Hordes - Exigence.pdf

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As titanic battles are fought across western Immoren, the fires of a war more ancient and terrible than any of those conducted by mortals are being stoked to world-consuming fury. The leaders of the United Kriels fight to ensure their survival by calling on both old and new allies, including the recently awakened mountain kings. Aloof from the struggles of the other factions, Xerxis leads an army in a risky gambit amid the larger plans of Supreme Archdomina Makeda, positioning the skorne to subjugate Ios. Meanwhile, events already set in motion by Krueger the Stormlord threaten to scar the face of Caen itself as he works toward his ultimate goal: the destruction of the dragon Everblight. Ancient beings advance toward an apocalyptic end game with no regard to the innocents caught in their path, and only time will tell if great heroes will find a way to forestall this doom. HORDES: Exigence brings you the next thrilling chapter of the HORDES saga. Hold nothing back in your fight for survival with: • New warcasters, including new epic versions. • Three new character lesser warlocks who bring even more furious support to your army. • New units and solos to expand HORDES armies with new strategic possibilities. • New narrative fiction picking up directly after the harrowing events of HORDES: Gargantuans. • A painting and modeling guide to help you prepare your forces for battle. • Theme Force lists for each new warcaster, which allow you to create armies based on specialized forces found in the HORDES world.

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ISBN: 978-1-939480-45-3 • PIP 1058 • $34.99 • www.privateerpress.com

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AWAKEN YOUR FURY AND HOLD NOTHING BACK IN THE WAR FOR SURVIVAL!

No matter how rash they may have been, it is too late by far to undo the decisions of the past. and we can only attempt to navigate the storm. — Omnipotent Lortus

SPINE

Now the skies darken,

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Credits WARMACHINE created and designed by

Michael Jenkins Ben Misenar

Lead Designer, WARMACHINE

Carlos Castaño  Russ Charles Benoit Cosse Jonathan Flanders Todd Harris Olivier Nkweti Steve Saunders

Matthew D. Wilson

Jason Soles

Designer, Exigence David Carl

Project Director Bryan Cutler

Creative Director Ed Bourelle

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Douglas Seacat

Writing

Matt DiPietro Jordan Ellinger Matt Goetz Orrin Grey Aeryn Rudel William Shick

Additional Writing David Carl Lyle Lowery Jason Soles

Continuity

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2

Additional Sculpting

Writing & Continuity Manager

Cody Ellis

Jon Adams Mark Arreola Oren Ashkenazi Ryan Baldonado Nelson Baltzo Thomas Cawby Johan Cea Henry Chac Chris Crespo Bryan Dasalla Alfonso Falco Joel Falkenhagen Juanita Garcia-Lovato Maddie Gill Young Han Trevor Hancock Mike Harshbarger Armond Haydel Bryan Klemm Mark Lawson Chris Lester David Lima Clayton Links Keith Loree Christopher Matthews Bryan McClaflin Mike McIntosh Chris McLeroy Antonio Mora Reece Nash Phuong Nguyen Scott Paschall Aaron Paul Antwan Porter Sam Rattanavong Erik Reiersen

David Carl

Matt Goetz

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Internal Playtesters Ed Bourelle David Carl Johan Cea Jack Coleman Cody Ellis Charles Foster III Bill French William Hungerford Bryan Maclaflin Chris McLeroy Michael Plummer Erik Reierson William Schoonover William Shick Jason Soles Gabriel Waluconis

External Playtesters Alice Bettoli Cody Brown Corey Brown Andrew Hartland Kristin Hartland Federico Ingrosso Stu Liming James Moreland Andrew Ready Owen Rehrauer Josh Saulter Tim Simpson

Proofreading

David Carl Dan Henderson Geoffrey Konkel William Shick

NEW BLOOD RISES

Constant war has taken its toll on the savage nations of Immoren. The unrelenting conflict has brought each of them to the brink of costly victory—or utter annihilation. With the stakes so high, desperate actions have been taken in the name of survival. Determined to destroy Everblight, Krueger the Stormlord is embroiled in the matters of ancient forces far beyond his control. The trollkin leader Madrak Ironhide must return to his kriels with the newly awakened mountain kings, while Borka the Kegslayer undertakes a perilous journey to the north. And Archdomina Makeda pursues her invasion of the inhospitable nation of Ios, whose land itself pushes against her. The unforeseeable consequences of these and other world-changing choices threaten to shake Caen to its core.

At the heart of these momentous events are individuals whose deeds are certain to become legend. Indeed, the crucible of war continually forges new heroes, and this volume introduces many whose exploits will one day shape the fates of their factions. While Minion lesser warlocks have been available to players since Mk I, HORDES: Exigence marks the arrival of lesser warlocks in the factions themselves. With these new lesser warlocks, players can field and capably control a greater number of fearsome creatures than ever before. Exigence sees several powerful new character solos and warbeasts rush to join the fight for survival as well. From

the leadership of Gunnbjorn’s personal dire troll Dozer and his pyg rider Smigg to the berserker fury of the fellbladewielding farrow Maximus, these new characters open up a wealth of opportunities for players as they struggle toward victory. Even as these new heroes step forward to bear the terrible burdens of war, new weapons roll out from the most unlikely of places. New gatorman and farrow battle engines reinforce the Thornfall and Blindwater pacts with their first huge-based models and bring new options for other HORDES factions. Both the soul-fueled terrors of the gatorman’s Sacral Vault and the sheer carnage wrought by the maniacal rolling death machine that is the farrow’s Meat Thresher are destined to make their mark on the everescalating wars in the wilds of Immoren. A new style of warbeast also arrives on the battlefield. Warbeast packs are an exciting opportunity for players to meld the raw power and fury-generating capabilities of classic warbeasts with the organization of a trooper unit. Trained to utilize the weight of numbers to compensate for their smaller size, these beasts coordinate attacks to bring down the largest of foes in a flurry of tooth and claw. Prepare yourself. This is warfare with the gloves off, bareknuckled and brutal. There is no time for hesitation or restraint. Exigence is now!

Table of Contents Blood Debt, part one. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rules and Theme Forces. . . . . . . . . . . . . . Trollbloods. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Circle Orboros. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Skorne. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

4 16 20 36 52

Legion of Everblight. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66 Minions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 80 Model Gallery. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 Paint Guide. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102 Blood Debt, part two. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110

Visit: www.privateerpress.com Privateer Press, Inc. 13434 NE 16th St. Suite 120 • Bellevue, WA 98005 Tel (425) 643-5900 • Fax (425) 643-5902 For online customer service, email [email protected] This book is printed under the copyright laws of the United States of America and retains all of the protections thereof. All Rights Reserved. All trademarks herein including Privateer Press®, Iron Kingdoms®, Full Metal Fantasy, Immoren, WARMACHINE®, Forces of WARMACHINE, Steam-Powered Miniatures Combat, Convergence of Cyriss, Convergence, Cygnar, Cryx, Khador, Protectorate of Menoth, Protectorate, Retribution of Scyrah, Retribution, warjack, warcaster, HORDES, Forces of HORDES, Monstrous Miniatures Combat, Circle Orboros, Circle, Legion of Everblight, Legion, Skorne, Trollbloods, Trollblood, warbeast, Formula P3, Formula P3 Hobby Series, and all associated logos are property of Privateer Press, Inc. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form without written permission from Privateer Press. Duplicating any portion of the materials herein, unless specifically addressed within the work or by written permission from Privateer Press, is strictly prohibited. In the event that permissions are granted, such duplications shall be intended solely for personal, noncommercial use and must maintain all copyrights, trademarks, or other notices contained therein or preserve all marks associated therewith. Don’t steal our copyrighted material, and we'll promise not to tell everyone that you had to look up what "exigence" means. Don't try to deny it; we know you looked it up. First printing: June 2014. Printed in China.

HORDES: Exigence (ebook version). . . . . . . . . ISBN: 978-1-939480-76-7 . . . . . . . . . . . . PIP 1058e

3

Blood Debt Part One

Northern Wyrmwall Mountains, Late 608 AR

Hoarluk Doomshaper had done all he could to ensure the powerful and voracious mountain kings would remain responsive to Madrak Ironhide. He had no doubt Madrak had the force of will to control them, but restraining so many at once for an extended period of time would have been a trial for anyone. After their battle with the forces of the Circle Orboros high in the mountains, there had been the question of what would come next. Doomshaper had witnessed Madrak’s despondency when Rathrok returned to him. Ironhide had for a moment thought himself free of that yoke. Yet the first thing Madrak had done, as they had begun to contemplate their route down from the mountain, was come to Doomshaper. He had promised to finish what he had started, to be a kin of his word. He clearly did not look forward to what lay ahead, yet he was willing to fulfill his obligations. The Shaman of the Gnarls had to admit he had misjudged Ironhide. In the recent conflicts his respect for the Thornwood leader had grown, a fact he admitted to himself with something akin to irritation. He had long prided himself on the sharpness of his mind, on how little he allowed himself any sentimentality. A long life of making tough decisions and committing to necessary sacrifices had shaped a certain dour outlook. He did not like the notion of growing soft in his declining years. Nonetheless, he could not deny a certain fondness for Ironhide, despite the kin’s distastefully humanish ideals. When Madrak came to him, Doomshaper realized how much things had changed. He still desired to see the humans of northwestern Cygnar pay for their many injustices. A reckoning was due them, and he hoped to deliver it eventually. Now that the trollkin had the mountain kings, they were more ready than ever for such a fight. But during the ceremony of awakening his awareness had broadened. He had sensed the scope and depth of Dhunia, and he now knew his path lay elsewhere. In truth, things had changed the moment Grim had brought evidence of the resting place of those first long-buried kings, the primal hunger that had been chained but not entirely forgotten. “Our paths will diverge,” Doomshaper had told Madrak. “I release you of your obligations to me, at least for now. Go with Grim and the rest of this army, and return with the mountain kings to Grissel and your people. I suspect they have need of you more than I do.” Madrak had blinked and looked at the elder trollkin with evident surprise. He said, “Where are you going, if not with us? What of Ceryl?”

4

Doomshaper had sighed, feeling the age in his bones. “I would like nothing more than to teach that city the folly of disrespecting the kin of the Gnarls. Dhunia requires something else of me. These five”—he waved his staff to signify the gargantuan trolls—“are not all the mountain kings. There are others, still chained beneath distant peaks. They were roused by my rite and are ready to answer, but I must collect them and guide them, lest they be discovered by our enemies. The Tree of Fate cannot corrupt them now that they are shaken from their slumber, but they do not understand today’s world. Should their hunger lead them into the lands of man, they will be surrounded and eventually destroyed. It is vital we preserve them and join their strength to ours. I shall start in the frozen northern mountains.” Madrak had tried to hide it, but Doomshaper had been able to tell he was relieved to be free of his obligation, glad the attack on a major human city was delayed. It was to be expected, but Doomshaper had still felt disappointed in this persistent weakness. Ironhide was who he was, and it was unlikely he would ever change. As the day arrived for them to say their farewells, Madrak came to him with Borka limping at his side. Doomshaper scowled at them, having no interest in extended goodbyes. Borka had been relatively quiet in the days since the battle, and though he already looked better, the evidence of his brush with death was plain. His leg would require time to properly heal, having been nearly severed, and his missing arm would not grow back for months. The northern warlock had taken to eating and drinking a prodigious amount even by his standards. Madrak said to Doomshaper, “It’s vital you not travel north alone.” The shaman pursed his lips. “I will not be alone. Mulg will be with me.” “Not enough. I promised to see you returned safely, and I do not consider that obligation fulfilled. Anything could happen to you in the north. Borka will go with you, together with some of his champions.” Borka’s eyes looked unfocused; clearly he had already been drinking heavily. Doomshaper snorted and said, “He looks to be more in need of protection than I. What use is he in this state? He would only slow me down.” The younger shaman made an indignant noise and lifted his mace. “I can still fight, old stonebeard! No one knows the northern lands like I do.” Madrak added, “Rök has been pulling him on a wagon while his leg mends.”

“Two drunkards for the price of one,” Doomshaper said sourly. “I will make better time without them. It will be hard enough evading Khadoran patrols with just Mulg. Adding these two will invite disaster.” “I’ll feel better knowing they are with you,” Madrak insisted. “And while he is in the north, Borka can gather more of his kinfolk and additional winter trolls to join us.” Doomshaper could see his mind had been made up, and though he expected Borka’s demeanor would grate on his nerves, he decided there would be no lasting harm in allowing the pair to join him. “Very well.” He glared at Borka. “But I will not slow down for you. We have many miles to cross.” Borka laughed. “The day a kin your age outpaces me is the day I let Rök bite off my head!” Doomshaper looked to Madrak and said, “Do not blame me if, when I return, Borka is shorter.” Even this rare attempt at humor elicited only a small, distracted smile from Ironhide, who was looking to the horizon, his fingers tracing along Rathrok’s haft. Doomshaper sighed and turned north, leaving the chieftain to his inner turmoil.

Northern Thornwood, Early 609 AR

Sköll gave an almost joyful wild cry as he leapt forward from between twisted, dark trees. He brought his weighty axe crashing down through the skull of a blighted Nyss swordsman, who dropped at once, his single-edged blade tumbling from his fingers. Sköll yanked the axe loose and stepped swiftly to the side as another swordsman lunged for him, narrowly missing the blood-drenched Wurm cultist. His eyes upon another foe, Sköll did not even look back. He swung his axe into the ribs of the next enemy, whose leather armor posed no hindrance. The swordsman Sköll had first evaded turned to strike at his open side but was thwarted by a shadow that emerged from the darkness with a cleft sword in hand. Tala ran the Nyss through, showing a feral grin from beneath the bear’s skull she wore as a helmet. She held the dying Nyss up, suspended upon the tines of her divided blade, and watched as he died. After letting her enemy fall to the soil, she used a shorter blade to cut open his chest, then reached in to claim his heart and liver. “They taste foul,” Sköll warned her. “Their flesh is tainted.” “Tainted or not, the Wurm will still accept the offering,” she said. “It is the killing that matters.” “More come!” Caleb shouted from their left. He wielded iron claws strapped to his wrists and wore a tattered wolf cloak stained with both fresh and old blood. The sounds of fighting carried through the trees as dozens of Wolves and Reeves of Orboros engaged the blighted foe.

Combining forces with so many was unusual for them; the Death Wolves preferred to fight apart, even when they answered the blackclads’ call to battle. None of the masters of the hunt dared command them, for Sköll was a king in his own right. Although he respected Wolf Lord Morraig, he recognized no man as his master, not even the druids who were blessed to be conduits for the Wurm. Still, they acknowledged there was a special place among them for the Stormlord, he who had been marked by the Tree of Fate and who had feasted on hearts alongside the Tharn, so Sköll had answered Krueger’s call, all the more eagerly because he knew it would be a battle of few against many. It was in just such fights that the trio could revel in death and carnage. Through the trees now came fleet, shadowy forms. Sköll stepped forward, his axe at the ready, knowing Tala and Caleb were with him. They did not need to speak to coordinate their actions in battle.

She held the dying Nyss up, suspended upon the tines of her divided blade, and watched as he died. These oncoming Nyss had been twisted even more by the blight. Their legs were transformed, giving them tremendous alacrity, and they came with blighted blades in hand. Those weapons shimmered darkly, as though an oily film was upon them. He could smell their wrongness. His lip curled as he snarled, and then he was closing to meet them. He would deliver their feeble souls to the Wurm, and their power would become his. He shared a brief look with Tala, and then the fight was joined again.

Clouds churned in the sky and the trees were whipped by wind and rain as Krueger the Stormlord soared through the air, riding the wind as he looked down from a distance on the skirmish below. He was keenly aware his lofty vantage was no real security, as among the forces he faced were a large number of flying beasts, including those larger and more powerful than any he had previously seen among Everblight’s legion. It was disconcerting to witness how quickly the dragon’s mutable army adapted and added to its arsenal, shaping living weapons from butchered meat transformed by the protean blood of their progenitor. Among the soldiers fighting below were forms he had never seen before, though they were led by a Nyss archer he had seen from a distance. He knew her to be a singularly deadly huntress, likely the one responsible for Baldur’s fall after the Castle of the Keys.

5

Blood Debt, Part One

For the moment he had no desire to join battle personally, and it seemed his enemies were focused on their immediate environs. The distance was such he was sure he could withdraw if the enormous archangels or the swifter angelii took wing toward him. Several watchful Scarsfell griffons circled at an even greater height, linked to Krueger’s mind. He was prepared to sacrifice them to protect himself, but that necessity had not yet come to pass. Wolds bonded to Krueger fought alongside the Wolves of Orboros below, but he was too far away to direct them. Everything about this encounter suggested needless waste. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. His priority at the moment, however, was to gather information, to test the capabilities and limits of the newer spawn, particularly those that had so alarmed the dragons.

6

a splinter of his scattered forces led by one of his braver chieftains probe inward as ordered, seeking to provoke the enemy. One of the archangels gave a shriek and took to wing to confront them. It soared past and breathed searing fire across the onrushing Wolves, setting them ablaze. They tumbled screaming to the earth, their bodies quickly transformed to ash. The spawn gained some altitude and then plunged to rend apart a woldwatcher, its claws and fangs shattering granite as easily as hardened clay. Several war wolves leapt up to tear at the archangel’s limbs and were lit afire by the shroud of flickering flame surrounding the massive creature, which clawed them to bloody, burning pieces before flying back closer to the others.

This had been what he had told the rotting and robed emissary of Blighterghast, who Krueger knew was nearby, watching. The Stormlord’s arrangement with the most powerful dragon of Toruk’s brood had become strained. Speaking through his emissary, Blighterghast had ordered him here to eliminate the archangels, great and fearsome dragonspawn whose form too closely emulated the dragons themselves in miniature.

The shifting ranks of Nyss archers and swordsmen filled the gap. They were being cautious, uncertain how sizable the Circle forces ambushing them truly were. Krueger knew this would not last long. The hills, trees, and fog helped to some degree, hindering the Nyss soldiers if not the spawn. All battles between the Circle and the Legion had been similar—elusive fencing with skirmish forces. Neither army was comfortable engaging massed troops in the open.

As yet, the archer warlock had kept these largest spawn in reserve. As Krueger watched from on high, he saw

He had been startled to realize the scope of Everblight’s forces advancing south, far more numerous than what he or

Morvahna had anticipated. They were not a single cohesive army but instead comprised many scattered bands of soldiers and dragonspawn. Though these secondary groups were slightly dispersed, each represented substantial reinforcements. Furthermore, each individual group moved as though it were part of a single organism, which in a sense it was. Everblight’s attention appeared to be fixated with the same unwavering intensity as when he had advanced on the Castle of the Keys. Krueger had quickly assessed there was no way at present for the Circle Orboros to thwart these enemies by force of arms. Though substantial, his army was still only partially mustered, while Morvahna’s allies had been depleted at Hawksmire River. Nor did he have any simple or expedient way to obliterate these archangels without embroiling more of his forces in this clash than he was willing to spare. Such an effort would do little to diminish Everblight. If the Circle had learned one thing in the last several years, it was how easily and quickly the dragon could replace his spawn. The futility of this battle kindled Krueger’s rage, and the storm around him answered in bolts of lightning and rumbling thunder. He had already delivered to the dragon alliance the means through which their ultimate victory could be assured. This entire conflict was a distraction—one that could undermine everything. He had seen enough. The difficulty rested in explaining that fact to an immortal dragon who cared not for any of his concerns. To Blighterghast, Krueger and every druid and warrior serving him were as insignificant as insects. Their deaths, whether singly or by the thousands, meant nothing. Nonetheless, Krueger would not allow himself or his forces to be simply thrown away. It was his agenda they followed, his insight that had created an opportunity to rid themselves of their greatest foe. He would simply have to force the issue.

