Ryan's foster father, Norman, had found him over fifty years ago, abandoned on a forest path in Nordland. Now approaching eighty years old, Norman's age was remarkable for a non-Legendary human, even a noble. This longevity owed much to the care he received in White Wolf City, particularly as Ryan's rising status brought him under the Empire's attention.
Despite this, their bond was strictly one of foster father and son. They lacked any formal family lineage; Norman had neither adopted Ryan as a legal heir nor trained him as one. Instead, Ryan was raised with the discipline of a military noble, akin to the White Wolf Church's tradition of training orphaned boys as warrior monks.
For Ryan, gratitude outweighed sentiment. Norman's harsh demeanor and rigid personality provided Ryan with critical opportunities, the most significant being his recommendation as a White Wolf Knight. Without that identity, Ryan would have faced an arduous climb from the ranks of commoners. Over the years, Ryan expressed his thanks with regular letters and financial support, though Norman refused monetary gifts, preferring correspondence.
Now, seeing his foster father's frail figure, Ryan felt an urge to say more. But Norman only shook his head. Once proud enough to boast of his experience when Ryan was just a count, Norman now found himself humbled in the presence of a king—a legendary warrior and the victor of countless battles.
Norman gestured to a young man standing behind him. "Harland! Come forward and pay your respects to His Majesty!"
A heavily armed young Nord noble stepped forward, bowing deeply to Ryan. Harland, with his golden buzz-cut, deeply set eyes, round nose, and thick lips, appeared both nervous and honored as he introduced himself. "Your Majesty! It is an honor! I am Harland, Nord Ranger Knight!"
This was Ryan's younger cousin, the son of the current Lord of Otne, related to Ryan through his foster mother, Salina. Seeing the youth reminded Ryan of himself decades earlier. He offered an encouraging smile, patted Harland on the shoulder, and spoke a few motivating words.
When Ryan turned to speak again to Norman, the old man had quietly disappeared.
"He's gravely ill," Boris Todbringer, the White Wolf Elector, explained somberly. "He's been longing to see you one last time. When we heard of your arrival, we brought him along. He was overjoyed but also deeply ashamed—an old wolf should not die helpless in a bed. He despises what he's become."
"I'll hire the best healers," Ryan said firmly.
"He's already refused treatment multiple times," Boris replied. "His youth was spent shedding blood, and his injuries were never properly treated. Now, in his twilight years, pain haunts him constantly. We've already helped him survive two near-death illnesses. If it weren't for his hope of seeing you, he'd have stopped taking medicine altogether. This isn't the end he wanted."
Ryan clenched his fists in frustration but said nothing. His foster mother, Salina, had passed away five years ago.
With heavy emotions set aside for the moment, Ryan turned his focus to the war council.
---
The war council convened in the great command tent, gathering some of the most formidable figures from both armies. On Ryan's side stood his own legendary ranks: himself, Morgiana the Lake Witch, Red Dragon Duke Berchmond, Speaker Veronica, Aurora the Sorceress, and the newly ascended Champion of Taal, Bertrand, now Marshal of the Old Guard.
Representing Middenheim's forces were Boris Todbringer, High Priest Emil Wagel of the White Wolf Church, Grandmaster Axel Wiesenberg of the White Wolf Knights, and Boris's godson and standard-bearer, Von Tuggenheim, captain of the Teutonic Guard.
The combined might of these leaders, along with the 75,000 soldiers under their command, filled the tent with confidence. Ryan noted the full mobilization of Middenheim's elite forces, including the Teutonic Guard.
The Teutonic Guard, personal bodyguards of High Priest Emil Wagel, were Middenheim's most elite warriors. Their origins stretched back three millennia, predating even the founding of the Empire. Legend held that Turingian tribesmen received Ulric's divine guidance, leading them to the site of modern Middenheim. There, the White Wolf god split a mountain peak with his axe, creating a plateau where White Wolf City was built.
Since then, the fiercest Turingian warriors had been known as the Teutonic Guard. Membership was granted only to the most distinguished White Wolf Knights, handpicked by the High Priest and Grandmaster. Selection criteria emphasized combat prowess, with all members being at least Legendary rank.
