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POV of School graduate
Erntezeit-16-2493
I deflected my opponent's wooden sword with the tip of mine, pressing it against the lower part of his blade to steer it aside. I stepped in quickly and, letting go with my left hand, threw a punch with everything I had. The blow landed square on his cheek and his head snapped back with a crack.
My rival staggered backwards and, before he could fall, kicked my knee—made me grit my teeth. We stood there, face to face, breathing hard, both looking for the smallest fault in the other's stance to exploit.
We kept changing guards, adjusting feet and shoulders. Every move was a test. At last I advanced and, with a long stride, lunged a quick thrust at his face to catch him off guard. He turned his wrist with a nimble twist and parried, but in doing so left his flank exposed. I slipped into the gap and threw myself at him, seizing his waist and driving him down into the earth.
We rolled for a few seconds on the ground, each of us wrestling for control. Dust rose around us; hands clawed at cloth; brute strength was everything in that moment.
"All right… that's enough for today. Very good bout," said the witch-hunter captain of Reinsfeld, who had been watching the fights in the personal defense class at the school.
I got up quickly and held out my hand to my companion. He took it, and with a tug got back to his feet.
"Good fight, Georg," Bertram said as he brushed the dust from his face and clothes.
"Yeah, not bad. I forget sometimes you're deadly on your back," I replied, picking my wooden sword from the ground.
I had been attending this school for years. By a law set by our lord we were required to go every day—except for two days a week—where we learned things normally out of reach for families like mine, who had migrated here from Talabecland.
I'd been lucky enough to hear the imperial herald announce the offer from the barony of the Reinsfelds, before the changes of title, and so I'd been able to get a proper education. They taught us to read and write, arithmetic, the history of the Empire, the sacred texts of Sigmar, personal defense, and the healing arts of the Cult of Shallya: what they considered essential for any servant of the Empire, and therefore of Sigmar, to fulfill his duty.
My parents did not like it. Followers of Taal and Rhya, they hated the idea that I would serve Sigmar. Above all because the relationship between the cult of Taal and the Elector Count of the Westerlands was poisoned. His policies against the beastmen were to burn vast stretches of forest, which outraged Taal's priests. More and more regions of the Empire copied those tactics: villages fortified, whole groves razed, and stone fortresses raised where sacred clearings had stood.
I saw it differently. I could understand my parents' anger, but I also knew we were cutting out the worst enemy that lived within our lands. To them it was scandalous: Reinsfeld had never been very respectful of the other imperial cults. It was known that three of them received generous donations from the Elector Count: Sigmar, with dozens of schools founded in every new town; Shallya, with temple-hospitals opening in each settlement; and Morr, to whom the count showed particular devotion—he even ordered the construction of a cathedral whose scale exceeded any other in the Empire.
By contrast, Taal and Rhya were relegated to secondary cults. They barely had chapels—scattered shrines raised by the faithful in the few woods that remained in Reinsfeld's territories before large-scale logging swept them away to eradicate the beastmen.
I remember well what happened once with my father. He was caught in the middle of a Taal ritual in the forest when witch-hunters mistook him for a cultist. They seized him and questioned him, and it was not gentle. He came home battered, eyes hardened, and from then on he muttered that in these lands Taal's worship was a condemnation.
Still, through it all I was grateful for what I had received. The education I accessed was, they said, the same a merchant's son would get. We learned to keep accounts, to tend wounds, to read and write fluently. We could hope to work as clerks, healers, scribes… or, as many whispered, to enlist in the Elector Count's army. Rumor had it he'd raised soldiers' wages to three shillings a day because he thought it unfair they risked their lives for the same coin paid to the workers in his workshops. At least, that was the gossip in classrooms and taverns.
I was about to gather my things. As much as I enjoyed being there, I'd reached the age the law allowed; I had to return home, help my family, likely marry, and find work soon.
"Georg," said the witch-hunter captain in that deep voice he always used. "I need you to stay… I know you're no longer obliged, but we must perform the final exam. Being among the best, I think you deserve a harder exam that will determine your future." The hunter spoke plainly, without flourish.
I nodded. I had no idea what it would be, but it felt serious: several of my classmates—the ones we all knew as the toughest fighters—were being assembled and taken to the temple of Sigmar in Reinsfeld.
The Reinsfeld lector, an old man who had not lost his severity, led us. He still wore war-plate and bore his consecrated hammer like a relic; with a silver key he opened the way to the deeper galleries of the temple.
In the adjacent cells witch-hunters questioned and tortured mutants and heretics; agonized screams leaked through half-open doors while templars recorded every word. They led us to an empty reading room: chests full of amulets of purity and chains of blessed silver leaned against the walls, reflecting torchlight.
"Let the prayers begin, brothers," said the lector of Reinsfeld, and several warrior-priests started their low entreaties. A golden energy of Sigmar seemed to wash the room as the priests sought protection and lit more candles.
The lector opened one of the boxes, carefully lifted chains, and drew out a heavy book which he handed to the witch-hunter captain.
"You, who have shown fortitude, devotion and—above all—mental resilience to Sigmar, are among the few we can trust with the secret of our enemy… an enemy that has always been present and will remain so until we root it out wherever it hides," said the captain, placing the book on a lectern and beginning to turn its pages with steady hands.
I felt the temperature drop as the volume opened; the air grew colder and a shadow seemed to fall over us as the first pages crackled.
"To defeat the true foe… not Bretonnia, nor Kislev, nor orcs or goblins… the Lords of Chaos… you must know them. At least, know how they lure victims to gain their devotion," said the witch-hunter captain of Reinsfeld, turning the book to show symbols drawn in dark ink. "I will say it but once. Their name draws the glance of the Lords of Chaos… this is Khorne."
