THE WIDOW TRUDOT PART TWO

BATTONAGE

Click here to read Part One

2276 IC (Imperial Calendar)

A solemn fog falls on the Ghrineshalt valley as its foremost son is returned to the frozen earth

Anna Trudot stood stock still before the wide oak door of the great Chateau Trudot, pausing before the threshold into the grand yet faded household. A handful of months ago she had stood in much the same spot, though bound in place by different fears. Then it was because this was to be her new home, joining a husband she barely knew and taking charge of a vineyard possessed of withered crops and dried out soil. Her act of familial defiance had placed her in the lifeless husk of a long dead house. Though, if nothing else her new partner, Ponsard, had already inspired her with his ambition and his drive. During their meetings in Marienburg he had talked of his great plans, how he would reclaim the fine name of his family, and of the opportunity Anna would have to make it mean something once more amongst the merchants and traders, and then to the finer folk in turn. Anna knew well the obligations of family, her father was one of the most important vintners in the Empire, and she had been expected to follow in his footsteps, but she had designs on a grander future. One where she could create greatness rather than simply buy and sell it. And yet, her footsteps had failed her on that first day at the Tudot family home. It was only Ponsard’s gentle words that had enabled her to take the step over the boundary, the simple line that separated the clearly defined life of Anna Ausone from the unknown chaos that would surely come in the life of Anna Trudot. Just as she had conquered the threshold then, Anna would do so now. Having built up the courage she affixed the black notebook to the door of the house and silently stepped inside to prepare for the arrival of her guests. 

The Trudot Estate was far removed from the greater glories of an older age, but it still had the bones of a great house. The first mansion had been built some 200 years earlier by a Bretonnian refugee, Pierre Andaluc Chateaubriand de Trudot, who had fled the kingdom of the Royarch Louen Orc-Slayer. Locked in seemingly endless errantry war against the greenskins, the land no longer felt safe to Chateaubriand and with nothing but the clothes on his back and his family by his side he passed through the Gisoreux Gap and walked onwards to the Empire. 

But he was not about to trade one lord for another, no Chateaubriand wanted a home without the burden of an overbearing monarch or the endless politics of rival emperors and their adulants. That is why he chose the Ghrineshalt Valley, though it lay between the Kingdom of Bretonnia and the tumultuous Empire of Man it was at the further reaches of both, a land secluded and relatively safe. No place in the Old World was truly safe of course, given the monstrous tribes of beast, orc, and savage that occasionally spilled out of the mountains or the forests without, and the insidious threat of chaos worship and mutation that could erupt from within. Though with sheer mountain on two sides, and a river crossing a third, it seemed as safe a place as one might find in this war torn world; and Chateaubriand was willing to take the risk, desperate as he was to see no more battles in his lifetime. Yet it wasn’t just the relative security of the valley that appealed to him, it was the soil as well. The dirt of the Ghrineshalt Valley was well served by the clear waters running from the mountain springs amidst the Pale Sisters. Chateaubriand came from a family of vintners and he could recognise fertile land when he stood upon it, and he longed to work the soil in the peace and solitude that the valley seemed to offer. 

The house that Chateaubriand first built when he settled by the Ghrineshalt river still stood on the estate, overtaken by the brackish reeds along the bank. The far larger manor house was built sometime later, much further back from the river so as to avoid the worst of the pests that would harass one during the summer. After Chateaubriand’s wine became a sensation in the court of Eberhardt the Just, Reikland’s would be Emperor, it attained a prestige he hadn’t expected. Soon the court’s of Eberhadt’s rivals demanded the wine lest they be seen as less than the social circles of Altdorf. With the higher stratas of Imperial society conferring a seal of approval Chateaubriand found that many minor nobles, aspiring merchants, and social pretenders would pay handsomely to be seen with the right marque served at their table and his wine was sought after not just for its taste, but for prestige as well. Even the homeland he had forsaken had become enamoured of his produce, and in both the Empire and Bretonnia the name Trudot became a byword for wine, and craftsmanship, of enviable quality.

With the accolades and money that came from such success a grand home worthy of wine’s new great house was conceived. Chateaubriand himself was by then in his dotage, but his daughter Clarice had taken over the family seat and sought to use their new money to build a monument to her father. This chateau Trudot would honour the family’s Bretonnian roots through the use of Parravonian stone and a central tower designed to mimic the great castles of the dukedoms, but it would also embrace the life Chateaubriand had built in the Westerland as well. Like the mansion of their nearest neighbours, the family Sekt, the Trudot house would incorporate many high gables and open trussed great halls. Though it was a testament to the extraordinary success of her father’s career this was not merely a pleasure palace, it was also conceived as a working estate: there were numerous press and tasting rooms, a great cellar to age and store produce, housing for the many workers, and a great number of barns and outbuildings to house the herd of working animals it took to maintain the vast acreage that the family Trudot had by then acquired. 

And yet that house, grand though it was, would be embarrassed by the scale of the manor that subsequent generations of Trudot’s would go on to build. With every new head of the family came a new vision for the family pile, increasingly accompanied by constructions and cotillions, expansions and excess. New wings were affixed, floors added, ballrooms erected. And when the mansion began to encroach on the vineyards themselves there was considerable flapping and frustration. Percival Trudot, the 13th scion of the family, was a foppish fellow with little understanding of, or care for, the work that it took to run a vineyard. When Percival’s vigneron warned against building a new hall on some of the family’s finest and most fertile land he had the man flogged, fired, and sent to Marienburg in chains. The next attendant said nothing when Percival uprooted the best grapes in favour of a new sun terrace, and was treated no better than her predecessor when the year’s yield didn’t meet demand. 

Over the 60 years of Percival’s stewardship of the Trudot Estate the manor was completely restructured into a maze of party rooms and venues for increasingly elaborate galas and balls. The elegance of the house that Clarice had built to celebrate her father was smothered by the addendums and additions, but that was far from the only shift in the family fortune. By Percival’s time Trudot money flowed as freely as their wine, the family coffers and cellars were emptied in tandem, with lavish parties and expeditions mounted of every kind. In Percival’s later years the elite guests stopped attending his increasingly tired and unstimulating events. Rumour in the valley spread that he became steadily unmoored, so desperate was he for company in his once bustling ballrooms. The winemakers began describing him as ullaged and that he resembled the bottles of wine they were producing: full to the neck with a head left completely empty. Darker rumours of Percival’s latter years were debated a great deal at the time. Was it true that when his earth-bound invitations went unheeded he began seeking the company of otherworldly beings? It was never proven either way, but one thing was commonly agreed upon: Percival Chateaubriand Trudot had brought his birthright to the brink of bankruptcy and hastened the decline in the family’s fortune, and their wine.

By the time Ponsard became the steward of the Trudot estate there was little to show for the many lifetimes worth of wine making expertise that had been spent on the land. The enormous chateau retained its mismatched rooms and chaotically labyrinthe construction, but some of the more extravagant additions had already been torn down. Materials and furniture had been sold at considerable loss, and the many working rooms lay dormant now that the wine making operation was all but dead.