As Krueger had anticipated, the Legion did not pursue his withdrawing forces. They were focused on other goals. His strike had delayed this force of Everblight’s army, but only slightly. Also as he expected, he did not retreat far before he was intercepted by the white-robed form of the once-human creature now serving as the conduit for Blighterghast’s voice to lesser mortals like himself. The rotted man stood on a thick lower branch of a decaying tree in their path. Krueger directed his subordinates to keep moving and then took to the air, drifting serenely up to meet with the emissary, ignoring the smell of the rotten flesh. “You have not completed the task,” the emissary said in a disapproving tone. “I have seen enough to tell you they are simply dragonspawn, nothing more. Greater and more powerful than others, but still only spawn. Killing them would gain you little.” “It is not your place to decide that. If you lack the power to destroy them, you are worthless to me.” The robed form, whose disfigured face was lost in the shadows of his hood, gave these words no emotional weight, but Krueger felt the threat behind them. He was not speaking simply to this proxy. He knew these were the words of Blighterghast. “I could destroy them,” Krueger said, “but not with what I have gathered here. Everblight’s forces are too strong, and his minions will not risk their spawn unnecessarily. Committing to their destruction here and now will require greater effort than it is worth.” “Feeble excuses. You are breaking our bargain?” The question carried ominous finality.

He dropped lower and sent lightning from his fingertips to plunge with rending power into the enemy, leaping from one form to the next. He summoned his griffons and descended low enough to fill the woldwardens below him with strength and his will. A tremendous wailing wall of sundering air was unleashed as he invoked his power, and even as lightning cleaved through some warriors, other Nyss were hurtled backward by a blast of wind. Flying spawn and archers’ arrows tumbled and scattered midflight.

“Not at all. You have listened to my words before; I ask only that you do so again. Why is it so important to you that the archangels be destroyed at this moment? I understand their form offends you. We can tear them down in time. But focusing on them now is taking us from our true task, the solution I set before you that will bring about the destruction of Everblight. A few spawn more or less—even great ones like these—will be of no consequence. Allow me to bring our true task to completion. It cannot be done without the cooperation of your alliance.”

His commanders recognized his signal to retreat, and horns sounded the call for withdrawal. Krueger had bought the nearest forces some time. He directed his beasts and wolds to cover those who remained, knowing even as he did so that many would die here, their broken bodies adding to the detritus of the forest floor. The Thornwood had always been a place where the soil was hungry for blood. The gallows groves would drink well tonight.

The emissary was silent for what seemed too long. Krueger looked down and past the figure, to where the withdrawing Circle forces were marching. He saw several subordinate blackclads looking up to where he spoke with the dragon’s emissary, but on seeing his attention they quickly looked away. None of them were comfortable with or understood the arrangement, nor did they comprehend why he had entered into an arrangement with Morvahna

7

Blood Debt, Part One only to abandon it. The fear and awe he had created in his subordinates sustained them despite these questions, but he knew that would not always be the case. Linking his fate to the dragons had left him uniquely vulnerable in more ways than one. Krueger feared some of his efforts might be unraveling before his eyes, but he refused to allow that. He had gone too far to turn back now. What they hoped to undertake required coordination between the dragons. The moment they began, it was highly likely that the entire hierarchy of the Circle would be alerted and work to reverse what he had done as swiftly as possible.

Linking his fate to the dragons had left him uniquely vulnerable in more ways than one. At last the emissary spoke. “It is to ensure our plan proceeds that the archangels must be destroyed.” Krueger’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Why? Explain. Allow me to perceive the problem, and perhaps I can arrive at a different solution.” This was a dangerous statement, given the nature of a dragon’s ego. Krueger was counting on the fact that Blighterghast might recognize the potential usefulness of a mortal’s perspective. Another long silence passed, and then the emissary spoke slowly, as if translating the words into a human language was an unpleasant chore. “Charsaug did battle with the archangels to the north and took injury. He withdrew. He is newly arrived in the west, long remote from our alliance, and his confidence in the necessity of unity is fragile. I had set him to the first task in the sequence you described. We are forestalled unless I replace him, which would provoke questions. His reluctance would spread. I can neither force obedience nor allow disobedience. It is only on one matter that our alliance shares absolute agreement.” “Toruk—and the need to stand against him,” Krueger said. The emissary nodded. “The resumption of Charsaug’s part in this is conditional on the destruction of the archangels.” Krueger considered this seemingly petty request in light of the pride and arrogance of the dragons. He mulled over the many layers of meaning between the emissary’s spoken words. Those few simple sentences revealed a great deal about the nature of the dragons and their reluctant cooperation. He had always thought Blighterghast ruled the dragons of his alliance more absolutely, but there was a certain logic in the idea that every such creature would view itself as sovereign. The Circle’s own hierarchy was contingent on a similar clash

8

of egos, and they were mortal and far more limited. He had also learned that the dragons—though mighty enough individually to destroy vast armies—were in some respects craven. Their very immortality would not allow them to confront potential peril. At last he said, “Allow me to speak with Charsaug directly.” The emissary’s lips compressed into a grimace. Krueger continued, “I can persuade him. I am certain of it.” “If you were to go to him, it is likely he would destroy you.” “I will take the risk,” Krueger insisted. In his present mood he felt more inclined to risk the ire of a dragon than to allow himself or his army to be slaughtered in some meaningless gesture. “Forewarn him I am coming and explain I have been a guest of yours. I will see to it Charsaug does what we require.” “Very well,” the emissary said. “Just one thing,” Krueger said. When dealing with immortals he had discovered they had an annoying habit of forgetting the limitations of other beings. “Where might Charsaug be found?”

Southern Iosan Mountains

“They are holed up inside the tunnels, Lord Assassin. They are well barricaded and well armed. They can fire down the main tunnel with impunity on any who approach.” Though the Venator dakar maintained his discipline, Morghoul could easily read his apprehension. The officer clearly knew he had failed to accomplish what he had been ordered to do. They stood outside the entrance to an Iosan mining complex that had until recently been protected by the Twilight Gate. Morghoul asked, “Did you have a plan of action?” Dakar Kelartex inclined his head slightly. “We are prepared to advance to force engagement. However, before taking that step I wanted to seek to neutralize them from afar if possible. Paingiver Nikexis thought there might be a way to create a soporific smoke by making use of chymicals ordinarily utilized to pacify enraged beasts. I sent him to recover as much of the substance as he could, but it may take several days to make arrangements. I thought it best to send word in case a delay would be unacceptable.” “It is unacceptable,” Morghoul affirmed, and he saw the officer’s lips compress. “There are other mines to secure, each defended. It is vital we begin to reap their benefits for the empire.” “My soldiers are fully ready and willing to attack, but I was concerned regarding the needless casualties we might incur.” Morghoul tilted his head and examined the dakar with an appraising eye. “An unusual sentiment for a follower

of hoksune.” The officer looked down, clearly anticipating some sort of disciplinary measure. “Fortunately for you, I am no tyrant. Your caution is well considered, given the losses we sustained in breaching the fortress.” Morghoul knew reinforcements would take time, and he could expect an Iosan counterattack at any moment. His garrison could not afford to waste soldiers needlessly. Makeda had taken the bulk of their army north, marching into the forest maze, leaving him with a much smaller force. “The notion of employing sleeping smoke to disable the enemy was a good one, but we do not have the time.” The dakar stood straighter, relief evident in his posture if not in his stony expression. “What are your orders, Lord Assassin?” “Hold position and await my orders to advance. I will clear the Iosan barricade.” Morghoul brought a pair of basilisks with him as he moved swiftly but quietly into the mine entrance. Although he had been ordered by Makeda to ensure their hold on the Twilight Gate specifically, he did not consider it beneath him to take a personal role in securing these nearby facilities. While he had left the majority of his small army back at the fortress, he had sent a few hand-picked datha to seize as many of the nearest Iosan mines and quarries as they could. To avoid the Iosans adapting to their presence, they needed to proceed from one to the next as swiftly as possible. Relying on the extended supply chain across the Bloodstone Desert to skorne territory left them in an extremely vulnerable position, so Makeda had made it a priority for their western holdings to become more self-sufficient. The conquest into southern Ios was an opportunity to see that come to pass, so long as they could secure immediately useful resources. They had already seized several iron mines and had allocated slaves to work day and night in order to maximize production. The mine he entered now was another matter. The extollers had suggested the exalted ancestors had a special interest in it, though they had been unclear why. Morghoul did not care for questioning extollers, as he was suspicious of everything they said. He knew the ancestors preserved in sacral stones were cryptic, as their minds occupied a state very different from those of the living, but he felt the extollers used this as a convenient excuse to withhold information, leveraging their value as translators and intermediaries. It was unfortunate he had rarely been allowed to apply the paingiver arts to them; he was certain he could encourage clearer answers with a bit of care and attention. The large entrance shaft bored into the mountain was lit by a cold, bluish-green radiance provided by gleaming glass

crescents set at regular intervals. Iosan mines were more ordered and cleaner than seemed natural to Morghoul’s eyes. He had been in skorne mines before, and his memory of them was of noisy, smelly, and perilous places filled with the groans of slaves, the cracking of whips, and the constant din of tools striking rock. This place was as quiet as a tomb, and the perfectly level and clean floor was finished as though it were an underground hall rather than a place of hard labor. Morghoul strode swiftly between the pools of light created by the sconces on either side of the tunnel, so as to remain as much in shadow as possible. His warbeasts followed, the clawed feet of the basilisks at the fore scrabbling upon the stone. Ahead he saw an obstruction in the tunnel where thick crates had been piled. He saw the gleam of eyes or lenses peering over the top and what might have been the ends of rifle barrels. Even as he came to this conclusion he reached with his mind to connect with the female krea, summoning his will to manifest an aura of mystical power around himself and urging the krea to project a similar protective bubble around both basilisks. Almost immediately the still air erupted with the reports of rifle fire. Morghoul broke into a run, then tumbled and stayed low while bullets whizzed by him. As each one neared and entered the aura he had created from the krea’s essence, it slowed visibly, just enough to allow him to evade. The defenders were firing blind, barely able to see the approaching assassin, but some of these bullets found the toughened hide of his warbeasts, which hissed in anger even though the slowed projectiles did little more than draw blood. Had it not been for the krea’s aura, his beasts would certainly have fared worse. Those enemies who fired first ducked out of sight, presumably to reload, while others took their places to launch another volley. Morghoul could hear an Iosan officer yelling orders. A pair of louder blasts announced the firing of two long and heavy rifles fixed on bipods atop the improvised barricade. Morghoul stepped to the side, but he was not their target. Both bullets found their mark in the hide of the krea. Connected to the beast’s mind, Morghoul felt its pain as the heavy projectiles plowed through its body, rupturing several internal organs, and exploded out its back. The warbeast shrieked and shook its head, but Morghoul urged it on. The male basilisk rushed forward at even greater speed, eager to kill whatever threatened its mate. Morghoul invoked his mortitheurgy to transform his body into shadow even as the next volley fired. He passed through the barricade blocking the tunnel as if it were nothing more than smoke. In one hand he carried his sword; in the other, his bladed fan. He emerged in the midst of the Iosan riflemen as an incarnation of death, leveraging all his

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Blood Debt, Part One strength in a series of graceful sweeps of both blade and fan that left eight of the nearest soldiers dead or mortally injured, their blood spreading across the stones of the tunnel floor in a widening pool. Several survivors yelled in anger as they drew swords, while other soldiers armed with halberds who had been standing ready farther back from the barricade rushed toward him.

Marketh nodded to himself and said, more to himself than Morghoul, “I am pleased I interpreted their words correctly.” He then looked up to the lord assassin and said, “This area is particularly rich in the stones and crystals receptive to mortitheurgy. In particular, this mine will allow us to craft sacral stones and to fabricate especially resilient vessels for immortals and ancestral guardians.”

An angry sizzling and popping noise filled the mine as the enraged basilisk released the unearthly energies of its gaze upon the barricade, burning through the left side. The reptilian creature opened a hole large enough to squeeze through and came for the nearest surviving riflemen. Morghoul neatly evaded the awkward lunges of the halberdiers and then vanished in shadow to reappear directly behind them. He cut through the back of the neck of the nearest, neatly severing the Iosan’s spine, then twisted to the side to plunge his blade’s point up and into the armpit of another.

The lord assassin felt satisfied to have at last received an answer, although he suspected the aptimus could have told him this earlier. Still, he could see the value in such a find. Until now most such vital materials had to be shaped and carved in the east, sent at considerable expense across the sands. The ability to fabricate superior stone warriors was of obvious military application. But it was difficult to feel too triumphant over such an accomplishment while the supreme archdomina risked her life marching north across uncertain terrain and facing an utterly unpredictable and inadequately scouted foe. Furthermore, his instincts told him his own position would likely be challenged soon.

Seeing Morghoul inside his halberd’s reach, a third clumsily moved to tackle the assassin but received the bladed edge of his Fan of Shadows across the throat. Wet noises and screams issued from those who fought the basilisk, which had bit off the face of the nearest. Soon Morghoul was joined by the wounded but angry krea, which made short work of another Iosan. The lord assassin finished the last enemy but did not spare any time to savor his victory, knowing more defenders might be waiting farther within. Compelling his basilisks after him, he descended deeper.

Morghoul was wiping the blood of the last of the Iosans from his sword when his Venators and Aptimus Marketh arrived. The lord assassin had sent the wounded krea back to the surface to indicate it was safe for the others to venture into the tunnels and awaited them in what looked to be an ore processing room. It wasn’t far from the chamber where he had imprisoned those miners who had surrendered and would soon become slaves, destined to labor in these same mines for the skorne. Morghoul addressed Marketh. “Now will you reveal why this particular mine was of interest?” The senior extoller did not answer at first but scanned the chamber. His eyes traced along a variety of machinery whose function and power source were entirely unfamiliar to him. He walked forward and looked at chunks of shattered and ground earth, including multiple metal-reinforced wooden bins where various grades of stone had been sorted. He reached down and drew one forth. It looked relatively unremarkable to Morghoul, although he could see one side was glasslike and shiny, perhaps a piece of obsidian.

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Morghoul said, “I’ll leave this facility to your discretion, Aptimus.” He turned to the senior Venator. “Dakar Keltartek, see to the protection of this facility and the integration of these slaves. We will ensure more are sent to join them.” After hearing their affirmation, he climbed up through the tunnels toward the exit of the mine, anxious to return to the Twilight Gate and hoping the garrison there was ready for the counterattack the Iosans would inevitably muster.

Between Blindwater Lake and Bloodsmeath Marsh

Jaga-Jaga strode the stagnant waters connecting the lesser lakes and streams northeast of Blindwater Lake. A pair of boneswarms accompanied her, their massed skeletal forms moving with sinuous grace through the shallow water. Not far behind her was a tentacled swamp horror, mostly submerged, with its upper eyes and domed, armored head breaking the water’s surface. Jaga-Jaga’s senses were open to the rich diversity of death around her. Each swamp and river had its own community of the lingering dead, and Jaga-Jaga had become a connoisseur of their distinctions. She sometimes still felt an instinctive longing for the muddy banks of the Marchfells, where she had clawed her way from hatchling to adulthood. Despite this, she had to admire the richness and power surrounding Blindwater and the Bloodsmeath Marsh to its north, here on the eastern fringes of the Thornwood Forest. She had yet to find any other place where there persisted so many layers of detritus, both physical and spiritual. Every beast and animal that had died here had contributed spiritual essence to the soil, layered along with their rotting flesh but lingering long after only bones remained. Intelligent beings with more cohesive souls more often passed to Urcaen, but sometimes they,

too, were trapped, caught by ropy tendrils of spirit-vines. Added to this were the long-swallowed ruins of ancient civilizations, where thousands of years ago sacrificial rites had been performed to appease a greater darkness. The gatormen, Tharn, and trollkin who had inherited the region had continued to soak it in blood. The recent wars of humanity were the latest to add to this spiritual sediment. The recent dead could be set upon by older haunts, being pulled down and bound to the swamp itself even as they thrashed in impotent rage, ultimately transforming into something else. Malevolent spirits rose from these tormented dead. Mystics like Jaga-Jaga knew that predation did not end with death and that a separate contest of wills persisted among the howling wisps and spirits lingering on Caen, each seeking to consume the others. Her keen eyes looked past the struggle of these invisible beings, seeking something larger. Other eyes also watched the movements around her—eyes belonging to the small undead tatzylwurm curled around her shoulders. The tatzylworm’s myriad eyes pierced the fog and darkness, and it was ready to lend her its power should any threat emerge to challenge her. It hissed and clicked its jaws, affirming her course. For weeks spirits had been whispering to her that some greater entity stood in her path. They had guided her here, to this place. Now Jaga-Jaga sensed a weight, something from the spirit world seeking ingress. She felt a pressure bearing down on her skull and pressing at the back of her eyes as the fog around her thickened. She drew on her own power, wrapping herself in it and letting it suffuse her scales. She felt no fear, as she was one with the spirit world and her guardians were close. Even with decades of familiarity in manipulating and speaking to such beings, however, she sensed something different this time, something far greater. It was both familiar and utterly alien to her. The lesser spirits around her scattered and fled, each with a silent psychic shriek of terror. The void they left was pregnant with rising dread. The swamp around her grew absolutely silent as every creature down to the smallest mosquito fled or was frozen in terror. The shallow waters immediately before her became utterly still. The cattails at the water’s edge blackened and wilted, then fell over one by one. The surface of the water ahead dipped as though a great stone had been dropped, sending large ripples spreading outward. The entire area was swallowed in dense fog, and she could barely see. A void came into being in the air before her, drawing in the nearest wisps of vapor to swallow them into its blackness. She was transfixed by the sight, one she remembered from dreams. The void became the gullet of a massive hinged and scaled maw bristling with hooked teeth. She had the sensation

of falling toward that mouth, where she knew she would be devoured. Though every fiber of her being insisted she should run, or at least step away, she held her ground. This was Kossk, the greatest of spirits, the progenitor god of the gatormen. Into Kossk’s maw all things eventually fall. One could not entreat Kossk. It did not think or plan as mortals did. It merely was, an embodiment of hunger and the need to gnash flesh with rending teeth. Jaga-Jaga opened her arms, and the living snake she held writhed on her right arm while the dead tatzylwurm slid along the left. She let waves of hunger and thirst for blood fill her. In this ravenous state she felt her mind crack open. Even as she staggered from an onslaught of visions, Kossk loomed above, snout opened wide. She was grasped by powerful jaws and felt the fetid heat of the spirit’s breath. Knowing this was her ultimate fate, she savored the ecstasy even amid the pain as the great god’s teeth bit through her scales and tasted her flesh.

The lesser spirits around her scattered and fled, each with a silent psychic shriek of terror. With a rush the vision was gone. She stood once more in the swamp, intact, though she could still feel the pressure of those teeth. Familiar sounds resumed around her as the animals and insects returned to their struggle for survival. Jaga-Jaga’s mind reeled with what she had seen in those moments before the spirit had seemed to consume her. Never before had she received such a direct vision from Kossk. It left her shaken. She knew she must go to Barnabas and tell him what she had seen.

Barnabas listened in silence, his hooded and masked visage inscrutable. He stood atop a low stepped pyramid erected of old unearthed stones that overlooked the shore of Blindwater Lake. Great stacks of skulls set with flickering candles surrounded him. This was where he preferred to receive his supplicants, in full view of the huts stretching out in all directions. the homes of those tribes he had assembled and which served him. A dozen of the strongest gatorman warriors stood nearby with weapons in hand to ensure no one approached that Barnabas did not wish to see. The only other figure close enough to hear Jaga-Jaga was Calaban the Grave Walker. Though he was masked, Jaga-Jaga could sense the scorn radiating from Calaban. She paid it little attention. Ever

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Blood Debt, Part One since she had arrived, Calaban had resented the fact that Barnabas listened to her. She had no interest in usurping his position, but he could not be convinced of that. JagaJaga did not care. Let him worry and fret, obsessed with temporal authority and power. Though he was a powerful bokor, his worldly ambitions limited his insight into the spirit world. “Calaban, your thoughts?” Barnabas asked in his deep voice after an extended silence. She had described the vision Kossk had given her—first, a great site of carnage with gatormen, farrow, and trollkin slaughtering each other upon blood-red sands as the sun burned in the sky above. Next, Barnabas flanked by sacral vaults and standing upon a mountain of corpses, his chest split open but his heart still beating, his posture one of triumph.

