Note: italicized text is usually thoughts, ‘text’ is telepathic communication, and “text” is spoken dialogue in another language.

Asav adjusted his fur cloak. The damn thing was too big on him, a gift from his father which was otherwise welcome for its thickness against the frigid mountain air. It was his first time into these parts of the mountains, a two-day trip from the town in the river delta, having sent their men to make the journey.

Around him was a procession of at least a hundred of his fellow tribesmen on horseback, each animal’s breath turning to mist. Many of the mounts carried saddlebags laden with gold ingots and coins, and figurines carved from wood, or stone.

Patterns of reptilian scales and teeth the size of spear heads were painted on them in various places; across their breast, over one arm or the other. Asav himself had only his right hand painted, and intentionally overgrown fingernails filed to sharpened points. The odd materials used in the paint, of which the priest never disclosed, certainly made his hand feel scaly.

The snort of a nearing horse made him glance back. Kulam was catching up to ride alongside him. Kulam was a large man, thick through the shoulders, and had his hair done up in a warrior’s topknot. His horse was barded with the embalmed skins of men from the Ursfjorders who had attempted a raid on the village the previous year.

Kulam and many others went up the mountain a few days after to sacrifice the prisoners, but Asav stayed behind to help nurse the wounded. When they came back, they said it was an omen when Jinam showed a momentary interest in Kulam. Asav had written it off as, “Of course. You were giving him blood sacrifices, and Kulam still reeked of blood from the battle.”

The shaman had responded, “That means the greatest blood of our foes is on his hands. He may have a future in the service of Kharn’eth.”

Kulam since held his head a little higher around town. He called it recognition. Asav called it big-headedness.

Don’t say it. Don’t say it, Asav thought as the hoofsteps drew beside him.

“Are you afraid, little brother?”

Little… Damn him.

Asav cooled his choler and sighed. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t anxious,”

“It’s understandable. Just do as I do and you’ll be fine.”

The chief overtook them both. A grey wolf’s pelt clung to his shoulders, the beast’s face locked in a snarling visage. Human skulls and severed hands rattled with the canter of his large steed. Horns of ivory curved up from his helmet, meeting tips at the temples of a skull suspended over his head. Asav imagined it must have been a particularly worthy foe.

The dogs trailing the chief began growling and barking as the throng crested a hill. The gaping maw of a cave was in sight. The dogs took off running toward it, ignoring the whistles and hollers of their masters.

The chief looked back at the first two he saw, Asav and Kulam, and motioned them forward. “Follow them,” he grunted.

The brothers nodded and cracked their horses’ harnesses after the hounds. Asav could feel his heart rate already picking up. Something had to be wrong.

They followed around the far side of the mountain spire, and their horses reeled at the titanic serpentine form half-buried in the snow. A huge, leathery wing hung at a limp angle over the carcass, torn almost clean through in a straight line. Its sinuous neck was twisted at an impossible angle, with the head turned almost fully towards the sky, mouth lolling open. Dried blood painted the dead creature’s scales like runes of power to Khorne.

Kulam was the first to steady his horse. With a look of disbelief, he dug in his spurs, and headed straight for the corpse. Asav went back a ways, shouting at the top of his lungs:

“Dead! Jinam is dead!”

Asav looked back when Kulam shouted in despair with his hands covering his face. To see his brother suddenly unmade, Asav’s mind was swirling.

Kulam wept on his knees before the gaping wound that had laid the beast low. He was only shaken from it when the hounds’ snarling turned to howling and yelping, vying for attention. Some of them were posed, snouts pointed eastward.

They’d picked up a scent.

Fort Schippel had never been as busy as it was now. In the years following its destruction in the Storm of Chaos, the site was rebuilt by the Hochland provisional government as a stamp of order on the lawless land the region had become in the Northmen’s wake. It now stood at a rail terminus, a steel web that ran throughout the Empire’s north.

Equine technology and Imperial ingenuity and resources gave rise to the four-tiered castle, the outermost sections arranged in a five-pointed star. Its walls were plated in steel, dotted by cannon ports and pillars of towered turrets offering each indent overlapping areas of fire.

Day by day, trains disgorged tons of supplies and thousands of soldiers onto steam-fogged platforms. The implementation of steam locomotives brought never-before-known connectivity to the provinces. Regiments of Nordland orange, artillery crews of Wissenland white and grey, and Ostland black, white, and red gathered in one place. On the last day, the staging ground was a mosaic of banners and color, battalion blocks in waiting or flowing forward and funneling onto ramps of sky-stuff, all lying in a shadow. The shadow of Cloudsdale.

From below, one would think the sky was taunting the ground-dwellers with a downpour that never came. Slivers of sunlight poked through to touch the fort and ground upon which the Empire’s forces were massed to embark. Boarding ramps stretched two hundred yards to the ground, with many cautious words from the pegasi for the ground-dwellers to watch their step.

In the highest tower of Fort Schippel, General Albert Brochuss, accompanied by his retinue of advisers and menials awaited their ramp being extended from Cloudsdale’s underbelly.

Brochuss wore the green and orange livery of Hochland’s state. His uniform hugged tightly, the brass-colored abdominal plate engraved with the province’s great white cross. His head was darkly tanned and clean-shaven, save a thin, sharply pointed moustache.

Two stallions secured the white, poofy platform to the parapet, and a yellow pegasus with a fiery-colored mane trotted down with a smart smile.

“Albert Brochuss? The Bull of Littered Bones, and Guardian of the Weiss Hills?”

He nodded. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

“Aye.” The mare held out her hoof. “Governor-General Spitfire. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Brochuss raised his hand in reflex, but paused, glancing at the appendage in uncertainty.

Spitfire chuckled. “Sorry. Fist-bump.”

He huffed, but obliged the gesture, forming a fist and touching it to her extended foreleg.

“Let me be the first to welcome you to Cloudsdale,” Spitfire said, motioning him up. “You might want to take your first steps slowly.”

He reluctantly raised his boot over the first step of the platform. Despite having seen with his own eyes soldiers marching up from below, all logic and sense in him said not to do it.

It’s a cloud! You’ll fall straight through!

His boot sank deep into the ramp before it felt solid enough to bear his weight, like walking on rubber or a very thick carpet. He adjusted quickly and matched Spitfire’s trot, the assistants making their own pace.

Brochuss had seen some of the more arcane devices of the Empire’s Colleges of Magic in his years. The Luminark of Hysh, the Celestial Hurricanum, up to the floating battle tower of Witchfate Tor, displayed the prowess of wizards to harness the arcane. Cloudsdale clearly dwarfed it all.

A city… An entire city in the sky.

“How does any of this work?” he asked, trying to keep as straight a face as possible.

Spitfire’s lips twitched up in a knowing smile. “I know. It really boggles the mind, especially for newcomers. Cloudsdale’s a lot more like a skyship than it is a cloud, really. It takes a lot of work putting something this huge together that moves where we want it to.”

"I can see why so many revere this place. To shape the very sky is near to the divine.”

