-----------------------------
If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
-------------------------------
Nachgeheim -8-16-2493
Several days had passed since our arrival in Kislev, and we had taken over part of the Ungol district to quarter more men within the walls. As the heavy snows had not yet begun to fall, most of the Ungols were still away hunting, tending their herds, or working the fields that would soon be buried under meters of ice and rendered impossible to till. For that reason, the quarter stood nearly deserted—half-abandoned houses and shuttered stables, a perfect place to house our troops.
For two weeks there was no rest. Daily drills were organized: long runs across the plains, marches under full kit, formation exercises, and hand-to-hand bouts against the Tsar's own guard. Most of my men were Reiklanders, hardened by campaigns but unaccustomed to the perpetual cold of these lands. To march straight north into the heavy snows, against Chaos cultists blessed by Khorne, would have been madness. Better to harden our troops first, to let them grow used to the ice and the wind.
During that time, I lived among the Kislevites—especially the Gospodars, proud nobles who avoided all contact with us. Many watched us with suspicion. The soldiers I had left behind months ago to train the Tsar's army had improved discipline and organization, but those gains came at a price. Dozens of boyars had lost command of troops they held only by birthright, without any skill in tactics. They saw it as an affront to their station, and all the blame fell upon my men, favored by the Tsar in matters of war, and therefore upon me.
Relations with the nobility soured. Dozens of boyars lost their posts; others, perhaps more deserving, gained commands they could never have achieved on their own thanks to the reforms. Still, resentment lingered. They did not want us here. Matters worsened when my betrothal to Katarin became public. Until then, Kislev had tried to keep it quiet to avoid stirring rebellion among the boyars, who dreamed of wedding their sons to the heir. The news struck like a thunderclap: a foreign noble, a Sigmarite no less, securing Kislev's future throne. For them it was a cultural, religious, and political blow.
The consequences came swiftly. Brawls in taverns, insults in the streets, even attacks on my men during night patrols. The tension was plain to see.
"Then we are ready?" I asked one of the Dawi clerks responsible for my ledgers.
"Yes, my lord… all is ready. The powder shipments are secured; the weapons and ammunition for the Kislevites have been delivered. They have been seen practicing with the guns, though in small numbers, as if they were trying to save powder and shot," the Imperial dwarf replied, adjusting his spectacles as he scanned a parchment roll.
"They are likely short on funds if they ration powder, though I am already selling it to them near cost," I remarked, running my hand along my griffon's plumage as it snorted impatiently in the cold wind.
"Perhaps so. Recently the Tsar has raised another eight thousand men from the Ungol tribes. Their gear leaves much to be desired—heavy furs, bows, and spears. But they have horses in abundance, and that could prove decisive in the coming battle," said the Dawi.
"The horses will be useful. Kislev has gathered thirty thousand men for the campaign; with my forty thousand, we field a formidable host for the march north. Nothing should stop us, save ill fortune or a cunning stroke from our enemy," I replied, leaning over the map where the Tsar's suggested camp sites were marked.
"The provisions are ready as well. We have legumes from the latest harvests, and the greenhouses have been emptied; we hold enough supplies for two months of campaign. If the next harvest comes in time, we can advance further while waiting for resupply by rail," the dwarf reported in his calm, precise manner.
"Excellent. Give the order—let the troops form up. We march north," I said, rising from my chair. My words carried out into the cold wind howling through the cracks of the chamber.
Without delay, massive marching columns were formed, soon joined by the Tsar's own forces. I was struck by the size of his retinue: he had brought with him a great host of Ice Witches, easily more than a hundred. It was clear this campaign was taken with the utmost seriousness, for in the Empire such a number of wizards would rarely march together except in the most decisive of wars.
The march itself was swift. To my surprise, as we advanced, snow never fell directly upon our heads. The deeper we pressed north, the more the land turned white: fields blanketed, hills glazed with ice, flurries whirling in the air. And yet, our road remained clear. It did not take me long to find the reason. Drawing closer to the Ice Witches, I saw their lips murmuring incantations, the air around them alive with arcane force. They were bending the winds, driving the snowfall aside and holding the cold at bay. Step beyond their reach, and the winter struck you full in the face—a brutal contrast. Then I understood the Kislevite secret for waging war in the depths of winter.
We pressed on until we reached the village of Belñava, where the first camps were raised. There, the Tsar levied many locals, mostly Ungols, who added their horses to the mass of his army. That constant gathering of men made it clear Boris did not rely only on his veterans, but meant to rouse all of Kislev for this war.
The nights revealed even more. Several Ice Witches remained among us, ensuring the cold was kept at bay. Their power was undeniable: within their reach, water in the buckets refused to freeze and the air was bearable; step beyond their circle, and ice formed within minutes, frost covering everything it touched. That difference allowed us to rest with far more comfort than I would ever have imagined in these lands.