“The moment you become an obstacle to my ascension, you cease to exist.” “It seems a warning, though I cannot fathom a reason to go so far into the Bloodstone Marches in the first place.” Calaban’s voice conveyed derision, and his masked face turned toward Jaga-Jaga accusingly. He attempted to convey dominance, though it was difficult for him to hold the stance near Barnabas. The compulsion to abase oneself before the ancient warlock was strong. Even in silent contemplation, Barnabas was an avatar of latent killing force. “It is a fate easily avoided.” “A warning?” Barnabas repeated slowly, turning to face the bokor and stepping closer, his fangs bared. Calaban’s attempt to be regal crumbled, and he backed away, lowering his head submissively. Barnabas said, “The moment you become an obstacle to my ascension, you cease to exist.” Calaban clearly realized his mistake. “Forgive me, hok-shisan! Kossk is an entity to be appeased, not one petitioned for guidance.” He was insightful enough to say less rather than more. Barnabas tilted his head slightly and turned back to JagaJaga. “It is clear to me this vision speaks to my destiny. Still, I have never once made offerings to that god. What am I to Kossk? More importantly, what is Kossk to me?” These were dangerous questions, and Jaga-Jaga knew she must proceed with caution. She had spoken of her beliefs to Barnabas before, but it was a treacherous topic. The active worship of Kossk among his followers sometimes provoked rage in Barnabas, who was prone to seeing this as a threat

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to his power. To him, Kossk was a rival, a potential enemy. Jaga-Jaga had her own beliefs on this, but they were matters she spoke of only after careful consideration. “You have not sought Kossk, but I have,” she said. “This vision is not a warning, not a command, only a glimpse of a possible future. Kossk does not stand in the way of your goals.” She did not tell him his success would be an affirmation of Kossk, not a denial. “In this, Kossk may serve as a guide.” Barnabas stared at her warily, clearly skeptical of her words, yet she also sensed eagerness. He wished to believe the vision. It was impossible to ascertain the depths of his ancient and labyrinthine mind, but she knew he had long sought confirmation that his goal of achieving divinity was achievable. After a respectful pause she said, “The great spirits do not see the world or our choices as we do. Past and future are the same to them. Kossk does not think. Kossk does not plan. He simply is. This vision is an answer to my desires. It is a glimpse of a future aligned with what I sought. Kossk is not aware of what the vision revealed, only that it is truth.” Barnabas opened his mouth and made a hissing sound, a rare sign of pleasure. “He does not know. But he answers. Yes, I see. A stupid and blind god, yet his hunger serves me.” He turned to Calaban and said, “Gather all our forces. We will follow the rivers as far as we can, and then we march into the burning sands.” Jaga-Jaga felt both excitement and trepidation at this proclamation, knowing she had set in motion something that could not be undone. She wondered if she had interpreted the visions correctly. In the end, all she could do was offer what wisdom she had received from the spirits. She glanced briefly at Calaban, who shot her a brief spiteful look, his malice quite evident, before he inclined his head very low to Barnabas and backed away. “It shall be as you command, hok-shisan,” he said.

Scarsfell Forest, Northern Khador

It had been almost two years since Borka had felt the cold bite of his homeland upon his flesh and had tasted its sharp, pine-laced morning air upon his tongue. He remembered the day Madrak came, foolishly seeking the aid of the Scarsfell elders. First the Thornwood chieftain asked for sanctuary. When that was denied him, he asked for warriors. Those were refused him as well. Borka saw the darkness surrounding Madrak, but where the feeble elders found reason to fear, Borka perceived a fire burning within his belly. He pledged himself and those of his kith who had joined him to follow Madrak so they

might enjoy the glory and honor that were sure to find the chieftain, cursed as he was to a life of never-ending battle. In some respects his expectations had been fulfilled. There had been plenty of battles—some simple, others glorious. He had reveled in the challenge of what the next day might bring, each one a test of combat more dangerous than the last. By day he enjoyed the feel of his enemies’ bodies crushed beneath his blows, the sight of their blood spilled across the hungry earth. By night he celebrated with drinking, carousing, and exchanging brags about past exploits before accepting the oblivion of sleep. But he had learned none could walk beside Madrak Ironhide and hope to entirely escape the touch of death. As if bidden by the thought, there was a sudden jolt as his wagon struck a rough patch of ground. Borka felt his leg knot and an uncomfortable stiffness radiate through the limb, causing him to grimace. He moved to rub the leg, but only one hand fell upon the sore muscle. He growled in frustration as he was reminded once more that although he felt his other arm, it was whole only in his mind. Where it should be he had only the constant itch of its slow regeneration. He had wrapped the end of the limb in cloth so he did not have to witness its partially re-formed state. He had sought battle and had found glory in Madrak’s wake, and with it he had nearly found death. Borka cast the grim thought from his mind as quickly as it surfaced. Death was always a possibility in battle, a fact he hadn’t ever let needle him before. He focused on his impatience to regain his former strength. He’d never had to wait so long to recover from injuries—although, admittedly, he’d never lost an arm and come close to losing a leg before. The Tharn chieftain’s axes had inflicted a heavy toll on his body. Borka’s empty belly growled loudly, and he clenched his jaw. This increased need to feast was a normal part of the healing process, but that made it no less distracting. The gnawing hunger that was his constant companion did nothing to improve his sour mood. “Wurm’s bowels! You incompetent troll, are you trying to strike every hole and rock on this trail?!” Borka bellowed at the hulking back of his dire troll Rök, who pulled the wagon that carried him. If his harsh words affected the dire troll, Rök made no outward acknowledgement. Indeed, Borka sensed the creature took some amusement from having him at his mercy. Borka had insisted on using the lumbering dire troll to pull the wagon rather than a pair of bison, which would have been more suited to the task. But at least with Rök he could maintain some modicum of direct mental control. Borka

now urged the warbeast to stop. He was tired of being carted about like a feeble old human. He needed a walk. More importantly, he needed a drink. Bracing himself against the protestations of his still-tender leg, Borka swung down from the wagon, being sure to place the bulk of his weight on his good leg as he hit the ground. The other leg he had retained after the fight, though it had been connected only by the smallest strip of flesh. It would be back to normal well before his arm, but for the moment it still troubled him. He let out a long breath as he steadied himself before making his way toward one of the supply wagons. He was pleased to find that the pain, which had plagued him since he had parted ways with Madrak, had begun to abate. He raised his hand in greeting to one of his sons, who was driving a supply wagon laden with ale kegs. The kegs bore markings in several different languages, having been appropriated by the United Kriels from a number of unwary merchant caravans. “It is good to see you up, sire,” the young trollkin said. Borka sought to remember his name. He was fond of his offspring, but there were so many it was sometimes hard to distinguish them. Drogal, he thought. “It is good to be up.” Borka motioned his chin toward the barrels stacked in the back of the wagon. “What vintage would you recommend to a shaman with a powerful thirst?” Drogal smiled. “There’s a powerful brew from Ord in the black walnut barrel that the boys have found worthy of a warrior’s thirst.” Borka nodded in approval and tossed a large stein from his waist at him. “Waste no more of my time and fetch a draught.” As his kith scrambled down from the wagon and hurried to do as bid Borka felt the hunger gnaw painfully at his belly. “And find me some food. I’ve the hunger of a dire troll!” Drogal came back quickly with a hunk of cold, greasy mutton and the stein filled to the brim with frothy ale. The sight of the food only increased Borka’s hunger. He snatched the offerings greedily from his son and wolfed down the cold meat, following it with the entire stein of ale in one swig. Borka thrust the stein hard into Drogal’s hands, knocking the trollkin back slightly. “More. And this time don’t be stingy with the meat,” he said. His son blinked before nodding and rushing to do as bid. Borka knew the chunk of mutton had been a reasonable portion, but the hunger that gnawed at him did not agree. “Good,” a gruff voice said behind him. “The more you eat, the faster you will heal.”

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Blood Debt, Part One

Borka turned. Standing closer than he would have expected was Doomshaper. Borka grunted. “For a trollkin so old, you move quietly.” “And it seems you possess the manners of a dire troll in addition to the appetite.” Borka grimaced but bit his tongue. In past months he and the elder had seen eye-to-eye, pushing for attacks on human settlements. Without that shared goal they had begun to clash. Borka had begun to learn how to deal with Hoarluk— primarily by letting him grouse without interruption. Doomshaper fixed him with a measuring stare. The elder asked, “Have you lost a limb before?” Borka shook his head. He’d suffered his share of wounds, but they’d been superficial things, easily healed over a few nights of feasting and drinking. He had lost a finger once, but even that hadn’t been so bad. It was back before he’d even missed it. Drogal returned with two hunks of the cold mutton, each larger than the last. Borka nodded in approval. He forced himself to take the food more politely. He was not about to give Doomshaper the satisfaction of proving his last accusation.

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“The hunger you feel will worsen before it gets better.” Doomshaper paused for a moment and then said, “As will your temper. But you will be whole soon, and perhaps you will have a greater understanding of our troll brothers. Open yourself to the experience.” Borka eyed Doomshaper suspiciously as he gulped down meat and ale as quickly as possible. The warlock was in an uncharacteristically good mood. “How long will it take?” he asked between bites. Doomshaper scoffed. “As long as it requires. You are hearty and virile. Another month or two for your arm. Had we been able to find it following the battle, the healing would be easier.” Doomshaper cast a glance toward Rök, who had plopped down on his hindquarters like a monstrous bearded toddler as he waited for Borka to return. The dire troll seemed unwilling to meet Doomshaper’s eye. Borka said nothing. He remembered little following his defeat at the hands of the Tharn leader. Only darkness and pain and cold. He had heard the story several times from his kin who had been there—how Rök had brought him to Madrak and the others following the battle, and how most had thought him dead. He had his own suspicions about

what had happened to his arm. Borka smiled with dark humor, feeling no resentment. Dire trolls were what Dhunia and the Wurm had made them. Borka finished the second hunk of mutton and finished the ale in his stein. “How much farther until we reach these other mountain kings?” “This is your homeland more than mine, Kegslayer. How long until we reach the lake the Khadorans call Beladal the Crone? It is in the mountains east of there that our search will begin.” “Begin?” Borka asked, startled. “Yes. Our ancestors did not chain the mountain kings so any fool might find them. They preferred no one find them at all.” Borka felt a niggling regret. He knew Madrak Ironhide had sent him with Doomshaper to protect the elder, as he claimed, but also perhaps to give him time to heal. Though it seemed a weakness to admit it, Borka had felt some relief to distance himself from Madrak for a time. During his long recovery he’d had time to think on a great many things. He did not relish the idea of roaming the mountains, however, while Doomshaper searched out clues scratched on boulders. “We’ve already gone the longest distance. A week, perhaps less,” Borka said. “It depends on how the passes have fared this winter. The wagons may slow us if the snows have been heavy.” “Less, then. Good,” Doomshaper said to himself, nodding. “How do you figure that?” Borka asked. “I will not be taking the wagons. You and your kith will not accompany me.” Borka blinked in surprise. “I thought—” Doomshaper cut him off with a wave of his staff. “A messenger came searching for you. I saw no need to wake you, so I promised to relay the message. It would seem you are called to your home kriel. Your matriarch has need of you.” The words hit Borka like a hammer, and he felt a mixture of emotions, the primary one being unease. It had been years since he had thought of his great-great-great-greatgrandmother Jennan. They had not parted on good terms. “I have no interest in returning. And Jennan has no need of anyone.” The elder shaman fixed him with a stony stare. “What if this is your last chance?” Borka’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The messenger did not want to say more than he was told, but I gathered your matriarch is not long for this world. The passing of the eldest of a great kriel is no small matter. It is your duty to return to her and pay her the respect she is due. Dhunia would expect it of you.” There was the hint of pain in Doomshaper’s eyes. Perhaps he doubted whether anyone would attend him when he lay dying, Borka mused. Hoarluk was more feared than beloved by his kith. Of course, in that regard, one could say the same of Jennan. Borka felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Could Jennan truly be dying? She was such a pillar of his kriel that the very idea of her absence seemed fundamentally wrong. He knew she was said to be almost two hundred years old, though no one knew for sure. Old though Doomshaper was, Jennan had already been ruling her kriel in the north for a century when Hoarluk was born. Somehow he could just not accept her as mortal, nor imagine a life free from her looming shadow. “I will mourn her,” Borka said, not insincerely; despite their past disagreements, the thought of her death did cause him grief. “But I cannot leave you. I told Madrak I would see to your safety.” Doomshaper huffed. “Don’t pretend to play the honorbound servant. You do as you please.” He pressed the end of his staff against Borka’s chest in emphasis. “You must respect your elders, both me and her. Besides, I do not need a bodyguard. I am not the helpless cripple here.” He rapped the staff against Borka’s injured leg. “You’d just slow me down.” Borka opened his mouth to argue, but the look in Doomshaper’s eyes stopped him. He suddenly remembered Jennan’s face the last time they had shouted at one another. Jennan was hard and cold. She had disapproved of Borka’s choices at every turn. As much as he disliked her, he could not deny he would regret not seeing her one last time. The thought of his own brush with death came to his mind. He refocused on Doomshaper, who stared up at him with stony eyes, and he realized it did not matter what he wanted. Even Madrak could not sway Doomshaper once he had made a decision. “Very well. I will go to honor my matriarch in her final hours. I’m sure there will be many stories to share when you and I meet again.” He turned and, putting on a confident face, shouted loudly enough that everyone near would hear, “I know it has been quite some time for some of you, but we are going home!” A great cheer erupted from his kith, who were filled with excitement at this idea. Seeing Jennan’s stony face in his mind’s eye, Borka felt only a grim apprehension at what lay ahead.

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New Rules & Theme Forces Warbeast Packs

Warbeast packs are units of small-based warbeasts that fight together and support each other on the battlefield. Models in a pack do not activate individually; instead, all members of the pack activate at the same time and progress through the steps of an activation together. The warbeasts in a pack have the same battlegroup controller and are part of the same battlegroup.

Unit

A warbeast pack is a unit, but each model in the unit is a warbeast (not a warrior). As models in a unit, these warbeasts are all troopers, the unit commander is the Leader, and the other models in the unit are Grunts. While it is part of a warbeast pack, a warbeast is not an independent model. Models in a warbeast pack cannot run or charge during the pack’s activation unless they receive the run or charge order or are compelled to run or charge as part of a game effect. A pack’s unit leader can issue a run or charge order only while in the control area of its battlegroup controller. When a friendly Faction model with the Battlegroup Commander special ability takes control of a wild warbeast that is in a warbeast pack, it takes control of all models in the warbeast pack, not just the warbeast it is in base-tobase contact with. When an opponent takes control of a warbeast in a warbeast pack, that warbeast becomes an independent model with a FURY stat of 1 for the duration of the effect.

Pack FURY and Fury Points

The models in a warbeast pack share a single FURY stat equal to the number of models currently in the pack. Game effects that increase or decrease a warbeast’s FURY stat never affect a warbeast pack. Models in a warbeast pack are forced independently, but when a model in the unit is forced, place the fury points generated on the unit commander. A model in the pack can be forced only while it is in formation and the pack’s unit commander is in its controller’s control area, but a non-commander model in the pack need not be in the controller’s control area. Only the pack’s unit commander can gain fury points. The unit commander can never have a fury point total higher than the pack’s current FURY. A model in a warbeast pack cannot be forced if the fury points gained would cause the unit commander to exceed the pack’s current FURY. When the pack’s FURY stat is reduced as a result of a change in the number of models in the pack, remove fury points in excess of its new FURY stat.

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If a warbeast in the pack is destroyed while the pack’s unit commander is in its controller’s control area and its destruction would result in the removal of a fury point from the pack’s unit commander, the pack’s controller can reave the fury point that would be removed. When a warbeast in a pack is destroyed by damage transferred from its battlegroup controller, however, fury cannot be reaved from the pack. If a new unit commander is selected due to Field Promotion, place the fury points from the old unit commander on the new commander before reducing the FURY stat.

Power Attacks

Warbeast pack models cannot make power attacks.

Pack Frenzy

If the unit commander frenzies, all models in the pack also frenzy. A model in a pack cannot choose another model in the pack as a frenzy target and will not attack another model in the pack as part of a frenzy.

Pack Animus

Only the unit commander has an animus. The pack’s controller can cast the pack’s animus as a spell only while the pack’s unit commander is in his control area.

Damage and Healing

Warbeasts in a pack have a set number of damage points but do not have damage spirals. A pack warbeast’s damage points are considered a single aspect with a single branch for the purposes of game rules. A rule that heals 1 damage in each aspect, for example, would heal 1 damage point to a pack warbeast, and a rule that fills in unmarked damage of the last branch damaged would fill in all remaining damage, disabling the pack warbeast. A warlock can transfer damage to a pack warbeast if the warbeast model is in the warlock’s control area and in formation. A warlock cannot transfer damage to a pack warbeast if the pack’s unit commander has a number of fury points equal to the pack’s FURY stat. A warlock can heal warbeasts in a pack as normal.

Borka, Vengeance of the Rimeshaws Avalanche

Warbeasts: Trollblood noncharacter warbeasts, Rök

Solos: Fell Caller Hero, Trollkin Sorcerer, Troll Whelps, Trollblood cavalry solos, Trollblood solos with Advance Deployment  .

Units: Kriel Warriors, Krielstone Bearer & Stone Scribes, Trollblood cavalry units, Trollblood units with Advance Deployment  .

Battle Engine: Trollkin War Wagon

Tier 1

Tier 3

Requirements: The army can include only the models listed above.

Requirements: Borka’s battlegroup includes Rök and one or more Winter Trolls.

Benefit: Reduce the point cost of Trollblood cavalry models/ units by 1.

Benefit: For each warbeast in Borka’s battlegroup, place one 4˝ AOE template anywhere within 20˝ of the back edge of Borka’s deployment zone after terrain has been placed but before either player deploys his army. These templates cannot be placed within 3˝ of a terrain feature. The templates are snowdrifts. Models in a snowdrift gain concealment and models without Immunity: Cold treat them as rough terrain.

Tier 2 Requirements: The army includes two or more models/ units with Advance Deployment  . Benefit: Friendly models/units can begin the game affected by Borka’s upkeep spells. These spells and their targets must be declared before either player sets up models. Borka does not pay fury to upkeep these spells during your first turn.

Tier 4 Requirements: The army includes one or more Trollkin War Wagons. Benefit: Models in Borka’s battlegroup gain +2 SPD during your first turn of the game.

Bradigus Thorle the Runecarver Wold War

Warbeasts: Circle non-character construct warbeasts

Solos: Blackclad Wayfarer, Gallows Groves, Reeve Hunters, War Wolves

Units: Druid Stoneward & Woldstalkers, Reeves of Orboros, Sentry Stone & Mannikins, Shifting Stones, Wolves of Orboros, Death Wolves

Battle Engine: Celestial Fulcrum

Tier 1

Tier 3

Benefit: Increase the FA of Shifting Stone units and Sentry Stone & Mannikins units by 1.

Benefit: Sentry Stones begin the game with 3 fury points.

Tier 2

Requirements: The only living model in the army is Bradigus Thorle the Runecarver.

Requirements: The army can include only the models listed above.

Requirements: The army includes one or more Shifting Stone units. Benefit: You can redeploy one model/unit after both players have deployed but before the first player’s first turn. The redeployed models must be placed on the table in a location they could have been deployed initially.

Requirements: The army includes one or more Sentry Stone & Mannikins units.

Tier 4

Benefit: Add a Woldwatcher to Thorle’s battlegroup free of cost.

Permission is hereby granted to create reproductions of this page for personal, non-commercial use only.

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Theme Forces

Xerxis, Fury of Halaak Footsteps of Giants Warbeasts: Skorne non-character warbeasts, Tiberion Units: Paingiver Beast Handlers, Skorne cavalry units, Skorne Tyrant units Tier 1

Requirements: The army can include only the models listed above. Benefit: Reduce the cost of huge-based models in this army by 1.

Tier 2

Requirements: The army includes two or more Tyrant models/units. Benefit: For each Tyrant model/unit, you can redeploy one model/unit after both players have deployed but before the first player’s first turn. The redeployed models must be placed on the table in a location they could have been deployed initially.

Solos: Skorne Tyrant solos Battle Engine: Siege Animantarax Tier 3

Requirements: The army includes Tiberion. Benefit: You gain +1 on your starting roll for the game.