The governor nodded. “I hear that a lot, but when you think about it, it’s not that hard. Just get thousands of pegasi together, and you’ve got an unlimited supply of building material and water in the clouds to work with. And the buildings don’t need any foundation or to even take most of the limits of gravity into account. All you need then is steady wings and imagination.”

The bottom-most cloud layer exposed Brochuss and Spitfire to biting-cold internal wind currents, which was thankfully short-lived.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped, and was gazing up into the sky. Built impossibly into the heavens, pillared structures lazily drifted singularly or in amalgamated groups. The largest of the structures were fixed into the skyscraping mountain of clouds, their forms gently shifting as if they were made of liquid marble.

“We are honored to receive Emperor Karl Franz here in Cloudsdale,” Spitfire said, changing the subject. “Rumor is that he has some… personal business of his own here as well, you know.”

Despite Brochuss’ staunchly professional expression, he couldn’t help but glance at his pegasus companion beside him. “Oh?” he asked, as though discussing the rain. “Any leads?”

Gilda breathed deeply as she approached the gate of a wide courtyard behind the collonaded facade of city hall.

She never would have thought she would be back in Cloudsdale again after having completed Junior Speedsters training when she was young. Much of the city was familiar, the architecture, the park she used to pass by on her way to training. And she felt the atmosphere was much improved from the soft all-about-friendship vibe she’d gotten while growing up and visiting.

Beside her was Gunter. Particularly tall for a griffon, and strong-built, he had been a member of the Warhawks for only a year out of Wolfenburg. He quickly proved his worth in a number of scraps the Warhawks’ leadership had gotten tangled up in in negotiations, and in the Battle of the Mire where the mercenaries lent aerial support to Imperial forces against the undead forces of Sylvania. When meeting with most any other client or ‘troublesome’ individual, Gunter was Gilda’s right claw, an intimidating presence to add a silent threat to any conversation, even if he were across the room.

But today, the client was quite the V.I.P.

“Notepad?” Gunter asked.

Gilda groped a jacket pocket, feeling the rectangular object within. “Check.”

“Quill?”

The fiery-colored feather she took out had its origin on the scalp of one of her lieutenants, yanked off of him in an abruptly ended argument. “Check.”

Gunter glanced ahead. Before the gate standing at attention, were two pegasi resplendent in gleaming steel plate.

“Papers?”

Gilda made a face at the mention of the bureaucracy, and kept the small scroll ready. “As always,” she said with finality.

Arriving, Gilda handed one soldier her documentation. While they were looking it over, she tried to spot her client in the courtyard. There was little obstruction, the largest structures being a couple of skeletal pavilions. Surely someone of their size couldn't’ possibly be hidden in it.

She looked up when a shadow flickered over her for a split second, and spotted a body with wide-spread wings, but the sun’s glare was too great to fully make them out.

“You see him up there?” she asked Gunter.

“Yeh,” he muttered. “Barely.”

“Miss Bronzebeak,” one of the soldiers said. “Is your partner here necessary to your meeting?”

Gilda asked, “Does moral support count? He’s highly trusted in my organization—”

“No.” he said flatly. “Unless he is relevant to the task for which you are requested, he cannot enter with you.”

Gunter chuckled deeply. “You said yourself, Gilda and I are friends. Why are friends not trusted to work together?” He moved a claw toward the pegasus’ shoulder—

The stallion flipped down his halberd, smacking Gunter’s claw away with the flat of the blade. The polearm’s spike was mere inches from his chest.

“Stand back from the Emperor’s guard!”

Gunter jumped back in reflex, nearly going airborne. The guard returned to his at-ease posture as if nothing had happened.

“If he is not needed for the job at hand, he cannot be allowed in.”

“Alright,” Gilda said. She quickly sidestepped to get between the guard and her friend. “Gunter, what were you thinking? They’re Reiksguard.”

“I’ve never seen one before. For all I know they could have been Alcatani.” Gunter clicked his beak with a sour look at the trooper. “But fine. I’ll just have to settle for a second row seat.”

Gunter went to the side of the gate and planted his forehead against a bar. “Beautiful view. Ten of ten. Best of luck, Boss.”

Gilda snorted in amusement and passed through the gate. “Thanks. I’ll see if I can get his autograph for ya.”

She licked her thumb and ran it through the shock of feathers on her forehead. “Professional. Remember Nuln,” she whispered to herself.

Making her way to the center of the courtyard, the shadow passed over again. A massive griffon, easily twice the height of a man, touched down, flurrying the cloudy yard with the beating of his great wings.

Gilda unconsciously ruffled her wings and thought, Whoa. He’s kinda hot.

She scanned over his tiger-striped lower half and broad, brown and white-feathered upper body. His curved beak was covered in nicks and scratches, giving it a more serrated look; more sharpened than dulled from use.

"Open skies, how I missed thee…" he cawed.

In mid-stretch, Deathclaw met Gilda’s stare. Gilda flinched mid-step, but kept walking closer, not daring to show any weakness, or break from Deathclaw’s golden eyes.

Karl Franz jumped down from the throne-saddle on the large griffon’s back, wearing a red and blue diamond-patterned doublet, and black breeches. He took off his leather cap, and followed Deathclaw’s glare.

“Ah, Miss Bronzebeak. You’re early,” Franz said with a smile. He wiped his soaked face, swiping aside clumps of dripping hair. “Apologies for the appearance; I think I hit a stray raincloud coming down.”

Deathclaw glanced at Franz and deeply crooned, "He knows her?"

Gilda knelt before the Emperor. “Your highness, it’s a pleasure to meet you again.”

“Rise. Let us shed the formalities for the time being. This is quite exciting!”

Gilda grinned at Franz’s easiness, and shook his hand.

“This means a lot for my troops, too,” she said. “Deathclaw’s a legend in the World’s Edge Mountains. And that croon he just made—he’s surprised you know me.”

Franz nodded. “He was still at home when you and I met in Nuln. You’ll probably need a moment to get acquainted. Excuse me while I find a towel.”

Franz made a sharp whistle, getting Deathclaw’s snap attention, and made a circling motion with a finger at the ground. “Stay.”

Gilda cleared her throat. Franz was getting further away, and she didn’t know how long Deathclaw would be watching him go off. She felt a small sting of ire at how Franz ordered Deathclaw like a pet, but shook it off as a product of the language barrier between them.

"So, you know the Master?" Deathclaw said suddenly.

"Oh, yeah. We met in Nuln during this tech fair, where the Empire was showing off their new steam tanks. We hit it off, and he said he’d consider me being a translator between you and him. Honestly, I didn’t really think anything would come of it. I mean, why me and not any other griffon living in the Empire?"

Deathclaw sat in place and idly scratched his beak in recollection. "The Master made some attempts. But the liaisons, the way they carried themselves... Bah. Glorified hatchlings, who show puzzlement at the mention of trolls, or giants, or the star-bearing men from the north." He snorted derisively. "They were far from being ready, let alone worthy to be our bridge."

