Semita violentiae

From the journal of Johanna Schwarz

19. Brauzeit, 2499

What is the nature of combat? Some see it as the epitome of life itself – the self struggling to overcome obstacles in order to grow and prosper. Some ascribe almost mystical, even divine properties to the clashing of blade on blade. They argue that to face an opponent on the battlefield is a transcendent act, the ultimate collisions of wills. Others compare it to a celebration, a dance, the strikes movements in a careful choreography.

What self-serving delusions. Combat is one thing only: Survival, or death. I have seen enough of it in my life to know that when you face someone, the only thing that matters is survival. For those left bleeding out, calling for their mothers and voiding their guts to the sand, calling it sacred, or enjoying the aesthetics of it, is a pure mockery. So you have taken a life, does that make you grander, more attractive, more moral or wiser? If so, then I suggest you marry the next orc chief you encounter, for he is surely by that metric probably one of the most attractive and admirable creatures you have met. Their lives are defined by violence, after all.

No. Combat is a necessary evil when conflicts of interest dictate, or to save yourself or others from ruin. Nothing more.

So the fact that some find enjoyment in arranging combat to the death as a sport and game fills me with disgust. Surely, being a howling, cheering spectator as others are forced – either literally or from want of money – to fight and die in front of you, must be a mere hair’s breadth away from consorting with the ruinous powers. It is a practice I wish was left to the brutish chaos-worshippers of Norsca. It is a step down Khornes path.

Naturally, that is where my most recent investigation has led me and my compatriots. Harold Lurkel had a passion for pit fighting, so we have come to the primary (or worst, depending on perspective) establishment of this sort. We are, naturally, disguised, as our little group has come into some notoriety as the “saviours of Norden”. Sunniva poses as a visiting merchant, and me, Torgil, Viktor and Eldur are her guards and advisors. Eldur, being ever the petulant little child he is, flatly refuses to discard his flamboyant wizards’ robes, but after some cajoling agrees to at least cover them up some. Once more the idea strikes me that it is the fires of Aqshy that govern him, rather than the other way around.

Above ground, the dealings in the fighting arena are benign enough – merely glorified brawls without death or permanent damage. However, with some aid from Johanns shady contacts, we are led through a back door, down to the cellars, where an arena of quite a different, and decidedly less legal sort is hidden. Here, the fights are to the death, and the stakes commensurably higher. The clientele is the expected mix of low and high life – outright gangsters sitting at the table next to the supposed elite of the city. It should not surprise me – the high and mighty have always had the privilege of seeing both war and duels as a refreshing sport, enjoyed at a safe distance, of course.

We find a table, and I go to fetch a drink for “Mylady” Sunniva. In the bar, I casually converse with a patron, who turns out to be a bit too familiar. I can see his greed and lust shine in his beady little eyes. However, before making my excuses, I am able to glean some useful information from him.

It turns out he has heard of the beheading and ensuing slaughter. Harold, it seems, was a regular of this establishment. He made a bit of a stir, being even more passionately excited by the blood and gore of the arena than others. It seems that when he wasn’t at the fights, he enjoyed hanging out at a bar called the Drowned rat, in Entwasserung. Even in my most desolate days, I did not go there, although I know of it.

The first “match” of the night is a travesty. An armed gladiator is pitted against two weak goblins. It is a pathetic slaughter. I do not often pity the greenskins, but dying like this, for the merriment of onlookers, is distasteful.

We are promised that the main event will be quite the showstopper. Leo, a seasoned veteran soldier, no doubt down on his luck, will face off against a longtime champion of the pit, a massive ogre called Orgrim. I hold out little hope, but as a good luck charm place a silver on Leo winning. The odds are ten to one in his disfavor, naturally. Sunniva has me place a bet of ten whole gold crowns for her! Well, that may have been a sound investment, it turns out.

As the evening draws toward the great fight, several of us spot a man standing leaning against the railing looking intently down into the fighting pit. A massive man of obvious norscan ancestry, Sunniva learns from conversing with other patrons that he is called Fÿgmundir, and was a friend of sorts of Harold. No doubt they shared a passion. He looks like obvious bad news, and I almost smell Khornes influence across the pit.

For those wanting a spectacular fight, the main event does not disappoint. The ogre seems unbeatable, massive and hulking, wielding two massive double axes. Leo, in his tired armour, carrying a shield and spear, looks puny. But he has the feel of a veteran, and I maintain some hope.