Tier 4

Requirements: The army includes one or more Siege Animantarax battle engines. Benefit: Siege Animantarax battle engines begin the game with three rage tokens.

Absylonia, Daughter of Everblight Death’s Wings

Warbeasts: Legion non-character warbeasts, Proteus Units: Strider units, Legion units with Flight

Solos: Forsaken, Strider solos, Legion solos with Flight Battle Engine: Legion battle engines with Flight

Tier 1

Tier 3

Benefit: Flying models gain +2 SPD during your first turn of the game.

Benefit: Warbeasts in Absylonia’s battlegroup can use their animi during your first turn of the game without being forced. Warbeasts cannot also be forced to use their animi that turn.

Requirements: The army can include only the models listed above.

Tier 2

Requirements: The army includes one or more units with Advance Deployment  . Benefit: Units in the army gain Advance Deployment  .

Requirements: The army includes three or more different warbeasts.

Tier 4

Requirements: The army includes one or more Archangel gargantuans. Benefit: Reduce the point cost of huge-based models in the army by 1.

Permission is hereby granted to create reproductions of this page for personal, non-commercial use only.

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Jaga-Jaga, the Death Charmer Voodoo Dolls Warbeasts: Minion Gatorman non-character warbeasts Units: Bog Trog units, Gatorman units

Solos: Feralgeists, Thrullgs, Bog Trog solos, Croak solos, Gatorman solos, Wrong Eye & Snapjaw

Battle Engine: Sacral Vault

Tier 1

Tier 3

Benefit: Reduce the point cost of Sacral Vaults by 1.

Benefit: Friendly models/units can begin the game affected by Jaga-Jaga’s upkeep spells. These spells and their targets must be declared before either player sets up models. JagaJaga does not pay fury to upkeep these spells during your first turn.

Requirements: The army can include only the models listed above.

Tier 2

Requirements: The army includes three or more Undead models/units. Benefit: Undead models gain Advance Move. (Before the start of the game but after both players have deployed, a model with Advance Move can make a full advance.)

Requirements: The army includes two or more models/ units with Magic Ability.

Tier 4

Requirements: The army includes one or more Sacral Vaults. Benefit: Your deployment zone is extended 2˝ forward.

Helga the Conqueror Curtain Call

Warbeasts: Minion Farrow noncharacter warbeasts Units: Farrow units

Solos: Efaarit Scouts, Farrow solos, Gudrun the Wanderer, Rorsh & Brine

Battle Engine: Meat Thresher

Tier 1

Tier 3

Benefit: Reduce the point cost of Meat Threshers by 1.

Benefit: Your deployment zone is extended 2˝ forward.

Tier 2

Tier 4

Benefit: Maximus and Farrow Slaughterhouser units gain Advance Deployment  .

Benefit: You gain +1 on your starting roll for the game.

Requirements: The army can include only the models listed above.

Requirements: The army includes Maximus.

Requirements: Helga the Conqueror’s battlegroup includes two or more heavy warbeasts.

Requirements: The army includes one or more Meat Threshers.

Permission is hereby granted to create reproductions of this page for personal, non-commercial use only.

19

Trollbloods Called Home The Scarsfell, West of the Rimeshaws, 609 AR

As he made his way through his home village toward Jennan’s lodging, Borka felt a mix of conflicting emotions. Though the expanse of stone huts and paved pathways looked just as he remembered and even the blanket of winter snow seemed unchanged, the place did not feel like home. He had felt like a stranger since he and his band had entered the thick outer walls surrounding the large northern village held by his kriel. It wasn’t until he smelled the hoppy aroma of the kriel’s brewery on the crisp air that a sense of home stirred within him. His mouth watered slightly at the memory of the thick, frothy northern ale. He ignored the sudden twinge in his lame leg as he stepped into Jennan’s stone keep at the center of the village. Her home had once been a small hut but had been enlarged over the decades. A great fire roared in the central hearth, and the dozens of animal pelts hanging on the walls blunted any drafts passing through chinks in the stone. He had expected the interior to be dim despite the pale afternoon sun. Instead it was well lit by the fire and the many torch sconces, and the air was fresh and clean. The place did not feel like death crept within it; instead, it brought back memories of his earlier life. Borka circled the fire to see who waited in the great seat of the hall, expecting one of his uncles, aunts, or siblings. To his surprise it was Jennan herself, her hunched form the same as ever as she peered into the soothsaying bowl set on a small table before her. Her weathered skin resembled the rough surface of granite. Her face was lined with deep wrinkles carved by age and, Borka thought, a lifetime of incessant scowling. She ran one bony hand across the runemarked stones in the bowl while the other rested atop her hooked cane, working the jade handle like a worry stone. “Ketmoder,” Borka said hesitantly. The honorific was reserved for the eldest mother of a kriel, used only if she also served as its matriarch. Jennan had been called nothing else as long as Borka could remember.

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She huffed peevishly at the interruption and held up her free hand, motioning for him to wait. Her eyes never left the stones in the bowl. Borka felt a familiar irritation. “It is I, Borka,” he said. “I have come many miles to answer your call. I thought you might actually have words for me, unless whatever you see in that bowl is more important.” “Your lack of manners leaves no mystery as to who you are.” Jennan’s voice was like a krielstone being dragged over gravel. “Welcome. Your return is overdue. I am afraid you will find no feasts or other celebrations in your honor, if that is what you hoped.” She looked up at last and squinted at him, her tight frown suggesting she did not like what she saw. Despite himself Borka felt uncomfortable under that stare, calling back memories of being summoned before her as a youth when his parents had had enough of him. He forced a chuckle and said, “A feast would be timely, as my hunger knows no bounds. But I did not expect a warm welcome. I was told you were not long for this world. My affection for you persuaded me to put aside old grudges. I see you have not changed.” She laughed, a rasping sound. Borka saw little difference between this Jennan and the one he had left so many years ago. The warlock still sensed great power and undiminished vitality within her. “Changing is for the young, not the old. Still, I appreciate your willingness to pay me last respects. I hope to disappoint you.” He scowled with sudden suspicion. “You’re not dying at all, are you? This was all just a trick.” She looked up, amusement clear in her eyes. “I do not know what my messenger told you, but I did not lie. I’m so old I’ve lost count of my years upon this earth. Every day could be my last.” “So you have said for decades,” Borka said. “You could have simply asked me to return.”

“And you would have come? You are too pig-headed, too proud. Always have been. Asking you would only have guaranteed that you stayed away.” Jennan grunted harshly. “You ran off years ago to follow your own foolish glory. If you cared more for your kith and kriel it would not take rumors of my death for you to visit. I thought that your time away would mature you, that fighting among the southern kin would get it through your thick skull that your duty is to your kriel.” She gestured with her cane at his still-regenerating arm. “Was it worth it, Borka? Was it worth the kith you lost, the blood you spilled? Did you spare a moment to think about the graves required, not just for those who followed you but for those who remained behind?” The accusation burned in Borka’s ears. “Was this the only reason for summoning me?” he asked. “Because you missed berating me?” “No,” she answered. “It was to give you the only thing you’ve ever seemed to care about: a chance to be a hero. But for your own kriel this time.” The ancient matriarch gazed at him in silence for a moment. “Your kith and kriel need you, Borka.” He did his best to mask his surprise. He could think of only one thing that might cause Jennan to admit she needed help. “Have the Ruscar returned?” He had earned much of his early fame beating back those human tribes and driving them from the lands claimed by his kriel. “They have, but that is not all,” said Jennan. “There is something else that has beset us . . . a creature, a formless, nightmarish monster.” “A monster?” “I know not what else to call it. Three months ago the disappearances began. At first it was only a few hunters. But then it became more frequent. Our people began to venture out only in groups, and that worked for a short time.” Jennan took a deep breath. “Now any who dare go beyond our walls know the chance of returning is slim. We’ve even lost kin standing watch upon the walls at night. Sometimes we hear them scream, and other times we simply wake to find them gone. The danger has made reprisal against the Ruscar impossible, which has made them bolder.” Borka knew the strength of his family, the pride of Jennan. She would not speak in such terms if matters were not grave. “We cannot stand against this new terror and the Ruscar both,” she continued. She motioned to the silver bowl and the cluster of stone runes within it. “I have read the runes over and over. They tell me you must face this monster. I had hoped your travels would have forged you into the trollkin I could not. But looking at you now, I see the same Borka. Self-centered, prideful.”

“You speak of responsibility to the kin, but you look only to our own kith,” Borka replied sharply. “I may have left in search of battle and glory, but I’ve learned a few things along the way. We are all kin. Northerners, southerners. It is only by realizing we are all bound by the same blood that we find our true strength.” He was almost surprised at the words as they came from him. His time with Madrak had led him to view things differently. He paused, staring at her with a blazing expression. “Because I am here and since I do care for my kith, I will fight your monster. I will hunt it to its lair and I will kill it, with my bare hand if necessary.” He punctuated this by pounding his breast with a fist. Borka looked directly into Jennan’s eyes and held her gaze, not flinching from her powerful stare. The matriarch’s expression softened slightly. “Good. I have something that will help make up for your current state.” She led Borka out of the hall and through the kriel to a large pen. An immense white shape was curled up in one corner. Borka smiled as he realized where Jennan had brought him.

“any who dare go beyond our walls know the chance of returning is slim.” “Arktos!” he bellowed. Borka wondered if the bear would remember him. It had been five years since they had last seen each other, when Arktos was barely more than a cub. Now the great beast raised his head and bounded over, letting out an excited bellow of his own. Momentarily forgetting the stiffness in his leg, Borka vaulted over the gate using his good arm. Arktos reared up on his hind legs before crashing down on Borka, knocking the large trollkin to the ground. Borka laughed, his joy easily overwhelming the protests of his injuries as he half-embraced, half-wrestled with his old pet. After several moments Arktos relented and let Borka rise. As Borka stood, Arktos nuzzled his bandaged arm and chuffed inquisitively. “Don’t worry, my friend,” Borka said, tussling the thick white fur of Arktos’ head. “It’s only temporary.” Arktos looked at him for a moment with a keen intelligence behind his black eyes, as if considering the truth of Borka’s words. “I promise,” Borka insisted. “It’s growing back. And then we’ll see who’s truly the stronger.” Arktos bounded up off his front legs and came back down with a satisfied grunt before racing off around the pen like an over-excited puppy. Borka watched the bear circle and then return to him, lying down to let Borka rest his good hand on his head.

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Borka turned to Jennan and said, “He looks good. I can’t believe how much he’s grown. He’s as big as a dire troll!”

was, he was confident his company could overcome anything short of a dragon.

“He’s lucky to still be here. That bear is as pig-headed as you are. Took to his training easy enough after you left, but Dhunia forbid any trollkin be foolish enough to try riding him.” Jennan spat. “Togar sought to put him to use as a mount a year or so back. Lost an eye to the beast for his troubles, and it only recently grew back.”

“What news?” Borka called as Turan approached.

Borka smirked. He had never liked his brother Togar. “Arktos just isn’t interested in letting a whelp like that ride him. Do you still have the tack?” Jennan nodded. “Good,” Borka said. He cupped his hand under Arktos’ muzzle and brought his face close to the bear’s. “What do you say? Are you ready to rip the throats out of some big, horrible monsters?”

“Tomorrow we will find our destiny and kill this creature that threatens our people. So tonight we drink as heroes!” Arktos growled and snorted excitedly in reply, and the trollkin warlock felt a familiar sensation spread through his chest as he thought of the impending fight against an unknown foe. It was a feeling he hadn’t had since the battle in the Wyrmwall. He was excited.

Borka shifted slightly in the saddle as Arktos loped along over the rough ground at the border between the Rimeshaws and the Scarsfell. He realized it would take some time to become accustomed to the bear’s gait. His backside and thighs felt as if they had been rubbed clean of skin over the last few days of constant travel. He brought Arktos to a stop as he spotted Turan hurrying back toward the column. The trollkin skinner was the only member of Borka’s hunting party who was not part of the band that had followed him south with Madrak, though he had not brought all of those warriors on this quest. Some he had left behind, with trolls, to protect the kriel should he fail. In all, Borka had taken twenty-one of his warriors with him, each of them a blood relation, all veterans and heroes of many battles. Along with these, Borka had brought his dire troll Rök and a single axer named Gorn. Though he still had precious little information on what their quarry actually

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“We seem to be close to its lair. But I do not think this creature is alone.” “There is more than one?” Borka asked. Turan shook her head. “The tracks are mixed with others. I think they may be human.” Borka’s countenance darkened. “So the Ruscar may be controlling this creature?” Turan shrugged. “Or they hunt it as we do. The tracks are old. It is hard to tell when they were made.” “Then we must be alert for any trickery or traps.” Borka became aware that several of his warriors were listening intently to his conversation with the scout. “At least until we are ready to kill them,” he added loudly, drawing a chuckle from those nearby. As they continued their trek, Borka couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Arktos sensed something as well; Borka could feel the massive bear’s body tense beneath him. Although Borka trusted their strength of arms, he also knew the value of being prepared. As they marched, he rode to every one of his kin in turn to check in on them. The setting sun had turned crimson-orange by the time Turan raised her hand to bring the trollkin band to a stop for the night. Once camp was made, Borka assembled his warriors. “This has been a long journey. We seek a monster, and tomorrow I believe we will find it.” Pointing at individual warriors, he continued, “Torgat my son, you bested a dozen Tharn in the battle of Great Oaks. Welwar my sister, your axe has split the skulls of countless knights and the walking dead. Grisharn, no foe can stand against the might of your hammer.” “Or the smell of his breath!” shouted Lilandra, one of Borka’s daughters, bringing laughter from the others. “You are all heroes,” Borka continued, motioning for several other trollkin to come forward. Each bore a large keg of ale, which they set before Borka. “Tomorrow we will find our destiny and kill this creature that threatens our people. So tonight we drink as heroes!” A great cheer arose from the assembled trollkin as they crashed their weapons against their steel breastplates. “It has been too long since I drank with you as a warrior should. But now you will remember why I am called Kegslayer!” Borka tapped the first keg and filled a stein he had pulled from his belt. He raised his massive cup high in salute and then downed it in one long draught. Cups were passed

around, great fires were started, and meat was roasted upon spits so the band of heroes could heartily drink, feast, and sing. As the moons rose, the warriors fell one by one into drunken slumber. Borka was the last to lie down, resting his head upon Arktos’ furry side. In the quiet that followed, the shadows within the forest coalesced into black-clothed forms, and the unmistakable glint of drawn steel reflected the moonlight. The creatures moved like ghosts, their feet making not a sound as they stalked closer and moved amid the sleeping trollkin. Together they raised their weapons to strike. “Now!” There was a sudden blur of motion and the dull sound of heavy steel hitting flesh and bone. One of the shadows flew through the air, crashing into another, and both hit the ground with a thump. With a roar Borka was up, swinging himself into Arktos’ saddle. As one, the sleep-feigning trollkin rose and struck at their would-be assassins with axe and hammer. Several of the shadowy forms were quickly cut down, caught off guard by the trollkin’s ruse. Many more leapt away, nimbly evading injury. The cacophony of battle filled the night. Steel rang against steel, trollkin war cries mixed with hissing curses, and Arktos’ roar was echoed by the deep bellows of Rök and Gorn. Amid the clamor, Borka heard a distinct twang from the woods. Pain flared in his shoulder as a black-fletched arrow struck deep into his flesh. Growling, he snapped its shaft and impelled Gorn to charge the unseen threat. As Arktos tore through several of the shadows with sweeps of his claws, Borka looked at the broken arrow in his hand. He recognized the markings instantly: Nyss. “Where is your monster, you dragon-suckling whelps?!” he shouted as he crushed the skull of another blighted Nyss beneath Trauma. Through their bond, Borka felt Rök’s anger boil as several Nyss blades bit into the troll’s flesh. He spurred Arktos on, and the bear charged in to aid the dire troll, knocking aside intervening Nyss without slowing. Rök’s massive axe crashed down, so heavy that it crushed more than cut any Nyss who failed to avoid it. With his free hand, Rök grabbed a flailing Nyss and crammed him into his mouth. The elf’s scream was cut short by a wet crunch as Rök sought sustenance to mend his own flesh. Borka felt a twinge of worry at the thought of Rök eating the blighted flesh, although he had seen trolls eat such corrupted meat before without apparent effect. Rök sensed Borka’s misgivings, but he was in no mood to be dissuaded and simply grabbed another of the Nyss to cram into his bloody maw.

Borka spurred Arktos on. Despite the thunder of the bear’s charge, most of the Nyss swordsmen were too focused on their battle with the enraged dire troll to notice. Before Borka and Arktos could crash into the exposed Nyss’ backs, however, there was a great rush of wind as an enormous shape crashed heavily to the ground in front of him. Time seemed to stand still as Borka took in the sight of this new arrival. With sickly wet skin stretched over thick pulsating cords of muscle, the horror resembled no living creature Borka had ever seen. In fact, the twisted, pulsating hulk of meat and malice seemed to have been specifically designed to defy all natural understanding. The huge dragon-spawned creature towered over the great conifers at the edge of the Scarsfell. But it was not the thing’s size, nor its half-formed, protean aspect, that made it impossible for Borka to look away despite his revulsion. It was the sight of the twin mouths distending from its base, surrounded by a mass of tentacles. Rows of yellow fangs protruded from its gums, each the size of Borka’s good arm and dripping viscous saliva. A grotesquely huge tongue spilled from each wicked maw, coiling and pulsing, writhing about as if in search of its next meal. “Dhunia wept,” Borka said in open-mouthed amazement. Arktos barely had time to lurch to one side as a thick, ropey tentacle lashed forward. Borka winced as the snakelike appendage whipped by mere inches from his face. Several other trollkin were not so lucky. Borka saw two of his nephews snatched by the creature and lifted like playthings into the air. They swung desperately at the tentacles and their blades bit deep to draw forth black ichor, but it was not enough to break the monster’s grip. The two trollkin were cast toward the creature’s fanged maws and its great wet tongues coiled about them, drawing each into a distended mouth. As he heard their screams end with a wet crunching sound, Borka roared and spurred Arktos toward the blighted horror. Several smaller tentacles shot forth from the fiendish beast’s writhing lower half and attacked the engaged trollkin nearby, knocking the kin off balance and leaving them exposed to the Nyss. Borka knew he had only seconds to act before the momentum of battle turned completely against his warriors. Harnessing his rage and drawing on the natural energies of the cold north, he focused all his will into the fury of a winter storm. Runes blazed around him and his kin as he called upon Dhunia to shield them from the unnatural blizzard that arose suddenly about them. The wind howled and tore at exposed flesh, and snow and ice flew in an impenetrable flurry of winter white. The Nyss were cast down by the

23

whirling tempest, their vision blinded by the ice crystals tearing at their unprotected faces. There the trollkin champions closed to slaughter them with one brutal strike after another, slicking their weapons with blighted blood. The gigantic creature seemed unmoved by the primal storm. Arktos charged toward the unnatural horror, Borka upon his back. The warrior’s voice rose over the raging blizzard as he boomed, “You have feasted your last! Now you shall meet the Vengeance of the Rimeshaws!” Arktos dodged another tentacle, and then Borka and his mount reached the creature’s body. Borka brought Trauma down with all his strength upon the monstrosity’s flesh, and the impact of the heavy mace caused the taut skin to burst like an overripe fruit. Rök and Gorn joined him, hacking at the creature with their axes. Borka drew forth Rök’s primal inner fury—a wellspring that harkened back to the time when the trolls were first sired by the Devourer. Rök let out a thunderous roar and attacked with renewed vigor. Borka had little choice but to relinquish control and allow him to do as he wished to his foe.