Deathclaw jabbed talon at Gilda. "But you… The uniform, the Ork tooth necklace. You have seen war, and there is strength in your bones."

Gilda beamed, blushing under her feathers. "Oh, thanks! That means alot coming from you. Say, you mind telling me about yourself? We can take a spin around the yard."

"I’d enjoy that. It’s a good way to come down from a flight."

The first couple of minutes was spent just taking in the cityscape. What must have been kilometers away was the weather factory, surrounded by a morass of weather systems. Snow, rain, lightning, and rainbows. The latter was sustained in the impossible hurricane, as if no tumult could disturb it; a staunch beacon of hope and pride for Cloudsdale’s citizens, and a powerful symbol for all those who looked up to the Holy City.

Deathclaw breathed deeply, savoring the clean breeze. "Perhaps it is merely culture shock, but I would love it if the Master moved his residence here. Such a place where the races—and their champions—come together, and I only stand out for my sheer stature. It’s rather refreshing. Ho, but that isn’t what you asked for. Where else to start but the beginning?

"From a hatchling I have known him. I’ve spent decades by his side. For the first few years I was allowed in his family’s nest, huge nest, made of rock instead of wood. After each season-cycle, his family had this tradition of lighting a sugar-coated pile of wet flour on fire, then blowing it out and eating it. Have you ever witnessed such a thing?"

Gilda suppressed a chuckle. How little real contact had he actually had? "I think it’s called a ‘birthday’. They celebrate each season-cycle, or year, that they’re alive. The wet flour’s called a 'cake'. Speaking of, I used to make a mean scone back in New Griffonstone. But don’t let the name fool you. It’s just as much a dump as ‘old’ Griffonstone."

"A ‘mean’ scone?" The mighty griffon gave her a curious side glance. "Somehow I doubt that you meant ‘average’."

"Oh, it’s just an expression," Gilda amended quickly.

"Right, well. The final year I was allowed in the nest, the Master’s mood seemed... off. He was still smiling, but I just felt something was wrong. He took me to the stables and said that word, that noise, ‘stay’, which, I think, means ‘wait’, so I did. He came back with a piece of that cake, put it down and said ‘sorry, boy’ before rushing back. After that, his parents wouldn’t let me back in the nest, but I already couldn’t fit through most of the doors by that year.

"The years went by and I saw less and less of him. For months at a time, the only human I would have contact with would be the territory-keeper each day. After seventeen years of this, he returned wearing that black armor, and the other humans began calling him ‘Highness’ and ‘Emperor’ instead of Franz or Karl. Since his return, much of our time together was spent killing. Greenskins, the star-men, and more. I supposed he was the alpha of his flock now, as all followed he and I, and hung on his every word. Now, the Master had something to defend.

"We’ve had more close calls than I can count. I’ve seen him injured or incapacitated, and the foe was so eager for his blood. I don’t know of the disputes between the Master’s flock and his enemies; however, if he feels it is worth dying for, it must be of utmost importance. I won’t let the enemy have the satisfaction of taking him from me, or his men-flock."

Gilda gave a good-natured laugh, and nodded. "We’ve got a lot of stories about you back in the World’s Edge Mountains, you know. Poems of the ‘great griffon, Uzkul Thur, who carries the imperial spirit above the filth and flames of the world’."

Deathclaw didn’t respond. Gilda was about to take his silence for disinterest when he pivoted his head slightly in her direction, a spark of curiosity in his eyes. "Poems, you say? Like what?"

A sudden thrill of star-struck excitement threatened to undo her composure, but she managed to conceal it behind her clearing throat.

"From the howl of war and chaos did rise,

the Lord of the Wind with wrathful cries.

The claw of death, evil's winged bane,

to bring all heaven beneath his reign."

"Funnily enough," Gilda continued, "’Uzkul Thur’ is Khazalid or Dwarf-talk for ‘death claw’, or… no, wait, ‘thur’ is hand. It’s still very close, though. It means something, I’m sure."

The great griffon rumbled, a low, almost warbling sound. A laugh. “You flatter me. Though the Master is truly the one who deserves it. I— Ah, there he is, now!”

Gilda and Deathclaw had gone the full path around the yard, ending up roughly right where they started when Deathclaw spotted Franz returning with a dry face and a towel wrapped over one arm.

“Ah, he hasn’t tried to scare you off yet. A good sign,” the Emperor remarked. “So, what is he saying?”

“He told me a quick bio, and I think he’s cool with it,” Gilda said.

“‘Cool with it’?” Franz said in puzzlement.

Deathclaw pressed his forehead against Franz’s chest, making a deep trill of consent.

“Ten bloody years and there are still more phrases,” the Emperor muttered, and started scratching Deathclaw’s neck. “This gets the message across, I think. Let’s take this to the shade of the Hall.”

Cloudsdale spilled into the central valley of the Middle Mountains, its shape liquid to the terrain, and filled whole tracts of the central valley like a slow-motion avalanche.

Built into the massifs, the obsidian-black walls of the Brass Keep spanned the width of the valley, sloping up to the peaks to either side. Sprawling on the outside, mounds and blocks of ramshackle housing clung and ran down from the walls like refuse thrown over. Behind the fortifications, and reaching slightly higher, appeared to be the top of the high citadel.

As the great walls had come into view of Cloudsdale’s forward sections, the fortress’s walls produced signal fires. A few ranging shots were exchanged between the artillery, but neither yet made a move. The two fastnesses of land and sky sat at opposite ends of the valley, one white, one dark, and as different as night and day.

One of the observation towers had been expanded into a stratagem room. The Emperor, Governor of Cloudsdale, General Brochuss, and a Master Engineer occupied the space, ringed around a broad table.

Ten-thousand men and stallions were to be committed to the battle to come. Miniature flags rested at various points on the wide map, an overhead view of the valley drawn up by aerial scouts. Regimental banners marked troop deployment zones and phases of assault.

Equestrian banners were closest to the front. A charge from the 21st Heavy Cavalry, supported from the sky by Cloudsdale’s rifle skirmishers would occupy the defenders. Behind them were three figures of steam tanks, the Alter Kamerad, Stormcast Eternal, and Iron Cross.

“By the Unberogen,” muttered Brochuss, surveying the fortress walls through a telescope.

Karl Franz hummed in agreeance, reclining in his seat at the table after having gotten an eyeful of the architecture. “There does seem to be only one way to go, doesn’t there? My good Frayser, what does it look like to you?”

The engineer raised the extra lenses of his telescopic glasses and began punching keys on the mechanical calculator at his hip. “If we have the materials, we can build a tower high enough.” The device spat out a punch card which Frayser read over. “I’d make ramp level one hundred twenty feet, give three to compensate. It looks like they have artillery on and in the walls, gunports.”

“How are we on counter-battery fire?” asked Franz.

Spitfire traced a line across the width of the valley, about a hundred yards short of the fortress walls. “This is the extent of our direct fire support. Beyond that, we can only lend area bombardment.”