The valley that brought Chateaubriand his peace, that Clarice had honoured, that Perceival had squandered, and into which Ponsard was now returned, has a great many peculiar traditions for such a small stretch of land. Perhaps due to its position on the border between two great nations, its people had inherited much from each and yet still longed to distinguish themselves from both. Whether it came from one of their great neighbours or arose from more local custom, It has long been tradition in the valley for the bereaved to place a black cloth journal near the threshold into their home. The book is to act as an invitation quite unlike those that Percival Trudot so often dispatched. It is not an invitation to socialise or party, but for friends and neighbours to record their condolences, their thoughts, and their memories of those who have recently passed. Since Anna had placed the book that evening the guests at Ponsard’s funeral had left the book brimming with entries. He was a popular man liked by all who encountered him. Even his rivals respected him enough to lament his passing. Old academy friends left joking reminders of truances long past, local dignitaries wrote of Ponsard’s sage council and aristocratic bearing, even the Trudot family cook Haberdash had written the recipe to his favourite meal, goat pottage with dumplings. Amongst the finely written notes of regret composed by the great and the good of the valley there was scrawled at the bottom of the page a simple cross, as good as carved into the paper by a powerful, inelegant hand. It was the mark of Glug Haffkut, mercenary captain, ogre, and true friend to Ponsard who had made the journey to the Ghrineshalt to pay his final respects.

Haffkut, like most of the soldiers in L’Armee Trudot, had not known Ponsard long. Nor had he joined Ponsard’s army for reasons any more noble than the promise of coin and the taste of wine, but in the many battles they had fought together since that first handshake in the Pelican’s Perch, Ponsard had proven himself loyal, generous, and true. Testament to this was just how many of the mercenary captain’s in the former army of Trudot had taken time to attend his wake. A decision that was accompanied by a significant financial disincentive; every moment spent mourning the dead was a missed opportunity to secure a contract and fight in service of gold. 

The wide terrace at the front of the mansion was playing host to the many soldiers who had decamped to the estate in honour of their fallen general. A trio of veterans stood with the ogre trading was stories; Amelia Latchkey, a great sword whose tactical exploits were justly famous, the dwarf pirate Flinnt Barracrackk, former captain of the Seabeard and crack shot with a pistol, and the halfling Tamburlaine Tussock, whose archers had proven every bit as winsome as their leader. Even without the binding of a contract and a mission these soldiers of fortune had decided to continue working together, such was the spirit and unity of purpose with which Ponsard had imbued their mutual endeavour. As they each took turns regaling some of their favourite tales of the campaign they undertaken together the group felt that comrade stood with them still. For most of them it was their first time visiting the Chateau Trudot, and it had been far from a pleasant one, even besides the black purpose that had drawn them here. Ponsard’s society friends seemed quite at odds with the man they had come to know, and there had been considerable disquiet at their arrival. Though none of them had yet met Ponsard’s recently acquired wife they all seemed sure that she must be of a piece with the dry and maudlin goings on within the ballroom. For these warriors it did not honour Ponsard to be tight lipped and ashen faced, it was far better in keeping with the character of their former general to stand beneath the stars and tell and exchange rambunctious stories. As Glug said, whilst raising a jug of ale in memory of the fallen, “we remember our friends the same way we spent time with them - drunk or getting there!”

A gargantuan peel of laughter echoed from the terrace through the hall in which Ponsard Trudot’s wake was taking place. At the same moment the rotund figure of Gerhard Sekt had just begun his speech; interrupted by the unwelcome sound of mirth, he cleared his throat and continued, “As I was saying, I am Gerhard Sekt. Some may have considered Ponsard’s father, Micheal, and I to be rivals, after all between us we own more or less all of the land in the valley. I even dabble in the winemaking business as the Trudot’s once did.” Sekt continued after an unusually long pause, leaving to linger the implication that the Trudot family was now a thing of the past, “But no, we were not rivals, there was no competition. Michael and I were friends, just as my son Gundel was a great friend to Ponsard. And now Ponsard and Micheal have both left us behind. But I am here, and my son Gundel is here, and we will ensure that you, young Anna Trudot, have the support you need in this most difficult time”. A smattering of weak applause rippled across the congregation of the great and good from the local lands. Anna, after feeling an ice cold shiver down her spine when Sekt looked her dead in the eye during his speech, regarded this room of strangers with idle curiosity more than anything else. She knew that her husband was a fine man not wanting for people who loved him, but she didn’t believe that many of the people in this room had even met him, let alone considered him a friend. It was more likely, she thought, that they were each here on some personal chore. Whether that was to show face, make a favourable connection, or even just to ogle the faded glory of Percival Trudot’s infamous ‘communion ballroom’. Several attendees had paid their respects to her directly, with downcast eyes and mumbled apologies, but few knew what to say to a woman widowed so soon after her marriage.

One person Anna was disappointed not to see amongst the sorrowers was the Margrave of the Bittermoors, the man who had sent Ponsard on the fools errand that had gotten him killed. Ponsard’s keenest desire had been to restore the Trudot name to what he believed was its rightful place - a family name that evoked honour, respect, and that secured a position in society once again. A letter had arrived just a day ago offering only regret that the Margrave was too busy to attend in person. Instead he had dispatched an agent in his stead, an old friend of Ponsard’s by the name of Egor Deerheart who had been perfectly respectful and kind to Anna in their brief exchange. Ponsard had given his life to make the Trudot name impossible to ignore, and yet the Margrave had done just that.

Anna’s reverie was disturbed by the arrival at her side of Gerhard Sekt, his silent approach belaying his corpulence. “Anna, my good woman, I would like to introduce to you my son, Gundel”. With an awkward bow the young Sekt stepped forward to take Anna’s hand, at first raising it for a kiss, but then thinking better of it and limply letting go. With the same ill energy Gundel’s voice croaked, “how do you meet you?” before he realised his slip and corrected himself “my pleasure to meet with you”. His voice trailed off into silence as what little confidence he began with was used up syllable by syllable. Though fatigued by the events of the day and filled with a sudden disdain for every vacuous guest at the gathering Anna was graceful enough to thank Gundel for attending and was about to excuse herself when Gerhard stepped closer. “I would welcome an opportunity to speak with you privately Anna, I believe that the family Sekt can be of help to the house of Trudot given the gravity of current circumstance. There is a way for us all to move forward together”. Unimpressed by Sekt’s vulgar overture, Anna made move to leave the conversation almost immediately; this felt a terrible time to discuss business, but Sekt was keen to press on. “I understand that this is a difficult moment for you, but alacrity would benefit all parties in this instance. If you were to consider a union between the Trudot lineage and the Sekt family then we might…”

From behind Sekt the head retainer to the family Trudot, Reinauld, suddenly emerged as if he had been hiding in the man’s shadow all evening, “I would beg of you some peace for the lady of the house my lord, it is a trying time”. Gerhard, surprised by the unexpected interruption, coughed back an exclamation before a look of indignation briefly crossed his brow. Without waiting for a response Reinauld stepped past Gerhard and his son and took Anna by the arm intending to lead her away, “please mistress, your guidance is needed by the kitchen staff”. As Reinauld continued stepping away it was he who next received an unexpected surprise. Anna didn’t move. She turned her head to Reinauld, “tell the kitchen staff that I will attend to them when I am ready and not a moment before”. Reinauld looked into the icy stare of his mistress with a pleading expression, but after just a moment her steel resolve forced him to avert his eyes. “Of course mistress, as you say”, but Reinauld did not move from her side. With a calmness that almost perfectly masked her frustration Anna firmly added “now, Reinauld”. With that the Trudot family retainer walked away and exited the conversation as quickly as he had entered it. 

