01 - The Burning Shore

This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of
sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all
of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds
and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest
and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers,
traders and soldiers, it is a land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark
forests and vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor
Karl-Franz, sacred descendant of the founder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder
of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and
breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound
Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering World’s Edge
Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and
renegades harry the wild southern lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours
of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land.
And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of
daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time
of battle draws ever near, the Empire needs heroes like never before.

Florin d’Artaud loved cards. He loved the way they purred like contented
animals when the dealer shuffled them. He loved the soft, waxy feel of them
between his fingertips as he fanned them out, and the way their faces smiled up
at him like old friends.

Most of all, he loved the way their patinas of faded ink could light up his
whole world, the way that they could send his pulse racing and his blood fizzing
through his veins like sparkling wine.

Yes, Florin loved cards. And if the cards didn’t always return the favour,
what of it? A gentleman accepted his losses and paid them off however he could.

But tonight, for once, he wasn’t losing. He was winning, and winning big.

Trying to ignore the sweat that plastered the silk of his tunic to the hard
muscles of his back, he studied the dealer’s face. It resembled a punching bag,
but judging by the glitter in the depths of his eyes, Florin guessed that the
man had just as often punched back.

As wrinkled and creased as an old leather glove, the zigzagging scars that
crossed the broken angle of his nose were almost comically ugly, and for that
Florin was grateful.

As far as he was concerned, it was that hideously ugly face that had brought
him so much luck tonight.

“The game remains ogre’s fist,” the old battler announced portentously,
snapping the cards into a neat rectangle and glancing down at his snuffbox. Even
in this dingy backroom the burnished steel of its lid shone like a mirror.

“Aces high. A run beats a flush.”

Although they’d been huddled in the smoky miasma of the backroom all night,
and the dealer had introduced every hand with that same dull mantra, the
gamblers nodded again. They leaned closer to the table, their faces damp and
flushed and gleaming in the rich yellow light of the room’s single lamp, and
their eyes grew harder.

There had been half a dozen of them at first, but luck had thinned down their
ranks. Now only, three remained. The gold of their beaten opponents stood
stacked in front of these survivors—the piles as high and neat as the bars of
a cage.

Florin watched the last of his five cards slide to a halt in front of him. He
savoured the excitement of every new hand before picking it up. His face
remained blank. Neither a flicker of a smile nor the hint of a frown marred his
even features as he studied his cards. His dark eyes remained impassive as he
slid them into order. And, although he paused to brush a strand of hair back
from the high dome of his forehead, his hands remained steady.

As Florin examined his hand from behind his nonchalant mask, the dealer
glanced up at one of the other players: a heavily-built Reiklander with a
brightly hennaed mane of hair. As their eyes met, the dealer tugged at his
twisted earlobe three times, and tapped the crooked bridge of his nose twice.

“Well, then gentlemen, if you’re ready. The betting starts with you, sir.”

Somehow he managed to make the honorific sound like an insult, but Florin
didn’t care. He had other things on his mind.

“Let’s start with three crowns,” he said carefully.

“Three crowns bet,” the dealer intoned as Florin slid the money across the
table.

“Too rich for my blood,” the Reiklander dropped his hand. The third player, a
wiry little runt of a Tilean, grunted his agreement and folded too.

“The pot’s yours, sir.”

Florin passed his full house back and gathered up the handful of coins
without a trace of disappointment.

The Reiklander and the Tilean tried not to smile at their accomplice as he
shuffled again. They had made a real killing tonight. Perhaps that was why the dealer’s fingers were as sure as an honest man’s as he dealt
another hand over the mirrored lid of his snuffbox.

“The game remains ogre’s fist,” he intoned. “Aces high. A run beats a flush.”

The three players picked up their cards, fanned them out, and considered
their options. The Reiklander tugged at the roll of fat that bulged beneath his
chin and watched the dealer. When Florin glanced down, the scarred old villain’s
left eye winked shut in what might have been a twitch.

“I’ll bet four… no let’s make it six crowns,” the redhead said, counting
out his coins and sliding them into the pot.

The Tilean sighed theatrically and looked at his cards as though he was about
to burst into tears.

“Six it is,” he agreed and glanced at Florin.

“Six, and raise you six,” the younger man said, knocking the coins off one of
the three piles, in front of him.

“See your six, raise you six,” the Reiklander said after a moment’s fake
hesitation.

The Tilean, a better actor, scratched unhappily at his goatee and twisted one
of his rings. Then he shrugged.

“I’m in.” He pushed twelve more coins into the table.

“Raise you twelve,” Florin said, excitement tugging the corners of his mouth
into a reluctant smile.

The redhead saw the expression and glanced quickly at the dealer, whose eye
twitched again.

“And another twelve.”

The Tilean looked from his companion to the dealer. Then he squeezed the
bridge of his sharp little nose between his fingertips.

“What’s the bet?” he asked nervously.

“Twenty-four crowns to stay in the game,” the dealer told him, as though
twenty-four gold crowns were of no more concern than so many beans.

“Very well, twenty-four.” He counted out the bet and pushed it reluctantly
into the centre of the table. For a moment his hand hovered over the money, as
if he was considering snatching it back.

“Well, I’ll raise you… Oh I don’t know, what do we think?” Florin couldn’t
help gloating at the fear that shone on the Tilean’s sweaty face. “Let’s say
another twenty-four.”

He counted out half of his remaining coins. Silence, as thick as oil, filled
the room; it was broken only by the hiss of an oil lamp and the clink of gold.

The redhead, pale now apart from two high red spots on his cheeks, took a
deep breath and counted out twenty-four coins. Then, with a final glance at the
dealer, he counted out the last of his money.

“Raise you fifteen,” he snapped and looked once more at his cards.

“I’m out,” the Tilean sighed, as if he didn’t know whether to be miserable or
relieved. His chair squeaked backwards as he reached behind him for a bottle of
wine. He uncorked it and poured it down his throat as though his stomach was on
fire.

“Raise you twenty,” Florin smiled and pushed the last of his coins across the
table.

The redhead considered the gleaming pile of gold in front of him. It seemed
to have a gravity all of its own, a way of attracting everything in the room to
the rich glimmer of its weight. There were coins there from the Empire, the
Southlands, even distant Cathay.

And there were enough of them to buy this tavern twice over.

“Will you take an IOU?” he asked without lifting his eyes from the treasure.

Florin barked with explosive laughter, impervious to the flash of sudden
hatred that glinted in his opponent’s eyes.

“This is no time to joke, my man. If you don’t have enough to cover the bet,
well then…” He waved his hands eloquently.

“All right,” the redhead scowled. “I’m sure you’ll take this.”

Reaching into the grimy depths of his tunic he pulled out a small velvet
purse. Carefully, with surprising delicacy for such a big man, he tipped the
contents out into the palm of his hand and held them up to the light.