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| Durant's Yellow Jackets |
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| Episode Three: On the Shores of the Dark Land |
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| Part One of Two “I don’t understand. Why-” “You don’t need to understand, Wilhelm, you need to follow orders,” Captain Durant said bluntly. He fastened the final strap on his breast plate, and moved over to the gilt-edged cabinet on the other side of the room. “If you listened more, took your time and paid more attention, maybe you’d understand.” Durant turned the key and pulled open both doors of the cabinet. Inside was a collection of duelling pistols, each one as a work of art. Durant selected his two favourite pistols and closed the cabinet. “I just don’t see why Arbach can’t get these trinkets himself. He’s got the money, that’s for sure. And those transportation coins.” “And in case you haven’t noticed, Arbach’s not much of a fighter. And with the kind of money he has, he doesn’t need to do things for himself.” Durant was losing his patience. He tucked one pistol into the holster round his waist, and secured the other one by his shoulder. As always, his prized yellow jacket was the finishing touch to his outfit. Unfortunately, the bold yellow had been stained with mud and soot, a common hazard in Marienburg’s roughshod streets. Yet this time Durant had ordered all of his men to do the same. From Arbach’s description, somehow a bright yellow jacket would be rather dangerous on their next mission. Durant hefted his pack and looked at his son. “Come on Wilhelm, the men are waiting for us.” The Yellow Jackets were assembled in the backroom of The Flying Pig. Despite their proximity to so much beer and ale, Karl Ulrich and Torval Talbrecht had seen to it that none of the dozen mercenaries had partaken in those luxuries. Durant flung the door open, and greeted Karl and Torval with hearty slaps on the back. “Where is it this time cap’n?” asked Heinz Verhoffen. The marksman sat on a table, his handgun cradled lovingly in his lap. “Well, I could tell you Heinz, but I don’t think you’d like it.” “As long as it’s not sand, I don’t care.” “Oh, no sand, you don’t have to worry about that. In fact, there’s not much of anything where we’re going.” Durant exhaled dramatically. “Except, of course, a whole population of cut-throat murderers who’ d sooner butcher their own children than stab you in the back.” The faces of the Yellow Jackets darkened, as Durant drew out the coin of transportation. “But you know, if we make it back with this cloak that Arbach wants, he’s promised enough gold to buy you a new gun. Maybe even one of those Hochland long rifles you’re always talking about. And Heinz, just remember, ‘Bigger the danger -” “Bigger the reward,” finished Heinz. The Yellow Jackets formed a tight circle around their captain. “Then let’s make sure we get the reward.” A flash of light, and the tavern’s back room was empty. The first thing that struck Durant was the darkness. And it wasn’t just the sky, which was the colour of pitch and devoid of stars, but the very earth they stood on. Craggy rocks were the colour of midnight, and stretched away in all directions. Once the disorientation of the magical transport had subsided, Durant’s military brain took over. “Spread out, and keep low,” he barked. “We don’t know if someone saw us.” The mercenaries crouched quickly, and scampered around the black rocks, looking for any place which offered at least a modicum of cover. Karl crouched low near his captain, while Heinz kept his eyes scanning the landscape for any sign of movement. Durant also looked around furtively, trying to establish where Arbach’s coin had deposited them. To his left he saw an impassable line of snow-capped mountains. To his right, the dark mass of the ocean. Far in the distance ahead of him, the twinkling lights of a vast city, a place he would never wish to set foot inside. Har Ganeth, city of executions, one of the fortified bastions of the Druchii - cursed Dark Elves. Naggaroth was a place of nightmares, one of the few places whose very name could inspire fear in the stoutest of hearts. Durant had seen his share of death, fought monsters both human and non- human, but even he had baulked at the idea of going to the Land of Chill. At first he had flatly refused Arbach’s mission, and had been on the verge of walking out, but Arbach had quickly reminded him of the consequences should he ever fail to take on the mission. The normally tight-fisted Arbach had offered to double his usual reward - ‘danger pay’ he had called it - and with little other choice, Durant had agreed. At least, thought Durant, the coins seemed to be working properly. Scant consolation for a group of fourteen humans in a land where the darkness of the rocks was eclipsed by the darkness in the Druchii’s hearts. Nevertheless, Durant had been told that a valuable artefact - Arbach had used the word ‘priceless’ - was to be found in a fortress outpost to the south of Har Ganeth. And it was up to the Yellow Jackets to retrieve it. “There,” said Heinz, pointing away to his left at a small fortress. “How many in the garrison?” Durant’s eyes located the structure, four towers topped with wickedly sharp spikes. Metal spears adorned the battlements. He sucked in a pensive breath. Even the air felt bitter and dark. “Arbach didn’t have that information. What would you say Karl, one hundred?” “Yeah, that sounds about right for a fort that size. Shouldn’t be a problem, one hundred against fourteen. All those crossbows pointed at us. No worries cap’n.” Durant exchanged grim smiles with Karl, then surveyed the ground between them and the outpost. Even if by some miracle they managed to get inside and even if the garrison didn’t kill them immediately, with a spell or a winged messenger, an army from Har Ganeth could be on them in a matter of minutes. He had heard tales of Dark Elves in battle, and their viciousness and cruelly made him shiver. “Looks like