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POV Katarin Bokha
Erntezeit-15-2493
A vast crowd waited in utter silence. All eyes were fixed on the same group of men: the priests of Morr.
I have never understood why the Imperials venerate that god so much. Not death itself, but their idea of what comes after. They live with death every day, and yet they fear it so deeply. Perhaps that is why the cult of Morr has spread across the Empire almost as widely as Sigmar's; perhaps even more so, if every lost village in these lands were counted. And unlike the Sigmarites, these priests do not seek to impose their will upon the Empire, which makes them seem stranger still.
It was plain to me that Albrecht held genuine respect for Morr. One only had to look at what he had ordered to be built: a great temple, raised on the mountainside, with broad tracts of rocky land granted to serve as its cemetery. The Dawi helped him dig galleries into the stone, and the result is a graveyard that burrows into the mountain itself. Still under construction, yet already it looms like a monstrous edifice of rock, lifted in honor of that dark and silent god.
Many believe Albrecht is all aggression and recklessness. But here… I saw something else. Beneath his confidence and his fierceness, I glimpsed a man truly weighed down by the lives of his soldiers. His eyes betrayed him; in them guilt screamed as the coffins were lowered into the earth. I knew that look. It was the same I had seen in nobles after a battle.
With time, that burden fades, replaced by habit. But Albrecht has been fighting for years, watching men die under his command. That he still bears that spark of pain is strange indeed.
"May ravens alight upon you," he finally said, when the priests had finished chanting their prayers and the dead were laid to rest.
Before we departed, I saw his jaw tighten as he looked upon the families mourning their fallen. For a moment it seemed he might step closer, perhaps speak to them, but he restrained himself. We left in silence.
"And now what?" I asked, letting my irony show. "What will we do now that we have finished praising the god of death?"
"He is not the god of death," he answered gravely. "He is Morr, god of the dead. His blessing shields against necromancy and demons any who ask it. The only thing I can do for them is ensure a swift passage to his garden, so their souls do not fall into the hands of necromancers or the servants of Chaos."
We walked in silence toward Albrecht's griffon, waiting amid his men. They guarded it as though it were a living treasure. We mounted quickly, and with a thunderous beat of wings, it carried us aloft. The icy air lashed my face as I clung to Albrecht's blue garments, watching his soldiers march in formation far below, with my own witches not far behind.
"Where are we going?" I shouted over the roar of the wind.
"To my laboratory. I need to see if the old man is still breathing," he replied, his tone dry and edged with irony.
We flew over his lands. It was impossible not to notice the vastness of the harvests: endless fields of golden wheat stretching to the horizon, cut through by lines of trees and broad irrigation canals that gleamed in the sun. The order was far too deliberate to be chance; it was the mark of a man who thought on a grand scale.
In time I saw a village at the foot of the mountain. There a colossal mining operation unfolded. Thousands of laborers tore into the stone
The path to the gate was paved with flagstones etched with Dawi runes. Yet these markings lacked the strength of true runic craft. They were carved symbols of reverence, not vessels of power.
Nearly a dozen Dawi awaited us before the doors. Their bodies were encased in runic armor that made them seem like statues of stone. Only their eyes gleamed beneath the helms, and their beards jutted from the slits
When they recognized us, their stillness broke into jubilant cries. Some ran inside the fortress, doubtless to give word, while others came to Albrecht with open arms.
"Ah, dawongi, it has been too long!" one of the Dawi exclaimed, gripping his hand firmly. At once the rest joined in the greeting, laughing and chattering in their rough tongue.
"That umgi… may she pass?" one of them asked, bristling.
"She comes with me. My betrothed," Albrecht said with a smile to those Dawi whose hands hovered near their rune-hammers.
"Oh… then I hold no grudge against you," the Dawi replied in a more amicable tone.
"Tell me, is Hieronymus here?" Albrecht asked another.
One of the Dawi let out a hearty laugh as we drew near. "Aye… the umgi has been working and resting, trying some of your experiments from the books. Sometimes he goes out to drink with the Dawi, but he collapses by the tenth tankard… like a whelp," he said with mirth.
"Good to hear," Albrecht answered, and stepped into the fortress.
Inside, the place teemed with Dawi: hundreds of rune-warriors at the gates, guards on the battlements, workshops in the tunnels. Merchants and craftsmen bustled beneath the mountain,There was a huge statue in these tunnels that led to the top of the view, where a human and a dwarf were shaking hands, even though they were the same size, and Albrecht laughed when he saw it.. Few gave us more than a salute as Albrecht passed. When he touched the stone, a hidden passage opened before him.
"Come, do not lag behind," he said, and I followed him down.
The Dawi-stones gleamed. When another door swung open, the first thing we saw were empty jars strewn across the floor. "Ah… how he soils my laboratory, that scoundrel," Albrecht grunted, pulling back a golden sheet that covered someone.
"Eh… ah… are you still alive…?" an old voice rasped as the man, with effort, reached for things on a table. One arm and one leg were of bronze; he moved with difficulty.