Gerhard Sekt having observed this awkward interaction between mistress and retainer presumably seemed to think it gave him a weakness to exploit and he shifted his tack, “It can be difficult to maintain order when the master of the house, the last in the family line no less, is no longer… present. A strong voice can prevent further issues from…”

“Thank you Mr Sekt, for your concern, but there is no need” Anna said, cutting into Gerhard’s pompous flow. “I am the master of this house and I require no voice stronger than my own. My husband was not yet the last Trudot, for I carry the family name” After a moment's hesitation she surprised Gerhard and his son Gundel with a closing remark, “The house of Trudot still stands gentlemen, and when my child, the child of Ponsard Trudot, is born it will do more than merely stand, it will stride. Good day to you both”

Anna Trudot turned quickly and walked away, leaving the two Sekt men somewhat startled in her wake. With some determination she headed directly to the kitchen wherein she found Reinauld leaning against a counter drinking a glass of Bretonnian claret whilst kitchen staff worked inefficiently around him. The Trudot family could only afford a single permanent member of staff in the kitchen these days, the formidable halfling cook Hexby Haberdash, but her brigade had been briefly bolstered with local housekeepers and hostelry workers to cope with the number of guests expected for the funeral. The menu being prepared might be charitably described as rustic at best. Despite the protestations of Haberdash Anna asked for the entirety of kitchen staff to leave the kitchen at once so that she might speak with Reinauld in private. Hexby relented, but not before insisting that she would be back in exactly five minutes, “lest Ponsard’s pie go from golden brown to chaos black”. In the now silent kitchen Anna regarded her retainer closely, whilst he seemingly refused to look at her, concentrating instead on the glass he held in his hands.

Reinauld broke the silence, “In Bordeleaux they say that you can measure the quality of a man like that of a wine: when it moves slowly, runs too smooth, and leaves a sour taste then the only thing is to pour it away. Gerhard Sekt is an acid that has rotted through this valley for decades, believe me. He is not worth your time, mistress.” If Reinauld had hoped to placate Anna he had clearly failed as she stepped forward and responded vigorously, “They also say you should sprinkle sugar in the cask of a wine that has become bitter with age. I do not know your past with Sekt, Reinauld. Nor do I care, frankly. I care only about your present, with me. You are a servant of this house, a house of which I am the master.” Reinauld shifted uneasily on his feet, feeling the sting of a chastisement he both resented and yet knew he deserved. Anna continued, “I am not your daughter Reinauld, and I do not need your protection. That is my ballroom, they are my guests, and I will deal with them myself” pausing a moment before adding “even if I do agree that he is a despicable poltroon.” At that Reinauld chuckled softly, “That he is, mistress.” Anna didn’t quite break into a smile, but her expression softened and she said, “I do not feel that Sekt or any of the guests in the ballroom knew Ponsard even as well as I did. And certainly not as well as you.”

“Perhaps not the guests in the ballroom no, but there are some out there that knew the quality of Ponsard Trudot”

“Like that of a fine wine?”

“Indeed, mistress”

“Well. Perhaps you would show me to them, before Hexby returns and dragoons us into her stew making”

As the sun began setting on the Trudot estate lamps had been recently lit along the front of the house ensuring that the terrace remained illuminated. The captains of Ponsard’s company, the so-called Armee Trudot, were now many jugs deep and the stories still flowed as eagerly as the ale. Barracrackk the dwarf was in the closing moments of a tale that had seen Ponsard lose a bet against a particularly ugly and surprisingly short elf in a game of Ranaldian chance. Indignant at the loss Ponsard had challenged the elf to a duel, only to discover that he was too drunk to stand and the elf in question was actually a coat rack. Just as he and his friends burst into laughter they suddenly stopped one by one, each in turn noticing the arrival on the terrace of their old comrade Reinauld and with him Ponsard’s wife, the widow Trudot. Reinauld nodded a sign of respect to the assembled captains, but held back as Anna crossed the terrace to stand with them, “May I join you?” she asked. There was no immediate response, but then Glug held out to her the jug of beer he had been swigging from moments ago. Anna took the offered drink and Amelia Latchkey said, “Drink, that our dead may yet live among the good!” All raised their drinks in honour of their fallen friend, general, and husband. After almost choking on the unreasonably strong ale Anna returned the jug to Glug’s eager hand as he said, “you drink as good as your husband did”, eliciting another series of great guffaws from the party. Anna was surprised to find herself laughing as well, and when she had composed herself a memory returned to her without warning, “when Ponsard first brought me to this house I was afraid to step through its great doors and into this new life that suddenly wanted to consume me. Ponsard came over to me, as I stood afraid on that very threshold over there, and he said something that I shan’t ever forget. He told me simply that our journey ends only when you cease stepping forward.” Anna looked into the faces of these soldiers, each one having journeyed from a different land and having fought through a hundred different battlefields to be stood here on this day, at this time celebrating the life of her late husband. “I have not ceased stepping forward. Not yet”

Another toast was raised to these fine words and then Tamburlaine Tussock decided to begin one of his favourite stories about his dear departed general. Reinauld had already stepped away leaving his mistress to become better acquainted with the true character of her husband through the words of those who had come to know him best. As the heartening recital continued all attention fell on the small form of the halfling captain as he began dramatically acting out the events of many moons ago. If it were not such an engrossing performance then it is possible anyone of those present on the terrace might noticed something strange on the great oak door guarding the entrance to the Chateau Trudot. Still hanging where it had been affixed hours ago by Anna was the black cloth journal. Beneath the many fond recollections of Ponsard there was an altogether more unusual note. Scrawled in deep red ink were three barely legible words:

“cease stepping forward”

THE TALLOW MAN

A thin wisp of smoke curled away from the instantly snubbed candle, “no candles after dark tonight, you know the rule” Prisca said as with practised ease she heaved her daughter up from the kitchen table and into her arms. “But I don’t like the dark,” appealed Sabine as her mother carried her up the crooked and irregular stairs. “I know darling, but we can’t afford to light the candles every night. There’s a long and hard winter ahead and we must make the most of every flame.” 

“That’s not the reason” came Peter’s voice from the bed in the corner of the small upstairs room. With a sing-song inflection he continued, “no candles tonight ‘cause the tallow man’s bite”

“Don’t tease your sister Peter, she's too young to know when you’re telling your silly stories” Prisca chastised as she lay the young Sabine down in her bed.

“I’m not too young, I’m 5 years old and I know all about the Tallow Man. The Prim brothers said their uncle saw it last year, when he was delivering grain to Middenheim.”

Prisca stood between the two children in their small threadbare beds, knowing that it was going to get cold tonight. The light of Morrsleib entered through the one cracked window, but at times it felt like this ramshackle home with its odd corners and mismatched panels rejected light rather than kept it in, shadows impossibly cast from every angle. Perhaps they would be best all sleeping in the same room tonight, to keep warm… and to stay safe.

“I wouldn’t believe everything that Wolfgang and Otto Prim tell you, Sabi. Those boys have wicked tongues and minds more wicked still”

Peter interjected again, looking up from the small sheaf of paper he had been concentrating on, “why don’t you tell us the true tale of the tallowman then mother, I’ve heard you and father mention him before”

Prisca regarded her young son, although he looked quite like her he had already taken on many more aspects of his father, learning to read quickly and taking an interest in the old, the arcane, and the magical. With Irmgard, Prisca had already had many conversations about enrolling the boy in one of the Imperial Colleges in Altdorf, but they both knew that this was likely nothing more than a dream. Even a boy as gifted as Peter could only become an apprentice with sponsorship and it was not cheap living in the capital. “Very well, you will both tell me what you have heard of this tallow man, and then I will share what I know to be true…” At this Peter and Sabine each sat up a little in their beds, excitement clearly visible on their faces, before she continued, “but only after your father is home”. And with that the excitement quickly drained and both children collapsed back on to their beds with low drones of disappointment. To the children, this was far from a fair deal, seeing as their father Irmgard worked for a banker high in the city and it took him many hours to travel to their home far from the bridges and walls on the rock.  

