Warhammer Fantasy:Steel and gunpowder

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Sommerzeit 9th ,2488 IC

"So… are you certain that every trace of that monstrosity was burned? Because if not…"The witch hunter slammed the table."THAT WOULD BE HERESY! TREASON! AN OFFENSE AGAINST DEUS SIGMAR!"

I didn't flinch. At first, simply having one of them in front of me—with his feared amulet, his gaze like knives, and the threat of a purge behind every word—had pushed me to the edge of losing composure.But now, I was calm.

"As I said, faithful servant of Sigmar… in my duty as a noble of the Empire and representative of the moral and spiritual values that Deus Sigmar bestowed upon his children, I made sure the mutant threat was eradicated.My men, steadfast in their faith, destroyed every one of those abominations, cleansing our forests of their unholy presence. For days, we hunted and destroyed their lairs.Everything was burned. Every body, every trace… For the glory of Deus Sigmar. For the glory of the Empire."

The witch hunter stared at me in silence. He didn't blink.Without warning, his hand slammed the table again."BUT NOBODY TOUCHED THOSE HERETICAL WEAPONS… DID THEY?!"

"No one," I answered firmly. "I personally ordered that everything be incinerated the moment the battle ended. Not a single soldier, not a single servant dared touch anything.The local priest blessed the ground, recited the proper litanies, and oversaw the entire process.He inspected everything. Even the men, to ensure they bore no corruption."

I saw the witch hunter smirk faintly. But it wasn't relief.It was the smirk of a man who thinks he's found a crack.

"Ah… but young baron, you'll understand that I find it suspicious you know… with such precision… the procedures of our order regarding corrupt objects. How do you know all that?"

I paused for a moment, keeping my gaze steady.

"The writings of our Lord Magnus the Pious make it clear. When he defeated the Champion of Chaos, he ordered that every sword, armor piece, or corrupted relic be purified with fire and litanies.I read that in my youth. I followed it, as any loyal son of the Empire is taught to."

The witch hunter narrowed his eyes. He murmured something in a low, judging tone—barely audible.Then he lifted his amulet—that symbol of faith which had sealed so many fates—and brought it close to me.

I felt a faint tingling. A slight sting, like static electricity brushing against my skin.But nothing happened.

The silence stretched for a second.The hunter lowered the amulet without breaking eye contact.

"You understand, baron… burning a beastmen altar is not without consequence. The putrid magic they try to channel—when released—seeps into the ground.It clings to stone. It could have cursed the entire forest, turned your own men into prey for that corruption.You were lucky a member of the clergy was present. Otherwise…"

He paused deliberately, as if waiting for a reaction.

But I had fully regained my composure.And I smiled.

"With all due respect, the altar was burned only after the priest arrived. Not before.He himself performed the ritual, recited the proper litanies, and only then used consecrated fire.He was meticulous, as dictated by the Cult's codices."

I took a breath."And yes, it drew the attention of the beastmen. Quite effectively. My vassals used to kill around two hundred a year, as my father did.This week, under my command… over three thousand fell."

I bowed my head slightly in respectful gesture."And our casualties can be counted on bot hands. A great victory for Sigmar… and for his eternal Empire."

"Seems I received poor information…Many of your men couldn't agree whether you burned the totem before or after killing the wargor," said the witch hunter at last, his eyes still locked onto mine.

Then he lowered the amulet and sighed.

"My apologies for the ordeal, young baron. But it's protocol.One doesn't come across a wargor in corrupted armor every day. I had to ensure everything was handled properly."

I nodded slowly, without lowering my gaze.

"I understand. And I appreciate your zeal, servant of Sigmar.After all, we all serve the same god… and fight for the same Empire."

The witch hunter didn't respond. He simply put away his amulet, adjusted his coat firmly, and said"Your valiant act will be reported to the Cult."

He left without another word.

I waited a few seconds, motionless, listening to the sound of his boots echoing off the stone—until the last step faded completely.

Only then did I release the breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"Phew… that was close…Damn it… who would've thought they'd bring in the witch hunters just because of the Khorne symbols on the armor…"I muttered to myself, brushing my chest, feeling the amulet still pulsing gently beneath my clothes.

"Damn elf… But I'll admit, he makes good amulets," I grumbled, adjusting the collar of my shirt."If it could fool a witch hunter who looked like a veteran, then I'm safer than I thought.Maybe I was just being paranoid…"

I stepped out of the ruins we were using as a camp.

They seemed to be remnants of some walled settlement—likely an imperial outpost or a small fort abandoned years ago.Some structures still stood: old moss-covered stone walls, the remains of a fallen tower,and a couple of barely-standing houses.But it was enough for our needs—a solid base of operations.

The most interesting thing was that the beastmen no longer needed to be hunted.They came to us.

It seemed the death of the wargor and the burning of the totem drew their attention like flies to a corpse.All I had to do was return to the main camp, bring in more men from the regiment, reinforce the pikes… and wait.

