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| Durant's Yellow Jackets |
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| Episode One: In the Wilds of Sylvania |
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| Part One of Two Alm Durant had only seen a moon so foreboding once before. This time, however, he wasn’t a frightened child walking home from his grandparents’ home. The mercenary captain bore the scars of many battles, each one vividly recalled. Yet this moon was tinged with blood, a sight that brought a chill to the most stoic of hearts. Almost instinctively, Durant led his men through the shadows of the trees, keen to avoid the bloodied moonlight on the trail. He shuddered to think of what might be watching the trail for unwelcome guests. That he and his band were unwelcome was beyond question. A Marienburger born and bred, Durant was wary of the southern lands of the Empire. The province of Sylvania had always been a source of suspicion, more so since Sigmar’s Comet had devastated Mordheim. The evil in the land was easily seen, thought Durant, evident in the sinister howls and darkened sky. “Captain Durant,” the whispered voice of Heinz Verhoffen caught Durant’s attention. The keen-eyed marksman knelt beside his leader while the rest of the men dropped to a crouch. “What is it Heinz?” asked Durant, scanning the trail and the tree line for any obvious dangers. “About four hundred yards up on the left side of the trail. Looks like a post of some kind. Can’t make out the writing on it though.” Durant followed Heinz’s outstretched arm, and finally distinguished the post. He could see a piece of parchment attached to it, but it was impossible to read the writing. Durant pulled one of his pistols from his belt, cocking the trigger. “Heinz, come with me, the rest of you wait here,” said Durant, nodding to his second in command, Karl Ulrich. The bearded man barely blinked his one good eye, while caressing the heavy flail with his rough hands. Durant and Heinz began to move stealthily up the edge of the trail, the rest of the mercenaries watching with baited breath. With practised ease, Durant and Heinz took turns covering the trail with their firearms, while the other advanced. A few yards gained each time, the mercenaries were soon within a few dozen yards of the post. Close enough so that they could see it wasn’t parchment nailed to the timber. It was flayed human skin. Less seasoned men might have lost their breakfast at such a gruesome sight. Yet both Durant and Heinz had seen all kinds of sick torment inflicted upon men, and other creatures. The warning was daubed in blood. “Death awaits ye” was the simple message, distinguishable despite several dribbles of long dried blood. Durant and Heinz shared a grim look, then Durant motioned for the rest of the group to follow. Moments later Karl had come to crouch by his captain. His one good eye regarded the post and warning it bore with an eerie calm. “By Sigmar, I know death awaits me,” he said dismissively. He paused for effect. “When I’m a rich old man.” Even the younger mercenaries could summon a smile as Durant led them further on. A howl broke the eerie stillness and sent a shiver down Wilhelm Durant’s teenage spine. He cursed silently, knowing that his father would never allow such a weakness in his band. As soon as Wilhelm was old enough to speak, he’d talked of nothing else but joining his father. Not wishing to risk losing her only son, Wilhelm’s mother Helaine had pleaded with the youngster to remain with her in Marienburg. Her pleas had scarcely been considered. Alm Durant had seen many horrors in the world, and knew that keeping the boy locked at home would make him weak in spirit and in body. He refused to show favouritism, and Wilhelm received the same treatment and pay as his counterparts. The respect of the veteran members of the Yellow Jackets would have to be earned. As another howl reverberated inside Wilhelm’s skull, he gritted his teeth and let his hand caress the handle of his pistol. The familiar touch of the smooth wood was comforting. The elder marksman Heinz had taken the younger Durant under his wing, recognising great potential in the teenager. Heinz had taught him that a great marksman allows his weapon, whether pistol, handgun, bow or crossbow, to become a part of him. Wilhelm had done his utmost to follow this advice. Whatever was making that unnatural noise would feel the wrath of Sigmar’s fury should it come within pistol range. Wilhelm made a conscious effort to shut out the incessant howling, as the mercenaries advanced further into the night- blackened woods of Sylvania. Wilhelm quickened his pace to catch up with the youngest member of the group, Jakob Kleine. “Jakob,” Wilhelm whispered. “You seen anything like this place in Reikland?” The Reiklander cast a suspicious glance at the youth from Marienburg. Jakob respected Alm Durant, the man who’d recruited him a week before in Marienburg, but the captain’s son was a different matter. The Marienburger liked to talk too much, and was clearly used to the wealth he’d been brought up on. Jakob had lived hand to mouth for most of his pre-teen years, scavenging for food on the streets of Altdorf. If he’d not learnt how to wield a blade, he’d probably have been vermin fodder long ago. Slowly he’d worked his way out of the gutter, and now plied his trade as a young sell-sword. Upon the death of his previous captain, Jakob found himself on the Marienburg. He managed