Prisca was a woodswoman by trade, used to the biting winds and harsh conditions of the Empire’s forests, but she had always sought to provide a warm and comfortable home for her family. Irmgard could not be more her opposite in outlook or form - she was tall and strong, with shoulders perfectly capable of swinging her mighty axe as long as any felling might take. Irmgard meanwhile was thin, desperately thin, pale, and short. Made shorter still by his tendency to hunch his shoulders and lean forward, a likely side-affect of a lifetime spent filling in ledgers and consulting vast tomes. It could just as likely be a product of spending so much time living in a house with a ceiling as low and curiously angled as theirs; something she hoped would not afflict Peter or Sabi when they grew up. For much of the year Prisca stayed encamped at the sawmills, working as many hours as there was light in the day to save up and send home as much coin as she could. As the cold and the snow took hold, and the winter solstice approached, it became too dark and too dangerous for the camps to remain in the Drakwald and there would be several months without work, during which Prisca always returned home to be with her family.

A step outside the door broke Prisca from her reverie and she looked out to see if Irmgard had finally returned home. Followed by a flurry of ice cold wind and snow Prisca’s bedraggled and near frozen husband stumbled into the house. “Prisca my dear, you needn’t have stayed up. It’s almost midnight and the kitchen fire is all but embers, you must be so cold”

The two embraced, taking the cold that one another felt and replacing it with the warmth and love that they shared still, even after the many hardships and much bitter toil that filled their days. “Irmgard, you’re so cold, as if you’ve been touched by a wight. Get to the fire and warm yourself before it burns out completely. And fill your belly, there is soup left and some of the bread is still good” Irmgard put down his satchel carefully, and did as his wife had told him, keeping his coat on whilst he desperately tried to warm himself up. “How are the children, are they to bed?” he asked as he felt the soup begin to heat him pleasantly from within.

“Peter is working on some story or other, making good use of the charcoal you got him. I just wish I could read what he has written”

“We will have him read it to us darling, when it is done. Oh, I was able to take some more scraps of paper from Sicken’s office, discarded and torn pieces that will not be missed. They will make for a perfect gift for Peter come Mondstille. How is Sabi this evening, I’m sure she is anxious with the nights growing darker”

Prisca sighed, knowing the conversation that would likely follow, “She is worried, she would have us light a candle.”

“What did you say to her?” asked Irmgard.

“The truth, that we cannot afford to burn the few candles that we have left just because we might want to. And that…” Prisca paused, unsure what to say next

“Ah” understood Irmgard, “I imagine there has been talk of the Tallow Man this evening”

Prisca replied honestly, “Sabi has heard of it from those foolish boys the Prims, and Peter seems to know something of it already, though I’ve no idea from where. They have asked me to tell them the truth, such that I understand it.”

“There’s no harm in a little superstition darling, and if a fairytale makes them less likely to burn candles when there’s no need then I am all for it.”

“It is no mere fairytale, Irmgard, it is real, and it should be guarded against seriously.”

Irmgard couldn’t help letting the derision infect his voice as he proclaimed “I hear constantly of the acts of the Gods, everyone who comes to make a claim on Mr. Sicken’s tells of demons and devils and curses, but they are all as likely liars as anything else. How can we believe in the acts of dark gods when the gods of light & law do nothing and show themselves to us not at all. If Sigmar, or Taal, or Ulric really did exist then why would they allow to happen the things we’ve seen happen? Why would they let orcs destroy the Scheltzberg’s farm or let my sister suffer the way she did?”

Without even realising it Irmgard had risen from his seat, his passion giving heat to his words and to his body. After a moment he remembered himself and sat back down to his soup, having to take his coat off now that his temperature had risen somewhat.

Having heard these words before, Prisca was in no mood to engage in another theological debate with the man that she loved, but who sometimes she simply couldn’t understand, “I have no answer to that. But I do know what I have seen in the forests: mutated men given unholy beastly forms the clear work of nefarious powers. Or the murderous spirits released from forgotten cairns disturbed in passing - three men died to such a simple mistake. I know for certain that there are things way beyond the city walls that cannot be explained in your contracts and your numbers, Irmgard. And I will be damned by Sigmar if I don’t prepare our children for what is out there in the world”

If Irmgard hadn’t realised before that bringing up this seemingly endless argument was a foolish decision then he soon would, though not quickly enough to stop himself from compounding his own mistake. In entreaty he said, “Let us forget such silly stories and seek solace in our home and our family tonight. In fact I have a surprise from old Mr. Sickens…”

But before he could finish his sentence Prisca stood and made for the stairs, “Unless Sickens has gifted you a crown of reason, or else paid off the debt of back pay he owes you, then I don’t want to hear it. Finish your soup and come up to bed, before you catch your death of cold. I’m going to tell our children a silly story that might just keep them alive one day” And with that Prisca ascended the crooked staircase once more and left Irmgard in the dim light of the guttering fireplace, alone with his soup.

From the children’s room Prisca heard a sound: a scuffle and then a thud. She opened the door quickly and caught the source of the disturbance, Peter and Sabi were throwing their solstice fruits back and forth across the room. “Settle down, both of you!” shouted Prisca more loudly than she had intended, her frustration with Irmgard getting the better of her. Both children seemed cowed at the unexpectedly severe response to their simple game and Prisca instantly regretted her tone. “Okay, okay, Peter come over here and get under the covers next to Sabi, we’re going to talk about the Tallow Man”. Peter was excited that he was finally going to hear this story and so all was immediately forgiven. He dashed over to his sister’s bed and dove on to it next to Sabine as she tried to stay warm. “Calm down, okay everyone comfortable” asked Prisca as she sat on the edge of the bed alongside her children. The terrible cold outside was creeping in, so staying close together would be best for everyone, thought Prisca, though from Sabine’s bed the moonlit shadows stretched deep into the centre of the room and it gave her an odd feeling. She didn’t like not being able to see clearly into the corners that surrounded her, but before she did anything about that Sabi asked, “Is the Tallow Man real?”, clearly keen to find out if the Prim’s had lied to her. 

“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve heard about the Tallow Man, and then I will tell you which parts are true and which parts are not,” said Prisca, knowing that Sabi liked nothing more than to tell everyone everything she had learned on any given day. “Well, I’ve heard that The Tallow Man is a demon, and that he comes at night, and that he has long fingers made of hard wax with flames for finger tips, and that he wants to…that he wants to eat little children who have been naughty”. Sabine shuddered after she said this, looking to her mother for comfort and finding there a warm, loving expression which made her feel safe again almost immediately. Peter quietly scoffed and cleared his throat dramatically before beginning his version of the story. “The Tallow Man was a great sorcerer called Tallowsus, maybe the greatest that the colleges have ever seen, but he was expelled for experimenting with dangerous new magics. You see, he didn’t want to be just a bright wizard or a member of the Jade order or Amethyst. He read the older books, the sacred ones kept secret and safe, the ones about demonology and necromancy. But he didn’t want to be tied to one of those disciplines either; Tallowsus wanted to command the entire spectrum of magic, for the winds to flow through him and do his bidding. So after he was banished by the supreme patriarch he went on a quest to find the power for himself, experimenting with dark arts. He became corrupted by his obsession, and his face began to reflect the blackness of his heart. His skin started to bubble and droop, as though it had been melted by a great heat, and his back became cracked and bent so that he could only shuffle around. But the cost was worth it to him, because eventually he found the power he sought in the pages of an ancient grimoire - a book he uncovered buried beneath a warped little house just like ours…” at these words Peter paused and looked at his sister who had again grown nervous as he told his story. His mother gave him a disappointed look which he chose to ignore, much preferring to indulge in the power he was enjoying from playfully scaring little Sabi. “The book allowed Tallowsus to steal the magic of other wizards, drawing out their life essence and turning them into statues of solid wax. Tallowsus would melt down the waxy remains of his victims and mould little candles from them, giving them as gifts to unsuspecting strangers for his own amusement. The wizards from the college are still searching for Tallowsus and all they know is that he likes to hide in small, dark rooms…under the bed” and with that Peter made a great growling noise and Sabine finally broke into the scream that had been building at the back of her throat the entire time her brother spoke.

