feet. The conjoined impact and heavy casualties so fractured the magical forces animating the undead warriors that thirty more crumbled in the rear ranks! (Game Note: Joint combat of 2 units vs. 3 units won by 10 points, thus 10 extra casualties in each of the skeleton and grave guard regiments!) The Holy Army of Morr had struck what seemed to be a severe blow here on the flank, and the enemy had been significantly sapped of strength. But their charge had been halted, their impetus spent, and now it came to sword blade and lance-butt there was yet still more work to be done.

Although General d'Alessio had faced such a beast as the dragon before, at Pontremola, he had to steel himself as he drew close. Perhaps it was a blessing that neither he nor his companions could see the full monstrosity of that which faced them through the slits in their steel vizors? Several lance-points found their marks, and the beast was visibly injured by the attack, even stumbling as it momentarily lost its balance.

Yet, like the camels and elves to their left, their charge alone could not finish off the monster, and now they would have to fight without the driving force gifted by their initial charge, their lance attacks becoming mere prods rather than piercing thrusts. (Game note: They caused one wound, and 3 more due to combat resolution. So close!)

Crossbows, swivel guns and the volley gun all did what they could to harm the approaching blue-skinned brutes, but with little apparent effect. The musketeers were too busy re-loading their extra-ordinarily long-barrelled pieces to contribute their own leaden shot. Captain di Barbiano decided to join the effort and targeted the same body of monstrous zombies, and was left dumbfounded when one of his piece's barrels blew apart and the other sent a round shot into the dirt rather than the foe. His first contribution to battle after all those weeks and weeks of marching, only to find his firepower (and the value of his investments) reduced by half!

On the far right of the Holy Army's line, the maestro's engine continued its trundling movement through the gap in the lines before it.

In an effort to ensure its path towards the main enemy regiments remained clear, the crossbows atop the hill behind and the pistol-armed dwarf rangers accompanying it, managed to reduce the hunt's hounds down to only two, while the vizier's second attempt to rain magical lightening upon the hunt's riders halved their number in a dramatic explosion of flashes.

As the spears of blue light manifested in the air around the ghostly riders, the vizier began cackling, but this quickly turned into a more pained sound as he clutched his head and had to be caught by the men at his side before tumbled over. When his hands came away he seemed dazed, yet took his place in the front rank once more. None of his companions thought to question him concerning what had happened - his trembling was proof enough that something had gone awry in his conjurations.

The duchess's army had been visibly harmed, and those who could see it was now allowed themselves to believe that the day really would be theirs - even as the duchess herself led her mounted guard in a charge against the Reman nobility struggling against the dragongheist.

But then the vampires summoned every scrap of etheric wind they could, and commenced the work of repairing and strengthening their warriors. Beside the head-hunter's chariot of skulls, fallen skeletons by the dozen began to get back up to their feet ...

... and so it went on until nearly every undead regiment in the field was almost entirely whole again. The riders, every one of whom had dared to hope that they were only moments away from bursting through the few soldiers remaining in their way, which would have allowed them to turn upon the vampire duchess's flank and rear to begin the real work of dispatching her army, suddenly found themselves facing regiments almost as strong as they had been when they first entered the field!

A sickening sense of doubt began to spread through the men, elves and dwarfs of the arch-lector's army. It was not merely fear of the foe, but the soldierly knowledge that if the foe would not even stay dead, then the fight could only go one way.

Was this the beginning of the end of the arch-lector's holy war?

 

[Padre]

The Battle for Ebino, Part Four

As the winged horrors behind the regimented skeletons on the undead right did little more than hop and flap, merely edging toward the middle of the field as if they could not agree between themselves where first to strike, the vampire duchess herself showed no such tardiness and led her undead horsemen in a charge against the Reman nobility. She had sensed her old master's killer, General d'Alessio, among them, and sought to wreak vengeance for what he had done. Her mount's blood-hued barding marked her out, although she radiated such an aura of evil that she would have drawn the gaze of every living thing in her proximity whatever she wore.

At the very moment she and her riders clashed with the Remans, the fight upon the slopes to her right was going badly for the living. Fallen elves, Arabyans and skeletons tumbled together down the hill. Such a hard fight, combined with the recent resurrection of nearly every skeleton they had fought so hard to kill, sapped the resolve of the living warriors and they turned to flee. Both camel and horse-riders outpaced their pedestrian pursuers, with the Caliph Gedik Mamidous leading his own men pell-mell through the Black Guard swordsmen and much further than Lord Silvano and his elves.