And there they were.Blinded by fury, charging our lines like diseased cattle.

Thanks to my magical sensitivity, I could detect the iron they carried: their axes, machetes, improvised armor. That vibration revealed their position before they even got close enough to shout. We were always prepared. Always in the right place. Always with the pikes ready.

And so, one by one, we took them down.

Rudolf was ecstatic with the outcome of this campaign. My father used to hunt between two and three hundred beastmen a year—barely enough to keep their numbers low. But what we were doing was a massacre. If we continued at this pace, I might actually wipe them out completely from my woods.

Of course, if everything kept going as well as it had so far.

The hardest battle, without a doubt, was the wargor, or when an entire herd—about three hundred beasts—crashed into our forces. That day I lost seven men.

Considering that in the previous two days I had only lost two, it was a high number.

But it was still a bargain: realistic, brutal, and necessary training for my men, without needing to plan costly skirmishes. As long as I was nearby, I could anticipate ambushes and manipulate the terrain to favor our positions.

But I couldn't afford to lower my guard.

The margrave was surely paying attention. And as much as I loved cleansing my lands of Chaos, I couldn't leave a thousand men patrolling the woods when a direct attack on my castle—which was not exactly a fortress—could end everything.

It was time to return.

The interrogations with the witch hunters ended without incident, and we began the journey back.

The first thing I did upon arrival was hand over the bodies of the fallen to the Cult of Morr. I wanted them to have a proper funeral rite, more elaborate than a simple litany and a few coins on the eyes. I requested a public ceremony, so that their families could say goodbye to those who fought and died under my command.

As the procession was prepared, a bitter sense of guilt crept over me.

Not because of the number of dead—nine soldiers wasn't a tragedy in strategic terms—but because of what it meant.

I was used to being sent to die. Not to being the one giving the orders that led others to it.

I still thought like a soldier. And empathy weighed on me more than it should.

I didn't go personally to deliver the news. I have neither the patience nor the words to speak with a widow, or a father broken by loss. But I gave a clear order: that their closest comrades deliver the message, and that they leave more than just words of comfort.

For each of my fallen men, I promised to continue paying their full salary for fifteen years. Or until one of their descendants was old enough to work. Then, that pay would go to him… if he chose to serve under my banner.

When a stranger dies with a sword in hand, the world keeps turning. Maybe someone remembers him in another city, or a woman curses him for not returning. But here, in my lands, when a man recruited from a village under my protection dies…

Part of his home dies too.

They were fathers, older brothers, only sons. People who brought bread to the table. I could not—would not—allow a single order of mine to condemn an entire family to misery.

I stayed until the end of the rite.

I watched in silence as the priests of Morr chanted their litanies and blessed the bodies solemnly. Each name was spoken aloud. And when the incense smoke began to fade, I withdrew quietly.

The day went on as usual.

I walked through the site where the blast furnace was being built. Each day taller, each day closer to completion. The structure of brick and stone was starting to take shape.

Then I visited the new housing area.

The first homes were already finished, and I wanted to be there when their new owners crossed the threshold. The handovers didn't go as initially planned. I didn't distribute the homes by origin or province. No. I chose to mix them. People from Reikland, Talabecland, Wissenland, and Nordland living door to door. Forcing integration that I knew would be uncomfortable at first… but necessary.

There were already enough dividing lines in the Empire. I wasn't going to allow more in my lands.

I saw the blacksmiths in their forges, sweating between flames and steel, and the soap makers keeping their production steady.

None of them knew that, just a few days away, we had wiped out a horde of Chaos.

That the blood of beasts still stained roots in the forest.

But that was fine. Ignorance, in this case, was a blessing.

The town carried on with its life.

Children laughed, markets were set up, and minor cultural conflicts continued as if nothing had happened. As if everything remained the same. And that was exactly what I sought.

As I prepared to return to the castle and begin pigment production—I needed funds, and a lot of them—I already had in mind which judges to send gifts to, what names I needed to memorize, and whom to buy off.

But as I reached the foot of the hill, I found a large trade caravan blocking nearly the entire ascent. Wagons, pack animals, servants, merchants… it looked like a damn fair set up right outside my home.

With my men, we simply skirted around them from the flank, ignoring their protests, until an older man stepped forward from the group and tried to get my attention.

"My lord…"

"Tomorrow," I said, without stopping.

"I am your grandfather, the father of—"

"I know. My answer is the same: tomorrow," I said, without even turning around.

The old man tried to follow, insistent, but my guards lowered their spears, blocking his path with the same professionalism they had shown against any beastman they'd faced in recent days.

When the castle gates finally opened, I passed through without looking back and went straight to the upper levels.

I had a mage who needed my mind… and a formula that demanded perfection.

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If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know.

Leave a comment; support is always appreciated.

I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see.

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