With a horizontal swing his axe cleaved cleanly through the thick, pulsing muscle of one of the creature’s tongues. Borka continued to hammer blows into the blighted monster, each strike causing a new explosion of viscous black ichor. His arm burned from the exertion of swinging Trauma, but he drew upon the rage of his trolls to drive out any thought but his enemy’s destruction. Only a shock of white-hot pain lancing through his mind from Rök halted the warrior’s assault. The dire troll had been impaled by two of the monster’s larger tentacles and was being drawn toward the creature’s slavering mouths. He tried to spur Arktos forward to aid the ensnared troll, but the path was blocked by a wall of the beast’s other tentacles. Gorn was able to hack his way through the deadly tangle with great sweeps of his axe to reach Rök. The axer brought his weapon down hard on one of the thick tentacles that bound the dire troll, half severing the appendage, and raised his axe to finish the job. The monster’s grip loosened, but before Gorn could strike again, a tentacle burst through his chest from behind in a spray of crimson. Borka watched helplessly as the axer was ripped in two and each half disappeared into one of the creature’s maws. The sound of the creature feasting on Gorn twisted Borka’s guts.

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Borka felt Rök’s boiling rage at the fate of his troll cousin. With considerable effort the dire troll managed to seize the half-severed tentacle with his free hand, and in an incredible display of raw strength Rök ripped the tentacle free with a sound like a boot being pulled out of thick mud. The dire troll dangled momentarily from the remaining tentacle before it withdrew from his flesh and he dropped to the ground. Instead of backing away from the wicked mouths of the monster, Rök charged in. With a horizontal swing his axe cleaved cleanly through the thick, pulsing muscle of one of the creature’s tongues. Ichor poured forth as if through a burst dam. Seeing an opening, Borka spurred Arktos forward and with one mighty swing brought Trauma down to pulp the other fleshy tongue. The creature finally began to waver, and Borka wondered if the loss of its tongues, which it seemed to rely on for balance nearly as much as the larger tentacles, would cause it to topple like a felled tree. Instead, the bleeding creature coiled and tensed its massive muscles and leapt into the air, fleeing just as suddenly as it had arrived, the rocks and trees no hindrance to its passage. A silence fell over the battlefield. Borka looked around and saw the bodies of dozens of blighted Nyss mixed with those of his kin, though thankfully those were far fewer. Many of the trollkin who had fallen to injury would live to fight another day. Rök was in rough shape, though Borka knew the illtempered troll would live. He could feel Rök’s need to feed press upon his mind, made worse by the hunger that raged in his own belly. It took all his concentration to hold Rök back from feasting upon the abundance of blighted flesh around them. Blighted Nyss was one thing, but he didn’t trust the severed tongues and tentacles of a dragonspawned monstrosity not to be harmful. He directed the troll toward the remaining ale barrels on the supply wagon as a temporary solution, and Rök accepted the offer with enthusiasm. Borka sighed as he realized the trip back to the kriel would be a dry one. As the awareness of their victory slowly dawned on them, Borka’s warriors lifted their weapons, banged their fists into their breasts, and let out a thunderous victory yell. Though his heart swelled with pride at their deeds, he did not share their celebratory mood. Not yet. He looked in the direction the monster had gone. “Turan!” he called. “Aye?” “Our quarry has fled. Can you track it?”

“The blood will make that easy,” Turan replied, motioning toward the severed tongue and tentacles lying in huge pools of black ichor. “Surely even a creature like that could not survive such injuries for long.” “Best to leave nothing to chance,” Borka said. “Besides, I want to know where it lairs so we can be sure there are no more like it.” “And if there are?” Turan asked, though it was clear she already knew the answer. “Then we kill them, too.”

The monster’s trail was not difficult to follow, but where it led shocked them all. The blighted behemoth retreated to a sizable camp encompassing a number of elaborate runecarved steel cauldrons that Borka recognized as spawning vessels. The few he had seen before had been relatively small, but here he saw vessels of all sizes, including one large enough to hold even Rök with room to spare. The pieces fell into place in his mind—the trollkin missing from his kriel, the presence of the blighted Nyss that had attacked them in the night, the unexpected appearance of the towering, nightmarish monster. The missing kin had been used as fuel for the vessels. The thought of what had happened here was so disgusting he completely forgot the hunger that still gnawed at him. Borka spied the hulking form of the injured monster moving toward the largest spawning vessel. It seemed to pull itself forward sluggishly as a host of robed Nyss attempted to drag it along with hooked gaffs under the direction of another Nyss attired in finer robes and silver adornments. They intended to try to breathe life back into the unnatural horror. He was not about to let that happen. He spurred Arktos into a charge and let out a resounding battle cry. It was answered and redoubled by the other trollkin champions as they followed his lead into the spawning site. He swung his mace low at one of the smaller spawning pots as he passed it. The blow crumpled the vessel’s side and sent the receptacle flying, spilling its gory contents onto the cold ground, and Borka saw a half-formed embryonic mass flop into view among the spreading ooze. He spared only a second to ensure this lesser dragonspawn was not moving before turning his attention to several robed Nyss who had been attending the vessels. He crushed each with a blow from Trauma as Arktos rushed past them. Shouldering his weapon, Borka drew several grenades from his belt as Arktos raced toward the fallen monster and its caretakers. The robed figures frantically unhooked their wicked curved gaffs from the fallen creature’s flesh

and brought them up to defend themselves. Borka simply lobbed the grenades and then laughed as the explosions tossed their broken bodies about like chaff. He saw the Nyss leader step forward and raise a rune-inlaid staff. Aeric runes surrounded her with a threatening nimbus of blue power. Before she could complete her invocation, though, Borka had sent a howling torrent of winter fury blasting from his hand. Though the sorceress was able to redirect her energies to defend against Borka’s arcane attack, her momentary distraction was her undoing as Arktos reared up and smashed her to the ground, pinning her there with his front paws. Borka saw both anger and confusion flash briefly through her eyes before Arktos’ powerful jaws snapped down on her skull. Borka turned his attention back to the collapsed mass of the monster. Now that he was close, it was clear the thing was dead, but he wasn’t about to take any chances. He dismounted from Arktos and took more grenades from his belt. Wary of last-second surprises, Borka made his way toward the creature’s slackened jaws and tossed the grenades into one cavernous maw. He stepped back, uttering an old curse at the thing. The grenades detonated, blowing what Borka could only assume passed for the creature’s head into great, wet chunks. Borka drew Trauma and placed a foot on one of the larger tentacles. He grunted with effort as he brought the massive mace down again and again, pulping the appendage until he was able to tear it free. He would lay it at Jennan’s feet, and even she would not be able to question this monster’s destruction. “Father!” he heard Torgat call. “The battle is won. These Nyss were far weaker than the warriors we fought before.” Borka smiled at the disappointment in his son’s voice. He was worthy of his parentage. As Borka looked back across the camp to see his kin setting to the work of smashing the sinister spawning vessels, he thought, They all are. He smiled at Torgat. “Don’t worry—we’ve earned our glory already. But more importantly”—he hefted the severed tentacle over his shoulder—“we’ve earned the celebration that will greet us when we return home with our trophy.” As he walked back to rejoin his warriors, Borka thought of the Shaman of the Gnarls and his own quest. I hope you find what you are looking for, Doomshaper, he thought. Together you and I will bring the fury of the North to Madrak’s side, for all the kriels. Warmth spread within his breast at the thought of returning home. Just not too soon. I have some catching up to do.

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Borka, Vengeance of the Rimeshaws Trollblood Epic Trollkin Cavalry Warlock He is like a legend passed down to us from the time of the Molgur, a force of nature as undeniable as a winter storm.

—Tor of the Sons of Bragg

Feat: Ice Storm

BORKA SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

7 9 8 5 14 18 9

Bomb RNG ROF AOE POW

8 1 3 12

Trauma

POW P+S

6

15

Mount

POW

14

Fury 5 Damage 18 Field Allowance C Warbeast Points +6 Large Base round after the attack is resolved.

Summoning the freezing wind of his northern homelands, Borka shrouds his forces in an obscuring gale. With his allies protected by the wintry cold of Dhunia’s blessings, any who strike against them become frozen to the earth, vulnerable to his retaliation. While in Borka’s control area models gain Stealth . When an enemy model without Immunity: Cold hits one or more friendly models in Borka’s control area that has Immunity: with a melee Cold attack, the enemy model becomes stationary for one

BORKA

Pathfinder Tough

Assault – As part of a charge, after moving but before making its charge attack, this model can make one ranged attack targeting the model charged unless they were in melee with each other at the start of this model’s activation. When resolving an Assault ranged attack, the attacking model does not suffer the target in melee penalty. If the target is not in melee range after moving, this model must still make the Assault ranged attack before its activation ends. Combat Rider – During a combat action it did not make a charge attack, this model can make one melee attack with its Mount. Field Marshal [Immunity: Cold] – Models in this model’s battlegroup gain Immunity: Cold .

Trauma

Magical Weapon Reach

Critical Smite – On a critical hit, this model can slam the model hit instead of rolling damage normally. The model hit is slammed d6˝ directly away from this model and suffers a damage roll with POW equal to this model’s STR plus the POW of this weapon. The POW of collateral damage is equal to this model’s STR.

Mount

Critical Brutal Damage – On a critical hit, gain an additional die on this weapon’s damage roll against the model directly hit.

As war continues to consume the lands of the trollkin, Borka, Vengeance of the Rimeshaws rides atop his powerful northern bear Arktos like a savage chieftain of old, bringing hope to his beleaguered kin and swift death to his enemies. The years of conflict beside Madrak Ironhide have forged

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Spells Battle Charged

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF 2 Self Ctrl – Yes No

While in this model’s control area, models in its battlegroup gain Counter Charge. (When an enemy model advances and ends its movement within 6˝ of a model with Counter Charge and in its LOS, the model with Counter Charge can immediately charge it. If it does, it cannot make another counter charge until after your next turn. A model cannot make a counter charge while engaged.)

Frost Hammer

2 SP 8

–

12

No Yes

Snow Shroud

2

–

– Yes No

Frost Hammer causes cold damage . On a critical hit, a model becomes stationary for one round unless it has Immunity: Cold .

6

Target friendly Faction model/unit gains concealment and Immunity: Cold .

Tactical Tips

Assault – The assaulting model ignores the target in melee penalty even if is not in melee range of its charge target after moving. Field Marshal – This includes this model.

Borka’s lust for combat into something greater. Where once Borka strode into battle seeking only personal glory and the thrill of crushing his enemies, he now sees the blows he lands as a vital part of the fight his people are waging for their very survival. Affirmed by the leaders of the kin, Borka revels in combat more than ever, each blow fueled by the certainty that in following his own call to battle he serves his people in their greatest time of need. Following his near death in the Wyrmwall Mountains, Borka returned to his home kriel and was reunited with the bear he had saved as a cub. Recognizing that his old friend still shared his enthusiasm for fighting, Borka took the beast as his own battle mount. The two have become inseparable, and the sight of the pair charging headlong into the enemy in a roaring storm of teeth, claws, and mace chills the marrow of any who face them. Borka’s time among his kriel along with his recent brush with death has brought a certain clarity to the shaman regarding his love of fighting. His connection to the powers over northern cold bestowed on him by Dhunia has grown deeper, and in battle he can summon and wield the inexorable power of winter itself. Atop his bellowing mount, Borka has become as unstoppable as a winter avalanche, and this newfound mobility has only increased his audacity in battle. Borka is ever at the front of the charge, he and his battlegroup avatars of winter’s fury, but he is not heedless of the cost. Champions of his kith and kriel risk their lives alongside him. This knowledge leads Borka to be yet fiercer and more determined, as he understands the toll in blood should he fail.

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Dozer & Smigg Trollblood Dire Troll Character Heavy Warbeast Whatever Dozer doesn’t trample, Smigg blows up. Have you ever met a more perfect pair in all your life?

—Captain Gunnbjorn

DOZER & SMIGG

DOZER & SMIGg SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

5 12 5

6 12 19

6

Bombard RNG ROF AOE POW

— 14 1

3 14

Claw

L

15

Claw

R

POW P+S

3

15

2

1

BODY

3 4

IR IT

M

IN D

SP

6

Affinity [Gunnbjorn] – While Dozer & Smigg is in Gunnbjorn’s control area, it gains boosted blast damage rolls. Regeneration [d3] – This model can be forced to heal d3 damage points once per activation. This model cannot use Regeneration during an activation it runs.

POW P+S

3

Gunfighter

5

Fury 4 Threshold 10 Field Allowance C Point Cost 9 Large Base

Snacking – When this model boxes a living model with a melee attack, this model can heal d3 damage points. If this model heals, the boxed model is removed from play. Special Issue [Gunnbjorn] – This model can be included in Gunnbjorn’s theme forces. It can also be bonded to Gunnbjorn. Veteran Leader [Dire Troll Blitzer] – Friendly Dire Troll Blitzer warbeasts gain +2 to attack rolls while this model is in their LOS.

Virtuoso – This model can make melee and ranged attacks during the same combat action. When this model makes its initial attacks, it can make both its initial ranged and melee attacks.

Bombard

Arcing Fire – When attacking with this weapon, this model can ignore intervening models except those within 1˝ of the target. Inaccurate – This model suffers –4 to attack rolls with this weapon.

Claw

Open Fist

Adapting quickly to the unconventional tactics of the United Kriels, Captain Gunnbjorn has come to rely heavily on the antics of the duo of dire troll and pyg known affectionately as Dozer and Smigg. Plowing across the battlefield, Dozer generates an avalanche of destruction while Smigg, precariously clinging to the dire troll’s back, unleashes explosive salvos of bombard fire. Each resounding blast of the tremendous cannon elicits a chorus of ecstatic roars from the dire trolls that fight alongside

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ANIMUS

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Bank Shot

2

6

–

–

No No

Target friendly Faction model gains +2 to AOE ranged attack rolls. When the target model’s AOE ranged attacks deviate, you can reroll the direction and/or distance of deviation. Each roll can be rerolled only once as a result of Bank Shot. Bank Shot lasts for one turn.

Tactical Tips

Snacking – Because the boxed model is removed from play before being destroyed, it does not generate a soul or corpse token. Special Issue – This only gives the warbeast the potential to bond to the warlock. It does not automatically add a bond.

them. Dozer pays them no mind, as the constant fire renders him stone deaf within the first few moments of battle. He relies on mental direction from Gunnbjorn or kicks and nudges from Smigg to turn to face the next most pressing foe, eager to see them blasted apart. In the time it takes Smigg to ready the next shot, Dozer will sometimes take the opportunity to charge and tear apart the nearest enemy with his tremendously huge claws. The cannon he bears was salvaged in the aftermath of an assault on a Khadoran supply train. After seizing muchneeded supplies, Gunnbjorn’s forces also carted off a massive bombard taken from a wrecked Destroyer warjack. Having witnessed firsthand the power and utility of the Khadoran bombard, the warlock took the opportunity to refit the weapon for the largest dire troll in his retinue. Dozer easily bore the crushing weight of the weapon, its mount, and its magazine, but adjusting to the noise and concussive force of the bombard took some time. Early attempts to operate the weapon in the field met with mixed results. At first, each thunderous blast sent Dozer into a dangerous frenzy, swatting at his own back as he plowed headlong into the enemy. Over time he became more accustomed to the gun’s earsplitting report, but not before he had maimed and consumed half a dozen hapless pyg gunners. Only the enthusiastic Smigg managed to hold on and keep from being devoured during Dozer’s tirades. Since that time, a friendship has grown between them and Dozer is now quite protective of the pyg that joins him in battle. In time the dire troll even learned to savor the weapon’s booming report and the acrid clouds of smoke it spewed forth. The two have been inseparable ever since.

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Northkin Fire Eaters Trollblood Unit You ever seen a trollkin stumbling drunk, ablaze in a ball of flame, belching fire every which way? In the hills up north, that’s a normal day.

—Winter Guard Sergeant Akina Fedorevna

LEADER & GRUNT

LEADER & GRUNT SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 7 6 6 13 13 8

Fire Breath RNG ROF AOE POW

SP 6 1

—

12

Torch

POW P+S

4

11

PYG BUDDY SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 5 6 6 13 13 7

Fire Breath RNG ROF AOE POW

SP 6 1

—

12

Torch

POW P+S

4

9

Damage 5 ea Field Allowance 2 Leader, Grunt, & Pyg Buddy 4 Leader Medium Base Grunt Medium Base Pyg Buddy Small Base

Advance Deployment Fearless Immunity: Cold Tough

Assault (Order) – Affected models must charge or run. As part of a charge, after moving but before making its charge attack, an affected model can make one ranged attack targeting the model charged unless they were in melee with each other at the start of the affected model’s activation. Models that received this order cannot make combined ranged attacks this activation. When resolving an Assault ranged attack, the attacking model does not suffer the target in melee penalty. If the target is not in melee range after moving, the affected model must still make the ranged attack before its activation ends.

Fire’s Fury – This model gains +5 ARM against Fire damage. While suffering the Fire continuous effect , this model cannot be knocked down or made stationary and gains boosted attack and damage rolls. Trollkin – This model is a trollkin.

PYG BUDDY

Advance Deployment Fearless

Immunity: Cold Tough Assault (Order) – See above. Fire’s Fury – See above. Pyg – This model is a pyg.

Fire Breath

Continuous Effect: Fire Damage Type: Fire

Torch

Critical Fire

Trollkin are known for their insatiable thirst for booze, but few imbibe like the nomadic fire eaters that travel the Rimeshaws. These wandering bands earn their meals and a place to bed down by entertaining their hosts with fire-eating antics. With their stomachs cauterized by a lifetime of hooch consumption, these trolls have taken to drinking extremely potent moonshine. This booze could strip the finish off a warjack’s firebox and is powerful enough to topple a bison or outright kill a man. Fire eaters spit this volatile concoction across torches to ignite the spray, resulting in spectacular fireballs. As these bands have pushed farther south they have increasingly found their way into battle, where they use their fire-breathing skills to belch gouts of flame in defense of their fellow trollkin.

Tactical Tip

Pyg Buddy – The Pyg Buddy is a trooper in the unit but is not a Grunt in the unit.

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Trollkin Highwaymen Trollblood Unit

What we do, we do for the good of the kriel. If it means a few gun-mongers take a round in the belly, so be it.

—Jurson Firetongue, trollkin highwayman

Tactical Tip

Camouflage – If a model ignores concealment or cover, it also ignores concealment or cover’s Camouflage bonus.

Prior to the increased hostilities in the isolated regions of western Immoren, trollkin highwaymen were unwelcome among their kin. Branded as outlaws, they robbed human travelers regardless of the victims’ origins or loyalties. They lived a nomadic existence in small bands led by those possessing the greatest charisma or martial prowess. Contrary to the old tales, most trollkin highwaymen maintained a modest and lawful existence and resorted to thievery only during particularly lean times. As the conflicts of the greater world escalated, the threats passing through these brigands’ lands grew, as did the potential for plundering the traveling forces. While some highwaymen simply saw an opportunity to improve their lives, others noted the increasingly desperate plight of their people. These good-hearted trollkin began distributing a portion of their ill-gotten gains to the camps of dispossessed kin. Occasionally they would even step out of the tree line to defend those camps from human aggression. Tales of highwaymen as outlaws evolved into legends of trollkin heroes fighting for justice. Gradually, these

LEADER & GRUNTS

Combined Ranged Attack

LEADER & GRUNTS

Gunfighter

6 6 5 5 12 14 8

Tough Camouflage – This model gains an additional +2 DEF when benefiting from concealment or cover.

SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

Pistol RNG ROF AOE POW

8 1 — 10

Field Allowance Leader & 5 Grunts Leader & 9 Grunts Medium Base

Swift Hunter – When this model destroys an enemy model with a normal ranged attack, immediately after the attack is resolved it can advance up to 2˝.

2 5 8

trollkin have reintegrated into their kriels, bringing their fighting tactics with them. They are peerless woodsmen and hunters who can blend into the surrounding forests or swamps as they stalk prey. They strike from the shadows and remain continuously on the move, opening fire on startled enemies before returning to the safety of the deep woods. Unlike so many of their kin, trollkin highwaymen do not resort to hammer or axe when an enemy draws close. Instead they stick to their trusty pistols, as ready to fire at an onrushing enemy from point blank range as to do so from a safe distance.

31

Horgle Ironstrike Trollblood Trollkin Character Solo Save your words. Speak with iron and fire instead.

IRONSTRIKE

IRONSTRIKE SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

5 7 6 4 12 15 8

Flaming Sword

POW P+S

4

11

Smith’s Hammer

POW P+S

5

12

Fearless

Immunity: Fire Tough Burnt Meat – Warbeasts in this model’s battlegroup can charge targets suffering the Fire continuous effect  without being forced.

