Atop a mountain, on the wooden roof of a stone drum tower, two men watched the sky. Bald heads tattooed with intricate blue patterns were shiny with rain, and the water dripped down into their beards, brown and blond. Lightning flickered and crashed across grey storm clouds, but the pair showed no fear.

"Should Tor strike us," the blond bearded man said, "we will deserve it." He wore the pelt of a grizzly around his broad shoulders.

"Courage is rewarded," his companion said. He was the slighter of the two, but still could not be called small. His eyes remained fixed on the sky as he spoke, his own furs shielding him against the cold.

"Foolishness is punished," the first man replied, eyes fixed the same.

"You can go down and sit by the fire in the hall with the others, if you like," the man with the brown beard said.

The other man made no move to go through the trapdoor that led below, even as a long, low, echoing rumble of thunder reverberated through the air. The rain intensified, becoming sharp and stinging in its force, but neither moved, still watching the sky. Minutes passed, and the clouds overhead grew black, stretching from horizon to horizon above the mountains. The lightning began to slow, then faded, and both men frowned, not quite disappointed, but confused. Then -

The sky turned white as the clouds above their temple exploded with lightning as one. The thunder that followed did not so much roar as drown out all sound. For a heartbeat in the clouds, it seemed there was a figure etched in the lightning, glancing down on them, but then it passed them by, continuing east. The silence lingered in its wake, and neither man dared to breathe.

"Thor!" came a distant bellow. "Odin's son!" It grew louder, nearer. "CHAOS, I SAY THEE NAY!" The rain was buffeted sideways, and the mountains seemed to shake. Slowly, the echoes of the voice faded.

The sounds of wind and rain and the roar of a bear in the stable below returned to the world, but the two men were stock-still.

"I'll get my axe," the blond man said.

"Aye."

X

The scent of woodsmoke was heavy in the air, and what had been a peaceful day of work in the fields had become a night of terror within the walls of the village. A brother and sister were dragged through the streets of their home by the shoulders, feet trailing in the dirt. The man had been struck about the skull, and his head lolled forward, blood staining his dark hair and homespun tunic. The woman was silent as she glared at their captors, not by choice but by the gag tied harshly across her mouth. Her dark hair matched his, and her rough dress was from the same simple cloth. Torches lit the night and dark figures moved through the village, joining the procession towards its centre. The fact that she recognised them all only made it hurt all the more.

"Are you sure about this, holy sir?" the headman asked, almost fretting. He was thick built as a woodsman must be, but he sounded more like he was unsure about the need to slaughter a prize cow than the true business of the night. "They're a mite strange, unmarried at their age and all, but we never had strange happenings or-"

The dark figure that they were following did not so much as pause his stride. "A Witch Hunter of Blessed Sigmar does not err in matters such as this. The stench of their heresy cannot be mistaken." His voice was a dry drawl, and as they approached the village centre, his shadow grew long, stretching over the captives behind him. The scent of smoke grew stronger.

The sister began to struggle in truth as she saw what awaited them. A pyre had been built, a stripped down trunk at its centre, and around it was the rest of the village, bearing torches and dark mutterings. She tried to bite at one of the men dragging her, but received a heavy slap for her troubles, sending her reeling with a noise of pain. She knew him, had kissed him in the cornfield when they were children.

At the sound of pain, the brother jerked, struggling to focus, but his body was weak, and answered his will only sluggishly.

"Ready them for the holy flames," the witch hunter commanded. "Bind them to the centre by foot, body, and neck."

"Is that right needed, holy sir?" the headman asked. "He's conked and she's only a woman."

The witch hunter turned to him, and the torches of the crowd cast his face in shadow. "I once burned a witch who revealed dark gifts from the ruinous powers in their final minutes, and broke free from the stake. I fought them as they burned, and the fire spread through the village. Only ash remained. Would you like to take that risk here?"

With a dry swallow, the headman relented. He looked to the four men carrying the captives and gave them a jerky nod.

Brother and sister were dragged to and up the pyre, surrounded by the curses and invectives of their neighbours. She struggled again, but was overpowered with ease, and soon they were being lashed to the stake. Overheard, dark clouds gathered, concealing the moon.

Back to back they were tied, rope wrapped around them both at the waist, their hands already secured. Next their captors - one of them a cousin - made to bind them by the neck to the stake. Perhaps thinking them disarmed, one was not ready when the brother took his chance to bite him by the hand, clenching his jaw with all the fury he couldn't think straight enough to express, tearing and worrying at it like an animal.

The man screeched, bringing back his other hand to rain blows on the brother's head until he was knocked loose. Even then he did not stop, continuing to strike him.

"Enough!" the witch hunter commanded. "The flames will have their due."

Thunder underscored his words, and rain threatened. The sister cursed them despite the gag, furious tears streaming down her face. Their necks were bound to the stake, near strangling them.

"Quickly now, before the rain can save them," the witch hunter said. One hand was resting on the pistol at his hip, stroking its grip.

Again, thunder echoed in the distance, and it sounded angry. Lightning coursed through the sky above. Torches were brought forward from the crowd, and the mutterings rose into a clamour as they were pressed to the tinder and kindling stacked at the base of the pyre. Flames erupted, and a fight broke out at the edge of the crowd, fists flying and drawing the witch hunter's eye. His features illuminated by the growing flames, the scarred and grizzled man glanced sharply at the brawl, pistol half free from its holster.