we’re going to have to be very quiet,” said Durant finally. “And very creative.” “Wilhelm kept himself alert, one pistol cocked and the other ready in front of him. He could hear the whispered exchanges between his father and the others behind him, but most of the words were lost on the wind. He longed to join in, to know why they had come, and indeed, where they were. He had thought the endless dust and sand in Araby were dull, but, at least they were warm. Wherever they had been transported to this time was as cold as a mountain top. “Hey,” whispered Wilhelm, without looking who was next to him. He kept his eyes on the barren rocks in front of him. “Hey, where are we?” “Be quiet Wilhelm,” came Jakob’s voice. “Stay alert.” Wilhelm sighed. Jakob had taken a distinctive disliking to him, and he couldn’t fathom why. “Are we in the Norse lands?” he ventured. “Shh!” Wilhelm fell silent for a moment. “This ain’t the Norse lands,” came another voice. It sounded unfamiliar, so Wilhelm was drawn to glance to his side. It was Jorik, a gruff redhead from Talabheim. “I’ve been there and they ain’t this cold.” “Then where are we?” “Well, young Durant, you ever heard of the Land of Chill?” “No, we wouldn’t go there,” said Jakob, unable to resist joining in the conversation. “What’s the Land of Chill?” asked Wilhelm, looking at Jorik’s scarred face. “Better known as Naggaroth,” hissed Jorik. As Wilhelm’s face dropped, a bolt of lightning flashed in the mountains behind them, the opening salvo of an approaching storm. “Hush!” whispered Jakob. “Breathing that name is a fell omen.” “Oh you and your ‘fell omens,’ I mean really Jakob,” said Wilhelm. “How do you know it’s Naggaroth?” The lightning flashed again, and this bolt was accompanied by a few spots of rain, which soon turned into an outright downpour. “See, look what you’ve done,” said Jakob. “Just be quiet.” Wilhelm opened his mouth to reply, but he caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. Swivelling his head, which had been poised to deliver a biting insult to Jakob, he found himself staring into the cold, cruel eyes of a Dark Elf scout. With preternatural quickness, the scout raised his left hand, which to Wilhelm’s surprise, held a crossbow pistol. Wilhelm’s eyes widened as he stared down the length of the bolt, up the elf’s arm and into those eyes, eager for bloodshed. Wilhelm raised his pistol, hoping he could get off a shot before his foe - an unlikely event considering the reflexes of an elf. Suddenly, the elf’s head exploded in a shower of blood and shattering bone. As the now lifeless body slumped to the ground, the crossbow pistol released its bolt, burying five inches of steel in the rock a whisker away from Wilhelm’s head. Wilhelm remained frozen for a long moment, until another shape entered his vision. He reacted more quickly this time, raising his pistol to aim at this new foe. “Some way to thank me,” said Heinz, whose familiar face slowly became clearer in Wilhelm’s eyes. He noted that Heinz held his handgun raised, a line of white smoke billowing from the muzzle. “Damn it Heinz, where did he come from?” Wilhelm lowered his pistol and accepted Heinz’s outstretched hand. “Maybe if you’d been alert and quiet, not blathering to your comrades, then you might have seen him. You’re lucky he didn’t put that crossbow bolt through your thick skull.” “Um, yeah, sorry Heinz,” mumbled Wilhelm. His heart was still racing, and he knelt down to inspect the bolt which could have ended his life. “For Sigmar’s sake,” bellowed Karl. “Don’t touch it. Most likely it’s poisoned.” Wilhelm withdrew his hand and stood up. He saw his father walk past him. Durant barely acknowledged Wilhelm’s presence. Karl joined Durant as they went to inspect the elf’s body. “Do you think they heard the shot?” asked Karl. Durant shook his head. “With the storm, I doubt it. But there definitely going to miss one of their scouts.” Durant crouched beside the body, averting his eyes from the blood splattered mess atop its neck. The driving rain had already washed the blood into cracks in the black rock, but the sight was still stomach-turning. Durant concentrated on rifling through the scout’s pockets, looking for something to aid their mission. He discarded a string of bolts, together with a small pot. Judging from the foul smell, Durant decided it must be poison. A few silver coins which he pocketed, a couple of scrolls and around the scout’s neck, a jewelled medallion. He ripped it from the dead elf, and inspected it. It had the same warmth in his hands as Arbach’s coins. “It’s magical isn’t it?” said Karl, wiping the rain from his forehead. He could feel the rain trickling down beneath his eye patch, and cursed Arbach once again. Durant nodded as he turned the medallion over and over in his hands. He saw two Elven characters carved into the smoothed face of the largest jewel. He recognised them: Melbeth. ‘Aid.’ At first he thought it was a healing stone, commonly used by the fair elves of Loren. Then he stopped, and remembered this was not a fair elf. “It’s to summon help,” said Durant quietly. “How do you know for sir?” asked Karl. “The word for ‘Aid’ is carved into it.” Karl looked at his captain blankly. “Karl, these scouts, they most likely stay some distance from their base. And if they find something, they’d want to contact their comrades, right?” “Sure, but why not just use a horn or something?” “Think about it Karl. You’ve heard this storm, loud enough to drown out a gunshot. And plus these Dark Elves, they’re fond of sneaking around. Magic is more their style.” Durant gave Karl a moment to absorb the information. An idea was already forming in his brain. “I think this dead elf is going to give us a way into the outpost. And might even make the odds a bit more in our favour. Fifty against fourteen would be a fairer fight, don’t you think?” Durant smiled, and proceeded to explain his plan. |
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| Part Two |
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