"Do you think I'll die that easily? Look what I managed." Albrecht brandished one of the magical licences they had given him and waved it like a trophy.
The old man stared at it, astonished. "What is… how? How did you get all the patriarchs of the Colleges to sign this?"
"One has his tricks. Besides… look how pretty it looks with my name — and we could put yours on it too," Albrecht said, smiling broadly.
The elder sighed. "I must get out more… I think I know nothing of what happens outside."
I asked straight away: "Is he a wizard?"
"Yes. An Ice-witch," the old man answered. "My question is what someone who uses the ice-magic, the spirit-magic of Kislev, is doing in the Empire," he added in a rough voice.
"My betrothed… long story," Albrecht replied without pausing. He looked at the mage and asked if he had achieved anything while he was away.
"A Kislevite Ice-witch… poor choice. They are cold, calculating, and unscrupulous. In my youth I had run-ins with them: some companions from the Golden College and I went to Erengrad in search of materials for enchantments and we encountered witches who had killed an entire family because the man displayed magical ability… when we were in the area" the Golden Magus said.
I kept my silence; it was common enough for my sisters to act like that because of the prophecy they so feared
"Enough of that. Tell me what you've done so far," Albrecht said.
The old man smiled with awkward pride and produced a glass phial marked with Dawi runes.
"With much trial and error I managed to reproduce your nitroglycerin," he said. "I combined it with nitrocellulose… Ta-dah… cordite." He tossed the vial into the air like a prize.
"Careful, you fool, that's still unstable; runes or no runes, don't do anything stupid," Albrecht warned, rummaging for something among his clothes.
"Look what I did while I was travelling," Albrecht said, showing one of his bronze cartridges. He began to fill it with fine filaments from the vial, seated a bullet to close it, and struck it with the haft of his dagger, producing a loud explosion.
"Oh… a mercury primer then, similar to your rotary cannon, I see," the magus murmured, and Albrecht used his magic to sweep the residue from the air.
"Good. We are on the right path. We have what we need to replace the gunpowder we produce with something more stable and powerful; nitrocellulose is rather unstable, but now we'll have something safer. Although every musket will need adapting to fire this kind of ammunition. I have my Dawi engineer working on a simpler weapon prototype, but he hasn't delivered the plans yet; he is making something more controllable. Some of his creations concentrate so much power that the blast cracks the metal. He considered using Dawi runes, but you understand that cannot be applied en masse," Albrecht told the magus.
"Yes, I imagine so. And speaking of weapons, I've been supervising the factory. The machines and workers haven't stopped: last month they managed to produce about ten thousand units," the magus said.
"Ten thousand… Kislev needs more arms. How much of that production could be sold to Kislev?" I asked, intrigued.
"It's for my armies and orders — I cannot keep bleeding myself so Kislev gets everything for free. I must make coin, I have little left, so no more asking for things for nothing," Albrecht replied.
"Is she a Kislev noble?" the Golden Magus asked.
"'Princess and heir apparent Katarin Bokha,'" Albrecht answered while continuing to inspect the magus's contraption and weaving magic around the filaments.
"I have been locked away too long… do you think I can go out now or must I keep hiding?" the Golden Magus asked.
"It is safe now. In fact, you could present yourself at the Golden College and reclaim your post now that you can say you helped a elector count with a problem in his factories. You have my full backing. You could also see a mage of Ghyran or a priest of Shallya to examine that arm and leg; they might assist you," Albrecht said.
"Bah… I will keep this as a reminder of my folly. I knew mages who could help me in Marienburg… well, I say 'knew,' because I think they are dead," the Golden Magus answered.
"Good. Look: I brought the Ice Generator. A capable Ice-witch and her band of witches will come soon to help with the low temperatures required for mass nitroglycerin production. To prevent more violent reactions, we must coordinate with the Dawi who work in the lab; they are usually reserved about their craft,and the 'elgi' magic " Albrecht said.
"Ice Generator," I repeated, narrowing my eyes.
"It's the truth. If you want weapons for Kislev you are going to have to work, Katarin. Arms are not cheap, especially now that I must figure how to produce so many to change the Empire's equipment. Speaking of which, how many armours will they have ready for me?" Albrecht asked, scratching his head and leaving the laboratory.
I followed. He walked through tunnels to a storehouse where many Dawi smiths greeted him warmly. Suddenly more Dawi began to arrive, carrying large crates filled with runic armour.
Others brought hammers, axes and maces, all etched with Dawi runes.
They even brought what looked like barding for horses, also runic.
My left eye began to twitch slightly. I knew exactly how much that was worth. Each piece could fetch between three and five thousand roubles if you found a Dawi willing to sell. And here they were, delivering them in droves.
But there were hundreds — perhaps thousands — of those armours stacked everywhere; they kept coming without end. I knew he already kept a contingent of his personal guard clad in runic plate, yet it seemed he could now outfit several hundred more men with Dawi runic weapons, besides the many standards they carried bearing his rune-marked emblem…
If he's supposedly short of gold, where the devil is he finding the coin to pay for all of this?
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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.
Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.
I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.
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