Anthony Reynolds
Black Library
Ah yes, the big tie-in to the much anticipated fantasy strategy game. Much like Si Spurrier's Firewarrior and CS Goto's Dawn of War, this is the novelisation of a game, aimed at filling in blanks while staying true to the game. Seeing as the game wont be out for another month at the time of writing this, we can only hope. The book takes places some two hundred years before Archaon and his cronies decide to topple Middenheim, during the reign of Magnus the (not-so) Pious. The Great War has only just passed as the massive battle has been fought before the gates of Kislev, but there are still many, too many chaos warbands roaming the Empire.
The main story is one of three points really, we have the men of the Empire led by a captain with a claim to the throne of Ostmark, an Elven mage princess who at first feels sorry for the humans, but later on as with most pointy-eared lot, hate them. And in the middle we have a Khornate champion who is aspiring to glory. Following him is a wizard afraid of dying by an arrow as seen in a vision and a warrior whose head is already parted from the body in his own mind. That said, pretty cliché isn't it? The battles, while far and in between, are of a pretty good stamp, with plenty of bloodletting and other carnage for those that enjoy that kind of thing.
The book ends like most books and movies do, in one big final showdown between good and evil. While the outcome is pretty familiar, how it is achieved is a nice breakaway from the other books. Still, a pretty cliché book, but it entertains. Deep down inside, we all love cliché's for one reason or the other.
Defining moments: Having the wizard crap his pants at his visions and knowing that Empire engineers are in the closet psychopaths.
Rating: 7,5
Anthony Reynolds
THE ENGINEER, MARKUS, chortled in triumph as he knocked another two horsemen from the saddle with a pair of quick shots. He lowered his repeating handgun, marvelling at its accuracy and distance. Only on the practice fields of Nuln had he used this weapon, and he had longed for the day when he could test it in earnest. He was not displeased. The clockwork cogs smoothly rotated the barrels of the gun into the firing position, and he was pleased that the sight of the handgun was perfectly adjusted. The horsemen were close now, however, and he gave the Wrath of Sigmar a final look over with his trained eye.
The horsemen, galloping hard and guiding their steeds skilfully with their knees, unleashed a volley of fire from their short, powerful bows. Markus heard the groans of pain as arrows struck the handgunners. He tutted in irritation as an arrow clanged off one of the barrels of the Wrath of Sigmar.
'Heathen barbarians,' he snarled, and ordered the crew of the war machine to rotate the weapon to face the horsemen. He grinned as the horsemen drew even nearer. An arrow pierced his flamboyant, feathered hat, knocking it to the ground.
'Fire!' he screeched, and all hell was unleashed. The three firing mallets struck, and three gouts of flame burst from the ends of the uppermost barrels. They boomed loudly, smoke spewing from the chambers. Working smoothly, one crewman rotated the crank wheel, and the next three barrels swung into position. Again, the three mallets struck, and three more gouts of flame accompanied the booming as they fired. The other crewmembers were hastily reloading the weapon even as the last shots were fired. Markus was grinning like a maniac.
The smoke began to clear, exposing the devastation that the weapon had wreaked. The field was strewn with horses and men, and their screams filled the air. Severed limbs and torsos were scattered across the ground.
The handgunners drew long daggers and ran towards the fallen horsemen, stepping over the gory remains, and seeking out any survivors. They dispatched the living with cuts to the throat. Soon, the screams were silenced. Markus rubbed his hands with glee.
The horsemen, galloping hard and guiding their steeds skilfully with their knees, unleashed a volley of fire from their short, powerful bows. Markus heard the groans of pain as arrows struck the handgunners. He tutted in irritation as an arrow clanged off one of the barrels of the Wrath of Sigmar.
'Heathen barbarians,' he snarled, and ordered the crew of the war machine to rotate the weapon to face the horsemen. He grinned as the horsemen drew even nearer. An arrow pierced his flamboyant, feathered hat, knocking it to the ground.
'Fire!' he screeched, and all hell was unleashed. The three firing mallets struck, and three gouts of flame burst from the ends of the uppermost barrels. They boomed loudly, smoke spewing from the chambers. Working smoothly, one crewman rotated the crank wheel, and the next three barrels swung into position. Again, the three mallets struck, and three more gouts of flame accompanied the booming as they fired. The other crewmembers were hastily reloading the weapon even as the last shots were fired. Markus was grinning like a maniac.
The smoke began to clear, exposing the devastation that the weapon had wreaked. The field was strewn with horses and men, and their screams filled the air. Severed limbs and torsos were scattered across the ground.
The handgunners drew long daggers and ran towards the fallen horsemen, stepping over the gory remains, and seeking out any survivors. They dispatched the living with cuts to the throat. Soon, the screams were silenced. Markus rubbed his hands with glee.