“Then can you lend the Militia?” Frayser walked over and drew a number of pegasus figures from their box, and placed them at four locations on the walls. “The largest guns are here. With an overwhelming strike, their crews could be killed. I imagine they would have to be of exceptional skill to operate them, irreplaceable.”

“No, no.” With a click, Brochuss collapsed his telescope. “No offence to you or your warriors, Governor, but Pegasi aren’t much for strength, and the crew of those larger guns are dwarfs. Have you ever fought the Dum Dawi?”

Spitfire rested her cheek on her hoof. “Haven’t had the honor of making their acquaintance yet.”

“Their size betrays their strength; a line of them could halt a charge from greenskin warboars.” Brochuss rolled one of the pegasus markers around on its base. We could use the Warhawks instead. Their performance review showed some limited armor piercing capabilities of their talons. Plus, they’re mercenaries. Let’s have them work for their pay.”

Karl Franz waved a hand. “Ultimately, that may not be necessary. We’ll have support from the inside.”

“Do you mean the sappers, lord?” Heinrich asked.

The Emperor smiled mysteriously. “No, but don’t mind it. Our friends will show their hands. We just need to get to the walls. How long would it take to build the tower?”

Heinrich chuckled. “With unicorn magic… I’d say a couple of days?” He looked at the one non-human member of the group.

Spitfire grinned. “Don’t forget us, either. Flying haulers and builders means your engineers will barely even need scaffolding. And with your own unicorns and earth ponies to help with the heavy lifting, I’ll bet you a bottle of our best Tempus Asti that we can get it done in around thirty-six hours. If not less.”

“Tempus Asti?” Franz asked. “You mean ‘Create Time’?”

“Bingo! Heh, shoulda known you’d have High Gothic figured out,” Spitfire laughed. “Yeah. Think really strong wine cut very carefully with essence of distilled rainbows. They gave it the name ‘cause somepony claims they had a religious experience or something after drinking it,” she gestured grandly in the air with her hooves, “and suddenly figured that ‘Yea, a God am I! The vagaries of space and time retreat before my all-seeing gaze!’. When really, it’s just an exceptionally spicy drink. Those ponies are crazy.”

An uneasy silence fell between the three men. Finally, Chief Engineer Frayser punctured it with a barking laugh. “I’ll take that bet,” he said. “Oh, I can see it now. Gunports and platforms for cannons just above the embarkation level, and some sharpshooters on the roof of the tower. It could well defend itself, too.”

“So we could well tear out this parasite in an afternoon,” Brochuss mused. “What a day that will be.”

Equestrian technology. Blast it all. No, this was Estalian. Damn Miragliano.

The air outside the Alter Kamerad was rank with smoke, magic burns, and the offal stench of the slums not a half kilometer ahead. It was a little better than the sweltering heat inside the tank.

Brochuss peered through his telescope to the front. The Equestrians were holding firmly against the horde of cultists and fleshlings in the brutal melee, hopefully long enough for the armored fist to arrive.

High above, globular clouds barked at the cultists. Wisps of weapons discharge and shadows of rifle barrels made the threat they posed known. It was not uncommon to see an arrow fly into a cloud and for a pegasus to fall out of it.

One hundred yards to either side, the Iron Cross and Stormcast Eternal trundled with matched speed. The Kamerad still had some of the shine from its preparations, but was truly an old warhorse, refitted and parts replaced to give it new life. Fitted with a rotating pillbox turret, its versatility could not be understated. As for the Iron Cross, the crew was green, and the vehicle itself virgin. Sigils and banners hung along its hull, celebrating the first of the new generation of Conqueror tanks to be made since the death of their inventor.

Just behind them, the sons of Hochland kept pace in formation at battle-march pace. Eager hands held their newest six-shot revolving rifles, ready to spit the seeds of Hochland’s vengeance against the Adversary.

The Hochlanders always had an affinity for firearms. Some say the men loved their rifles even more than their own wives, for how much care and embellishment they lavished upon them. It was not uncommon at all to see several pieces fitted with an emblem of a twin-tailed comet adorning either side of the frame, or in the case of the less prosperous soldiers, inscriptions ranging from dates of memorable kills to litanies and prayers to their warrior-god to guide their bullets true.

Since the Storm of Chaos, then the arrival of the griffons and the importation of their weapons, Hochland was among the first to modernize its army with griffonian revolver rifles. The inventors had made a masterpiece that allowed an avian’s eagle-like vision to track a target over a mile away, and still maintain reliability even through harsh weather as long as they were well-maintained. One man was quickly quoted as claiming that he could “Load on Festag for war and still have a bullet left for the tax collector”.

The shadow of the monolithic siege tower shrouded over much of the formation as it loomed on the left flank. The off-ramp bristled with boarding hooks above an icon of the Imperial Cross. Horses and Equestrian stallions alike were at the front and rear, keeping it mobile. Many were from the penal battalions, while most were fanatical to the church, either giving their bodies to the labor as penance for their souls, or leading motivational prayers.

They were allowed to mount a banner on the tower’s midsection, in full view of the enemy. Streaked in blood like messily applied fingerpaint, it read, ’Repent, for today you die!’

“Tongues of fire on Gloomfangs flaring,

News of foe-men near declaring,

To heroic deeds of daring,

call you, Hochland men.”

Brochuss looked back to the singer, a youth in the ranks, clutching his polearm. His breath staggered, and Brochuss could see the fear in his eyes.

The man next to him joined, and the song soon spread quickly among the ranks.

“Groans of wounded peasants dying,

Wails of wives and children flying.

For the distant succour crying,

call you, Hochland men.”

“Lord!” The sweat-soaked chief engineer shouted from the belly of the tank “Should the troops be singing? They might not hear orders.”

“Let it be,” Brochuss said. “This is their hour of reckoning.” He drew one of his pistols and raised it high, joining the thousand-strong chorus.

“This our answer, crowds downpouring,

swift as winter torrents roaring.

Not in vain, the voice imploring,

calls on Hochland men!”

The Stormcast’s whistle shrieked, which raised a cheer among the troops. Regimental banners were raised to identification height, many proudly displaying a golden shield on a white cross and red background, Hochland’s provincial flag.

“Loud the marshal pipes are sounding!

Every manly heart is bounding!

As our trusty chief surrounding,

march we Hochland men!”

Then, the arrows began to fall.

“Shields!”

The order came from across the battle line. Unicorns embedded in the formations made their presence known by generating sheets of shimmering warp-stuff over the troops. Arrows and crossbow bolts bounced off the barriers as each stallion protected his section. The power needed to maintain the shields against the barrage of sharpened heads meant their area of coverage was limited. Despite efforts to economize space, those unlucky enough to be in the section gaps were left vulnerable.

Where the casualties were few made the loss oddly more unnerving. Under such a hail, men would have been struck in scores, no time to watch or feel for every one, but now an individual man’s screams marked him out for turning heads. One could hear their age, or youth.

