Memoirs of Johann Hausberg
Preface
Ever since I was a little kid, I was greatly fascinated with fantasy literature of any kind. Beginning with the forefather of the fantasy J.R.R. Tolkien and his famous The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, I easily plunged into the world he created. However, I also craved to explore other worlds of the genre. There was a time when I started collecting miniatures from the Warhammer Fantasy Battle and I quickly became a fan of this universe.
Later, as a teenager, I started inventing remote worlds and playing with friends in roleplaying games that greatly influenced and enhanced my imagination. Two years ago, as a young man, I decided to bring back the spirit of those joyful times of old and lead a roleplaying campaign set in the universe of Warhammer. We kept meeting with friends once or twice per month and proceeded with the scenario of the campaign, however, recently we don’t have too much time to keep up with our hobby. This is why I decided to put the plot of our roleplaying game in writing in a form of a short story or a little novel.
This is the first chapter (and the friction of the events of the very first rpg session of this campaign) of my novel based on the scenario I wrote as the GM in Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay (2nd edition). The story is seen from the perspective of Johann Hausberg a NPC (non playable character), who accompanied my friends in their endeavours throughout the sessions.
Just for the record, I’m not a native-speaking person, so bear with my potential errors :) I would also be grateful for any hints, critical comments and advises that will surely improve and contribute to my future work.
Sit back and enjoy :)
Chapter 1
The sound of a trumpet woke me up in the morning. Slowly sticking my head out of cloak I was wrapped in, I looked with astonishment at my comrades standing to attention inside the tent. They were dressed, armed and prepared while I was still lying on a camp bed overpowered by the sleepiness. Suddenly, I realised it was the inspection day and I overslept like a mere recruit starting the first day of service.
Just as I began gathering my wits, sergeant Ebersdorf walked into our tent, took a brief glance at the faces of the assembled soldiers, and all of a sudden fixed his cold eyes on me. Revealing no emotions at all, the man slowly approached my bed, stopped merely a feet away from me and yelled straight to my ear so close and so loud that I could smell the stench of yesterday's supper from his unwashed gob:
"GET your arse up Hausberg, unless you want to spend the rest of this day cleaning outriders' stables!
My heart suddenly started pumping twice as fast and I felt cold beads of sweat showing on my forehead.
“Stop lollygagging for Sigmar's hammer, this is not some mercenary band but a damned IMPERIAL army!", he yelled again boring his eyes into mine.
"Sir ye-yes sir! I will be re-ready in a blink of an eye!", I stuttered nervously clambering out of my bed while putting on my helmet and at the same time nearly stumbling at someone's chamber pot. Empty one, fortunately. "At least some stroke of luck on this bloody day", I thought with a little smile.
I quickly covered any signs of a jag I had last night with fresh rookies from my home province of Reikland that "joined the cause" this week. We had a damn good time. Since I volunteered into the Imperial Expeditionary Corps I hadn't met many of my countrymen. All I was dealing with were grumpy barbaric gits from Middenland and even worse slobs from Hochland, who tend to treat their rifles better than their own women. Well, I admit that the only good thing about them was that Northerners like to drink, and by that I mean they like to drink a lot. Even the worst drunkards from the Street of a Hundred Taverns in Altdorf look like petty milkdrinkers that just came from their mothers' wombs compared to these soaks I had to deal with. Months spent during the Nordland campaign finally paid off, since I learned how to keep up with their pace of drinking. Otherwise, these primitives would eventually get angry and you bet your arse that an angry Northerner is a double trouble.
Truly, It must had been thanks to some divine intervention that last Bezalhtag[1] a stranger offered me this bottle of kvas[2] merely for a bunch of copper. It's getting colder and colder every day so I'm starting to appreciate the value of warming Kislevite beverage. Besides, you simply have to drink when you're in the army. It's the only thing that keeps your thoughts clear from the horrors of the day before. I swear, even for someone like me the sight of chopped off limbs and bowels pouring out of a still alive person is too much to keep my sanity and guts intact.
Barely managing to put my boots on, I limped out of the tent following my comrades towards the sammelpunkt[3], where every soldier from every unit awaited the speech of our captain. As I reached the line by running I could feel the sight of every single person on me, even though I did not dare to take a look around to not feel completely abashed for my delay. Standing there I could feel chilling beads of sweat trickling down my back and cheeks. Still, all I was focused on was to hold my musket straight and firm like a true soldier of the Empire, as if to wash away the feeling of guilt. I am no longer a greenhorn but at this very moment I felt like one, and I stood there wishing the ground would swallow me up.
Two hundred soldiers, two hundred faces and souls stood there, on the square gazing at the commander's tent and waiting for any sign or movement. When we looked around us, we could see our breaths even though the days before were rather warm. This morning however, clearly foreshadowed a long and hard winter to come. Despite the cold I did not dare to lower my guard, as having a proper attitude during the assembly was the only way to atone my morning sins and avoid punishment.
