Chapter One: In Which Tragedy Strikes

Beastmen brayed in their hundreds, roaring in triumph as they devoured their kill. The smaller ungors, goat headed abominations of man, consumed the least, leaving the best pickings to the larger gors. The slain peasants were being consumed, blood flowing freely as the twisted parodies of men gorged on the fallen. Thatched roofs and cheaply made wooden walls burnt in the night.

The charge of the ungors had gone well. They had overrun the petty defenses of the small village quickly. Small knots of men-at-arms were slaughtered where they stood, the beastmen hacking them down with a savage joy. A group of archers had managed a last ditch defense though. They rained steel-tipped death down on the beastmen, killing scores with each volley. Even with this pace, it was impossible for the defenders to claim victory. For every ungor killed, ten charged to take its place. Soon all the defenders had been slain. Every peasant in the village was gathered up and killed for the glory of the Chaos gods. With the slaying done, the beastmen turned to eating their foes.

All was not lost though. With his last breath, a dying archer lit a signal fire. Soon, a regiment of the Knights of the Realm backed by two regiments of Knights Errant arrived on the outskirts of the village. The veteran Knights of the Realm, recognized the beastmen’s savagery in the burnt farmsteads and sacrificed farm animals. The village proper came into view after the group crested a hill. The sight they saw turned stomachs and made blood chill in the noble knights’ veins. It was a senseless slaughter, one that would be avenged.

The Bretonnian soldiers lined up in ranks. The unwashed peasant masses formed their battle lines, greasy hands clutching halberds shakingly. Behind them stood the archers. Though thought little of and cowardly by the knights, the noble warriors knew their steel rain would be important. As the line was made, yeoman shouted orders and ensured the low-born militia would stand its ground. Or, at least as long as the nobles needed them too.

The beastmen were still lounging in an orgy of blood and bodies when the peasants fired their bows. Arrows arced high into the air, hidden from view by the sun. Soon, their arc took them to the center of town where they slew dozens of the foul mutants. Braying in surprise and panic, the ungors seemed ready to break. However, the stern glare and menacing howls of the gors kept them in line. In moments the beasts had readied themselves and found the source of the attack.

With their loping strides, the beastmen charged towards the archers. Again and again the archers fired, killing or wounding many of the beasts. Finally, when the gors were getting too close, the archers withdrew, allowing the men-at-arms to stand in front.

The gors roared in fury and charged at the regiments of men-at-arms, running into a wall of halberds and being cut to pieces on the blades. Many made it through though, and the slaughter began in earnest. Muscular, cloven bodies with ram heads cut down the men-at-arms, bestial fury more than a match for fragile, malnourished militia. The slaughter was wearing the men-at-arms down and soon a retreat was sounded. A sound that could’ve been laughter followed the fleeing men as the beastmen followed them, cutting down those too slow or injured to flee. It was going to be another great victory for them and their gods.

After the men-at-arms had fled, their less than honorable souls bringing them no shame in the retreat. Many of them fell in combat with the beastmen before the retreat began, but that mattered little. There would be more to take their place when it was all over, and besides, the plan had worked.

The beastmen had massed near the top of the hill, readying themselves to charge into what they thought was the fleeing men-at-arms. Instead of the cowardly and ill-equipped men they had fought before, they were met with a wall of Bretonnian nobility.

Knights Errant charged from the top of the hill, smashing into beastmen like lightning. Their impetus was not lost after the initial contact, sending the eager knights straight through the mutants and to the other side. Their weapons and armor were slick with gore as they wheeled around for another strike. This second charge was helped by the more experienced knights of the Realm. The older and wiser knights smashed into the side of the regiments, hacking and slashing them to pieces. Hundreds of the foul beasts fell to the onslaught, shining Bretonnian death flashing in their midst as they killed their foe.

As the knights errant waded into combat once more, one knight stood out. He was the cavalier of the regiment, champion of his comrades. His long, rune etched sword flashed like blue lighting as he slaughtered the mutants with an almost casual ease. Dozens fell to his blade, several were run through with his lance, and many had been crushed under his horse’s mighty hooves. He killed for honor and for Bretonnia, and his name was Cecil Falkner.

The leader of the beastmen, a mighty minotaur, saw the carnage being inflicted by Cecil. Though the beast knew nothing of tactics or the subtlety of war, he knew that this armored knight had to fall. With a roar of challenge that parted the gors in front of him, he charged at the knight. As he got close, Cecil’s attention was elsewhere, parrying a blow with his sword. The minotaur, known among the now deceased peasants as Daemonbull, rammed Cecil’s steed and threw him from it.

Instead of the sluggish response Deamonbull expected from a man so armored, he was met with Cecil’s lightning reflexes. In only a heartbeat Cecil was back on his feet, sword slashing through beastmen as he searched for the minotaur that had attacked him in so dishonorable a manner. Deamonbull roared again and caught Cecil’s attention. He whipped around and the massive minotaur charged.

Deamonbull’s horns passed by a hair’s breadth of Cecil’s armor, catching on his tunic and tearing it from his body. The breastplate underneath was exposed, revealing potent runes of defense and protection. Again it charged, this time his ax held high as he ran at his foe. Deamonbull brought the ax down in a brutal slash, the massive blade being driven by his inhuman might. Cecil brought his sword up in a flash, catching the ax along its length. Instead of the blade snapping like a twig it held firm. The blow had dislocated his shoulder and staggering pain made lights dance in front of his eyes, but he held his ground. Under his breath he cursed the minotaur and readied himself to strike back.

With a flash of movement that couldn’t be followed by the beast’s eye, whipped his sword at the beast. The clumsy minotaur brought his ax up in time, but the thick wood sheared under the blade. The haft fell in two pieces as Deamonbull fell to his knees. A river of blood flowed from the chest of the beast and out from his claws as he tried to stop it with his hands. Cecil pulled his helmet off and stood beside the dying minotaur.

Deamonbull knew he was dying. The man-thing had a cursed blade and the wound wouldn’t stop bleeding. It was so small an injury, yet it seemed to drain him of his strength. The man-thing stood at Deamonbull’s side and said something in it’s strange, flowery language. He roared out a challenge as the last of his breath poured from his snout.

“Die knowing that Cecil Falkner cut you down like the filth you are.” Cecil said as he brought his blade up. With a casual flick of his wounded arm, he decapitated the minotaur, the eldritch blade carving easily through its neck. Only after the foe had been killed did he snap his shoulder back into place, grunting with pain as the stars reappeared.

As he mounted his injured horse to once again to join the fray, he noticed that during his fight with the massive minotaur the rest of his regiment had slaughtered the other beastmen. Those that were not ridden down or shot with the peasants’ bows fled into the forests.

The Paladin that lead the group rode up to Cecil and lifted his helmet. His gnarled yet regal features spoke of hundreds of campaigns in the service of the Lady, goddess of Bretonnia, and he was a man to be respected.

“You’ve earned your title of Cavalier today young Cecil. You shouldn’t have taken on that minotaur on your own, but good job on slaying it. Such a beast is never easy to slay and I’ll see to it the chroniclers of Bretonnia add it to your standard. It won’t be long before you make it to knight of the realm, mark my words.” He said with a gravelly voice.

“Thank you my lord, I only wished to avenge the good people of this village. Though they be of low birth, they don’t deserve the horrible death caused by these… beasts.” Cecil replied.

The pair rode in silence until they rejoined their groups. Many patted Cecil on the shoulder and praised him for his prowess in combat. The rank of paladin was surely his before too long. He took this in stride, gently making his horse walk back towards the manor he and his family called home. It would be a long night’s ride before he made it back.