The following days passed without news from the front. The Tsar continued his tireless levies, drawing in both Gospodars and Ungols alike. He armed them quickly with the muskets I had brought and issued uniforms to grant them clearer discipline and identity within the host.
At last we reached Gutaidra, a small village south of Praag. Yet our course did not aim for that great city. Instead, we crossed the river swiftly and pressed into the vast northern plains. From there the horizon turned bleak and monotonous: hills crowned in white, frost-choked forests, and endless fields where nothing could be seen but snow, snow, and more snow, as far as the eye could reach.
Though the march was bearable—the cold not yet at its worst—we skirted the mountain range of Gulinyi and turned north. It was there we first encountered the cultists of Khorne. At the start they were but riders, frenzied and blood-mad, who hurled themselves blindly against our ranks the instant they spotted us. They impaled themselves upon my pikemen and were shredded by musket fire. It was nothing but a warning of what lay further ahead.
The deeper north we marched, the more of them we met, bursting from every side, howling like possessed beasts and hurling themselves against us without the slightest fear.
"Blood for the Blood God, skulls for the Skull Throne!" bellowed one marauder as he charged, a mob of equally deranged horsemen at his back.
"More of these fools… Musketeers!" I shouted. My men formed their line at once.
"Wait… let them come closer… wait… Fire!" I ordered again. The thunder of muskets cracked, riders dropped headlong into the snow. Several rose again despite shattered arms and broken legs, eyes wide with madness as they stumbled forward.
"Second line!" I called coldly. The second volley tore through what remained. The fanatics collapsed, bathed in their own blood, though their cries still seemed to echo on the frozen wind.
"Welcome to Kislev," said the Tsar from atop his massive war-bear. "I wager you have never seen the like in the Empire."
"It looks much the same as the beastmen, when they've a shaman driving them to throw their lives away against our guns," I answered grimly.
"These are not the worst," Boris replied. "They are the easiest to cut down. The true terrors lie within the fortress. Steel yourself: this may well be the hardest fight of your life."
Hundreds of bear riders surged forward as another wave of Chaos warriors approached. For long minutes we endured assault after assault of Khornate raiders. They were little more than savages clad in crude armor, and I had honestly expected worse. But the respite did not last.
When the fighting eased, we re-formed and reached the river that barred us from our goal: Fort Ostrosk. It loomed on the far bank, crusted with frost. The plan was for the Ice Witches to freeze the river so we could cross.
And so they did. With power that even I found startling, the water hardened beneath our boots, and within minutes we had a bridge strong enough for the whole host to march across.
"Forward! Keep the formations!" I shouted, my breath rising in pale clouds.
"Albrecht! Beware! They are here! Our magic falters—there are bearers of anti-magic armor nearby!" Katarin cried from horseback, surrounded by her coven.
I felt it at once. The temperature plummeted. Their spells weakened, and the cold bit into our skin like knives.
As we neared the fortress walls, the Tsar's host spread to the front. Through the blizzard I glimpsed a gleam of metal—something advancing.
"Damn it…" I muttered, as a charge of Skullcrushers thundered into view, trailed by a massive horde of barbarians.
"Rifles! Shotguns! We'll need them against those monsters!" I barked to my guard, who armed themselves at once.
I drew my runic mace and braced for the clash. To the Kislevites' misfortune, the Skullcrushers were not driving at our lines—where perhaps we might have stopped them. They hurled themselves straight into the Tsar's regiments. The beasts of brass they rode were titanic, and I had little faith they could be halted easily.
"Come on, we must aid them!" I cried, seizing one of Grimm's rifles. I loaded two of its heavy rounds, slung it to my saddle, and spurred Princess into the air to strike the front line.
My men-at-arms followed close, charging in as Kislev's winged lancers and the bear cavalry clashed head-on with the knights of Khorne. The result was carnage: bodies flung from their mounts, horses and bears tumbling across the snow, while Ice Witches cast storms of frost that froze warriors mid-stride.
With Princess I dove upon a Juggernaut, the brass beast ridden by a Khornate knight. My griffon caught its neck in one claw, seizing the rider's arm with the other. I raised my mace in both hands and brought it crashing down upon his helm. The blow rang in my ears, but the knight did not fall, his burning eyes fixed on me.
A second strike shattered his helm, revealing a face twisted with mutations and scars. Before he could strike back, Princess ripped the Juggernaut's head away and flung it aside. I finished the knight with a crushing blow to the skull.
More pressed in, but my men-at-arms burst among them, firing shotguns and rifles point-blank, dropping several of the Skullcrushers before drawing runic swords, axes, and hammers to meet the rest.
With Princess I lunged upon another of the brass riders, hammering and clawing until the knight toppled from his mount. But then I saw something that chilled even me: a towering figure hewing its way through its own horde, felling allies with its axes as it came on.
"Damn it…" I growled, tightening my grip on the mace. "One blessed with far too many favors of his god is coming for us."
-----------------------------
If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
-------------------------------