The Holy Army of Morr's left flank, which only a little while before had seemed all but victorious, was now in considerable disarray. There was still a chance the riders might rally, and the swordsmen might find the courage to stand their ground, and if also the Reman nobility could maintain their fight against the monstrous dragongheist, and if the winged horrors continued their dithering, then the tables could yet perhaps turn again? But this faint hope receded when the Vampire Duchess' blade cut General d'Alessio in two, before he could even lift his own sword to parry. As his horribly mutilated corpse tumbled to the ground in two places, his plate-armoured companions somehow found the courage to maintain their ground in the centre of the field (1), which allowed the Estalian pikemen behind them to advance 'at the charge', the serried ranks of their pike-tips aimed squarely at the osseous riders. In the process, they carried the somewhat flustered Father Biagino along with them.

So it was that Biagino found himself caught in the midst of massive melee. He flailed his sword almost without thought, his mind wholly intent upon the prayers necessary to summon Morr's blessings. The words came easy, the gestures less so (for obvious reasons), but to no avail. He was lost from Morr's sight. A chill ran through him as he understood that in this moment of dire need, he had been abandoned by the god to whom he had given so much. (2)

As the elven riders and young Lord Silvano turned to face the enemy once again, the Arabyan swordsmen found the courage to charge the small company of skeletons to their front ...

... while behind Gedik Mamidous halted his camel riders and ordered them to reform as a body.

(3)

Captain di Barbiano's last surviving gun sent a ball ploughing harmlessly into the ground before the blue-skinned horrors in the midst of the enemy's line ...

... then enough crossbow bolts and musket bullets found better marks, felling three of them. All this was watched by the arch-lector Calictus, standing alone beside the swivel guns that had been removed from the steam tank, obscured from the enemy's eyes by a wagon of stones sitting beside the incomplete defence-works. He had barely moved since the battle began, and indeed it seemed to those nearby that he was lost in prayerful reverie. In truth, it was fear and doubt that had held him so from the first moment he saw the frightful nature of the foe. There were many among the Holy Army of Morr who still believed the battle could be won, especially as the entire right wing of the army had yet to engage the enemy, including the large mob of indomitable, frenzied fanatics and the pistol-toting veteran dwarfs next to them, while the riders who had fled upon the left had already rallied rather than leaving the field. But his holiness was not reassured by these facts, instead his mind was filled with turmoil. How could such terrors possibly be defeated? Had he tarried too long at Viadaza allowing them to grow too strong? Would the Arabyans, being mercenaries and not servants of Morr, prove willing to fight? Did he send too large a force to assist in the war to the south, thus critically weakening this army? Was he unworthy of holy Morr's blessings? Were his nightmares of the last few nights coming true?

As the priests and dedicates attending the carroccio abandoned their hymns and instead set about mortifying their flesh with flails and cords, conjuring a religious ecstasy of pain to channel the spiritual power of Morr (4), the rather more physical presence of the steam-tank seemed unstoppable as it coursed its way towards the heart of the enemy's line.

The Arabyan swordsmen, on the other hand, seemed only to contact the enemy for the briefest of moments, before they turned and ran, heading straight towards their commander Gedik, with the skeletons in pursuit.

Their flight thus hindered, the skeletons soon caught them, bloodily tearing through them and on into the camel riders. Gedik Mamidous thus found himself once again in combat against the aureate-armoured vampire ...

... but this time he had lost the will to fight, and as two of his riders perished upon ancient blades, he ordered the remainder to flee as they had so often practised. Once more they successfully escaped their pursuers. Gedik had decided enough was enough - he was not going to allow the destruction of his entire company in an unwinnable battle - so he commanded his horn-player to sound the general retreat, then hurtled with his riders through the camp and away from the battle for good.

Although the arch-lector had never before heard that particular call upon the horn, he could guess its meaning. Besides, even if it were not an order to retreat, the caliph's flight could not bode when almost half the army’s strength consisted of Arabyans. Within moments he could see that several companies of desert-men had indeed begun to fall back.

The duchess's foul servants were launching their attacks across their entire front. The winged horrors finally chose their target, beginning an arcing flight towards the Sharlian Riders. Lord Silvano steeled himself, lowering his visor and starting to speak his command to stand their ground, but Captain Presrae suddenly clutched his arm. The elf gestured towards the fleeing Arabyans, saying, "It's over, my lord. Best we go now. Your father would not want to lose another son." Lord Silvano exhaled, his frustration evident, then turned his horse away. Accompanied by the elves, he too left the field, galloping harder and faster than he had ever done so before to keep up with the Sharlian Riders' white steeds. He did not look back.