Brochuss breathed in the familiar smell of blood and burning earth as the Kamerad’s whistle blew an ascending pitch, signaling the forward regiments of the beginning ‘phase two’.

A section of equestrians parted before the tank and the screaming mass of cultists began to pour through. At the same time, the Kamerad’s main gun fired point blank, and the mob vanished from view behind a cloud of scalding steam. The vehicle momentarily lurched to a halt from the blast before surging forward again.

Plugging the gap among the Equestrians, the Kamerad ground forth and the Hochlanders melded into the frontline, firing between their allies.

Brochuss’s pistol barked at the cultists against the Kamerad’s sides, those desperately prying at its armor with swords or their bare hands, sandwiched between the tank and the crush of bodies behind them.

Then, he spotted a fat, foetid figure climbing a mound of bodies, carrying a tall staff topped with the icon of the Plague God.

“Invaders!” the rotten man roared in outrage. His voice carried well over the field, filled with grief. “The Keep has been silent! A thousand years of peace from us! Was this not enough?!”

Without blinking, Brochuss aimed his second sidearm and fired several times, striking the man-thing twice, getting no reaction but his continued cry.

“No good deed goes unpunished! No evil unrewarded! Let this be the choir of justice! Of death!” He swung his staff over his head seven times, the icon fuming foul gases and emitting pale emerald wychlight. “Sing, brother Joseph! Sing, brother Rosenbon! Sing for your father, brothers! SIIIING!”

He slammed his staff to the mound.

Chrysalis shared Ditto’s eyes as the latter spied through a telescope at the progress of the Imperial soldiers. The steam tanks were pressing in boldly, and the defensive line of cultists outside the slum looked to be on the brink of breaking.

’Good, good,’ she mused. ’Tell the Emperor we are in position and ready to strike when he is.’

’Very well, my Queen.’

’And stay safe. You’ve heard of the doppelganger daemon, yes?’

’In briefing with Governor-General Spitfire, yes. Don’t worry, your highness, I’ll keep to myself.’

’Good. Farewell.’ Chrysalis blinked as her senses came rushing back. She was back in darkness, the sapping tunnel.

Two parallel columns of drones passed in opposite directions, one line bearing nothing, the other with loads of soil cradled on their backs, between vestigial wings.

Chrysalis walked along the tunnel to its end, which bulbed out into a small cavern. Hundreds of larger changelings were waiting, each born into a heavier carapace and two triplet clusters of small eyes. A low thrum of wings and murmurs reverberated from them at the queen’s approach.

Upon a thought, Chrysalis ordered the worker drones back down the tunnels. This was far enough. She could smell the tainted shit-stink of hateful emotions right over her head; this was an excellent spot to catch the adversary unawares.

A wave of magical energy washed over her, a cold grasp that brought an onset of shivers.

This power was foreign, from the surface.

Bits of the ceiling began to crack and crumble, bleeding dark green foam, and exposing human corpses that must have been buried shallowly long ago. One of them spasmed as its body was engulfed in emerald light. Its head wrenched out of the soil, empty eye sockets and grinning, lipless mouth gurgling up sick mist.

It fell into the cavern with a dull thump. Chrysalis’ brood quickly formed a circle around its body, chirping in idle curiosity as the man-thing staggered up, then awkwardly stumbled toward the closest changeling with arms lazily outstretched. The insect merely held a hoof out against the withered-thing’s chest while it started gnawing at its armored body with splintered, rotten teeth.

A knot of curiosity and apprehension tightened in Chrysalis’ guts. Dark magic, animating bodies dead so long as to be unrecognizable. And with the Keep having sat unmolested in the same spot for centuries, there could be thousands.

She grabbed the creature up by its tattered shirt. The infernal power sustaining it burned like a flame within its skull, disdainful and hungry. Chrysalis drew two bone sabres, thrusting one into its abdomen. The creature didn’t react and continued trying to claw at her arm, moaning, and retching up dirt. Her blade came out dusty, and she pierced it again through the chest. Still the creature didn’t even seem to notice.

“Come on, how do you die?!”

With a thought, backed by force of magic, Chrysalis broke its head away from the shoulders with a gruesome popping of bone. Finally, the body became still.

’The head. The brain,’ Chrysalis relayed to her soldier drones. ’Sever that or the spine, and they fall.’

Her brood chattered in affirmation.

What in the world is going on on the surface? She thought of the undead’s attempt to bite her subjects, and how vulnerable the soft-skinned humans must be. This is why exoskeletons are superior, she thought to herself.

More of the ceiling crumbled in, and Chrysalis figured their cover wouldn’t hold any longer. She reestablished a link with Ditto.

’Ditto, have you found the Emperor yet?’

’Not yet. The staging area is quite a distance away.’

’Find somewhere to become a pegasus and fly! Our cover is falling; we’re going in moments.’

’Oh dear… oh my. Right. With all speed, my queen!’

Chrysalis cut the link, and not a moment too soon. Another three undead men emerged from the crumbling ceiling, and were immediately met with a flash of Chrysalis’ horn and a shimmering green forcefield pushing counter to their advance. The zombies clawed futilely at the barrier, even as they were crushed between it and the massive weight of the disturbed earth pressing on them from behind.

’As one, prepare to charge!’

Hundreds of pairs of wings buzzed idly, and the drones crouched into a ready poise. The chamber was instantly filled by a flurry of blinding dust.

A second layer of emerald green overglow coruscated around Chrysalis’ horn. Then a third. Her face scrunched up in concentration, but her lips were tinged with a smile; she was ready for this moment.

Chrysalis let out an almost otherworldly scream, and released the energy in a single, violent pulse. With a great, rumbling roar, her spell eviscerated the soil above and at a forty-five degree angle all the way to the surface in a massive explosion of spitting earth.

Beyond the newly-made tunnel exit, the cloudy Hochland sky beckoned.

’Go.’

The hundreds of Changelings present leapt forward, and as one, let forth a piercing screech, intelligible only through their own telepathy.

’FOR THE QUEEN!’

Like a black geyser, the Changelings shot out of the cavern, arcing high and diving on the masses of unprepared inner-defenders like a horde of army ants.

Chrysalis buzzed out and took in a picture of the Keep through her drones' eyes. As anticipated, the sinkhole was surrounded. Traitorous soldiers, cultists, and bipedal flesh-things she could not call human reeled away from the swarms of large black insects pouring up from the ground. And still many stood their ground, jamming daggers in eye sockets and finding gaps in their exoskeletons even as they were tackled to the ground and had their throats bitten out with defiant, blood-foaming snarls.

Chrysalis had mere seconds to act. Surprise would only last so long.

’To the walls! Destroy the guns!’

The drones followed her up the ramparts, crashing into their scrambling ranks. Weapons and munitions were dropped by nerveless hands in their panic-driven haste. Once Chrysalis gained solid footing on the wall, she drew all her sabres, and started a slaughter.