Lesser Warlock – This model is not a warlock but has the following warlock special rules: Battlegroup Commander, Control Area, Damage Transference, Forcing, Fury Manipulation, Healing, and Spellcaster.

Fury 4 Damage 8 Field Allowance C Point Cost 3 Medium Base

Specialization [Pyre Trolls and Slag Trolls] – The only warbeasts that can be included in this model’s battlegroup are Pyre Trolls and Slag Trolls. Reduce the point cost of Pyre Trolls and Slag Trolls in this model’s battlegroup by 1.

Flaming Sword Magical Weapon

Continuous Effect: Fire

Smith’s Hammer Magical Weapon

Critical Ram – On a critical hit against an enemy model, it is knocked down and can be pushed 1˝ directly away from this model. If it is pushed, this model can immediately advance directly toward the pushed model up to the distance that model was moved.

Horgle Ironstrike is an anomaly among the close-knit clans of the United Kriels, much preferring the fiery solitude of his forge over the company of his fellow trollkin. A loner in his kriel southeast of the Shard Spires, Horgle was uninterested in the traditional activities of his kriel. Instead he excelled in the ancestral smithing rites passed down to him by his mother Lagertha, a skilled blacksmith and gifted warlock. He took to this instruction with a will, finding solace in the rhythms of hammer, anvil, and flame. Horgle learned more than the rudimentary methods necessary to shape weapons and tools, for Lagertha made use of trolls brought from her hereditary lands in the Wyrmwall Mountains. In addition to commanding these fearsome creatures in defense of the kriel, she used them in her work, tempering steel with the scorching heat of pyre trolls and etching runes with the searing acid of the slags. Horgle learned these techniques, eventually employing them to craft superior weapons and armor.

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Spells

—Horgle Ironstrike

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Hot Shot

2

6

–

– Yes No

Molten Metal

2

10

–

–

Target model in this model’s battlegroup gains boosted ranged attack damage rolls. Target warjack suffers 1 point of fire damage damage grid.

No Yes

to each column on its

Tactical Tips

Lesser Warlock – This model’s type is solo, not warlock. Molten Metal – If a damage column is full, apply the damage to the next column to the right.

He toiled contentedly at the forge until the ill-fated day a large force of dragonspawn and blighted Nyss stormed his kriel’s home. He fought alongside Lagertha, who rallied the kriel’s defenses and inflicted a heavy toll on the enemy before she was finally struck down. Her tragic death induced Horgle’s own sorcerous awakening as he took control of the remaining trolls and launched them at the enemy. Despite his efforts the kriel was lost, and Horgle was forced to retreat with a few other survivors. Feeling no real kinship with these trollkin and seeing them only as a reminder of his loss, he soon left them behind as well. Horgle drifted south, his heart full of bitterness and hatred. The only possessions he salvaged from his old life were his mother’s smithing hammer and a fiery sword shaped by his own hand. He wandered for some time, surviving by his craft and his weapons, before finding his way to those allied with the United Kriels. There his smithing prowess and promise as a warlock caught the attention of certain kriel leaders. Grissel Bloodsong is one who sees great potential in the young trollkin. Beyond his innate ability to lead trolls in warfare, she believes Horgle may have an even greater destiny forging weapons of power for the kriels. While he still prefers solitude, his desire to exact vengeance on those who destroyed his former life drives him to fight alongside his kin in battle. His affinity with pyre and slag trolls continues to serve him well both on and off the battlefield. In combat he brings the power of fire, hammering foes with the same strength and precision he devotes to shaping metal. There is always a simmering rage within Horgle, and in the heat of battle his sword and hammer are infused with this inner fury.

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Braylen Wanderheart, Trollkin Outlaw Trollblood Character Solo If doing what I must to help the kin makes me an outlaw, then I suppose I am an outlaw.

—Braylen Wanderheart

WANDERHEART SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 6 6 6 13 15 9

Heavy Pistol RNG ROF AOE POW

8 1 — 12

Damage 8 Field Allowance C Point Cost 3 Medium Base

WANDERHEART Fearless

Gunfighter Pathfinder Tough Camouflage – This model gains an additional +2 DEF when benefiting from concealment or cover.

Gun & Run – At the end of its activation, if this model destroyed one or more enemy models with ranged attacks that activation, it can make a full advance. Leadership [Trollkin Highwaymen] – While in this model’s command range, friendly Trollkin Highwaymen models gain Opportunist. (While a model with Opportunist is completely within the back arc of an enemy model, it gains an additional die on its attack and damage rolls against that enemy model.) Opportunist – While this model is completely within the back arc of an enemy model, this model gains an additional die on its attack and damage rolls against that enemy model. while within terrain Prowl – This model gains Stealth that provides concealment, the AOE of a spell that provides concealment, or the AOE of a cloud effect.

Heavy Pistol

Luck – This model can reroll missed attack rolls with this weapon. Each attack roll can be rerolled only once as a result of Luck.

Among the merchants and lords who travel the Glimmerwood, one name inspires wrath and trepidation in equal measure: Braylen Wanderheart. A consummate bandit, Wanderheart has earned her legend by robbing wealthy merchants only to distribute the ill-gotten gains among her less fortunate kin. Lurking in the trees, she waits for the opportune moment to set upon an unsuspecting target. She and her bandits strike from ambush, relying on surprise and intimidation as much as on strength of arms. For the unfortunates who try to fight back, Wanderheart’s gang answers with a volley of deadly shot before converging for closer combat. She has become a living legend, as beloved by the kin as she is reviled by outsiders. Once, her only concern was the acquisition of personal wealth, but fate has presented her with a nobler cause. Prior to the Khadoran invasion, Braylen and her band struck at overland merchant caravans moving between Cygnar and Llael. A portion of each haul was set aside to be shared with nearby wilderness kriels, who in turn sheltered her gang

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Tactical Tip

Camouflage – If a model ignores concealment or cover, it also ignores concealment or cover’s Camouflage bonus.

from the law. If any outsiders braved the Glimmerwood in an attempt to bring the highwaymen to justice, they quickly found themselves outnumbered by armed trollkin with a vested interest in keeping Wanderheart safe. Legends of her exploits spread quickly throughout the forest as she moved from kriel to kriel, and young trollkin seeking what they perceived as a thrilling and lawless life followed. Braylen’s fate shifted when she met Calandra Truthsayer. The oracle impressed upon her the kin’s need for a leader of her talents. With threats on all sides, the United Kriels were desperate for munitions and supplies, lest they be overcome by better-equipped forces. Calandra spoke of the trollkin’s ultimate fate should they fail to defend what little they had remaining and of how crucial Wanderheart’s skills were to them having any hope of victory. Remembering the many kriels that had defended her when she was in need and thinking of their ultimate fate if she abandoned them, Braylen joined their cause. Braylen Wanderheart is now a robber with a different agenda. It is for the common cause that she and her trollkin bandits now travel the forests of western Immoren, plundering military convoys and outposts amid the crackle of pistol fire. From these targets they secure much-needed weapons and supplies for the fighting forces of the United Kriels, and anything they cannot use is bartered. Embattled kriels across the wilds owe their lives to the efforts of Wanderheart and her cohort, for without the goods she procures they would surely be whittled away by the many enemies they face.

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Circle Orboros Abuses of Power

Bradigus Thorle floated between the Pillars of Rotterhorn in the Bloodstone Marches, held aloft by the power flowing through the great standing stones. Suffused by natural energies as he was, the bounds of gravity were meaningless, his mass repulsed by the soil beneath him as when identical poles of two magnets are placed in proximity. Manipulating such forces was as reflexive to him as breathing. The soaring, isolated peak of the Rotterhorn was made all the more majestic by contrast with the flat and desolate expanse of the Bloodstone Desert from which it rose. It was hundreds of miles from the nearest city, with red sands extending in all directions. Though the Pillars had been erected at a site well below the mountain’s summit, Thorle’s view on this clear day seemed boundless. As one of the blackclads responsible for the Eastern Dominion, Thorle did not view the desert as a wasteland, for all its starkness and desiccation. Life still thrived here, and the desert had its own power, which gathered in sunheated sands during the day and poured down from the celestial realm at night. Power flowed beneath the surface of Caen like currents across the ocean. Key conduits of these flows converged on the Rotterhorn, and from its base the energies rushed upward into the twin black stone columns first erected thousands of years ago by blackclads who were among the first of their order. The Pillars of Rotterhorn was one of the greatest sacred sites of the Circle Orboros, one of their most potent conjunctions. It was for that reason Mohsar had directed Thorle here after the tempestuous battle against the skorne at the Hawksmire River. “The ley lines of the Eastern Dominion are battered and strained,” the blind omnipotent had said to him. “Recent actions by Baldur, by Krueger, and even by me—we have done them harm, and there is more harm to come. Go to the Rotterhorn and assess the damage. The fabric of the ley lines must be repaired, as much as is possible. I leave it to you to determine where to begin.” It had been startling to hear such words from a man who rarely expressed alarm and who knew more than most the

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resiliency of Orboros, but Thorle knew the sources of strain Mohsar had mentioned. Krueger had recently drawn on the deepest ley lines below the desert to invoke a great storm to obliterate a Protectorate of Menoth army, apparently in the service of Wurmwood. A significant drain, but nothing the ley line network could not recover from. Then there had been Baldur’s ceremony at the Bones of Orboros on the Hawksmire River, in which he and Morvahna had reached deep to summon an earthquake that thwarted the progress of a Cryxian army. Thorle had helped defend the site where this ritual had taken place, and there he had witnessed Mohsar’s mystical strength and power directed against the skorne. Making use of two Celestial Fulcrums carved by Thorle’s own hands, the omnipotent had augmented his own power enough to banish the skorne warlock Mordikaar deep into the desert. One of the Circle’s easternmost sacred sites had been obliterated as Mordikaar, together with the unnatural void attached to him, had been hurled hundreds of miles. That act had sent shockwaves through the ley lines, changing some flows entirely. With these events in mind, Thorle had found the Pillars of Rotterhorn to be intact and whole, though not unscathed by the ravages of time. Large slabs of solid rock below the soil had cracked and shifted. He had extended his will to realign them, and soon the flows around him were humming harmoniously. He had then sent his consciousness out into the network, his eyes glowing as he entered a deep trance. His mind flowed across the face of Caen faster than the swiftest bird, not in one direction but in many. The lattice of ley lines revealed themselves to him as if it were a vast web, and he, the spider within that web, could sense the slightest vibration upon the strands. The damage that had troubled Mohsar was immediately evident. Here, the network lacked its former harmony; it was tattered in many places, diminished in others. The regions that had been particularly strained were dim and discolored in his perception, as if Caen itself were bruised.

He could sense the pull of other blackclads on the ley lines as they summoned power. Most of these small disturbances hardly registered, like a single drop of water amid a roaring waterfall. The omnipotents, however, could be detected if he searched for them. He felt Mohsar the Desertwalker like a shadow across the entire Eastern Dominion. Then he frowned as he sensed a powerful but unfamiliar mind probing the ley lines with an intensity equal to his own.

There was a brief silence. When Krueger spoke again his tone had changed, as though he were listening to Thorle with more focused attention. “My apologies, Runecarver. I did not mean to be rude, and I do not hold recent events against you. There was considerable pressure on all of you to speak as one voice at the Grand Conclave Tribunal. Had I been in your position, I might have chosen as you did. However, I must return to my work—”

He focused his attention and soon recognized Krueger the Stormwrath. It had not been long since the omnipotents had conducted a trial to judge Krueger for his crimes. The self-appointed Stormlord had been found guilty and marked for death. Every one of the potents, Thorle included, had cast votes to seal that fate. A distasteful situation, but from the offered testimony it had been clear Krueger was guilty. Wurmwood’s intervention had changed the verdict, but it didn’t alter the fact that Krueger had put the entire order in danger by conspiring with dragons. Krueger ’s present scrutiny of the ley lines in this manner filled Thorle with alarm.

“Krueger. I must know what you are doing and how it will affect my domains.” His irritation had begun to show. “That is my right.”

He felt it was his duty to contact the Stormlord. He sent his mind across the miles and found him at Molgur’s Lament, a minor sacred site in the northern Wyrmwall Mountains. “Krueger, it is Bradigus Thorle. I would speak to you. Will you attend my words?” Communicating through the ley lines at such a distance required extreme concentration from both parties, as well as proximity to powerful flows and the standing stones channeling them. For a moment Thorle thought Krueger would ignore him but then, with a crackling of electrical power, a disembodied and fractured echo of Krueger manifested before him. “Runecarver. What is it?” Krueger sounded irritable and distracted. “I warn you that I am not at liberty to speak at length.” “Understood,” Thorle said. “I am repairing the Eastern Dominion and felt your presence. The ley lines are unstable here. I advise against any significant working on your part. Might I inquire regarding your interests here?” “My business is my own,” Krueger snapped. After a pause he added, “I will tell you this much: I am ordering my forces in the Glimmerwood to rejoin me. Hastening their return should not be a strain. Nothing for you to be concerned about.” Thorle frowned, certain Krueger was lying to him, at least by omission. He would have no need to assess the ley lines merely to summon allies. Bradigus said, “You and I have little in common, and you may bear me ill after my role in your trial, but I have long dealt fairly with you. I ask the same in return. We each have our responsibilities.”

“The truth of the matter is, I wish I could tell you,” Krueger responded with apparent sincerity. “If I thought you might be willing to help me, it would make many things simpler. But matters are complicated. I have a precarious balance to maintain. I know how loyal you have been to the omnipotents, and for that reason I cannot bring you into my confidence. Not yet.”

Krueger’s present scrutiny of the ley lines in this manner filled Thorle with alarm. Thorle warned in a low voice, “I do not like the sound of this, Krueger.” The other continued after a pause, “For the respect I bear you, I will forewarn you that there may be . . . unusual activity . . . across the ley lines in the weeks ahead that may cause some alarm. You and your subordinates should not react too hastily, both for your safety and for theirs. It might be best if you stayed at the Rotterhorn; this is a dangerous time to travel. I will tell you more soon, if I can.” Before Thorle could question him further, the connection was severed. He felt profoundly troubled, all the more because of Krueger’s vague attempts to reassure him. He recalled the words of Omnipotent Dahlekov at the trial: “Whatever lore Krueger related while in secret congress with Blighterghast, the repercussions for our order might be cataclysmic.” Thorle put that aside. Without more information he had nothing worth reporting to the omnipotents. Returning his attention to the ley lines, he saw no trace of the Stormlord. He turned to the trajectory by which Mordikaar had been hurled into the desert and found there a trench ripped through the web of ley lines, terminating in a gaping hole in the far desert. Already Thorle’s subordinates were at work repairing lesser conjunctions along that path. Thorle

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thought first to rebuild the distant site, but on widening his perspective to view the entire dominion, he was alarmed to see several other irregularities. These included one to the north that was worsening as he watched. He sent his mind that direction to discover the ley lines throbbing with strain. Vast flows of energy were somehow being redirected to the region north of Lake Scarleforth and east of the Hawksmire River. Tremendous surges of natural power coursed through minor standing stone sites too weak to contain them. Thorle knew more of the power of earth and stone than anyone in the order, but he was baffled at what he was seeing.

Tremendous surges of natural power coursed through minor standing stone sites too weak to contain them. Was this the activity to which Krueger had alluded? What have you done, you fool? he wondered. Thorle knew he must hasten to the conjunction of those flows—a small sacred site in the Scabbard Hills. The site must be reinforced, new stones erected if necessary, before the existing ones were overwhelmed. Losing control over this power would have horrible repercussions, giving rise to all manner of natural calamities. Coming out of his trance, he drifted down to the ground. With a mental command he summoned the Celestial Fulcrum and those wolds that awaited nearby, together with his escort of subordinate stone keepers, blackclads, and Wolves of Orboros. He reached into the ley lines thrumming beneath him and, with a clap like granite cracking, he and the others were gone.

Their arrival at the Scabbard Hills site revealed little amiss to the naked eye. The standing stones formed a wide circle some twenty yards in diameter, set within a broad, forested glade between several rocky hills. The hills and the stones themselves were of a reddish hue, containing many of the minerals that gave the Bloodstone Marches its name. This region just east of Lake Scarleforth received runoff from the hills when the heavy rains swept down, which then fed into the Hawksmire River through a number of temporary tributaries. It had been weeks since such a rain, but the channels the water had carved could be clearly seen through the rugged brush and between the exposed roots of the tenacious trees.

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Thorle noted that the green runes carved into the standing stones did not fade after his group arrived but instead pulsed in an irregular rhythm. He reached out a hand and touched the nearest one. It felt warm under his fingers. Fresh cracks ran along its upper surface, and several of the runes had been marred. The other stones were similarly damaged, with at least one in even worse repair. He immediately set the others to work. All were druids he had known for years and trusted to be both competent and efficient. Several of the stone keepers began to repair the standing stones, using their powers to reverse the cracks and carve fresh runes. “We will need to gather more stone, and quickly,” he said to Stone Keeper Jarsin. “There is an ancient quarry that has rested untouched for centuries just north of here.” “I know whereof you speak,” Jarsin answered. Behind him, the shifting stones he commanded moved into position, aligning with those set by other stone keepers. The pattern they created was a configuration of multiple triangles carefully set among the greater standing stones, to which they lent their mystical support and regenerative power. “Take Hardris and Maywen with you. Unearth three large slabs sufficient for our work, then hasten back.” The stone keepers and a senior wayfarer vanished with a small thunderclap. Ordinarily shifting several people from such a minor site would have been an ordeal, but the power presently flowing through this place bolstered their efforts. Thorle then directed his woldwardens and wold guardians into the pattern. The Celestial Fulcrum he placed in the center of the standing stones to serve as a hub; the wolds he sent to the periphery. These constructs redirected the energy overflowing the pattern to create a new, if imperfect, harmony. He took to the air again, gliding to the nearest upslope of the rocky hills. He reached out with his hands, sending power into the ground. With a grinding and ripping sound, large chunks of the hillside tore free to rise into the air amid sprays of dirt, and boulders both large and small lifted to follow him back to the circle. Using his will, he stacked these stones to form crude cairns alongside the greater stones and wolds as additional conduits to help direct the energies into patterns of his choosing. These would have to serve until he could reinforce the site with permanent standing stones connected by powerful runes. Thorle had earlier noticed the typical signs of neglect at this site, though it had received small repairs periodically and its unthinking guardians—sentry stones and woldwatchers— had performed their assigned task of scaring off intruders. The energy flows here had never been significant enough to draw competing groups to contest it, but he knew that

might change if these new, more powerful flows were stabilized. He still did not know the cause of the anomalies, and he saw nothing to suggest Krueger had visited the site. It was possible the Stormlord was not involved, though the timing made Thorle suspicious. The loss of the Bones of Orboros just west of here—the very ground where Baldur’s ritual had transpired—had been a blow to the Circle’s control over the ley lines of this region. Perhaps these wild flows were part of the aftermath. The skorne had quickly seized that site and had wasted no time in shattering the great stones there, stones only recently rebuilt by Baldur after being torn down by the passage of Everblight’s legion as it fled north. Before his ritual, Baldur needed to drive away trollkin who had claimed the site in the aftermath of the legion. The chaos surrounding control over the Bones of Orboros was a testament to the area’s general upheaval after the clash at the Castle of the Keys in which Morvahna had failed to stop Everblight. This once-quiet area of the Bloodstone Marches had seen escalating bloodshed as well as supernatural conflicts that threatened the Circle’s key holdings. The body of Orboros was as resilient as Caen itself, able to recover from any abuse, but recent events had been picking at the scabs. Moreover, the Cyrissists had suddenly become more active in the other dominions, entirely altering the course of major ley lines. It all contributed to a time of unprecedented instability, against which Thorle had been fighting a losing battle. “Potent, over here!” The shout came from a huntsman of the Wolves of Orboros standing watch next to a tree on a slight rise on the western perimeter, spear in hand. He pointed and said, “There’s movement—” The warrior was cut short as a hooked blade jutted through his chest in a plume of crimson blood. He stared down at it in surprise and made a choking noise, and then his body was pitched aside as the bog trog that had skewered him yanked its weapon free. Shouts of alarm came from all quarters. More bog trogs sprang into view, and the Wolves fought them fiercely. Thorle flew swiftly toward the huntsman’s murderer. He gestured forcefully, drawing a rock the size of a skull from the earth and shooting it at deadly velocity straight into the bog trog’s chest, shattering ribs and crushing organs. Behind Thorle other blackclads rushed forward, drawing on their own power to summon and hurl rocks into the attackers. The bog trogs had used their talent for camouflage to close the distance and take the Wolves on the western side by surprise. Now the reeves who had been on the southern side of the glade rushed to support their comrades in arms, their crossbow bolts finding targets

with tremendous accuracy. The remaining Wolves formed a loose line, spears at the ready, while the reeves and the blackclads formed up behind them. Floating at the fore, Thorle unleashed his anger upon any bog trog in sight to annihilate them with a punishing hail of stone. The rest were quickly scattering, perhaps not expecting such a formidable enemy. More than half of Thorle’s escorting Wolves had been taken down in the ambush, but twice as many trogs had paid the price. “This is not their natural environment,” Thorle said, glaring toward the western valley. “No bog trogs live anywhere near here.” Even as he made this observation, different and larger forms could be seen moving through the trees just beyond the glade. “Gatormen!” shouted one of the sharp-eyed reeves while reloading his crossbow. Though reluctant to pull any of the wolds from his carefully built configuration, Thorle summoned three woldwatchers and a single wold guardian. “Let the wolds to the fore!” he called. “Concentrate your fire!” As his commands were carried out, Thorle’s mind turned to the incongruities. Although there was a river to the west, gatormen were never seen in these parts, having no desire to enter the arid Bloodstone Marches. He could not fathom what would bring both bog trogs and gatormen here. The presence of both fighting together suggested the Blindwater Congregation, but if so, they were far from home. The gatormen had attacked through an opening into the glade from the wider desert to the west. Thorle’s forces advanced cautiously. As expected, the gatormen were waiting in ambush. They surged from the trees with polearms raised, hissing with blood lust. The first volley of crossbow fire largely bounced off their scaled hides, and those bolts that struck home seemed to do little harm. Thorle’s woldwatchers unleashed crackling lightning into the nearest enemies while his wold guardian strode ahead to shatter them with its enormous stone arms. Other gatormen were met by wold constructs. Thorle sent runes to surround and empower his wolds, allowing each strike greater impact. Crushing stone battered the gatormen’s scales and broke their bones. The Wolves rushed through the gaps to finish any enemy left standing. Once the gatorman line was broken, the cold-blooded creatures that had survived pulled back into the trees. The reeves continued firing and reloading until they saw no more targets. Several more reeves had fallen, and one of Thorle’s woldwatchers was badly damaged. He moved to it and touched its stone plates, closing his eyes as he sent power through his fingers to allow the stone to grow back to wholeness, its cracks mending in an instant.