Suddenly, the rumbling sound of war drums accompanied by a high-pitched noise of a trumpet interrupted my process of gathering thoughts. The tent's curtain fluttered in the wind and a tall man dressed all in black walked out towards the sammelpunkt. Seeing his long, jagged, grey beard, it was clear as the Big Cross that he had to be at least thrice my age. For a moment I thought that I found myself in the times of Magnus the Pious, since the man's old-fashioned clothing looked exactly the same as the one I once saw on one ancient fella on a tapestry in the Great Temple of Sigmar in Altdorf. I also found it odd how could this old man withstand the cold wearing merely such light garments. What also drew my attention was a characteristic, wide-brimmed, black hat covering his face. Just as if he was trying to hide his true self from the world.
The old man sat on a wooden stool in the shadow of a dead oak tree and took a long and careful stare at our direction without saying a word.
Few more moments passed and the curtain of the commander's tent fluttered once again. Two men dressed in crimson and white uniforms and clad in black lacquered, plate armour decorated with purity seals, stepped out dragging a chained person behind them. As they walked slowly towards our line, I could hear a clanking sound of massive zweihänders[4] strapped to their backs. I immediately realised that two guards belonged to the unit of Greatswords. And not just any Greatswords. Their garments proved their allegiance to Carroburg, a home to the most famous and elite infantry regiment, which soldiers often serve as bodyguards to the most notable persons in the Empire.
Except a ragged, brown, homespun loincloth covering his eyes and hips, the prisoner was completely bare from head to toe. There was nearly not a single spot left unscarred on his body. Numerous wounds of different size and shape on the captive's torso seemed very fresh as I could see bright red spots covering his chest and forehead, however, some of his gashes were darker and looked like they were made at least few weeks ago.
"Looks like our boys gave the fellow a proper treatment," I said to myself.
As soon as the three men approached close enough for me to take a careful look, I noticed that seemingly irregular bloodstains on the prisoner's body were in fact formed into three clear words:"TRAITOR", "WORM", "HERETIC".
Back in Altdorf, when I was but a little crumb, every time I annoyed my father by doing or saying something inappropriately, he would frighten me by saying that bloodthirsty worshippers of Ahalt the Drinker would come for me at night. I used to be petrified with terror whenever he began one of his chilling tales, but as the years went by I started treating them like nothing more than cock-and-bull stories of my annoying pa. I simply grew out of them. Besides, I was never a superstitious man. Instead of believing in everything what townsfolk said, I always preferred to trust reason and keep my both feet on the ground.
The convict here was probably nothing more than a mere criminal or a deserter, who had to be punished appropriately for his faults against the Empire. And the bit about heretic? Well, I was sure that it was a made-up background to make our case look more serious and worth dying for. After all, the vision of stopping a hidden cultist group plotting to shake the very foundations of the Empire is not as ordinary and puny task as putting down few hot-headed chicken-chasers that decided to make a mess in the village. Or perhaps it was a trick meant to bolster up the courage of all these rookies in the battles to come. Either way the whole picture made a hell of impression on them by the look of their faces.
At the moment when two Greatswords and the prisoner stopped several steps away from us, the tent's curtain fluttered for the third time. A tall, bearded man with a black patch on his left eye strode confidently in our direction. He was dressed in a way most of the Imperial state troops would. His plate cuirass was plain without any ornaments or engravings if not counting scratches and thick layers of mud and stains of clotted, dark blood stuck to the surface. He wore a simple one-handed sword on his left hip and a pistol on the right. The man's ordinary, muddy, hobnailed boots made of dark leather and a wide-brimmed, faded, red hat particularly popular amongst various handgunner regiments across the Empire, would never reveal his true standing. But it was Captain Otto von Kassel himself, a faithful commander of the Empire and the leader of our expedition. Amongst the man's ordinary garments and equipment, the only thing that made him stand out was his charismatic appearance and particularly these wise, grey eyes of someone who has been through a lot in his life. The eyes that I will never forget. Even though I've been serving under Kassel merely for a month, I can tell that this man truly has guts of steel and could lead an angry mob against an entire kingdom.
"On your knees", one of the guards said to the convict.
The captain went past two guards and the prisoner and stopped right in front of a chubby halberdier standing in the first line:
"What is your name and where are you from?", he asked the footman harshly.
"Gustav Anderman from Rottfurt sir!", nervously answered my fellow countryman tightening the grip on the shaft of his weapon.
We hoisted a few last night. Gus' a good guy I can tell, and at first seemed like a devout patriot who eagerly volunteered. Or he could be as well one of many fools who fell for all these corny Imperial slogans such as: "Join the army and see the world!" or "Your life is the Emperor's currency, spend it well".