The sister tried to stamp at the flames before it caught in truth, but she could not reach, and her brother fought to focus his eyes. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the village such was its intensity. Anger, righteousness, fury, despair, all were thrown into stark relief, and everyone within missed the figure depicted in the clouds for a bare instant. Everyone, except the siblings.

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Then came a noise. It was faint, almost too faint to be heard, but just loud enough to make one turn their head. "Thor!" came the call, behind the crackling of the fire. "Odin's son!" it rose above the clamour of the crowd. "CHAOS, I SAY THEE NAY!" Lightning struck at the pyre, not at the tree at its centre, but at the two lashed to it. Wood and rope blackened, but did not burn.

Energy filled the brother and sister, and their eyes began to glow. A pistol rose, swift in its judgement but still far too slow.

"NAY!" screamed the sister, gag crumbling to ash in her mouth, and she pointed at the witch hunter who had torn her from her bed and turned their village against them. Lightning surged, connecting her hand to his pistol, and the man was thrown back, his pointed hat flying free.

Clamour and curses were replaced by fear, and torch wielding villagers turned to flee. The sister wasted no time, tearing herself loose from what remained of her bindings, and turning to help her brother with his. The flames licked at their heels as they leapt from the pyre, lurching as they landed, clutching at one another.

"Come, hurry!" the sister said, tugging at her brother.

"No, not there - this way," the brother said, pulling at her in turn, and his tone was so certain that she followed without question.

They turned away from the path that would lead to the closer south gate, instead making for a smaller gate farther away that pointed north, disappearing into the shadows. They had lost near everything that night, but as the heavens opened to drench what had been their pyre, they could be thankful at least that they still had their lives, and each other.

X

What had once been a village was little more than ash and mud, mute evidence to the weakness of those that had lived there. Jarrod paid little attention to his men as they did as ordered, focus instead on the small wooden block he was carving away at. His seat twitched feebly, but it was ignored.

The morning sun was weak, and if one looked to the north the shifting auroras could be faintly made out, though his band knew better than to do so. This far north, gazing too long at the border between realms invited ill things. There were better ways to seek blessings. He blew on his carving, blowing wood shavings away, turning it this way and that. The head was starting to emerge, and slender fingers continued to carve away at it with sharp nails.

"Boss," came the deep rumble of his second, footsteps crunching deeply in the mud and snow.

"Dax," Jarrod said. The big man had been with him since they left their village, though his size had only come in after their first raid.

"We're done," Dax said. His nose was blunter than a warhammer, and almost as wide.

"Boys finished having their fun?"

"Girl killed herself," Dax said, uncaring. "So I guess so."

Jarrod stopped in his carving, looking up with a raised eyebrow. "How did she manage that?"

"Got a dagger off Nokel while he was busy with her."

"Well, good for her," Jarrod said. Eyes that had once been blue but were now the colour of ice went back to his carving. "Nokel?"

"He's fine. Girl turned it on herself first."

The flicker of approval he felt faded like a cinder in snow. "The rest?"

"All done," Dax said, something almost like contentment in his voice. "What do you think?"

Jarrod looked up to where his man was gesturing, and took in the pile of skulls. An appreciable portion of the village were now piled in a pyramid. Well, their heads were, anyway. All wore slack expressions of pain and terror. "Very good. How about you?"

His seat moaned, but didn't shift.

"I asked you a question," Jarrod said, chiding, and he grabbed the man by the ear, nails piercing and twisting, forcing him to look. He would have grabbed him by the hair, but such a thing was hard given his lack of a scalp.

The seat looked with empty eyes, but still he saw.

"That's your son in pride of place, no?" Jarrod asked.

He didn't answer, but Dax did with a chuckle. "Said he was going to give my head to the Axefather," the hulking man said.

"I'm sure he is happy, being at the top of the pile," Jarrod said. He let go, flicking blood from his fingers, and returned to his carving.

Dax shuffled, but didn't leave.

"Was there something else?" Jarrod asked, not looking up.

"Some of the boys were wondering, about last night," Dax said.

Jarrod carved deeper than he meant to, and he put the block away, tucking it within his furs. "What of it." Forcibly, he held back a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold wind of the morning. The entire camp waking in fear had left things shaken. It was the entire reason he had taken them on this pointless diversion.

'Thor!'

"Are we fixing to do anything about it?" Dax asked.

'Odin's son!'

"You want to get between the Gods when they fight?" Jarrod asked. Only a fool drew the gaze of those his greater before he was ready, and whatever was responsible for the storm that flowed over them last night was still his greater.

'CHAOS, I SAY THEE NAY!'

Dax looked uncomfortable for a moment, shifting like his father had caught him doing something he shouldn't. "The Blood God called for Blood."

"So he did," Jarrod said, as if he had dreamed the same dream his men had. "And we will give it to him."

The brute found his balls, setting his shoulders. "Some want to turn south."

"Some?" Jarrod asked, as if he didn't know exactly who was muttering where they thought he couldn't hear them. Only a small part of his band was made up of those he had left his village with, so many months ago, to venture north into the Wastes. Others had been picked up on the way, and they didn't have the right kind of loyalty.

"No one important," Dax said.

"Then fuck 'em," Jarrod said. "We'll turn south when we're good and ready, and I've got what I came here for."

That seemed to settle Dax, and he nodded. "Blood for the Blood God."

Jarrod smiled, a thin thing more cutting than the wind about them. "The blood will flow. Get ready to leave. We march north."

Dax hesitated, but then turned and left, doing…whatever it was he needed to do.

The carving was retrieved, and Jarrod began to work on it once more. He couldn't return home without a gift for his nieces, after all.