With nowhere to run, the defenders were cut down with each broad swipe of her blades. The drones pushed men off the walls, biting and punching with fang and heavy hoof, smashing headlong into ill-equipped archers and crossbowmen.

It didn’t take long to reach the first of the artillery, a behemoth of a hellcannon on thick wheels, tended to by a crew of heavy-set chaos dwarfs. The weapon’s bulk required its own rotating platform.

The first dwarf’s axe took the bite from one of Chrysalis’ sabres. Her second and third arms stuck him through, tearing his belly open before raising him up and throwing him over the wall.

The dwarf behind him managed to take up a his blunderbuss, growling through his teeth, “Stupid bug!”

The barrel belched fire, and buckshot peppered her exoskeleton. The concentrated, short-range punch knocked the wind out of the queen and stalled her bearing down on him—for only a second. She swiped two sabres across him, tearing open his face and chest in ribbons of meat and sodded bone.

With the rest of the crew entangled with her other changelings and covered on either end of the wall by her drones, she effortlessly cut the catches that connected the weapon to its securing chains.

The oven-like device at its rear slammed itself shut and the whole weapon rumbled with an odd life unto itself. The countless faces bulging out of the length of its barrel twisted and moaned, the monstrous skull on the bore creaked its fanged maw open wider.

It fired like barely-contained thunder. With nothing to stabilize it, the massive recoil catapulted the weapon back and off the wall, flipping itself end-over-end in a smoking arc.

Chrysalis briefly watched the shot arc out, and land in nothing like she saw through Ditto. The imperial spearhead was shattered, swamped in the undead creatures. Flares of panicked unicorn magic lit up the field like a morbid fireworks celebration. Formations were broken, companies mixed and sundered, set upon by an enemy with a fathomless hunger. The collective moan of the unnumbered horde reverberated through the queen’s chitin.

’Tanu, keep targeting the artillery. The Empire’s forces are soon to break.’

’By your will, my queen, but may I ask where you are going?’

’The humans need to speed things up. They'll need a catalyst.’

Chrysalis hated to think it, but hopefully none in the Empire’s ranks would recognize her as anything but a monster of the adversary gone rogue. She lept from the wall, her droning wings carrying her over the outer slums.

“Form a line! Rifles on a line!”

Brochuss pistol-whipped a split-jawed zombie that had a man by the arm, the burnished steel hilt striking hard enough to pulp the aged and cracked skullbone like a ripe egg. The zombie dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Amidst the killing field, similar executions were taking place as the beleaguered Hochlanders struggled to keep at least two soldiers back-to-back in one place. Taking the hint from their sergeants, many men simply waded in to club the shambling creatures over the head or spine with the butts of their rifles. Loud bangs and pops echoed throughout the street-turned-charnel-house as bullets were fired into the heads of nearly every "dead" zombie, the Imperials not daring to take chances.

Still, those isolated were dragged down by the undead, at the mercy of long-nailed claws and insatiable mouths.

Wiping his gun handle clean with one sleeve, Brochuss reached down to help the fallen trooper up, carefully avoiding the stricken arm. Miraculously, however, whatever padding he wore in his sleeve had apparently stopped his foe from digging too deeply into the flesh.

“Where’s your weapon, soldier?” he asked crisply.

The man picked up his rifle with trembling hands. “H-h- right here, sir.”

“Good. Find your superior, or any, and tell him he has the general’s orders on his lips. Form a firing line in front of the reserves.”

“Rifle line before the reserve. Yessir, aye! Captain Dunlain!”

The trooper took off running through the chaos, shouting as he went. Brochuss himself went in the other direction, doing the same.

“Fall back! To the reserves!”

A trumpet began to sound. The General recognized the rushed song as his order having been heard.

Drawing a sword in one hand, pistol in the other, Brochuss gave one broad stroke at the neck of a zombie shambling at him, snapping through its shriveled neck.

He knew this enemy, stupid but unable to fear or run. The shock and awe of cannons and flame would not deter them. Every single one of the monsters had to die. Brochuss momentarily relished the thought.

He held his sword to the air, hoping the sun’s glint off its bloody blade would catch the troopers’ eyes.

“Back! Rifles, form a line!”

The rifle line was already quickly taking form some one-hundred yards behind the front line.

“Pikes in skirmish formation!”

He picked up an abandoned halberd and jammed it vertically into the ground. Reaching the reserve, the 39th Signal Company’s leadership was at the front. A team of four unicorns were arrayed around the bugler and drummer.

The team saluted him, and Brochuss quickly identified the section leader. “An unexpected obstacle,” he said just as the leader opened his mouth, and pointed to each of the unicorns with orders.

“Signal the artillery to resume fire, high explosive, four-hundred yards creeping back ten yards per minute. You, call the thunderers to our position. You two, amplify these men’s instruments. I want them heard across the valley.”

The combat musicians readied their horns at the general’s mention as their brass began to glow with the same colored aura as the stallions’ horns. Brochuss’ words were immediately translated to trumpeting sound. Across the line, men and ponies shouldered their weapons with the order to the reserves to make ready. The formations quickly took shape as ranks of pikes and halberdiers knelt in front of the riflemen in a loose formation, weapons braced up like chevaux de frise.

As the last of the survivors slipped behind the line, the undead masses were in full view. Slouching, groaning, a slow-motion wave of men and equines, many of them those who were freshly perished in the ambush.

“That pike there is our marker!” Brochuss barked. “Fire at will at first order. Mark your targets, and aim for the head. Steadiness of Ahalt be with you! Ready!”

The riflemen raised their weapons.

“Present!”

Brochuss watched the horde with strained patience. This unclean sorcery, and behind them the bastion of blasphemy so close to his home. He would not suffer their presence any longer.

An oblivious shambler knocked the halberd down.

“FIRE!”

The line ripped open, chattering like a string of firecrackers. Heads popped among the undead in gushes of cartilage and greymatter, while some were merely pierced through the neck or face. Bodies were dropping, but not quickly enough.

The zombies stumbled straight into the ranks of polearms. The undead, pinned at point-blank range, were easy targets for the rifles.

“Bugler, order the reserves up in mixed formation, and advance,” Brochuss said.

You haven’t stopped us yet, bastards.

As the bugler started his section, a piercing scream drowned him out.

A tall, onyx-black creature touched down among the adversary. It cut across them with terrible ease, ripping open fountains of blood with four viciously-curved sabre-limbs. He wouldn’t complain that the creature was doing his work for him, but this was only the easy part.

Brochuss looked up at the looming siege tower, having been halted in the dead’s rising.

Where were those ‘infiltrators’ the Emperor spoke of? How would he even know they were here?

As if on cue, a fireball erupted from one of the Keep’s towers, hurling dust and shattered masonwork skyward. Like sand to the surf, the turret came crumbling down.

“Incoming!”

A section of soldiers hastily parted as a roughly equine-shaped creature smashed into the dirt among their formation. Brochuss stood over the thrashing thing, its thick, black armor plating cracked and profusely bleeding. Its pained shrieks stung his ears. Brochuss pointed his pistol at its head, took a momentary glance into the cluster of three eyes on one side of its face, and pulled the trigger.