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“We should see how many more there are,” said his master of the hunt, a grizzled woman whose face was lined with scars. “Agreed,” said Thorle, “but proceed carefully. We should not move far from this site.” He mentally commanded the wolds at the center to hold their positions but to attack any strangers that intruded past the perimeter. Thorle’s forces made their way out of the neck of the valley but then stopped in stunned disbelief. The flat, open plain of red sand ahead was crawling with an approaching horde of gatormen, bog trogs, and other reptilians. This gathering was larger than any Thorle had seen in one place before—an entire army of cold-blooded and hostile creatures, marching directly toward the glade he had come to repair and protect. The presence of greater warbeasts suggested powerful bokors among the horde. Indeed, marching near the front he spotted several figures with the bearing of authority and power, including one he knew from his territory in the Marchfells.

“I offer you the chance to live—a gift. Others would prefer to taste your blood.”

The retreating gatormen had reached the vanguard of this army and reported to their leaders, gesturing toward Thorle and his companions. Clearly the bog trogs and gatormen they had just dealt with had been merely a scouting party. “We must pull back to the grove,” said the master of the hunt grimly. She was a veteran who had faced many horrors with stoic disregard, a descendant of generations of Wolves who saw it as their duty to protect the druids of Orboros, but her face had gone pale. “Perhaps,” Thorle said, “but first I will speak to them.” Seeing her eyes go wide, he continued, “I have had dealings with some of these gatormen before. There is nothing of interest to them at our sacred site. Perhaps I can persuade them to leave it be. Regardless, we cannot leave this place yet. Withdraw to the grove and make ready to defend it.” “Yes, Runecarver, as you command.” She took charge of her warriors, directing them to fall back. Thorle positioned his wolds at the narrowest point of the opening into the valley and awaited the gatorman army. He stood before them, alone, as still and unyielding as the stones around him.

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As the gatormen at the fore came to a stop, their leaders conferred with one another, no doubt debating whether to attack outright. Eventually a smaller group split off and approached, led by a female bokor wearing elaborate totemic attire. She was the one he had recognized—JagaJaga, who was adorned with many skulls and bones, the corpse of a tatzylwurm draped about her shoulders. Two hulking ironback spitters came with her, along with two writhing piles of bones he knew to be boneswarms, unnatural and loathsome necromantic constructs. As the bokor neared, the undead tatzylwurm turned its head to face him, and he sensed a malevolent intelligence behind its many eyes. Jaga-Jaga said, “Thorle Runecarver. Seven seasons ago I fought for you, but that deal is done. You paid as promised. You are worthy of respect, worthy of hearing my words. I offer you the chance to live—a gift. Others would prefer to taste your blood.” She spoke the tongue of her people, which he understood but could not easily speak. He answered in Cygnaran, which she knew similarly well but which was ill-suited to the anatomy of her kind. “Greetings, Jaga-Jaga. I offer respect to your tribe and your ancestors.” She was a powerful bokor. Though he could not consider her an ally, the fact that she was willing to talk was something. “I would not have thought to find you here. Have you joined your tribe to those ruled by Bloody Barnabas?” “Your words are neither true nor untrue. Matters are not so simple. Barnabas is the greatest of those gathered here. I advise him. His decisions are life or death for many tribes.” “And it is for his purposes that you are here?” Thorle asked. “Why? Does he seek war with the Circle Orboros? Do you?” He could not interpret her expression as she twisted her head and made a gesture with one claw. “You are unimportant. We press onward, beyond you, but Barnabas will not hesitate to destroy you or your walking stones.” Her claw indicated his wolds. “If you do not desire this fate, leave at once. He is not patient and already we delay too long.” He looked to the gathered forces, which were becoming increasingly impressive as the members to the rear caught up with the rest. Among them he saw several tall stone vaults set on wheels and pulled by muscular gatormen. Each vault was made of ancient and weatherworn stone, inscribed with Orgoth runes and set with dozens of skulls and bones—old stones tainted with ancient and recent blasphemies. He had not seen the like before, but he felt

certain these vaults were dangerous. The gatormen bokors were powerful necromancers, as skilled in their own way as any Thamarite or Cryxian. Altogether, it was a force he stood no realistic chance of stopping. “This is no place for your kind, below the burning sun and walking the dry sands,” Thorle said. “What is your goal, if not strife with us?” “We go where we must,” she said. “Kossk guides us, and the spirits have shown me the way. Nothing will stand in our path. Time is wriggling away. The war we seek is with the trollkin, not you, but we will carve a path through you if we must.” “What matters the exact route as long as you reach your destination? There is a grove here, a protected place. I must ask you to go around.” He gestured to the left and right, where the line of hills stretched out into the barren wastes. “March either way, find another path, and you will save yourself unnecessary bloodshed.” She made a hitched hissing sound, extending her toothfilled jaws toward him, and he realized she was expressing amusement. “We seek bloodshed, Runecarver. We do not fear it. And we do not have time to wander the hills—to bake beneath the sun, as you say. There is need for haste. We will pass through. Make way, or be swallowed by Kossk.” With that she turned her back and strode away, her retinue following close behind. Thorle now wished he had brought more wolds along with him. The gatormen respected strength. As it was, they did not consider him a threat, and in truth given their scope they were right. Even so, he knew he could not simply walk away. Even if they did not intend harm, the gatormen might obliterate his careful work as they marched through, and in doing so create a disaster. He pondered the bokor’s words, and the strangeness of such an army’s appearance here. The name of the gatormen’s god was known to him, but Kossk was simply another aspect of the Devourer Wurm, itself only an expression of the will of Orboros. Jaga-Jaga was a sage of her people, from a powerful bloodline. Was it possible she had some communication with the Wurm? If so, what could that signify? He and his wolds turned back toward the central site. He would have better hopes of defending there, where he could draw on the great power flowing through this place. It was vital he shore up the ley lines here. At the least he might be able to stall their army long enough to complete the work and prevent a catastrophe. There was primal power in blood; perhaps amid the battle he could draw upon that. He considered what reinforcements he might summon, but between the losses at the Bones of Orboros and those that had gone to join Krueger or Morvahna, his options were limited.

Deep in thought, he had not realized his environment had changed. A strange fog had seeped into the wooded glade, out of keeping with the afternoon heat. He was brought up short as he realized his way was blocked. Directly in his path stood a familiar withered and twisted tree, its leafless branches dangling with bones that made a slight whistling sound in the wind: Wurmwood, the Tree of Fate. He looked to his right and Cassius was there, less than five feet away, staring intently at him. “Allow the gatormen to pass,” Cassius said in his raspy voice. “What?” Thorle was so startled he could think of no better response. “Impossible!” “I will ensure they do not destroy the stones. Your work can resume when they have passed,” Cassius said calmly. “What’s your involvement in this?” Thorle felt great mistrust of Wurmwood, of the entire ancient arrangement his order had entered into with the primordial tree. Again he considered Krueger’s trial and how this strange being had stood in the way of justice. He tried to remember the formalities that surrounded contact with this entity. “With all due respect, this territory is mine. I did not invite you here.” “Withdraw your people, quickly, or suffer. It is your choice,” Cassius said, and in the blink of an eye he was gone. Thorle gritted his teeth as he looked at the gnarled tree ahead, which he suspected would vanish soon. Before it did, he was intent on learning something. His eyes narrowed as he plunged his will and his mind down into the earth, connecting to the ley lines that surged so powerfully here, pregnant with strange energies. He gasped. As he had anticipated, the roots of Wurmwood were sunk deep into these ley lines. The flows of power here, he felt certain, originated with Wurmwood—an entity said to be an aspect of the Wurm, just as Kossk was. A powerful voice spoke in his head, a voice much like Cassius’ but also not, resonant and vibrating with energy. “These channels of power are not yours. They are mine.” The sensation was dizzying. Shaken, Thorle realized he had closed his eyes. When he opened them Wurmwood was gone. He heard the rumble and clatter of the approaching gatorman army and hastened back to the grove to gather his forces and withdraw, for a time. If a single standing stone was disturbed, he vowed, he would commit to a full reckoning against both the gatormen and Wurmwood, whatever the consequences.

41

Bradigus Thorle the Runecarver Circle Warlock His eyes behold the raw power of Caen. His hands shape for us the tools to wield it.

—Mohsar the Desertwalker

Feat: Earthen Tide

THORLE SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

5 7 6 6 14 16 8

Stone Throw RNG ROF AOE POW

8 3 — 13

Stone Strike

POW P+S

6

The very earth heaves and buckles at the command of Bradigus Thorle, rising up beneath him like flowing water. He and his wolds ride this crashing wave as they surge forward into his enemies as an unstoppable tide.

13

Choose a table edge and a distance up to 5˝. Models Fury 6 in Thorle’s battlegroup that Damage 17 are in his control area are Field Allowance C pushed the chosen distance Warbeast Points +6 directly toward the chosen Large Base table edge in the order you choose. At the end of your turn, choose a distance up to 5˝. Models in Thorle’s battlegroup that are in his control area are pushed the chosen distance directly away from the chosen table edge in the order you choose.

THORLE

Pathfinder

Earth Magic – When a warbeast with Construct in this model’s battlegroup is forced to use its animus while in this model’s control area, reduce the COST of the animus by 1. Shape Stone [9] (HAction) – This model can attempt repairs on any damaged friendly Faction construct. To attempt repairs, this model must be B2B with the damaged construct and make a skill check. If successful, remove d6 damage points from the construct. Steady – This model cannot be knocked down. Stone Binder – Only warbeasts with Construct this model’s battlegroup.

can be part of

Stone Throw

Beat Back – Immediately after a normal attack with this weapon is resolved during this model’s combat action, the enemy model hit can be pushed 1˝ directly away from the attacking model. After the enemy model is pushed, the attacking model can advance up to 1˝.

Stone Strike Reach

Beat Back – See above. Critical Smite – On a critical hit, this model can slam the model hit instead of rolling damage normally. The model hit is slammed d6˝ directly away from this model and suffers a damage roll with POW equal to this model’s STR plus the POW of this weapon. The POW of collateral damage is equal to this model’s STR.

Bradigus Thorle is a master of stone and elemental power, an expert craftsman well versed in the esoteric arts required to construct the great standing stones and celestial fulcrums that harness Caen’s geomantic forces. Designed to last

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Spells Battering Ram

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF 2 6 – 12 No Yes

When an enemy model is hit by Battering Ram, it can be pushed 3˝ directly away from the spell’s point of origin.

Mystic Wards

3 Self Ctrl

–

No No

Rift

3

13

No Yes

Synergy

2 Self Ctrl

Enemy animi and enemy upkeep spells on models in this model’s battlegroup that are in its control area immediately expire. While within 5˝ of a model in this model’s battlegroup in its control area, enemy models cannot cast, channel, or upkeep spells. Mystic Wards lasts for one round.

8

4

The AOE is rough terrain and remains in play for one round.

– Yes No

While in its control area, models in this model s battlegroup gain a +1 cumulative bonus on melee attack and melee damage rolls for each other model in the battlegroup that hit an enemy model with a melee attack this turn while in this model’s control area.

Tactical Tip

Beat Back – The attacking model can advance even if the enemy model is destroyed by the attack.

millennia, these stones manipulate the flow of the world’s energy, the very blood of Orboros, directing it according to Thorle’s complex designs. Without his tireless efforts, the recent conflicts across western Immoren would have robbed the Circle of one of its most vital resources. The sites of Thorle’s towering monuments, invariably within the deepest wilderness where Caen’s energies are at their most primal, are among the Circle’s most sacred places. Often, the order must reclaim these sites from enemies who would despoil the power for their own ends. Such tasks bring Thorle into the domain of many blackclads who seek to add his power to their own, but the Runecarver is unmoved by attempts to curry his favor. Thorle eschews most political machinations within the Circle, preferring to keep company with the silent wolds. Comfortable with the dictates of the omnipotents and unyielding in the face of adversity, he focuses on whatever task is before him. He is a steadfast and loyal leader who diligently tends to his responsibilities, knowing his work is essential to the order. Only in battle does Thorle break from his aloof demeanor. To him, combat is an outlet for unexpressed rage at those who disrupt or destroy his work. The very earth responds to his will, and he easily wields the titanic powers flowing beneath the surface of Caen. At his command massive rocks rise from the ground to obliterate men and beasts, and mighty wolds stride forth from the wilderness to crush the enemy between their stony fists.

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Argus Moonhound Circle Light Warbeast These hounds find their prey with the certainty of the rising moons.

ARGUS MOONHOUND SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

7 7 5 4 15 14 7

Bite

POW P+S

h 4

Bite

POW P+S

H 4

1

11

2 BODY

IR IT

M

SP

6

3 4

IN D

ARGUS MOONHOUND

ANIMUS

Circular Vision – This model’s front arc extends to 360˚.

If target enemy model advances during its activation, immediately after ending this movement this model can advance up to 3˝. A model can move only once per turn as a result of Hound. Hound lasts for one round.

Pathfinder

Hunting Howls (HAction) – Enemy models lose Camouflage and Stealth while within 5˝ of this model. Hunting Howls lasts for one round.

11

Mark Target – Other friendly Faction models gain +2 to ranged attack rolls against enemy models within 5˝ of this model and in its LOS.

Prowling the nighttime shadows, the argus Fury 3 moonhound stalks the Threshold 9 wilds of western Immoren Field Allowance U to hunt down the Point Cost 4 enemies of the Medium Base Circle Orboros no matter where they hide. Moonhounds can detect the very faintest scent of prey; even supernatural methods of concealment cannot thwart their superlative senses. Across Caen moonhounds flush out those who seek to escape the Circle, calling to their masters with a chorus of low baying. Victims who try to flee are relentlessly run down to be ravaged by the hounds’ powerful jaws. 5

The argus moonhound is a product of the blackclads’ meticulous stewardship of wild argus packs. The beast handlers of the Circle perceived that some nocturnal breeds of argus vastly outstripped others as trackers. In work spanning generations the blackclads cultivated these breeds, allowing desired traits to flourish. In time the moonhound came to rely less on sight and more on its other, keener senses. Each night, packs of moonhounds emerge from their dens to greet the moons Calder, Artis, and Laris. The songs of these ferocious beasts echo over the wilds at dusk, signaling the onset of the pack’s nightly hunts. Moonhounds are deeply attuned to the moons of Caen, and their behavior alters with the varying phases of each moon. During the light of full moons they often lash out wildly and attack

44

—Kaya the Moonhunter

Hound

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF 1

8

–

–

No Yes

relentlessly, but when the moons are new they are patient and silent stalkers. Druids who rely on the moonhound have learned to anticipate these cycles and adjust their strategies accordingly. Teams of moonhounds often accompany Circle forces delving into dense terrain where thick undergrowth and massive trees can hinder vision, such as the Gnarls or Olgunholt. Unable to rely on their own eyes, the blackclads know they can trust the natural abilities of their loyal argus.

Rotterhorn Griffon Circle Light Warbeast Its voice pierces as deep as a spear’s thrust. —Una the Falconer

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Acceleration

2

6

–

–

No No

At the end of target friendly Faction model’s activation, that model can immediately perform a special action. Acceleration lasts for one turn.

Tactical Tip

Acceleration – If a model runs or fails a charge, its activation ends. It can no longer perform a special action from Acceleration.

Flight – This model can advance through terrain and obstacles without penalty and can advance through obstructions and other models if it has enough movement to move completely past them. This model ignores intervening models when declaring its charge target. Shrill Shriek (HAction) – Models within 2˝ of this model suffer a POW 8 damage roll.

Claw

Open Fist

ROTTERHORN GRIFFON SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 8 6 1 14 15 6

Claw

L

POW P+S

3

11

Claw

R

1

POW P+S

3

11

2 BODY

3 4

IN D

M

Swooping down from the rocky peaks of the mountain from which it takes its name, the elusive Rotterhorn griffon unleashes a shriek as deadly as its talons. This piercing cry can be heard for miles, echoing across the parched earth

ROTTERHORN GRIFFON

IR IT

ANIMUS

SP

6

5

Fury 3 that surrounds the breed’s Threshold 8 towering mountain home. Field Allowance U The strike itself comes Point Cost 4 suddenly, as the beast Medium Base screams down from the desert sky to leave its prey stunned and bloodied. The griffon then shreds its helpless victim with hooked talons and lifts the bloody carcass back to its remote roost to consume.

These griffons make their nests in the crags and crevices of the Rotterhorn, a massive mountain that looms over the landscape of the Bloodstone Marches. In these stony upper reaches, Rotterhorn griffons have little to fear, as few creatures can manage the arduous climb to their aeries. The adult griffons have little patience for intruders, which are summarily grabbed by powerful talons, hoisted aloft, and tossed into thin air to plummet to their death. Broken and gnawed carcasses litter the slopes of the Rotterhorn, testament to the dangers that lie hidden near its peak. Despite such challenges, the druids of the Circle Orboros have long observed and exploited the Rotterhorn griffon to their own ends, choosing out especially aggressive specimens for use as warbeasts. Like all griffons, the Rotterhorn breed is temperamental. Angering a griffon during training usually drives it to loose its deafening shriek, and the druids must take great pains to teach these creatures to withhold their lethal scream until they enter battle. Once engaged with the enemy, the griffon is allowed full expression of its rage, leaving a bloody trail of men and beasts that fell victim to its piercing shriek and slashing talons.