It took Prisca more than a few moments to calm her daughter’s fear, and her son’s laughter. She should have known Peter wouldn’t have missed an opportunity to let his impish sense of humour take flight. When at last silence returned to the darkened room Prisca began her own story, “Be still children, and I will tell you what I know to be true of the so-called Tallow Man. I tell you this not to frighten you, but to protect you; you see you were both, in part, correct. There is a being known as the Tallow Man, and he does take children, but he is not a demon, nor is he even a man any longer. It is a spectre, brought forth by ruinous magics to wreak havoc on the good folk of the Empire, and it is most powerful on the twelfth night of Mondstille, the winter solstice when night and day share the sky.” Peter shifted a little under the thin blanket, perhaps only trying to keep warm, but just as likely due to a fearful realisation. He said to his mother, “tonight is the twelfth night”.

“Yes it is,” she said back “this night is when the Tallow Man walks the streets most brazenly, stealing children from their parents and leaving no witnesses to tell the tale. If the Prim brother’s uncle had seen it then he would not have returned home to speak a word of it. This spirit is a malevolent one, seeking to inflict great pain on the living, for it was once a man too and it hates that we still possess that which it does not. Life.”

“When it walked the world of the living this man was a chandler, making tallow candles of the cheapest and most rancid materials. Only the poorest of people would buy these candles for they were badly made and did not last long. And worst of all when they burned they gave off a billowing smoky stench that would fill a house with rotten darkness. What he lacked in skill he more than made up for in envy; the man was jealous of his more successful rivals, those who produced cleaner and better candles from finer ingredients. But it was of his brother that he was most envious. He had perfected a blend of beeswax and aromatic herbs that the priests of Ulric had embraced in their rituals and he had become wealthy beyond compare. The man’s bitterness gave rise to a scheme, concocted in the back alleys of Middenheim with a putrid and evil wizard. He was given an insidious tincture that was to be poured into the molten wax of his brother’s next batch of candles; one that would wholly corrupt them and which would cast a murderous pall on the temples in which they were burned. But the man’s brother was no fool, and he knew of the envy and bitterness and cruelty that was cast against him. On the night that the man enacted his terrible plot he was almost caught, surrounded at the very moment he poured the liquid into the wax. In the terrible struggle that followed the man and the building were engulfed in a great conflagration, burned to cinders with nary a trace left behind.” 

The wind outside the children’s bedroom had begun to rise further and there was a chilling howl as it buffeted the slight glass. Prisca knew that her story was doing just as much to chill her children as the wind might, but she also felt that they should know the truth of the world they lived in, and how dangerous even the most innocuous of acts, like lighting a candle could really be. After a moment's respite she carried on her tale, “That all happened a great many years ago, on the night of the winter solstice, and every year since the Tallow Man has returned to seek vengeance. At first it was his brother’s family who bore the brunt of this spectral curse; nephews and nieces disappeared in the night, no sign of what had taken them or how. With each passing year more precautions were taken, children were locked in sealed rooms and guarded, but still they were taken. Families sought refuge in the temples of Ulric and whole congregations would be lost by morning. Eventually it became clear. The rooms, the temples, the people they had all held candles, and that light had shown the Tallow Man how to find them. It was only in darkness that one would be safe when the Tallow Man was abroad.” Sabine tried to say something, but her throat was dry and at first only a croak emerged, “is that why we cannot light a candle tonight? Because the Tallow Man would find us?”

With a smile full of love, and a voice that expressed how grateful she was that her daughter understood, Prisca said “that’s right little one. Now that he has been starved of the family of his brother, the victims that he wants most, the Tallow Man will seek out anyone in Middenheim foolish enough to light a candle and call to him.” Prisca sat with her back to the closed bedroom door looking at her children before her on the bed. A footstep on the stairs elicited a creak in the wood and she felt confident that Irmgard was finally coming up to bed. Even though they had parted in disquiet she would be glad to have him here by her side, her family together on this dangerous night. There were more creaks and cracks as the stairs uttered their usual protests. The door behind Prisca slowly swung open and it was only then that she became flooded with fear; the faces of her children both became contorted in terror, and worse, they were illuminated by the light cast by a flickering flame.

As Prisca spun round she saw her husband holding a small bent candle with a lit flame atop it. Innocently he said, “Look at what Mr. Sickens gave me, a gift for my hard work and a promise that he would pay me the wages he owes me soon”. In mere seconds Prisca darted for the candle in her husband's hand and snuffed it out, casting it to the floor. “You fool” she yelled, carrying her momentum forward and past him through the doorway. “Stay with the children and keep them safe, I need to get my axe” Irmgard looked utterly dumbstruck, but when he glanced at Peter and Sabi he could see how terrified they were and his instincts to protect them took over. He knelt down next to the bed and gathered them both in his arms.

Prisca meanwhile lost no time in racing down the stairs, taking 3 at a time in great bounds. She crossed the ground quickly and reached for her axe, held on the wall above the stove with the open fire beneath it. The fire was all but dulled, with only a few small chunks of coal retaining their glow and warmth. It was dark in the kitchen with the light of neither moon reaching to this side of the house. Before she could look around Prisca heard a sound that filled her with utter, incomprehensible dread: she could hear her family screaming. 

She made her way back up the stairs faster even than she had descended them, but whatever had happened in that room was over by the time she entered it again. The beds were empty and there was no sign of Sabine, Peter, or Irmgard, it was as if they had plucked from the world and spirited away in an instant. Prisca knew that they were not in the house any longer, but to stop herself from breaking down she searched every room, opened every door, and probed every shadow. All before returning to the children’s bedroom and falling to the floor to weep. As she looked again at the bed where her family had been just moments before she was filled with immense, unquantifiable sadness, and then after casting her eyes downward and catching sight of something that sadness turned to sheer bloody rage. On the floor lay the small candle that her husband had lit. The gift given to him by someone who should have known better. Someone who probably did. But that didn’t matter now, for Prisca knew what she must do. Grabbing her axe from the floor beside her and scooping up the candle she walked to the kitchen stove with purpose, thrusting the candle into the remnants of the fire. It took a few moments, but eventually the wick caught and the small candle was lit. It cast a paltry light into the room, barely brightening her surroundings, but Prisca did not care. She held it aloft and shouted to the night, “I know you see me Tallow Man, follow this light and find me”

All was still. Prisca stood in place like stone, her muscles tensed and ready to act. As she surveyed the room she peered into each dark corner in turn. The weak candle light did not cross to the furthest reaches leaving only impenetrable black voids into which Prisca would lose herself if she stared for too long. And then. In one corner at the back of the house, she thought she saw a shape. It was as if a small mound was unfurling, like if a child sat balled up on the floor and then rose to standing. No, not a child, this shape was far too tall for that. If it were a man they must be taller than any she had ever met, the shape reached the ceiling and seemed to go further filling the space. There was a vile stench, like the fat of rotting meat. Still the shape grew and in the darkness it looked as though arms were unfolding and beginning to stretch out to her. Not just one pair but many. A hundred sets of arms seemingly reaching in her direction. Prisca grasped her axe, prayed to her gods, and thought of her family.