With a pop of green fluid, the creature went silent and motionless.

“It’s about Gods-damned time.”

Chrysalis felt the life of another drone quickly fading away, even as its consciousness was reabsorbed into the hivemind. The warrior was dying, of no more use anyway, but its last memory flashed across her mind for a split second. A bullet to the head from the human general.

She grimaced, but only let it trouble her a moment. At least they were making progress.

Chrysalis felt the thumps against her carapace as bullets smacked and rattled her form. The Imperial troops were advancing closer, some redirecting rifle fire in her direction.

She picked up a gangly cultist by the throat. “Doom comes!” she shrieked. “Doom comes!”

A particularly piercing howl made even Chrysalis’ ears ring, and the fire from the Imperials eased up. A very large armored griffon touched down among the howling mobs. Across its chest spanned a battle plate displaying a calligraphic KF embossed in gold. On touchdown, it pierced through whole men’s bodies with its claws. Chrysalis recognized the pitch black and gold armor of the Emperor adorning the man on its back.

Franz strained at the reins to pull Deathclaw’s threatening gaze from Chrysalis, shouting, “Away! Away! Friend!”

A loud sniffling whine drew Chrysalis’ attention to the gates. Several monstrous things were plodding forth, bearing tremendous pincers or swiping tentacles for arms. The tallest among them cast a shadow on all others. thick armor plates securely protecting its body. The craftsmanship, displaying blasphemous icons, was too well made for a creature of its intelligence.

The Keep’s denizens must have prepared it, waiting for a reason to unleash it.

With eager twirls in its long-fingered hands, it lugged what was no less than a tree trunk, impaled through with countless metal spikes in a cruel, massive club. Two twisted faces glaring from the same head locked on the changeling queen.

The reluctant cultists began to laugh. “Doom comes! Doom comes for you!”

Chrysalis snapped the neck of the cultist in one claw, and dropped the limp body to the cobblestones below.

"Doom has been my closest friend for over a decade," she seethed, gripping her sabres tighter. Chrysalis swept her blades in a full arc, then settled into a gory dance of death as she was charged on all sides.

“Drop it!”

Deathclaw leapt skyward with clawfuls of screaming cultists. In mere seconds they were a great height in the air and Deathclaw threw them further skyward, leaving their fate to be decided by gravity.

“There! The trolls!” Franz aimed Deathclaw straight for where Chrysalis had engaged the mutant trolls, and the twin-faced giant was picking up the pace, eager to get stuck in.

The undead were ground down under the Imperial steamroller, chopping and blasting bodies to ribbons. Skulls split, shields shattered, the sons of Man closed the distance to the keep yard by yard.

Deathclaw dove on a troll, his talons piercing the thick hide of its back as it grappled with the changeling queen and bit into its collar. Franz lunged forward in his saddle, brought Ghal Maraz in an overhead arc, and struck the monster’s cranium. The beast’s arms shot skyward in an awkward reflex and it fell twitching.

Franz and Chrysalis met glances momentarily. An instant of simple understanding passed between them as sure as any telepathy.

You’d better know what you’re doing.

I do.

Another troll vomited a gush of corrosive bile onto Chrysalis’ back. Hissing in pain, she whipped two swords around and severed the monster’s arm which had been raised to defend its face.

Deathclaw went airborne again, both he and Franz looking for a weak spot on the giant which was barreling at Chrysalis with club raised.

“Sideswipe, for the head!”

Chrysalis finished off the troll with a sabre shoved into its mouth, sticking out the base of its skull. In time to notice a shadow bearing down, she took a high jump back with a burst of wing-power. She wasn’t fast enough to avoid the tremendous hand that grabbed everything below her waist.

The giant momentarily turned its head at Deathclaw’s screech. The griffon sank his claws into the giant’s arm, shredding gashes in its flesh as Franz smashed Ghal Maraz into its jawline.

With an indignant roar, the beast released Chrysalis and stumbled.

Deathclaw clambered up the giant’s arm, and bit into an eye of its regressive face. Screaming, it raised a hand at Deathclaw only for Franz to smash it aside with a crunch of oversized bone. The griffon flapped away with the optic nerve snapping, and the glistening yellow orb popping in his beak.

Franz eased Deathclaw to circle the field. The siege tower was at the wall. Any moment, its ramp would drop. The cultist outer garrison was broken and rushing back into the slums.

“Land now. Final push.”

The soldiers cleared space for their Emperor as the giant griffon touched down. Franz spun Ghal Maraz around once, and pointed it to the Keep.

“On now! They are broken!”

The Cross’s whistle blew, and the tank fired its main cannon. The shell arced up and burst above the scrambling cultists, showering them in scything shrapnel.

“On now! For the giant!” Franz called, pushing Deathclaw into a running start. “Bring it the death of a thousand blades! This darkness is nigh banished!”

Deathclaw screeched as he took off again, leaping high above the jubilant soldiers.

Franz glanced about with trained eyes, but couldn't spot Chrysalis near the slums. He assumed she’d melted back into the chaos.

But he had bigger problems to worry about at the moment. The giant had found its club, and was now sweeping it in wide, vicious arcs across the advancing imperials. Some were batted into the air like weightless mice, and others ground under the boulder head. Sparks and pops of bullets striking its armor only seemed to make it angrier.

Franz kept Deathclaw straight, utilizing the giant’s attention on the ground troops to have Deathclaw sail between its legs. Franz delivered a heavy blow to its kneecap, and Deathclaw sank his talons into the calf in a clean snap.

Franz took a quick glance back at the giant collapsing to one knee, and its tremendous hand swinging at him.

The world became a blur after it struck Deathclaw. Losing all sense of orientation, the only thing Franz could make sense of next was the smell of earth, and pain wracking his body.

Franz staggered to his feet. His suit was covered and jammed with hay. It felt like the world was still spinning. He leaned with a hand against a cold, iron surface.

The hammer… Where is it?

Gaining his bearings, he looked about at the sagging amalgamates of the slums. Sheet metal and chipping plaster walls were scrawled over with blasphemous icons. The gutters ran with a trickle of some filthy green-grey fluid.

Franz-double took, catching a pair of eyes from one of the darkened windows, but they were gone now.

He drew a pistol from his belt, a snubnose six-shooter.

He spotted the golden glint of Ghal Maraz a little ways up the street. Though he was reduced to a bit of a hobble, the particularly strong pain in one of his legs was manageable.

He took up the hammer and looked to the sky. Where could Deathclaw be, and where was here?

“Why?”

Franz’s pistol-hand jerked up, taking aim at the source of the voice. A young man, probably still in his teens, was hesitantly emerging from one of the houses. His skin was marked with countless scars, and he spoke softly through lips sewn together with alternating patterns of string, giving a little slack to talk.

“Stay there,” Franz ordered, motioning his pistol threateningly.