"I suppose he will soon have a first-hand, bitter experience of how an army life truly looks like.", I thought looking at him with pity.
On the other hand, the Empire needs men like him especially in such uneasy times.
"What about you boy?", von Kassel asked in the same manner a young, redhead lad standing next to me.
"Pietew Gutmann, bown and bwed in Avewheim siw!", lisped the Southerner.
You wouldn't tell that this whippersnapper was older than 18, yet he had an honour of carrying the banner of our entire unit. In the regiment we called him Marmot because of his two, rabbit-like, front teeth that were the reason of his malocclusion. He is our mascot so to say and a laughing stock at the same time. Yet somehow I was sure that this young lad was made of much sterner stuff than we all were.
"You?", the boss asked a black-haired, thin chap gazing dully at his rifle and certainly not paying attention to what his captain had to say. The goof immediately jumped in surprise.
"Edgar Chi-chimney sir! From Talabec… err… Unterbaum, re-ready for orders!", stammered the recruit.
As the captain went past me carefully scanning the entire unit, suddenly something odd blinked just in front of my eyes. Von Kassel's left gauntlet was wrapped with a dozen or so of purity seals. I never really knew the purpose of having them strapped to clothes or armour, unless someone is a devout believer and a civilian. For me they never had any practical use bar hindering moves during a fight. I had seen faces of those fools, who trusted their faith and the power of charms more than their own skill in combat. They were dead before they could finish the first stanza of the Litany to Shallya, the Dove of Mercy.
The veteran slowly nodded, took a deep breath and announced:
"Some of you volunteered and some were conscripted. Some of you are veterans with whom I bled for long months and years during campaigns in Nordland and Ostland, from Roteshugel to the Northern March, and some of you are greenhorns that not long ago learned how to wield a weapon. It matters not however, how did you end up here or how long do you serve, but for what purpose you have arrived. You have heeded the call of duty and here you stand, in flesh and blood ready to fulfil your Emperor’s will."
Von Kassel slowly approached the captive held by two guardsmen and continued his speech:
"The integrity of the Empire is threatened, for as we speak the rebel scum", he pointed at the prisoner, "pillages and lays waste to farms and villages of Hochland."
"We shall wait no longer until these rascals steal our wealth, burn our homes and slaughter our families. We must act, for the brute force must be met with the same brute force", said von Kassel and unsheathed his long sword, which made a sound resembling a terrifying wail.
As the captain's blade flashed in the sun I could see that all hopes abandoned the kneeling captive, so as his ability to hold back the shit that began oozing down his leg.
"P-ple-ease, merc-cy my lord, mercy! Do-don't do thi-is", the prisoner sobbed sensing the impending grip of Morr's claws clenching on his throat or whatever deity he believed in. If this was meant to be a fearless and utterly devoted member of the cultists ready to meet his gods, then he must have been the weakest link in their entire group.
With precise, confident thrust, commander sank his blade deep between the left collarbone and the neck of the prisoner until the hilt prevented him from going any further. The cold-blooded manner in which von Kassel performed the deed, showed that he must have been doing it for a long time. Dark crimson blood splattered from an open wound and from the man's throat. The convict fell on his back and began convulsively choking and gagging with blood, which continuously flew out from his mouth and an open wound in the neck. Even though I was not thrilled to see his last moments, some of my more sensitive fellows could not stand that sight and ended up puking or at least turning their eyes away. Von Kassel intentionally must have missed the heart to make that bloody performance more effective. He did that to harden his people. To show them just a scrap of what a war truly means. Few moments later, the captive was lying dead in a puddle of his own blood and excrements. There was no glory in it. From the moment he entered the square, it was a fool's hope that the prisoner would receive a fair trial or a chance to die in dignity.
Von Kassel then unemotionally wiped his sword with a piece of rag worn by the convict, sheathed the blade and nodded at two Greatswords to discard the body.
"They must know once they decide to lay hands on one of us, they must know that a dozen will cut them off," the captain said and in response to his words the entire unit cheered and repeatedly bashed their weapons against their shields. "The filth will be washed away from this land and we shall bring the Emperor's justice to those who put these events into motion," von Kassel continued.
Then, he approached the first line and unrolled a scroll he kept behind his belt. It was a drawing of a beefy man clad in an exotic yet imposing armour with sharp edges and spiral engravings of unknown to me origin. If the picture ought to be trusted, a scar under his eyes was so deep that it exposed flayed skin tissue and parts of bones on the cheek of the warrior. Amongst all the details and elements of his garments, it was the helmet made out of wolf's head that drew my entire attention.
