Franz Lohner's Chronicle - The Siege of Taal’s Horn Keep

An absent-minded man of mysteries, Franz Lohner relies on his bulging journal to keep track of occurrences, intrigues and arguments around Taal's Horn Keep. Sometimes his notes are even useful, believe it or not. The Franz Lohner Chronicles are extracts from that journal.

Had the shock of my life upon waking this morning. Stumbled out of bed and onto what we might charitably call ramparts and found myself staring down hill at rank after rank of shadowy figures skylined against the rising dawn.

Being a man of action, even in the early hours, I got to it right away, hollering for the guard and ringing the watch bell for all I was worth. All for nothing, as it turns out, because when I got down to the main hall, the portcullis was yawning wide open and the drawbridge down.

But the worst of it – the absolute worst – was what awaited me there: a foursome scrutinising my worried, handsome features with the stony expressions of folk who are trying to hide more energetic emotion.

That was my first hint that I was in real trouble.

Kerillian broke first, her cockatrice stare dissolving into that wild laughter of hers. Doubled over within moments she was, standing only because a grinning Sienna was holding her upright. Sienna herself held her poise a hair longer, right up until the point a straight-faced Kruber complemented my nightgown, which in truth ain’t much deserving of kind words. That set Bardin off. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by guffawing maniacs who didn’t seem to care that the keep was under attack.

Only, as I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, no such attack was underway. You see, we had a mite of snowfall at dusk, and it seems that four of the five – what with the fifth having nothing recognisable as a sense of humour – decided to play a trick on poor old Franz.

Kerillian said it was Bardin’s idea, Bardin claimed it was Kruber. Sienna refused to make definitive statement either way, but whoever was the mastermind, they had the others toiling through the night building snowmen on the hillside, and decked them out with whatever old weapons, battered helms and rusted shields they could lay hands on. Half of my lads had to be in on it as well, I reckon – I’ll be having a few steep conversations about that before the day’s out, I can tell you – and Olesya surely had a hand in it. My old eyes aren’t so bleary as to be taken in without a little illusory assistance. At least, I hope so. The years ain’t been kind.

Kruber insisted on giving me an inspection tour of the troops before the sun was fully up. Had a name for each and every one, which I assume he appropriated from old comrades. Couldn’t tell you if there was a rhyme or reason to it. Apart from the one snowman, slightly shorter than the rest, who had the most threadbare hat I ever did see. Karl Franz, apparently. Blessed Ulric, but that Kruber can hold a grudge something fierce. There are times when I wonder if he’s not really a particularly large dwarf.

As for Saltzpyre? Slept through the whole thing. Meditating, he says. Never seen someone snore while meditating, though, so I reckon he’s back on his subjective truths. Must be tiring, being a Herald of Sigmar, or whatever he imagines himself to be.

Anyway, it’s gone noon as I write this. Karl Franz and all his frosty soldiers are practically melted away, their brief siege of Taal’s Horn Keep ended by the winter sun. Gone, but not forgotten, as Catrinne insisted on immortalising the moment in oils. Complete, I’m sad to say, with a depiction of yours truly in heroic pose upon the battlements, tattered nightgown blowing in the wind and a candlestick brandished threateningly towards the horde.

I can just about remember a time when I was respected in the Empire, but dignity?

Haven’t had that since this lot burst into the Red Moon.