There was a thin wisp of smoke as the candle went out.

THE HOLD INDELIBLE

Summary

The Hold Indelible. Ask artisans travelling in the wake of Dawnbringer baggage trains what it means and they will tell tales of impregnable barricades, unscalable walls, and innumerable brave knights. The truth is more fantastic, yet far simpler. The Hold Indelible was no more than a line, drawn first in sand and later on paper, by Knight-Cartographer Gideous Grail. He vowed that Tzeench’s perfidious hordes would not cross that threshold until the settlements at his back were safely defended. His dogged determination at the Hold has become legend, inspiring countless crusaders who seek their own renown at the forefront of civilisation. As Grail often said, before you can draw the line you have to defend it.

SAMPLE

“You’ve never heard of the Hold Indelible?” Gruschev looked over in disbelief. The grizzled carpenter had been telling outlandish stories all day, mostly from his youth back in Shyish, and whilst his language was coarse and his subject matter grisly, it was hard to deny that he could spin a compelling yarn. The stories had been a welcome distraction from the burning Aqshian sun and the hard toil of the day. “I’m surprised anyone would accept the Malleus without knowing the story of the Hold Indelible. Knowing the dangers that are out here beyond the city walls, beyond civilisation, is the only way to be prepared. It helps to know who has our backs. And what they’ll do to protect them.”

“The ‘old idelable?” Asked the carpenter's apprentice Jakob, a rare ogor of Hammerhal whose life of bitter work and dedication had given him a solemnity atypical of his kin. “What good is it to know about that frontier fortress? ‘Ard stone barricades and a thousand Annihilators in every tower. We ain’t gonna see defences like that in our lifes-times. It’ll be twigs and tents for us.”

The kindly shepard Azimuth added his own contribution, “Perhaps Gruschev means to tell of the Hold’s defence by a full stormhost against the Tzaangor hordes. I hear the battlefield was so vast that the sun never set on it.”

“I ‘eard it was beastmen not Zangers,” interjected Jakob.

“Tzaangors are beastmen, Jakob. Just more pointy,” Azimuth corrected gently “and it was not just them, they were led by all manner of demons and devils.”

“Pah,” spat Gruschev. “You lot have no idea at all do you. The Hold was no great fortress. No army stood watch under glorious banners, no wizards atop fortified battlements.” Gruschev laid down the bundle of kindling he’d been carrying, this would be as good a spot for them to make camp as any other. As he began unloading his pack he continued, “It was one Knight-Cartographer at the Hold. With his gryph-hound on one side, his cartographic contingent the other, and the crusade itself a thousand leagues at his back. Gideous Grail was tasked with mapping the borders of the Great Parch, trying to find a settlement site for the coming crusaders. And he was sure he’d found the perfect spot. It was nothing like this place.” 

Gruschev and his group had laid out their camp quickly: tents, fire, and slop pots were all in place, even though the immediate surroundings left much to be desired. The area was clear, but for a few shrubs and shale mounds, and its lifeless earth was dry and bleached red by the sun. Azimuth’s gorgoats were doing their best to find some graze worthy sheer-grass, whilst overhead the great Metalith continued its slow drift forward, making up for its slower pace during the daylight march. “No,” continued Gruschev, “the place Gideous found was more bucolic and bounteous than any you could imagine in this parched land. But with bounty, comes beasts…”

After settling down by the campfire Gruschev carried on his story, “Gideous had managed to find the only verdant grove in a hundred miles; the ground was pocked with small hot springs that brought pure waters to the surface, nourishing all life in that soil. It would make for a perfect strongpoint once the crusade could catch up. There was just one problem, as the contingent had reconnoitered the nearby ridge they had seen sign of a large force making for their direction. At this distance it couldn’t be discerned if they were man or monster, but it was clear that they would cross paths with the crusade if left to their path. Fortunately Gideous had spied another perfect place. Two great stones stood a hundred yards apart, flanked on each far side by the ridge that encircled the grove. It was here, he knew, that they would make their stand.”

Commentary

This was a submission I put together for Black Library. The prompt was to provide a story about the Dawnbringer Crusades, a prompt that I’m not sure I really met as I ended up a little too taken with my idea of a Stormcast Knight-Cartographer and a mythical battle in the wilderness that lay before the crusade. Ah well. I always intended to finish the rest of the story, perhaps one day.

THE WIDOW TRUDOT PART ONE

The widow trudot

2276 IC (Imperial Calendar)

An unseasonably cold spring in the Ghrineshalt valley, betwixt The Empire, The Wasteland, and Bretonnia

“Did you ever drink the 2262 Morceaux red? They say the vintage was blessed by a passing comet. It’s the finest Bretonnian grape you’ll ever taste”

Reinauld asked his question with the casual informality of an old friend, despite the fact that he had known the Mistress Trudot less than four weeks in total. Not to mention that he worked for the Trudot family and that now included the Mistress.  Possibly it was because he was an old gardener, before that an old soldier, and he no longer had time to waste on formalities or empty platitudes. More than that though the two had quickly fallen into a friendly rapport almost as soon as she had taken up residence at the Trudot vineyard and now that he was back at the estate they had continued their easy fellowship - this was the least stuck-up noble old Reinauld had ever known.

“When could you afford a glass of any Bretonnian wine, Reinauld? Let alone a Morceaux! We don’t pay you enough for better than a Rhineland hock, and a watery one at that” the Mistress Trudot fired back. She liked Reinauld; the old man had been with the Trudot family his whole life: he was a hard worker, but even with his experience this place had barely turned a profit in all that time. Not least because he and the rest of the staff kept getting dragooned into the military expeditions of the Trudot family.

“Quite” Reinauld agreed “it’s especially heartening to hear your employer tell you that they know they are paying you a pittance. Be that as it may, I was awarded a bottle for my actions in the defence of the valley during the Black Summer. The lord of Ghrineshalt was particularly gratified that I saved his prize horse from a vicious goat-headed monstrosity. I think it meant to take the mare as its bride”

As Reinauld carried on the Mistress Trudot knelt down, trowel in hand to try and get better purchase on the earth. It was cold for this time of year, terribly cold, and the ground was frozen in places that should have long since thawed. In any other year the gentle warmth of Mitterfruhl would already be felt by now; the Pale Sisters to the northwest never shook off their snowy shawls, but it was rare for their ice cold breath to blow with such persistence in the low lying valleys. If they were unable to turn the soil now then there would be little hope of the next seedlings taking root, this entire field might run fallow for another season and that would bring financial disaster. Again.

“Answer me this, Reinauld” she began, cutting off the gardener’s wistful ramblings “if the lord of the Ghrineshalt Valley were to grant you such a boon and your pay is so meagre as to impoverish your life and enfeeble your body - why would you not sell the bottle for a small fortune as it was surely worth?”