The elves and Arabyans were not alone, for the dwarfs, facing a charge by the remaining riders of the ghostly hunt, chose that very same moment to leave. They had been ordered to accompany the steam tank, but they could not keep up with in, and now felt that they had been foolishly misemployed, which in turn wounded their pride. Nor could their continued efforts possibly help the steam engine, for it had now stalled as a cloud of viridescent spirits swarmed over and under, through and into it, plunging the crew into a waking nightmare. The crew's screams and the enemy's eerie wailing mingled together just like the engine's vented steam swirled and mixed with the spirits' ethereal vapours. The maestro saw it all from his place on the scaffolding (he had not moved from that vantage point since the engine left), and as the dwarfs fled by he shouted but one word, "Wait!" before leaping down to join them. (5)

Suddenly it seemed as though a dark cloud had moved over the field of battle, spreading its shadow upon the ground. This was no natural phenomenon, rather it was an emanation from the huge, hellish conglomeration of grisly parts moving at the heart of the duchess's army, and in its absence of light it bore a magical mortification.

His Holiness the arch-lector himself felt its cold touch deep inside his mortal frame, and was left gasping for air while nearby umpteen musketeers, swivel gunners, pikemen and artillerymen fell lifeless to the ground (to the fearful confusion of their fellows). This curse seemed to fan the winds of dark magic for it was then that every soldier of the pike regiment reeled under the duchess's enchanted gaze, fumbling for their footing as if they were suddenly made drunk. Lord Adolfo felt the surge too, and in his boiling rage, which had grown only greater as the battle grew longer, he garnered more necromantic magic that he could possibly control, so that even as undead riders and horrors were reanimated, the five guards closest to him burst into pieces as the uncontrollable energies spilling from the sides of his spell ripped through them.

Having been distracted, as well as lulled into a foolish and false sense of security by the heavy wagon of stones before him, Calictus at last realised the abominable, charnel agglomeration was coming directly at him. Its ever-shifting tangle of parts held a sick fascination, and he could not look away from it. The noise of it, a convoluted choir of grinding shrieks and howls, seemed to be directed at him in particular.

He could also hear a voice, pathetically faint but alive, and nothing like the pure hatred-made-sound emanating from the mortified monstrosity. It was calling him. "Your Holiness!" There was snarling too, and more shouting from further away: "Run! Run!"

The Estalians' pikes had become unnaturally heavy in their hands due to the cruel chill of the lingering shadow-curse, but the foe before them was newly invigorated. All this would combine to bring about their ruin.

Duchess Maria, despite sitting side saddle and deceptively delicate, slew half a dozen pikemen with her own blade, while her riders hewed down another five and the dragongheist's fangs tore through a knight's neck, removing head, helm and plume with one snap! Held fast by the scrum of armoured men and mounts surrounding him, Biagino could do little more than attempt to stay upon his feet. His sword was lost, though he did not know it, and through gritted teeth he spoke a desperate fragment of prayer over and over: “Into Your hands … Into Your hands …”

Unsurprisingly, the pikemen became overwhelmed by panic-fear. They stumbled backwards, slipping and tripping over the dead and dying. One or two yielded to the madness and suicidally launched themselves at the foe, but most dropped their pikes as they attempted to escape. Nearly all were torn to pieces by the duchess and her savage servants. In the midst of the mayhem was Father Biagino, his last worldly moment being the sight and sound of an iron lance punching through the helmeted head of a transfixed soldier, and his final thought so dreadful that there were no words to express it.

More and more of the undead army came on now, including a vast throng of vile, rotten, walking corpses on the left.

Captain di Barbiano ordered his surviving crewmen to limber his one remaining piece and flee, while both large regiments of Arabyan spearmen, now that word had reached them of General Gedik’s departure, began a surprisingly orderly withdrawal. One of the companies of crossbowmen at least lingered long enough to loose a few shots before their own departure ...

... while nearly all those with the baggage wagons began hauling their burdens away, given some confidence by the sight of the Arabyan force's disciplined departure. Yet there were some still among the living who had not yet even considered retreat, for they were so filled with an holy lust for battle that they had utterly failed to notice the collapse of the army around them. With Father Antonio and their bell-cart at the fore, the flagellating dedicates' chains clattered and flames sputtered as they at last decided the enemy was close enough to attack.