The battle starts with a wild charge from the ogre, who makes short work of Leo’s shield. He looks visibly shaken, but manages to avoid being cleaved. The ogre struts around, garnering sheers from the onlookers, before charging again. This time, however, Leo sidesteps and jabs his spear into the brute’s thigh. A furious melee ensues, and Orgrim smashes a massive elbow into the side of Leos head. Reeling, he staggers backwards, but manages to regain composure. The ogre, meanwhile, has become overconfident, and jumps forward, intent on a killing blow.

As the fight gets bloodier, it does not escape my notice that Fÿgmundir is becoming erratic, as if possessed. His face twists into a bestial snarl, bloodlust shining in his eyes.

Leo dodges a clumsy swing from the brute, and jabs his spear deep into the left arm of his opponent. An axe falls helplessly to the ground, dark blood spraying into the sand. The beast, too late awakening to fear, tries to fight back, but Leo feints and drives his spear deep into his bowels. The berserker spirit of ogres descends on Orgrim, and he grips the spear, breaking it like a twig, and punching Leo flat on his back. He is obviously intent on taking Leo with him into Morrs embrace. However, Leo rolls away from a descending axe. Picking up the fallen axe, he charges the kneeling giant, driving the axe into the ogres head, nearly cleaving it in two.

As a great cheer erupts from the crowd, I see Fÿgmundir visibly changing. His eyes glow red, and long copper claws sprout from his fingers. Twisting, he drives his hand clean through the breast of a hapless man standing next to him. Then, as if waking from a trance, he lowers the man stealthily to the ground and walks hastily for the exit.

Our group trails him, the more stealthy of us taking the lead, me bringing up the rear. We spot a couple of ruffians following our vanguard at a distance. They look like members of one of Johanns rival gangs. However, they give up the chase after a few blocks.

We trace the norscan chaos acolyte – for that is obviously what he is – to the slums of Entwasserung, where he enters a hovel sitting in a cluster of rickety wooden buildings.

We decide to not rush in, but rather establish surveillance, information being rather more useful than one more dead cultist.

Sunniva recruits her usual band of urchins. This time, she offers them as “payment”, in addition to the usual sum, to give them the “opportunity” to become prospective members of Johanns unsavory crew. Ah well, of the many disreputable gangs in the city, his is at least run by someone not on the direct path to chaos. I cannot condemn their career – this city, this empire, has sadly failed them in every way possible. What other choices do they have – starvation and an early death? I wish it was not thus, but wish in one hand and spit in the other, they say.

20. Brauzeit, 2499

After our prey leaves for his day of work carrying stuff down at the docks, we secure entrance to his pitiful abode. The sight that greets us blows away any smidgens of doubt we ever had about what we are dealing with. It is like the cloister cell of a raging lunatic. Blood smeared on the walls, carvings of mystical runes, and a small altar of sorts made out of stacked skulls. Clearly, he is more than just a violent man.

The inscriptions are mostly gibberish, but we discern one phrase:

“Where the red child stirs in darkness the shadow of Suth calls,

the forgotten flame, a hidden sword to lead the gore-queen’s thralls”

This sounds forebodingly like parts of a dark prophecy, but of what? Who is the “gore-queen”?

Leaving the grisly hovel, we turn to the books. I delve into the library of the Witch hunters guild, and Sunniva and Eldur seek out the hidden library at the University, helped by the introductory letter I gave them. I don’t like hanging the sword of the hunters over the librarians heads, but seeing as they hid damning books, it is no more than they deserve.

After a long, exhausting day, we are able to dig up more foreboding scraps of prophetic ramblings. It is a poem, of sorts, although the pursuit of beauty had nothing to do with its creation:

"When skies weep crimson and mountains tremble,

The winds of Chaos shall carry her name,

Upon the wings of war, her shadow descends,

Her spear thirsts once more, the world to maim.

 

By blood and fire, her soul unchained,

From the skulls of the fallen, her throne will rise,

The Gorequeen returns, with fury untamed,

To bathe the earth in blood, beneath scarlet skies.

 

As mortal kings kneel and warriors fall,

The Blood God’s bride shall reclaim her place,

The heavens will darken at her call,

For Valkia, reborn, shall lead Khorne’s race.

 

Beware the day of endless war,

When the Blood Queen takes flight anew,

The rivers run red and the weak are no more,

For the Gorequeen lives, and none shall break through.”