The Guard's reputation as a symbol of White Wolf City's defiance against Altdorf bolstered morale throughout the Empire.
---
With the map spread on the table, Ryan and Boris took their seats at opposite ends. On one side were the Grail Knights and Old Guard; on the other, the Teutonic Guard and Middenland's elite regiment, the Swords of Ulric. Formed during Emperor Mandred's time a thousand years ago, this unit recruited only survivors of Drakwald expeditions, earning a reputation for unmatched resilience.
"Our army will move south through Middenstag, then eastward along the Hawkland River, passing its capital of Herzig," Boris explained, tracing the map with his finger. "From there, we'll proceed north to support Ostland."
"Meanwhile, Ostermark is in a dire state," Boris continued. "Nurgle's Champion Festus the Leechlord and Tzeentch's Champion Kairos Fateweaver are besieging Beccafen. Grandmaster Hertwig swears he'll hold the city, especially with Tsarina Katarin and her Ice Witches reinforcing its defenses. But we must prepare for the worst."
"If Beccafen falls," Ryan said gravely, "Chaos will flow down the Talabec River like a flood, straight to Talabheim. Time is critical."
Morgiana interjected, "Why not take the shorter route east through the southern passes of the Central Mountains? Why detour south to Middenstag first?"
Emil Wagel's tone turned sharp. "You answer your own question, Lady Lake Witch. The pass is but a narrow trail—hardly suitable for an army of 75,000!"
The tension between the two religious leaders thickened the air. Ryan intervened, addressing Morgiana, "We must travel south because the Talabec River connects to the Reik. Only by following the rivers can we secure supplies from the Empire."
"Precisely," Boris added. "Neither Middenland nor Hawkland has the infrastructure to sustain an army of this size. Only with Imperial logistics can we maintain food and equipment. Of course, if the Emperor's forces joined us sooner, it would be even better."
"When will they march?" Ryan asked.
"If all goes as planned, they should be on the move," Axel said, pointing to Altdorf on the map.
"Then there's no time to waste. We march for Middenstag," Ryan concluded.
---
The march southward was a grand spectacle. White Wolf Knights, clad in wolf pelts and heavy armor, wielded mighty hammers. The Grail Knights shone resplendently, their robes and banners dazzling. The disciplined ranks of the Old Guard exuded a solemn grandeur, while the wild energy of the Swords of Ulric added a primal edge.
Yet the sight was marred by the endless stream of refugees clogging the roads—Imperial citizens and Kislevites alike. Many pushed carts or pulled wagons, while others trudged through the bitter cold with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Corpses of the starved and frozen dotted the path.
The refugees begged the soldiers for food, but both Boris and Ryan knew compassion would only jeopardize their mission. Supplies were too critical to share, and delays would be disastrous. If their army failed, the Empire would soon face sieges at Middenheim and Talabheim.
"So many Kislevites," Ryan remarked to Boris. "A tragedy. What was Katarin thinking?"
"She's preserving her people for a chance at restoration," Boris grumbled. "But her decision has burdened the Empire beyond its limits. These refugees far exceed what we can shelter or feed."
"She's just passing the buck," Ryan said wryly. "Dumping the problem on the Empire."
"And you're no better," Boris retorted, glaring with his one eye. "Your knightly kingdom has snapped up what remains of Kislev's forces—Shilovik's group, the last real army. You're taking everything: meat, bones, even the soup!"
"I've sent an entire northern army to support Erengrad," Ryan replied calmly, acknowledging the criticism. His capable bureaucrat, Belia, had expertly integrated Kislev's survivors into Bretonnia's ranks.
"You don't fear Katarin holding you accountable?" Boris asked.
"Let her try," Ryan said dismissively. "We have no formal alliance, only trade agreements. And let's not forget—Marshal Rokossovsky is still a wanted man in Kislev."
---
As the human armies advanced, far away in the Central Mountains, Chaos forces stirred. At the ancient tomb of Gorthor the Cruel, one of the greatest beastlords in history, Kairos Fateweaver activated a Chaos amulet.
A surge of dark energy pierced the heavens.
"Rise, Gorthor, greatest of the beastlords!" Kairos intoned. "The True
Gods demand your power!"
_________________________
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