Screaming battle cries in the form adulatory prayers to holy Morr, they charged headlong into the last few riders of the ghostly hunt.

Nought but wisps of etheric essence remained as Morr's holy warriors burst straight through the ghostly riders, then plunged deep and messily into the crowd of un-corpses beyond. The mass of rotting flesh swallowed them up entirely, and even as the flagellants tore foe after foe after foe apart, the vampiric conjurers summoned more and more to forge a huge, hellish heap of tangled, mangled corpses - dying, dead and undead. It was the last time anyone ever saw of Father Antonio and his band of scarred brothers alive.

Almost without thinking, the arch-lector had staggered away from the wagon of stones, but kept turning back to look at the approaching horrors behind. He began prayer after prayer, each time uttering only a few words before sensing its failure and starting a different one. Then came the voice again, "Your Holiness, please! Make haste."

"What?" said Calictus as the riders at the front of the impossible, floating abomination levelled their spears and the dragongheist's head thrust towards him to release its hideous screech.

The appalling sound assaulted him body and soul (6), then congealed sufficiently to knock him from his feet.

"Oh dear ..." he began, but then spoke no more, nor ever again.


Game Notes:
(1) The arch-lector’s player made a snake eyes break test. This was to be the ‘exception that proved the rule’ regarding his otherwise atrocious dice rolling!
(2) Snake eyes winds of magic roll. There was a certain sort of consistency in the player’s rolling! I've never been a superstitious man, but events were making me so.
(3) This was one of the difficult pictures I have ever had to 'clean up'. My careless players had strewn the tabletop with dice, magic cards, drinks, snacks, and even a hand. Ooooh, if they only knew? (Although that would require the pair of them to read these notes.) Mind you, I shouldn't complain - in the later picture where the Caliph Gedik Mamidous fled past the tent I had forgotten to attach the Reman Morrite emblems on the tent and so it was still showing the Compagnia del Sole's device. That took some work with MS Paint to put right too!
(4)-D3 power dice for the undead player next turn as per the scenario rules.
(5) From what we could make of the steam tank rules, it seemed it was well and truly stuck - unable to move, whilst also unable to harm the spirit hosts. Daz, the undead player, was cackling. I think this is what he had intended from the start!
(6) The Mortice Engine's Ghostly Howl failed to harm the arch-lector, but the Terrorgheist's Death Shriek caused 7 wounds! His holiness managed to ward save 2, but the 5 that got through killed him, indeed killed him very, very dead.

 

[Padre]

Nobili Immortale
Sequel to the Battle for Ebino

Biagino could remember almost nothing but dreams, spilling one after the other for what seemed like years on end. Somehow his life had flipped over, turning the waking world into a distant, half-memory, while his sleeping sojourns were experienced and recalled in great and lengthy detail.

Nearly all his dreams consisted of two particular kinds. The first kind, the painful ones, were claustrophobic affairs, in which he could barely move, if indeed at all. In these his body ached to every extremity, his skin itched and prickled all over, and he felt hunger that went beyond mere want of food to want of everything, from air to drink, from movement to company. He could sense the fat falling from his bones as his body seemed to consume itself from within. His every muscle was perpetually tensed, while his mouth remained clenched shut in a grimace, despite a steadily growing pressure within his jaws. The second kind of dreams were the old, familiar nightmares, unfolding as they always had done, to reveal or foretell the horrors of the world.

And so Biagino knew he was dreaming now. It was one of his recurring nightmares, in which he was surrounded by the living dead, trapped deep within their realm. There was no escape, nor could he hide, and so no relief either.

This time, however, it was not a nightmare, and not because he was aware he was dreaming, but simply because it was no longer terrifying. In every other sense the dream was the same: foul hands upon him, their rotten, worm-ridden flesh touching his own; dead-eyes somehow peering at him from dark orbits; the screams of a dying man mingled with the gurgled groans of the undead; his mouth filling with hot blood. All this still happened, but now the hands touching him were doing as he himself had instructed, while the pus filled eyes were those of attentive, obedient servants awaiting his further command. The dying man had perished by Biagino's own hand, and rather than gagging on the blood, he gulped it down hungrily, like a starving man given warm broth.

It was the same dream in every particular, except he was not the same man.

Then something new happened, which had never before been a part of the dream. Someone spoke to him, and it was the voice of a goddess.

“Ah, sweet priest,” she said. “You have awoken from your slumber. I see you have already breakfasted. You must have been so very hungry.”