The boy held his place, still staring intently.

“What have we done to you?” he mumbled, staring intently with blood-filled eyes. “The Keep has been silent. Our lords do not strike your lands.”

Franz took a quick glance around. Nobody sneaking up… yet. He took into a quick walk toward the sound of cannon fire, and the boy followed.

“Tell me why you will attack people who have not made war on you. The founders of the Keep are long dead, and we are not stupid. We know your armies are strong. We know no help will come.”

Franz spotted another one of the denizens stepping out from an alley with both hands in his pockets. The Emperor picked up his pace in passing him.

“Hm?” The boy probed. “You still fear dissenting opinion? That we can worship other gods and still live? Or perhaps you’re playing a game with the lives of our people and yours?

‘Let us kill some mutants, some people who had no choice in how the world would strike them, and say it is God’s will!’ Who are you with all this dress and pomp? An officer? The general of this army of murderers? Speak!”

The boy grabbed the Emperor by the pauldron, and Franz whipped around with pistol in hand. A loud crack split the eerie calm of the street as the forty-five caliber bullet ripped through his stalker’s chest.

The boy stumbled back, clutching at the wound, gasping but he did not scream. Franz slung Ghal Maraz under one arm and whistled loud, breaking into a run.

All around him, the people began to emerge in force from the ruined dwellings, bearing the sigils and mutations of the Ruinous Powers.

A heavy thorn ricocheted off Franz’s helmet while two others stuck into the soil, each almost half a foot long.

Ahead, they were already out and in arms, with scythes, swords, and toothy, barbed tentacles arrayed against him.

“Oh, praise be,” One of their foetid number chuckled. Pushing to the front, a man of inhuman proportion waddled forth. In the ragged, faded colors of Averland uniform, he looked to be a former officer. “Do my eyes deceive me, or has the Emperor himself come to lead this campaign?”

A murmur of curiosity rose from the growing ring of denizens.

The traitorous officer gugled up a froth and screamed, drawing his rusted-out sword.

“Take him! Deliver him to our lords!”

Franz quickly holstered his pistol in the face of the cautiously closing groups. He took a wide swing with the hammer, shattering a number of polearms in a flurry of splinters. His backswing struck one of the cultist’s hands, cracking them into a hideous angle.

A scythe hooked him by his armored torso, and yanked him into a mass of grabbing hands. Franz could hardly see through the shadows of the writhing group, feeling himself being pulled in every direction and eager, decayed fingers prying at his grip on Ghal Maraz.

“Give him to Hugh!” one shouted. “He’ll hold him best till we get there!”

“Take his hammer!” cried another. “He broke my Edmund’s hands!”

A piercing shriek ended their quibbling, and a thrumming of gunfire caused them to scatter, dropping Franz as blood began to spatter on his armor.

Getting up, he smiled at the more than two dozen griffons lining the rooftops, firing into the crowd.

The former Averlander was struck several times, but stormed toward Karl Franz, heedless of the shots. With a gurgling roar, he brought his weapon down in a heavy overhead arc.

Despite the uncared-for appearance of his sword, it held strong as the blade met Ghal Maraz’s handle. Franz guided it toward the hammerhead’s back-hook, dragging it into the officer’s thigh.

With a crack of bone, the Averlander fell to one knee. With his free hand he grabbed Franz’s arm, which immediately pounded with pain. The Averlander grinned viciously—

And then he was set upon by several angry, chain-mailed griffons.

The largest of them sank his talons into the Averlander’s eyes and mouth. He tightened his grip crushingly before his face, along with shards of collagen and bone, was ripped from his skull.

Franz held his aching arm tightly, noticing a trickle of blood running down the glove and many small holes in the vambrace.

“Imperator, we’re here for your extraction,” the lead said. Carved into the side of his helmet was a small message, ‘property of Gunter - do not touch’.

“I’d certainly hope so. Can you lift me to the roofs?”

“Da, da. Turn around.”

The griffon held Franz under the arms and started to ascend. Just then, one rallied denizen grabbed Franz by the leg, another at his foot.

Gunter grunted at the added weight, and frantically flapped his wings to compensate. Raising his head, he barked, “Shoot the bastards, you bat-eyed hatchlings!”

Accompanying the shifting rifle chatter, two more griffons joined the effort, grabbing Gunter by the shoulders and flapping with all their might to get clear of the street.

Franz fiddled with his holstered pistol, barely reaching it in his position. He fired three times into the gathering morass, and he’d apparently struck home as the grip on his legs loosened, and he was pulled free, sans one solid gromril boot.

That’s going to take a fortune to replace, he thought inanely.

Franz emptied his pistol as he was brought to the roof, among a large squadron of the Warhawks.

In spite of the uniform Gilda had worn in their meeting, the Warhawks didn’t appear to have any common dress in the field. The griffons were dressed and armored in gear from around the world, from a Bretonnian knight’s helmet with the lower face cut out for a beak, scimitars from Araby, padded gambesons to heavy plate armor. Many heads turned to catch a glimpse of the human emperor.

“My thanks,” Franz said as Gunter dropped him on a section of flat roofing. “And doubly so if you can find an apothecary.”

Gunter nodded and ran off across the rooftops.

Franz stripped off his vambrace and glove. Several small thorns were stuck in across his forearm. After a few moments of attempting to pluck them out himself, a Griffon with an image of a snake wrapped around a grinding mortar sewn into his shoulder guard approached.

“Here, sir, sit down,” he said sharply.

Complying and watching the medic remove the needed paraphernalia, Frans asked, “And who do I owe for the care?”

“Gruff Junior, sir,” the griffon relied, pausing but a moment at the higher authority’s question. “Arm out.”

Gruff precisely plucked each thorn out, one by one, his precise talons moving deftly. From a waterbag, he wetted a rag and washed out the blood, with a second, dried the arm, and with the last, coated Franz’s arm with a foul-smelling oily salve.

“Give that five minutes, and the bleeding should stop.” Gruff said with the finality of his task. “How does it feel?”

Franz flexed his arm. “Like it’s fallen asleep. Too bad, that’s my good swinging arm. Speaking of, have you seen Deathclaw?”

“Yessir. He came and got us from the reserves to look for you. We split in two groups, and he and the others are somewhere thataway,” Gruff pointed in a generally eastward way.

“Right.” Franz stood again, picking up Ghal Maraz in the opposite hand and eyeing the opened-up siege tower. “The walls our ours, but the battle is not yet won.”

“Uh, your highness, you just said your swinging arm fell asleep. You might not be—”

“I said my good arm feels that way.” Franz hefted the warhammer onto his shoulder. “I’ve still got another.”

Author's Notes:

An Imperial standard year lasts 400 days, split up into 12 months of 32 or 33 days. Weeks last 8 days. They include :
Wellentag (Work day)
Aubentag (Levy day)
Marktag (Market day)
Backertag (Bake day)
Bezahltag (Tax day)
Konistag (King day)
Angestag (Start week)
Festag (Holiday)