He showed the emblem and, when I saw it, I felt a terrible pressure in my chest. The air grew heavier, as if breathing cost effort. My companions sweated and panted with difficulty, as though an invisible force pressed them to the ground.
"This Lord of Chaos draws his followers with promises of power, blessings unthinkable at the cost of their sanity. They only know war and blood. They're the easiest to detect… they cannot hide, they need to kill to offer devotion to their dark lord," explained the captain as he turned the page.
"Slaanesh… this one is among the hardest to uncover," he continued. "His followers live in excess: food, passion, art, pride. He's dangerous because he hides among the high circles, among nobles and their private gatherings." When he spoke those words he looked at all of us with severity, scanning our faces for signs of weakness. I felt my chest ache more and my breath coming shorter and more ragged.
"Nurgle… lord of diseases," he went on. "Every outbreak, every plague is tied to him. Whenever there's a pestilence, you must be on guard and call the nearest priest of Shallya. His followers appear sporadically, but when they do, thousands die under their corrupt gifts." The captain turned the page one last time.
"Tzeentch… knowledge, betrayal, subterfuge," he said in a hard voice. "The worst of them, because he can be anywhere in society. He hides in nobles and peasants alike. He often offers a false freedom from imperial yoke… and with that he poisons everything he touches."
The captain slammed the book shut. The sound rang through the room like a hammer strike, and the cold that had pressed on us dissipated at once. The volume was hurriedly put back in the chest and the silver chains were replaced on top of it, as if trying to imprison the darkness within its pages.
"Now you know the truth… you are all invited to join the Order of the Silver Hammer for training as witch-hunters. You are fit candidates for recruitment… or you may leave now. Knowing the truth already makes you stronger against the Dark Lords," finished the witch-hunter captain, his voice booming beneath the stone vaults.
The tension in the air was so thick it was almost tangible; the echo of his words left a lump in my throat. Some of my companions swallowed; others avoided looking at one another.
"The Order of the Silver Hammer defends the Empire from internal enemies, seeking corruption wherever it hides," added the Reinsfeld lector. "Although… you may also join the Elector Count's forces, who fight directly against the servants of the Dark Lords. You will be welcomed either way. You are the bulwarks against Chaos, the pillars of this society. Wherever you go — as simple artisans, servants of sigmar or warriors — you will carry with you Sigmar's pride."
The other priests let their hands fall, ceasing their prayers. The murmur of entreaties stopped.
After that we went back up to the surface and each took his way home. The cool late-afternoon air did nothing to clear my mind of what I had seen. The Empire had always been beset, but I had never understood it like that: only a few bore the weight of the truth, protecting everyone else. The prosperity of the streets, the celebrations, the calm of the cities… everything was held upright by a small group that kept constant watch while the rest lived in ignorance, unburdened by the weight I now carried on my shoulders.
"What's wrong, Georg? You've barely touched your food… we got the best cuts of beef for the occasion, so we can't waste them," my mother said, looking at me with concern. My brothers and sisters mirrored that inquisitive expression.
"It's nothing," I answered, cutting the piece of meat before me more slowly than usual.
"Georg," my father added in a firm voice, "I spoke with your uncle. He says he needs someone good with numbers for his shop in Merxheim. He can give you work, two silver shillings a day… and you'd marry your cousin."
"Ah… yes…" I murmured, nodding listlessly, my mind still in the temple's depths.
The door was struck suddenly, interrupting dinner. My father, irritated, got up to open it. When he did, several men of the Elector Count's personal guard stood there. The glow of their runed armor made my father go instantly on the defensive.
"Is the young Georg here?" one of the guards asked.
"What do you want with him?… we want nothing to do with that noble," my father replied, his voice hardening.
"That noble?…" one of the guards shot back, stepping forward with the look of a man ready to split my father's face.
I rose from the table and stepped between them. "It's me. What's happening?" I asked seriously, holding his gaze.
"The Elector Count and Prince of Marienburg offers you immediate enlistment into his personal forces. Five silver shillings a day, runic plate armor and a runic weapon of your choice," the guard said, handing me a sealed document.
I took it and read it quickly: it was a military service contract. It included payment of my wages, provision of armor, pensions in case of death or disability, loot rights and the duties as a member of the Elector Count's guard.
"Throw that nonsense away… no one will serve that Sigmarite. Deus Taal!" my father managed to say, raising his voice, but he was cut off.
"DEUS TAAL CAN WHINE ALL HE WANTS! WE ARE THE TRUE DEFENDERS OF THE EMPIRE, THE SERVANTS OF SIGMAR!" one of the guard shouted, his eyes alight with fervor, while silence fell over the house.
"What's your answer, boy — will you serve directly the Prince of Marienburg?" said the senior guard, who bore a number of purity seals on his runic cuirass.
I looked at my family… although they would never admit it, we lived better thanks to the Elector Count of the Westerlands, far better than we could have managed… but to keep all that safe… my duty to the Empire… to Sigmar… came first… my duty was to protect… to be a pillar of the Empire.
"Yes, I will serve," I answered.
"GEORG!" my father shouted.
"Come on… we must issue your armor and weapons so you may swear the oath before Deus Sigmar," the lead guard said, taking me by the shoulder and leading me toward their barracks in Reinsfeld. As I turned, I only saw how my father clenched his fists and my mother wept.
A bulwarks against the Lords of Chaos… that is what I am.
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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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