Biagino forgot his musings concerning the dream, even that it was a dream, and so failed to notice that it was now continuing longer than it had ever done before. He gently pushed the cold hand away that had been placing a stole around his neck …

… then turned away from his meal, letting the man fall to the ground, to look at the speaker. It was the Duchess Maria, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, her flesh as pale as it was flawless, her eyes alight with delightfully playful malice. He smiled, for it filled him with pleasure to look upon her. He remembered the other times he had been in her presence. The memories came flooding back, each one parting to reveal another: as a novice attending the Lector of Miragliano during Lady Anabella’s wedding, when the Duchess was a maid of honour; during his first and second visits to the Ebinan court upon the lector’s business; and in Viadaza when he and Father Gonzalvo had obtained an audience to petition her support for the crusade.

The duchess strode directly over to him, reaching out as she did so, revealing a serpent entwined about her arm.

When she reached him, she stroked his cheek, and he could feel the flickering, licking tongue of the coiled serpent. Rather than the surprise he should have felt at such strange familiarity from a noblewoman towards a lowly priest, instead he suddenly remembered what was happening.

“I forgot this was a dream,” he said with a smile.

“This is no dream, sweet priest," explained the duchess. "You are awake, and close to being more so now than you have ever been.”

As she spoke, one of the shambling servants handed Biagino a crozier, headed with a crook of solid gold, then staggered back with a groan.

Upon clutching it he was surprised at how light it was, until realisation dawned and he instead became surprised at his own strength. Lastly, he wondered why it had been given him.

The duchess now laid her hand upon his chest and he could feel the tips of her exquisitely sharp nails. She held his eye, as if to read his thoughts.

“The pretty stick is yours,” she said. “For you are made high-priest today, to rule over the true church.”

Biagino grinned. “Usually my dreams are true, even the strange ones.”

The duchess’s hand slid up fast to grab him by the chin, her nails piercing his flesh as she clutched tightly, while the serpent slithered around his neck to his lick at his other cheek. Barely feeling any pain, Biagino was duly reassured that this must be a dream.

“You are not listening, dear priest,” whispered the duchess, her mouth close to his ear, her breath cold. “This is no dream. It is Morr who sleeps, not us. You need never do so again, unless you choose it.”

The first part of what she said made sense to Biagino. Morr was the god of dreams, and so also the god of the dead, who had begun their long and final slumber. But the second part meant little to him.

“The living pray to Morr for help, and he answers them in their dreams,” the duchess continued. "There he can frolic and strut in their make-believe worlds. Yet they foolishly think him powerful in the waking-world too. In this they are wrong. He never wakes. He yearns only to usher all others into his eternal sleep. He is a greedy and jealous god who can never be satisfied.”

Biagino was surprised, for instead of being offended at such blasphemy, it all seemed to make sense, and indeed somehow he had always known. A hat of crimson cloth was now placed upon his head, and the duchess, still clutching his chin, turned his head from one side to the other, as if admiring it. Suddenly she yanked his face to hers, and kissed him. Her lips were cold, made colder by the fact that his lips were cold too. When she released him she took a step away, her pet snake recoiling itself about her arm.

“We refuse to join Morr's idle slumber,” she said. “We will not allow ourselves to be imprisoned in his oneiric realm, to have him lord it over us. We choose instead not to live yet never to die. We can rest but need never sleep. And we serve a master greater by far, not merely born a god, but who made himself one through power, cunning and the force of his irresistible will.”

“We?” asked Biagino, despite the feeling that the word was indeed somehow right.

“Vampiri,” said the duchess, standing straight. “Nobili immortale, governanti della notte.” Then she smiled and licked some of his blood from her finger tips. “Succhiatori di sangue.”

She gestured to the ground, and Biagino looked down at the dying man lying there. He felt no pity, only satiety. He let his tongue run over his razor sharp fangs. In place of hunger and pain he felt strength and power, and in that moment, at long last, he awoke.

He knew what he was.

The duchess gestured and one of the servants dragged the dying man away, its hand placed over his face, its fingers curled into his mouth, hauling him like one might a sack.

Biagino watched without really seeing, for his mind was racing as true understanding suffused into him, gifting a gleefully wicked joy. The urge to laugh was overwhelming, but instead he was surprised to find himself giving vent to a snarling hiss.

The duchess smiled, almost coyly, then curtseyed. “Your holiness," she addressed him. "High Priest of the ever-living god Nagash.”