 

As we are ruminating over who this “Valkia” is, I am summoned to a meeting with the head of my order, Witch finder general Zeuss. This is the first time I have met him, as he is often travelling and drowned in research.

What meets me in his stately office is an older man with penetrating eyes. A radical, he is known for favoring careful gathering of information to wanton burning. The book, more than the torch and thumbscrew. A laudable perspective.

It turns out he has been keeping an eye on my doings, and has obviously read all my reports with a keen eye. I sense quickly that he is not one for mincing words, or for games, and that he prefers the iron of truth to the silver tongue of flattery. I try not to make him too aware of my commoners ways.

He tells me that my work has been more than satisfactory. Surprisingly, he says I am to be promoted, to an equal footing with my former mistress Ostara. But rather than having a specific city to be Inquisitor of, I am to have a special remit: To investigate and combat necromantic dealings in all of Nordland, and above all, to keep the Chalice safe.

He tells me not to focus on the dealings of Malice at Wreckers point for now, but rather to make sure to root out the recent Khorne cult we have discovered. He also advices me to keep a keen eye on Eldur’s development, as he is distrustful of what might happen. I promise not to disappoint his trust in me.

He also shares some insight into our investigation. It turns out that this “Valkia” was a famed Norscan chieftess some hundres of years ago, who was so notorious in her violent ways, that Khorne supposedly took a personal interest, and elevated her to a greater daemon upon death, as a sort of consort.

He also tells me that Suth is an aspect of Khorne, a more subtle, shadowy form.

Can this prophecy speak of the rebirth of that bloody daemon into our world?

After my meeting with Zeuss, the group adjourns to discuss our paths forward. We all agree, after Torgil points it out,  that if we are facing daemonic forces, we will need enchanted weaponry of some sort. We also agree to keep gathering information, and stay on Fÿgmundir, to see if he leads us to more of his cursed kin.

That evening, we follow him from his home. He does not go to the Drowned rat, but rather to a hidden doorway into what seems like a cave network. After a while, we open the door discreetly, and follow inside, trying to be as stealthy as possible.

Long halls lit by solitary torches in sconces lead far into the rock. Finally, we come upon a large chamber, possibly natural, but expanded by mining, lit by torches. In it, a group of ten people seem to be having a sort of dark mass. They all look like warrior people, akin to Fÿgmundir. We see a soldier, a guard seargant and several others – among them Leo, the ogre-slayer. They all brandish weapons like it’s a part of a ceremony. We have found a whole cult of Khorne, hidden in the middle of the city! A cowled, shadowy figure leads the ceremony. We consider attacking them, but soon come to realise that ten seasoned warriors would be bad odds for us, so we observe and learn instead. Later, we can take them one at a time, when they are weaker.

The ”priest” (I shudder to call a leader of a chaos cult by that honorific) shouts a darkly prophetic stanza at the height of their ceremony, which brings chills to my bones:
"In the womb of the north, a child shall be born,

With hair of fire and eyes of wrath,

Her cries shall echo like a war-horn’s sound,

The Blood God's mark upon her path.

 

Beneath the gaze of a blood-red moon,

Her youth will pass in shadows deep,

But as she grows, the earth shall swoon,

For Valkia's spirit wakes from sleep.

 

On the eve of her blooded age,

The winds of war shall stir and howl,

Her heart shall burn with ancient rage,

And empires tremble at her scowl.

 

The day she spills her first true blood,

The world will feel the Gorequeen’s might,

From innocent hands, a spear shall bud,

Her ascent to power in Khorne’s sight."

 

Clearly, they are conspiring to bring about Valkia’s return, and the girl seen at the beheading of Harold seems to be at the centre of it all. The “priest” urges them all to protect the child. We must find her, and bring about the end of this malign prophecy, or ruin may befall all of Nordland!

After completing the ceremony, the assembly leaves back the way Fÿgmundir came in, all apart from the cult leader, who departs a different route. We make sure to stay out of sight in a side passage, and enter the altar cave once they are gone.

In the cavern is an altar to Khorne, with the usual bloodied skulls, and a statuette of a cloaked figure. And inscription reads:

“The Red Child rises... Our Lord of Shadow feeds the fire within her.

Through Suth, the blood will flow. Valkia's time approaches.”

This does not bode well.

We trace the cult leader’s footsteps to a different exit from the cave system. This one is in the heart of the noble quarter of Salzenmund. The heart is darkened, a blood-red dawn approaches as we turn towards home.