“Ah, but there are some rewards worth more than coin Mistress Trudot, they are moments meant to be savoured”

“Well, even if I were to grant that this tale is true, which I do not - the lord of Ghrineshalt has never been so generous - then I would think you could have done better than to uncork and drink that uncommonly favoured vintage with such mindless alacrity. Though I am compelled to ask, if it were true, how did it taste?”

Reinauld laughed to himself and nodded heartily to her, whilst he watched as the she struggled to dig at the compacted earth. “As if the grapes were pressed by Sigmar’s very feet, Mistress!” It was another trait that he admired in this unusual noble, she was not afraid to dirty her hands. A trait that was especially needed at the Trudot estate. The Master was a fine young man, but he and his father before him had no mind for the wine business and they had not been able to arrest the fall in their fortunes. The vineyards could no longer afford the necessary workers to plant, pick, and press their wines; which was a mercifully rare problem these days as each season no longer produced enough grapes to press in the first place. In the past 5 years Ponsard had spent more time and money campaigning, than he had days or guilders on the estate. And whilst Reinauld had stood by his master’s side in every battle, for he was no less than the loyal Captain of the Trudot Vinekeepers, it had been hard for him to stay so long away from his precious, dying fields. Even though this land would only yield wine that was as bitter as the work it took to produce it, Reinauld would always be a vintner in his heart, and a soldier only in his purse.

“You know, Reinauld, any other groundskeeper would probably dig the earth themselves, rather than leaving the delicate new Mistress of the house to get down in the dirt on her own”

Reinauld snorted with a half laugh and replied, “I already know better than to step between you and something you've set yourself to, and besides, I’m a vine keeper, not a groundskeeper - when something grows in this dirt then I’ll tend it”

“Well that seems tautological to me, but I’m pleased at least that despite the work boots, muddy hands, and grim determination you don’t dispute my self-proclaimed delicacy” said Mistress Trudot as she rose to her feet, hands covered in sludgy clumps of the frozen ground that had melted from her efforts. As she wiped them down her apron a smile played across her face. For all the lutte and scuffle that this estate would take to get in any kind of shape she was already excited by the prospect. Plans filled her mind, overlapping and reworking themselves constantly with every new discovery of an abandoned farmhouse, a fallow field, or an untapped water source. It had been several decades, maybe more, since the Trudot estate had produced anything better than low quality grape and grain, and longer still since there had been enough produce to sell beyond the local villages. A bottle of Trudot couldn’t have been served in the guild halls of Marienburg or even the squalid Ten Tailed Cat of Talabheim in over a hundred years. She was going to change that, even if she had to personally rebuild the winery one brick at a time. 

As she looked at the short, ageing vine keeper beside her she considered whether he would be an aid to this new found purpose. He was well acquainted with the Trudot lands, and he knew well his wine, but under his stewardship the vineyard had suffered a long and drawn out decline. Would this man be capable of the change and innovation she knew would be required to save this place. Could he embrace the plans she was making and the methods she had been studying for years, or would he be as unyielding as the frozen dirt beneath their feet; unwilling to give up even an inch of its grit. Back home in the great merchant city of Marienburg the Mistress Trudot had encountered all manner of wines, liqueurs, and ales: her father was a trader in the exotic liquids and she had grown up in the shadow of countless sacred casks. Rarely had she been able to sample them, but when she had it was the wine that had left the greatest impression. Sea Elf Aqua Algaea, a clear sweet green wine made using salt water irrigation that gave the feeling of such exquisite lightheadedness with no ill effects the next morning. Bretonnian vintages that possessed an aroma of such beauty that they equalled as art the most ornate Larretian tapestries. Or the Stone Wine of the dwarfs, made with methods that eluded even the greatest human minds: crops grown in caves and deeply infused with spices and fire. Now that did leave a mark the next day, and the following week. In the merchant yards of her family she had heard of the greatest successes, the champion vintages, and the legendary wine houses from across the Empire. She knew that she could make Trudot into one of those houses. Provided there was enough money to invest in the enterprise. Already the dowry she had come to the estate with had largely been spent equipping and recruiting a sizable mercenary force, L’Armee Trudot. Yet this was not a problem for her: as far as the Mistress Trudot was concerned Ponsard could keep soldiering on as long as he liked, he was good at it - his recent disastrous campaign notwithstanding - and if his passion was for war then she was happy he had found it. Her passion was for wine, and she just hoped he wouldn’t bankrupt the family by chasing fortune before she could make some. 

In the time she had spent with him Ponsard already seemed to be a good man, driven, and strong, and clever. And kind too, thankfully. He was known to be an excellent fighter and a reasonable wit, many would likely think him confident and perhaps even cocksure. Yet in their few nights together it was already clear that he merely put on an impressive show; he was far from conceited, if anything he was anxious and unsure about his choices and his deeds. The considerable strain he bore from the pressures of his birthright played on him constantly. Like the family’s wine, its name had become mired in the dirt. Generations of debauched, vainglorious fools had spent the family money like it would never run out, squandering resources on follies and fripperies. They had paid soldiers to wage pointless wars and ignored their own responsibilities in favour of sumptuous parties. By the time Ponsard’s father had taken over the family seat it was all but too late, the money was gone. It was only the successful and noteworthy campaigns pressed by his son that had kept any hope of a positive future for the Trudot name alive. Trudot had once been a byword in the Empire for fine culture and elegant sophistication. A name that evoked the best heritage of both Bretonnian blood and Imperial ingenuity and hard work. With Ponsard’s steel and his wife’s wine maybe it could be so once more.

Of course, he must first recover from his wounds, and then there was a list of jobs for him to undertake around the estate that the Mistress had been compiling. There was much for him to do before he could even consider setting forth to war once again. The Mistress Trudot didn’t think a sojourn away from the battle lines would be an issue though, after all Ponsard’s star may well have waxed somewhat after his recent efforts: some time out of the public gaze might be wise. The Margrave of the Bitter Moors had been tasked to find a suitable noble to send into the Wasteland swamps. A litany of whispers and lies, tall tales, and half-truths had put many people on edge; stories of rats that walked like men and one eyed fairy folk that kidnapped children. Ponsard, of course, immediately volunteered himself and L’Armee Trudot for a mission into the swamps to search out any such fiends that might be skulking there. Success in this would mean yet another high profile victory and a step closer to the Trudot family once again being acceptable company at the most exclusive balls in the city. So it was that a mercenary company marched into that mist shrouded swamp under the banners and bills of the Trudot family. For weeks there was no word, and then a frightening flurry of urgent action took over the estate. Ponsard had gotten himself stabbed in the stomach by some kind of swamp orc spear. Reinauld had dragged his master back from the murk and muss of the swamp and into his convalescence bed, where Ponsard had been resting these past two weeks. What was left of the fighting force was disbanded and a report was sent to the Margrave of the campaign’s unfortunate failure. The whole endeavour was a humiliation to the family, a significant setback to Ponsard’s aims, and whilst the Mistress cared not for any of it - for she knew glory would return with the uncorking of a bottle not the unseathing of a sword - she also knew that it would affect Ponsard keenly once he was well enough to dwell on it. Without evidence of success in the swamps there would be no higher commission for Ponsard nor any recompense for the guilders the family had spent lavishly on their mercenary company. More's the pity because a sponsorship from the Margrave would have done wonders for the Trudot marque, and that was something the Mistress Trudot did care about. As it was, only on the banners of the Vine Keepers could you find the crest of Trudot today - they couldn’t even afford to paint wine labels anymore.

