When Luddvig awoke, strapped to a stone altar, with a ogre shamen carving bloody runes into his living skin, he thought he had passed from the living world into some nightmare of horrific proportions.
He struggled futilely. This time there was no escape. The last moments of the battle came back to him. A desperate - no he thought with bitter amusement - a single, last glorious act of heroism. His only heroic moment, in fact, and it seemed his last. Charging - and almost routing the enemy general before being sat upon and crushed from his horse.
He wondered if his army had escaped. And if they had - had they escaped with his gold. He cursed his men as he thought of them enjoying his ill-won gains. He shut his eyes as the shamen reached the end of his bizarre ceremony.
There was a moment's pause, as the bloody knife was lifted into the air.
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Word came to the windy crags of Earlburg.
The rider threw back his hood. 'The news is true, my lord,' he said. 'Your father has gone to meet Sigmar.'
'How did he die?'
The messenger could not bring himself to tell Uter the truth. 'He did not survive the battle,' he said.
Uter the Bastard had always dreamed of this moment. But here he was, barely sixteen years old, and now with the weight of authority thrust upon him, and at this of all times, with rampaging armies of ogres and elves and lizards besetting him on all sides.
'Bring me my sword!' he said.
Poor old Ludwig. That'll teach the rascal!
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