"Remember his face well, for this is the scoundrel responsible for the ongoing rebellion", von Kassel slowly explained, as though making certain that everyone would hear and understand his words clearly. The captain carried on: "They gave him many names. The survivors of Grassen call him the Slaughterer, the fishermen and the priests of Manann across the Drosselsupule Bay cursed him by the name of Bloody Defiler ... but in all the Northern provinces of the Empire he is commonly known as Wolf of Albion".
Hearing that name, several rookies looked at each other and gasped in horror.
"I heard he skins his foes alive and feeds them to the wolves," mumbled one milkdrinker on the side struggling to hold his musket in a vertical position.
"... I'm telling you, they say he can turn into a wolf himself when he wants... they say he can't be killed," whispered the other two ranks at the back with a detectable dread in his voice.
"Whatever his name may be, he is but a walking bag made of meat and bones that will fall apart once you cut his guts out with your blade," von Kassel added as if to quench all these cock-and-bull stories for good and make the sissies who spread them see reason.
"But you shall do no such thing this time," commander added. "After all the atrocities he committed against the Empire, he must be dragged before the Emperor's throne and pay for his sins, for all the riches he stole, for all the villages he burned and for all the lives he ended."
The captain continued:
"Our scouts report that two days ago the enemy captured the village of Bergendorf located on the western bank of the Flaschgang river, and imprisoned a major part of its population that was supposed to survive the night raid. I do not expect from you to save all these lives. Hell, I am certain that they are already dead by now, but our task remains clear nonetheless. I expect from you to take back what is rightfully ours and give these pathetic rebels the only thing they truly deserve - your cold, Imperial steel in their guts!" In response to his words, the voice of cheering men was carried away across the sammelpunkt.
As much as I was impressed of von Kassel's tactical mind and skill in battle, his capability to bolster up morale of his men was truly invaluable.
"Tomorrow many of you will be baptised in blood, many of you will suffer and many of you will die, but you will do so with your Emperor's name on your lips!", von Kassel cried.
"For the Emperor and Sigmar!", soldiers from all the regiments cheered and raised their weapons in the air. You would believe they almost looked like a well-trained professional army.
Few moments later, all units were on the march towards the main road and the crossing through the river.
As I was leaving the field, I noticed that the old man stood up from his stool and scanned the passing soldiers from beneath his hat. Suddenly, our eyes met and there was something intriguing and disturbing in his piercing gaze. For some strange reason I couldn’t release myself from his sight, as if something would lock my eyes on him and force me to maintain the contact. Or perhaps I was just curious to find out who it was. However, as much as I knew Kassel, he never needed any mentor to keep an eye on his errands.
“Looks like this whole rebellion must have become serious enough so that they brought here some attaché from the capital to oversee the expedition,” I thought turning my eyes away from the peculiar man in black and hurried after the rest of the handgunners.
All soldiers marched in fours. Halberdiers belonging to the 23rd regiment from Ubersreik were in vanguard, after them 13th regiment of swordsmen from Altdorf and nearby villages. The centre of the expedition was taken by the unit of handgunners from Reikland, Hochland, Middenland and Nordland. As the last marched local militiamen, free companies, dogs of war and camp followers. Both flanks of our battalion were secured by two units of outriders and hunters that we all hoped knew these lands better than our enemies did.
Although most of us hailed from different towns and provinces we all marched as a one united warmachine having a common goal. There was something magical and mesmerizing about it. Truth be told however, the majority cared little for Hochland and what fate awaited its people. Most of my fellows would rather spend their time fiddling around, drinking and bedding harlots in local brothels than risk their lives in some remote county only because the lord of this godforsaken land failed to maintain peace in his own backyard. There were also those, who volunteered to find a new purpose in life or to escape the demons from their past.
Suddenly, all the voices around went silent and I could only hear the rustling sound of the forest and cuckoos singing their songs far away. Bar the rhythm of the marching boots on the paved road and occasional shouts of sergeants I found this cascade of the sounds of nature rather soothing and pleasing to my ear. But this spontaneous feeling of joy didn’t last long. Layers of thick, grey clouds enfolded the sky above the line of the trees and few moments later a sudden and loud, rumbling sound of thunder interrupted this blissful peace. It started raining.
We all thought that we would come back home before the first rays of the spring sun but we were so foolish to believe so. Soon we would realise that we had been terribly wrong, and a seemingly easy task we were given with would turn into a real nightmare.
To be continued...
[1] Bezalhtag - 5th day of the week according to the Imperial Calendar (IC), also known as the Tax Day. Imperial week consists of eight weekdays.
[2] kvas - a clear, distilled spirit popular throughout Kislev. Translated as "Bottle," Kvas is famous for its potency and medicinal properties.
[3] sammelpunkt - assembly point
[4] zweihänder - A two-handed sword of immense size and weight that only the most skillful soldiers throughout the Empire could wield and fight with. This weapon was mostly used by the famous units of Imperial Greatswords.