And yet, covered in cold grime, surrounded by withered vines and unplanted earth, and with only an old soldier, a wet-nosed stable boy, and an unreasonably stern Halfling cook left in the household, the Mistress Trudot stood beaming like the vineyard's own personal sun. She would nourish this place with her own indomitable will, she had no doubt about it. Even Reinauld couldn’t help but be impressed by something in her attitude. “Tell me Reinauld, how many acres can we call Trudot land?” she asked.

With a quizzical look Reinauld answered her plainly, “38, cultivated”

“And how many uncultivated acres?”

His confusion only grew as he answered, “But surely you know all this Mistress Trudot, I can’t imagine someone such as yourself entering a marriage without knowing your prospects”

“Humour me, Reinauld”

“Very well: the uncultivated land on the estate proper runs to 100 acres, bordered on two sides by the river, and one by the road to Ghrineshalt village. Over the river by the forestlands we have the dormant plains which make for another 293 acres at least. And then there is the tenanted land running along the north side of the valley. I would imagine that could be as much as another 1,000 acres, though that could never be cultivated in any meaningful way, owing to the shale and screed.”

“So, with some effort we could probably cultivate 393 acres. All we need to do is bring the land back from the dead, irrigate it, and manage it effectively”

“With a lot of help and a decade of work perhaps. Yes.”

“And what facilities do we have in which to do this work?”

“Well, besides the mansion, the keeper and staff cottages, there’s a number of outhouse, barns, and stables. The winery has seen better days, but both it and the old granary are robust, with some care they could work again”

“And that’s not to mention the sheds and shacks that dot the estate, or the barracks, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Well Reinauld. That seems like a great deal of land, if you ask me.  And a great deal of opportunity”

“That it is, Mistress, though even measureless opportunity is worth nothing if you cannot harvest it. Much of that earth is barren, and untended for decades. The soil has grown weak and lifeless. What land has been seeded barely produces more than a handful of bottles these days. Speaking frankly, though I love them like brother and son, I cannot say that the master nor his father have ever been great wine men, it just isn’t in their blood. Money that should have been spent on the grape fields was spent on the battlefields, and the family Trudot became enamoured of drawing blood rather than wine”

“You forget yourself Reinauld. You are speaking about my husband, master of this estate, and holder of the title of Trudot”, responded the Mistress sharply in answer to Reinauld’s astonishing candour. She was surprised by how forcefully she had spoken, instinct had taken over and she had reflexively leaned on her birthright and that of her husbands. Perhaps she thought to herself, she was not as enlightened as she liked to believe. After a moment of tense silence she continued, more gently in tone “Is wine making in your blood, Reinauld? You’ve worked this land for countless years, and earned the trust of both masters. Even if their thoughts were elsewhere surely you could have steered the estate to prosperity on their behalf?”

“You are right Mistress, I apologise.” Reinauld suddenly looked frail and cowed, he may be a brave soldier and a forthright gardener, but more than anything he was a liegeman of the Trudot family and he was horrified to have disappointed the Mistress by insulting the Master. “I am an old man now and I have been known to mis-speak: these lands have long been entrusted to me and the failure is mine alone. Please forgive me”

The Mistress Trudot stood silent for a moment more, and then with good humour said, “Your apology is accepted Reinauld. By Sigmar, we’ve a great deal of work ahead of us, I won't waste time holding grudges”. A look of relief swept over Reinauld’s face and with a nod and a grunt he agreed. She continued, “Mark me, Reinauld, even with the 393 acres of good land we already possess, in 5 years time I’ll be entrusting you with a purse full of gold and a mission to buy us a great deal more. I’ve plans for this place, and a vision for what it will become”

“Well with your vision and my shovel, Mistress, I have high hopes. Though I’d welcome the odd miracle as well. After all, the last time Trudot wine was in fashion it took a comet of our own. Sent from Sigmar himself to sweeten the harvest”

“I didn’t know Trudot had a comet vintage of its own! That must have been nearly a century hence, no?”

“And then some! A gift sent from the firmament to the ferment. Every Imperial wine house turned out its greatest vintage that year, even the 2262 Morceaux would pale in comparison”

“Well, we can’t summon comets from the sky any more than we can afford armies of vine keepers to tend the crop, so until the stable boy is old enough to handle sheers this is going to be you, me, and Ponsard for quite a while. And we’ve got work to do, Reinauld, a lot of work to do. I hope there’s still strength in that old back of yours”

“If I can carry Ponsard Trudot on my shoulders for 100 leagues then I can carry this estate on them for a little while as well, don’t you worry Mistress!”

“Good. And Reinauld, do call me Anna. ‘Mistress’ is going to get terribly tedious when we’re fighting over the viticulture”

“Very well, Mistress” Reinauld said, before hesitating for just a moment, unsure if he should say more. And yet he was compelled to speak, despite his recent brush with awkward truth for some reason the words just flowed from him, “I’ve worked for this family since I could walk, and I’ll work for you until I can’t even stand. There have been few times in my life happier than when I’ve been working this land. I’ve known a little glory in battle, certainly,  and on occasion a little love as well - sharing that bottle of 2262 Morceaux, that was a moment indeed - but I’ve never been blessed with a family of my own. At least not in the traditional sense. I wasn’t sure what Piere expected from me when he offered me a job on his winery; I was just a local boy without prospects, but I've been thankful ever since he did. It wasn’t just his estate that he invited me to join, and I’ve been harvesting the opportunity he offered me ever since. Today it’s Ponsard Trudot that I owe my life to, and now I owe it to you too, Mistress Trudot… Anna.”

Though separated by class, age, and experience, the two figures in that barren field stood together as colleagues. Both had been brought into the Trudot family through circumstances external to themselves, and no matter how typical such transactions might be it could still take time and effort to find a place to fit in. Anna regarded Reinauld for a moment, this time humbled by his sudden, unprompted honesty. She was about to share something of her own, but caught herself, even despite their growing friendship this old man was still her vassal, and a confidant of her husband. Some secrets must remain one's own. As Anna Trudot knelt down ready to tackle the stolid earth once again a gentle cry came wafting over the field. Springing to her knees at such an unusual sound Anna looked first to Reinauld whose expression noted the sound as well, and then she looked towards the mansion. A small figure was running in their direction. Coming as quickly as his feet would carry him was Pottage the stable boy. At barely 11 and being a little rotund from all the extra bread that Cook kept feeding him, he didn’t run quickly, even at maximum charge. Whatsmore he wore a crazed expression on his face as he shouted something repeatedly. Whatever he wanted must be quite urgent, and quite serious. The distance between Pottage and the two figures in the field was still considerable, but he had clearly begun to slow as he ran out of stamina, and eventually he came to a complete stop and doubled over to take comically deep breaths. Anna and Reinauld, confused by his sudden and dramatic appearance, and mildly amused by how quickly he’d run out of steam, started towards the boy. Anna shouted across the gulf, “What is it boy? Why such a rumpus?”

The boy, when he’d recovered enough to shout back, threw his voice as far as he could. Reinauld’s back may still be strong, but his hearing isn’t what it once was. He didn’t hear most of the young lad’s bellowed words. Anna had though, and in an instant she dropped the trowel from her hand and ran at her own top speed towards the house. Her sun hat flew from her head and yet she took no heed, determined as she was to make it back to the house immediately. As Reinauld finally understood the words Pottage kept balling out he looked to the unyielding, frozen earth, and muttered to himself mournfully, “And now I owe my life to you only, Mistress”. 

Pottage the stable boy stood in the middle of the field, dishevelled and out of breath, and even as the Mistress of the house ran past him at full speed he continued shouting with all of his strength.

“The Master is dead”