to impress Captain Durant enough to be accepted as a Yellow Jacket. It was a good group, save for the chattering of Wilhelm. “No Wilhelm,” Jakob responded finally. He often hoped that such half-hearted responses would dampen Wilhelm’s enthusiasm. He was often disappointed. “That’s what I thought,” Wilhelm continued. “Never seen anything like this forest in Marienburg either. Course, Marienburg is a city I suppose. Still-” Wilhelm caught a stern glance from Torval Talbrecht, one of the senior members of the group. Torval could usually convey more in gestures than in words, and proved himself adept at non-verbal communication once again. Wilhelm kept his comments to himself, caressing his pistol to ward off the trepidation in his heart. The moon, still tinged with blood, was soaring overhead. Durant and his Yellow Jackets pushed deeper into the forest. They had entered the north-eastern edge of the woods an hour before darkness fell. They knew it would be long hours before sunlight parted the shadows. And the unearthly howls continued to shadow their journey. The ruins came upon them seemingly from nowhere. One moment all around was dark, impenetrable forest, and the next, Heinz was signalling what could be their goal. Captain Durant had been fairly quiet on the objective of their mission in Sylvania, only Ulrich and Durant himself knew the true purpose in the haunted wilds of the southern province. Thus whenever something even slightly out of the ordinary appeared, the rest of the mercenaries expected some action. Despite the wolf howls that had followed their journey through the woods, and the gruesome warning written on human flesh, they had seen no living things for several hours. Even the youngest of the mercenaries didn’t expect to be allowed free access to all the interesting sights of Sylvania. The mysterious ruler Von Carstein would surely not allow such impudence. Torval and Jakob moved slowly into the clearing, cutting away the tangled webs and undergrowth that covered the decaying building. Heinz kept his hand gun trained on the clearing, waiting for any sign of danger. The rest of the group also prepared themselves. A few disturbed spiders scurried away into dark hiding places as Jakob uncovered a half-rotten doorframe, the door itself long since disintegrated. He carefully edged to the open doorway, and craned his neck inside. Jakob instinctively ducked as a rusted blade whistled towards his head. He almost simultaneously lunged with his own sword, trying to hit his attacker. Jakob felt a sickening scraping of metal on bone as his weapon found its mark. Responding to his comrade’s peril, Torval bounded through the entrance, his twin jewel-hilted swords poised for the attack. Meanwhile, Durant signalled for his mercenaries to push forward and offer their assistance. Inside the dimly lit ruins, Jakob and Torval fought dark shapes, roughly man-sized, but with an oddly ponderous gait. Their movements seemed several breaths slower than the average man. The stench of decayed flesh hung in the air. Zombies! Torval slashed left and right, severing rotten limbs from their undead owners. These wounds brought little acknowledgment from the zombies, who continued to press their lethargic but relentless assault. Jakob and Torval stood back to back in the dusky air of the building, fending off a seemingly endless supply of undead. Jakob shouted in pain as a rusty blade pierced his forearm, forcing him to drop his short sword. With a determined shout and an anger-fuelled swing of his other weapon, he removed his assailant’s putrefied head. The twice-lifeless corpse collapsed in an untidy heap at Jakob’s feet. In the brief respite Jakob looked at Torval, both men realising that they had been backed into a corner. Zombies crowded them from all angles, and the two mercenaries prepared themselves for the final assault. And earthy curse split the air, followed immediately by the sickening crunch of metal splintering bone. The zombie receiving this punishment was sent sprawling onto the floor. In its place, Torval and Jakob could see the imposing presence of Karl Ulrich, his flail already poised for another swing. Behind him followed Dieter Marck, dispatching a zombie with a well-placed halberd thrust. The rest of the Yellow Jackets stormed into the room. Within minutes, the zombie horde was little more than a few barely stirring slabs of necrotic flesh squirming on the floor. Alm Durant struck his flint on the wall, lighting an ensconced torch. The flickering light danced on the steel of the mercenaries’ weapons, and gave them a first proper glimpse of the building’s interior. The walls still bore the faded and flaking paint of an ancient mural. What that painting had been was difficult to judge, but there was no doubting the purpose of the building. A single altar stood against the far wall, a few yards from a heavy wooden door, resting slightly ajar. On the alter rested the bones of a small child, an ornate dagger placed reverently to one side. On the other side there was a golden goblet. A sacrificial altar, and the remains of the last victim. “Well,” breathed Durant, his eyes shadowed in the gloom. “Looks like we’ve found the right place.” Without a further word, the mercenaries followed their captain through the door, leaving the remains of their attackers to complete their descent into decay. |
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| Part Two |
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