Prologue

he moon sagged in the sky, and clouds threatened to choke out the last shred of light. Despite many protests, the Priest insisted on entering by night. The dead spoke more in the night, whatever that was supposed to mean. It was to be a long walk to the Death’s Head, all the way up to the Middle Bridge along the River Stir’s eastern bank. Once they crossed over, it would be a long southeasterly journey before the band would reach their target district. After a short hike from camp, the band stood before the southern gate of Mordheim. The portal gaped hungrily before them, and nary a light shone within the gatehouse.

While the men busied themselves with their equipment and made light talk in a vain attempt to stave off the nerves, the servant of Morr did not seem to notice any of the others in their motley crew. With eyes transfixed on something beyond sight, the Priest was the first one to step through the gate. The men watched in silence as the Priest went on alone, a solitary silhouette against the moonlit cobblestones. With furtive glances to one another, each warrior knew what the other was thinking. They could have turned tail. They could have left the Priest to his own devices, and the Priest probably wouldn’t have even noticed. Despite themselves, the rest of the band slowly followed. No more talk was heard from them, lest the dead were listening.

The Priest had revealed the plan to the group during the journey to Mordheim, at least to those who cared to listen. Even after having the process explained to them multiple times, most still did not believe it to be true. What does it mean for a soul to be trapped between the realms of the living and the dead? Agony is how the Priest had described it; agony beyond the understanding of mortals. It was the power of the wyrdstone that disrupted the transition, and it was the power of the wyrdstone that would correct the issue. Through a ritual that utilized the wyrdstone, the trapped souls were to be bound to the mortal realm once more, just long enough for the Priest to deliver their last rites. With that, the souls would be freed from their torment and allowed to finally rest. Most of the men had laughed when they heard the details. When the Priest revealed that the ritual was learned in a dream, they had laughed even harder.

But there was no laughing now, and no turning back. They had all signed on for their own reasons. Nothing to do now but move forward. Running security for a man of the cloth couldn’t be that hard, right?