View source for The tale of Ulman

The mist was a biting cold thing, little shards of ice hovering in the air, waiting eagerly to prick the flesh of the poor traveller seeking to traverse it.  Ulman cursed, and wrapped his scarf tighter around his face, as his horse pounded across the packed earth.  This was unfamiliar country, rocky and rough, likely infested with bandits. 

Ulman stopped his steed, and peered out from behind his hood and scarf to get his bearings.  He hated this Brettonian countryside, devoid of rivers and trees.  If he was lucky, it was but a few days' ride until he could reach the foothills, and then but a few days more to the coast.  From Marienburg he could easily charter a ship, and when the Emperor heard the grim tidings he carried, he'd be rewarded for all this cold and misery. 

Ulman fingered the pouch at his side.  If its contents were true, the realm itself was in untold danger.  These were not common Brettonian criminals he carried word of - they claimed an ancient lineage, a history and tradition long forgotten by the centuries of Bewegsleben.  Ulman struggled to remember his lessons, his history - if what he remembered was correct, it had been almost eight hundred years since this brotherhood had last been in power, but how could that be true?  How could such a cult survive under the harsh judgement of Divine Sigmar?  Ulman cursed again, frustrated at his feeble memory.   His failure at book-learning was why he had taken up the ways of the Outrider, but he yearned to be as knowledgeable as his brother Rolf.  No doubt Rolf was studying at the University of Aldtorf at this very moment, snug in a warm library, poring over ancient ledgers.  

Thought of Altdorf, home, cheered Ulman and he urged his mount forward again.  Yes, this was the way!  In no time at all, Ulman would have his message delivered, and hot cider in his belly!  The sounds and smells of the city, that's what he wanted.  The clomping of horses, the battle-cries of Brettonian bandits... 

UIman's mind snapped back to his surroundings, but too late - he glanced left to see a huge black destrier bearing down on him.  Atop it was a grim-faced and howling man carrying a cruelly barbed demilance and bracing for the charge.  Cursing his distracted mind, Ulman jerked tightly on the reins.  His mount whinned and reared, stumbling on the rocky ground, but the sudden movement put Ulman himself out of the path of the lance, which drove instead into his horse with a sickening crunch.  Ulman was thrown clear of the dying animal, landing face down in the hated Brettonian rocky soil. 

The horse's screams echoed across the bare moor, and atop them Ulman could hear the approach of more horses.  He rolled himself face-up, to see the lancer who had assaulted him looking down from atop that black beast, unlimbering a huge morning-star. 

"The secret you carry at your side, Ulman von Rechlinghaus, is not free."  The knight spoke in that lilting Brettonian tongue, which Ulman had never quite mastered.  "I am afraid you are remiss on its payment."  The morning-star whistled as it sailed through the air, arcing towards Ulman with brutal inevitability. 

Ulmann rolled, the spiked head of the weapon burying itself in the dirt next to him.  He scrambled for his feet, hastily drawing his sword.  "I have a duty to my Emperor and my people, traitor," he spat back in thick Altdorf Reikspiel.  He lunged at the man's horse, swinging his sword in a wide arc.  The point barely grazed the great destrier, but it was enough.  The animal balked and screamed, rearing backwards and unhorsing his attacker. 

Cursing, the man rose, mud clinging to his black ringmail.  Ulman pressed his attack, bearing his blade downward in a two-handed strike, but with uncanny speed, the Brettonian spun out of the way, whipping his morning-star around as he went.  Ulric barely managed to duck the duck the blow by lunging forward. 

"You believe you are stronger than me, Reiklander?  I have Seen.  Her wrath compels my very limbs, and you believe yourself my equal?"  The man lashed a kick at Ulman's sword-hand, and Ulman cried out as the boot crushed his hand with the force of a warhorse's kick. 

Ulric gasped for breath, reaching for his dirk.

"Your debt will be paid, Reiklander.  In time, so will your tyrant's."  The man swung his vicious weapon around his head, and down.

The cold air, the biting bitter cold, rushed to meet Ulman's face, propelled by a wall of spiked steel.