45

Brennos the Elderhorn Circle Satyr Character Heavy Warbeast Underestimate the elder beasts of the wild at your peril. The power of Orboros is not ours alone.

–Morvahna the Dawnshadow

BRENNOS

BRENNOS SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 9 5 5 11 17 8

Arcane Winds RNG ROF AOE POW

— 12 1 — 11

Horns

POW P+S

h 4

13

Oaken Staff

POW P+S

— 6

1

15

2 BODY

3 4

IR IT

M

IN D

SP

6

5

Fury 4 Threshold 10 Field Allowance C Point Cost 9 Large Base

Pathfinder

Affinity [Morvahna] – When Brennos the Elderhorn destroys one or more enemy models with a melee or ranged attack during its combat action while in Morvahna’s control area, Morvahna heals 1 damage point. When Brennos the Elderhorn suffers damage from an enemy melee or ranged attack while in Morvahna’s control area, Morvahna heals 1 damage point. Primal Magic – This model can use the animus of any friendly Faction noncharacter warbeast in its command range as if the animus were its own. Sacred Ward – This model cannot be targeted by enemy spells. Special Issue [Morvahna] – This model can be included in Morvahna’s theme forces. It can also be bonded to Morvahna.

Arcane Winds Magical Weapon

Thunderbolt – Enemy models hit are pushed d3˝ directly away from the attacking model. On a critical hit, the enemy model is knocked down after being pushed.

Horns

Critical Pitch – On a critical hit, instead of rolling damage normally you can choose to have this model throw the model hit. Treat the throw as if this model had hit with and passed the STR check of a throw power attack. The thrown model suffers a damage roll with POW equal to this model’s STR plus the POW of this weapon. The POW of collateral damage is equal to this model’s STR.

Oaken Staff

Magical Weapon Reach

Mage Killer – Gain an additional damage die on this weapon’s damage rolls against models with Spellcaster or Magic Ability.

Once every few centuries, a satyr with exceptional potential and the gift of magic rises from among their kind. These beings are revered as shamans and champions, each a blessing bestowed upon the herd. Brennos the Elderhorn is one of these. An ancient and wizened satyr grown grey and

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ANIMUS

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Rites of Dawn

1 Self

*

–

No No

When a friendly Faction warbeast in this model’s command range is forced to use its animus, reduce the COST of the animus by 1. Rites of Dawn lasts for one turn.

Tactical Tips

Critical Pitch – A model cannot throw a model whose base is larger than its own. Special Issue – This only gives the warbeast the potential to bond to the warlock. It does not automatically add a bond.

stooped by the weight of almost three centuries, Brennos commands primordial magic, harnessing the eldritch natural forces of raw elemental power. In his youth Brennos was a powerful primitive shaman leading one of the largest herds of his kind, high in the Wyrmwall Mountains. Any that threatened the herd he repelled with blasts of arcane might or deadly blows from his cudgel, a crude weapon fashioned from stout oak. With Brennos as their defender, his herd thrived as no other. In time, his mystic capabilities were recognized by the blackclads tending herds in the region. Convinced the druids would protect his wards, Brennos left to serve a dozen different masters, and each warlock left an imprint on his mind. As a stone at the river’s edge is shaped over time by the currents, Brennos’ intellect and magical talent were gradually refined. Over many years, he met and bonded with some of the most powerful blackclads in the Southern Dominion. Eventually Brennos entered the service of Morvahna the Autumnblade. The night she first appeared before him, she overawed him with her arcane power and presence. The mighty and aged satyr bowed low, prostrating himself before the powerful druid. Brennos offered himself in service to the Autumnblade, desiring only to lend his power to hers. For decades Brennos has been Morvahna’s most reliable sentinel. He guards the innermost points of her domain, hidden away at major ley line conjunctions of tremendous potency. Though his youthful vigor is a fading memory, his mind remains remarkably cunning. He has reshaped his original club into a rune-carved staff to support his bent frame, and his age often deceives Morvahna’s rivals. Ancient Brennos is still mighty, and he continues to leave the bodies of those who oppose his mistress twisted and broken on the battlefield—blasted into the land of the dead by his primal magic or broken by a swift blow from his heavy staff or gnarled horns.

47

The Death Wolves Circle Wolves of Orboros Character Unit They follow a path etched in blood and manifest the ravenous appetites of the Wurm.

—Vernor the Nightbringer

SKÖLL

SKÖLL SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 7 7 4 14 14 8

Headsman’s Axe

POW P+S

6

13

TALA SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 6 7 4 14 14 8

Cleft Sword

POW P+S

5

11

CALEB SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 6 7 4 14 14 8

Iron Claw

POW P+S

3

9

Damage 5 ea Field Allowance C Point Cost 5 Small Base

Fearless Officer Pathfinder

Cannibal Magic – This model begins the game with one corpse token. When a damage roll against this model exceeds its ARM, it can spend a corpse token to suffer 1 damage point instead of the total rolled. Granted: Overtake – While this model is in play, models in its unit gain Overtake. (When a model with Overtake destroys one or more enemy warrior models with a normal melee attack, after the attack is resolved the model can immediately advance up to 1˝.) Heart Eater – This model gains a corpse token each time it destroys a living enemy model with a melee attack. This model can have

The Wolves of Orboros have long served the blackclads as foot soldiers, trading fealty to powerful druids in exchange for protection from the wilds. While many Wolves have distinguished themselves as mighty warriors, chieftains, and even spiritual leaders, perhaps none boast the renown or the infamy that attend the three dread warriors known as the Death Wolves. The Death Wolves—Sköll, Tala, and Caleb—adhere to a more ancient and barbaric form of Devourer worship than their fellows. They are death cultists who venerate the enigmatic and horrifying Lord of the Feast as well as the ancient entity Wurmwood. They demonstrate their veneration by ritually consuming the flesh of their enemies to gain strength and vigor. This practice has changed them irrevocably, and they are no longer wholly human—a fact that has compelled them to dwell apart from the Wolf clans to which they once belonged. Although considered pariahs by most of those they once called brothers, the Death Wolves have gained much from their dark mysticism and cannibalistic practices. They draw power from their enemies by ripping out and devouring their still-beating hearts, in much the same way as the bestial Tharn.

48

up to three corpse tokens at a time. It can spend corpse tokens during its activation to boost an attack or damage roll or to make an additional melee attack at one token per boost or additional attack.

TALA

Fearless Pathfinder

Cannibal Magic – See above. Granted: Prowl – While this model is in play, models in its unit gain Prowl. (Models with Prowl gain Stealth while within terrain that provides concealment, the AOE of a spell that provides concealment, or the AOE of a cloud effect.) Heart Eater – See above.

CALEB

Fearless Pathfinder

Cannibal Magic – See above.

Granted: Gang – While this model is in play, models in this unit gain Gang. (When making a melee attack targeting an enemy model in melee range of another model in its unit, a model with Gang gains +2 to melee attack and melee damage rolls.) Heart Eater – See above.

Headsman’s Axe Reach

Cleft Sword

Powerful Charge – This model gains +2 to charge attack rolls with this weapon.

Iron Claw

Magical Weapon

Combo Strike (HAttack) – Make a melee attack. Instead of making a normal damage roll, the POW of the damage roll is equal to this model’s STR plus twice the POW of this weapon.

Stinking of the blood and decaying remains of their recent victims, the Death Wolves stand apart from other Wolves of Orboros in other ways beyond their devotion to death and slaughter. Their grim helmets made from the skulls of great beasts, their bloodstained armor, and their very demeanor all speak of something darker and more primal, something from a time when the line between man and beast was far less distinct. The Death Wolves are led by the fearsome Sköll, a throwback to the savage Molgur warlords of old. Sköll leads by force of will and strength, using his gargantuan axe to hack his enemies into quivering bits. It is his relentless assault that heralds the arrival of the Death Wolves on the battlefield.

Deadly and agile, Tala is the Wurm’s shadow, striking from the darkness to cleave skulls and slice limbs from bodies. Caleb is the most feral of the three, truly more animal than man. His iron claws leave ragged wounds like the talons of some terrible beast as he rips into enemies, awash in gore and primal rage. Despite their gruesome rituals, the Death Wolves are a potent weapon for the Circle Orboros. The druids send them into battle when they are in need of brutally effective combatants and wish to sow particularly intense terror and discord among their enemies.

49

Una the Falconer Circle Character Solo She is as cold and distant as the winds.

UNA

UNA SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 5 5 6 15 13 8

Bird of Prey RNG ROF AOE POW

CTRL 1

—

10

TalonStrike

POW P+S

4

9

Fury 4 Damage 5 Field Allowance C Point Cost 3 Small Base

Fearless Pathfinder

Bird’s Eye – While in this model’s control area, models in its battlegroup extend their front arcs 360˚ and when determining LOS ignore cloud effects, forest terrain, and intervening models.

Lesser Warlock – This model is not a warlock but has the following warlock special rules: Battlegroup Commander, Control Area, Damage Transference, Forcing, Fury Manipulation, Healing, and Spellcaster. Specialization [warbeasts with Flight] – The only warbeasts that can be included in this model’s battlegroup are warbeasts with Flight. Reduce the point cost of warbeasts with Flight in this model’s battlegroup by 1.

Bird of Prey

Black Penny – This attack ignores the firing into melee penalty.

TalonStrike

Magical Weapon Reach

Through the eyes of her soaring beasts, Una the Falconer gazes down upon the wilderness of western Immoren. Griffons and birds of prey leap into the sky at her command and fill the air with their shrieks. To Una’s enemies, this sound heralds death from the skies. To her, it is a song of victory. Guided by her will, Una’s falcons strike with keen accuracy, darting among the enemy and slashing with deadly talons before returning to their master. Each of her birds was raised from the egg, plucked by her hand from remote nests. She has trained them to serve with fearsome efficiency as both tools of the hunt and weapons of war. In battle she sends these sharp-eyed scouts aloft and through them she observes the enemy from above to identify weaknesses in their formations. Wherever she travels she keeps her falcons close, her constant companions and instruments of her will. Born among the Bolotov peoples of Khador’s northern Kovosk Hills, as a child Una was trained in their ancient tradition of hunting with falcons. She showed extraordinary talent for handling the dangerous birds, directing them with a proficiency beyond her years. It was her connection with these birds that shaped her wilding: as a young teen Una discovered she was able to touch their minds and command them.

50

–Grayle the Farstrider

Spells

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Dog Pile

2

10

Watcher

3 Self

–

– Yes Yes

–

– Yes No

Warbeasts in this model’s battlegroup can charge or make slam power attacks against target enemy model without being forced and regardless of LOS. When a warbeast does, it gains +2˝ movement and gains Pathfinder  while resolving that charge or slam. When an enemy model advances and ends its movement within 6˝ of this model, choose a warbeast in this model’s battlegroup that is in its control area. That warbeast can immediately make a full advance and then can make one normal melee or ranged attack targeting the enemy model. The attack and damage rolls against that model are boosted. After the attack is resolved, Watcher expires.

Tactical Tips

Dog Pile – Modifiers to movement apply only to a model’s normal movement. Lesser Warlock – This model’s type is solo, not warlock.

Detecting her wilding, the northern blackclads took Una into their ranks. Her mentor, a beast master of considerable power, taught her to expand her connection with her falcons into an affinity for the griffons favored by the Circle. Soon she went to serve under other beast masters overseeing the order’s far-flung griffon roosts, traveling to the far corners of Immoren to learn how these beasts are protected, fledged, and readied for battle. Though such tasks are considered her duty as a junior druid, Una took to the work with uncommon passion. Tending to these great predators, she has scaled the Rotterhorn and delved into the frozen Scarsfell. Her talent with flying beasts is exceptional; under her control they strike with the same unsettling precision as her falcons. This affinity seems to Una a natural extension of many years of working closely with smaller birds of prey, and her griffons feel such a strong connection to her that they instinctively protect her at all costs. There is nothing Una enjoys more than linking her mind to a soaring falcon or griffon as it touches the skies. Other druids often find her reserved and uninterested, but they are unable to comprehend the joy she finds only in communion with her beasts. Her beloved griffons and falcons grant her both the exhilaration of flight and the satisfaction of destroying her enemies. The skill and efficiency with which she has accomplished all challenges set before her has started to earn her notice by the upper echelons, some of whom predict she might become one of the greatest beast masters of the Circle Orboros.

51

Skorne

Test of Resolution

Northeastern Ios

It was rare for Xerxis to know defeat, and the loss of Primus Sellk’s decurium was the first he had felt as they penetrated Iosan lands. As Makeda had anticipated, the northeastern border of Ios was more lightly patrolled than the southern, allowing them to quickly advance past the outer watchtowers, annihilating the light opposition they had initially faced. Word had clearly reached the Aeryth Dawnguard. The foes they had faced were only the first of many defenders gathering. On hearing of Sellk’s defeat, Xerxis went to personally inspect the site of the battle and assess the state of those who remained. Loraak, his signal bearer and nephew, knelt next to the corpses of a ferox and rider, inspecting the wounds. “Firearms,” he said. “Similar to those used by Cygnar.” Xerxis sat astride Suruk, the great cerops he’d ordered sent to him from the east after suffering near-fatal wounds at the hands of the dirt mystics. He did not relish having to rely on a mount, but he would not hold back his army in any way. “Primus Vulto,” he said to the tall officer who had first informed him of the situation here. “Sellk claimed to have the Iosan border force boxed in. That does not appear to be the case. Who commands his remaining forces?” They had already heard Sellk had been slain. “Dakar Saikhan, Tyrant,” said Vulto smartly. Xerxis nodded. He had hand-selected these soldiers, each officer a worthy veteran. They continued on, and when they reached what was left of the decurium, Xerxis saw the troops arrayed in a defensive formation near a rocky, moss-covered ridge. He counted several hundred warriors, mostly Praetorians and Venators. Several scarab packs were penned nearby, next to the surviving Cataphracts. The geography made the encampment easy to defend; Saikhan had positioned his troops wisely. They found the senior dakar at the center of a group of ferox scouts. He was short for a skorne but barrel-chested and muscular. His Cataphract armor was dented, and he wore a

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bandage over his left eye. His other eye widened when he saw Xerxis. The scouts bowed low as the tyrant dismounted and strode toward them. “Tyrant Xerxis, I did not expect the honor . . .” said the dakar as he rose from a deep bow. “Report, Dakar,” said Xerxis sharply. “Tell me how Sellk managed to lose so many warriors.” “They attacked at night, using these,” said Saikhan. He placed an object into Xerxis’ outstretched palm: two green lenses on a leather strap, meant to be worn on the head. “It allows them to see better in the dark.” Xerxis called for Aptimus Sarangerel, one of his extollers, to examine the device with the crystal oculus that replaced one of his eyes. Xerxis knew the extoller could use the power of that oculus to see in the dark, and he inquired whether these devices might be similar. “This mechanism is quite basic, very different from what we use,” said Sarangerel. He was old and rail-thin, with a hunched back. Though physically not well suited for an extended campaign, he could rely on his two apprentices for assistance when he required it, and his loyalty was beyond question. Scoffing, the extoller continued, “Our oculi allow us to see spiritual energy. These simple chymically treated lenses merely amplify existing light to afford the Iosans some amount of night vision. This would give them an advantage in night attacks, but not near the vision of an extoller.” “Such devices are common among their soldiers,” said Saikhan. “They will use them again when they come to finish us off tonight.” “And we will do our best to disappoint them,” said Xerxis grimly.

To Saikhan’s credit, Xerxis saw no need to reposition his troops. With such a small force and limited intelligence on

the enemy, he decided to keep his Cataphracts in reserve under the command of Primus Vulto. He’d brought several dathas of Praetorian keltarii, which he assigned to the vanguard. Sellk had few warbeasts, but Xerxis knew the Iosans would not be limited in the use of their myrmidons. The primus had captured and interrogated one of their arcanists, and after three days with the paingivers she had explained how the great machines functioned and how they required downtime after battle to restore their energy. The primus had then sent small harassment forces to deny the Iosans that luxury. The skorne readied for battle as night fell. To make their position more defensible, they felled trees and hewed the trunks into spikes, which the Cataphracts pounded into the ground. Several large bonfires were lit close to the ridge to provide light for the army without ruining their night vision. The night air was cold, and fog began to form between the trees. “I see movement!” shouted a Praetorian down the line. An instant later the air darkened with crossbow bolts. As one, Xerxis’ keltarius units raised their double-bladed polearms and spun them around at lightning speed, deflecting nearly all the incoming projectiles. A few pained grunts marked where bolts found a mark. Saikhan stood nearby, looking at Xerxis as if he expected the counterattack order at any moment, but the tyrant remained silent. Xerxis squinted into the dark, trying to predict the next move of the enemy commander. What would he do if their positions were reversed? “Tell the Praetorians to brace for a charge,” he said. “Bring the scarab packs to the front.” He mentally urged Suruk into position at the head of his army. Two lesser cyclopes flanked him. The primitive creatures reacted to the unknown with rage, and right now he sensed that rage was directed at the enemies in the trees. No sooner had the order gone out than mounted Iosans in plate armor thundered out of the forest. Lance points dipped as they charged across the open ground, firing heavy shot with explosive reports. Then the Iosans were leaping over the sharpened stakes to smash into the skorne lines. Praetorians howled their war cries as their battle-brothers were shot, impaled, or crushed beneath the armored steeds. Some managed to raise their polearms to blunt the charge, and several steeds screamed as they went down. Other riders were slowed enough to be dragged from their saddles and hacked to pieces, and a small group of Praetorian ferox retaliated on the far side with claws, fangs, and polearms. A group of four riders had charged straight at Xerxis. One was swept off his horse by a blow from one of the cyclopes, who then broke the horse’s back with a powerful overhand

strike. A second rider managed to drive his lance into the other cyclops’ chest. Xerxis could feel the life ebbing from it but used his mortitheurgy to stall its death as it clawed its way up the lance to deliver a crushing blow to its killer’s breastplate. That left two horsemen for Xerxis. He drew Lamentor and let the massive flail dangle. One of the riders came up fast, earth churning beneath his mount’s hooves. Xerxis compelled Suruk to attack. The beast lowered its horn and hit the attacker’s mount head-on, snapping the steed’s neck and throwing its rider to his certain death. The sudden jolt caused black spots to appear in Xerxis’ vision, and he was painfully reminded of his injuries. He ignored the pain and struck at the last rider, who had ducked low in the saddle under a blow from one of the cyclopes. The flail collapsed the Iosan’s breastplate and knocked him off his horse, and the point of Xerxis’ standard made sure he would never rise again.

The beast hit the attacker’s mount head-on, snapping the steed’s neck and throwing its rider to his certain death. Xerxis scanned the battlefield in the brief lull that followed. From atop Suruk he saw black and red insectile carapaces seething between the skorne lines. Impelled by the whips of beast handlers, a scarab leapt onto the back of one surprised Praetorian and used him to launch into an attack that unhorsed one of the knights. Several more swarmed the Iosan as he fell. A trumpet sounded from the forest and the remaining Iosan horsemen wheeled to retreat, unleashing more fire from their lances upon any skorne in their path. The charge had not been as effective as the enemy commander had expected, and he was trying to salvage what he could. A cry went up from the rear of the camp. Xerxis stood in his stirrups and then cursed as he was momentarily blinded by his own bonfires. There was movement on the cliffs behind him. Dark shapes descended long gray ropes, and furious battle had erupted at the base of the ridge. The Iosans hadn’t been waiting for the skorne to tire themselves out— they’d been waiting for other troops to circle around behind them. The cavalry charge had been a distraction. Xerxis felt a glimmer of admiration for the Iosan commander. Firelight reflected off a Cataphract standard. Vulto had taken the initiative and commanded the reserves to attack. The heavily armored skorne plowed into the leather-clad Iosan assassins, their swords cutting through them like parchment.

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Vulto’s quick response had blunted the Iosan ambush, but the skorne were still too vulnerable. The enemy commander had sent skirmishers against them, perhaps hoping to decimate the command structure before they knew what was happening. If Xerxis or his subordinates were inclined to lead from the rear, the plan might have worked. Now that they were aware of the threat, however, the ambushers would be swiftly dealt with. With the skorne distracted, it would have seemed the perfect opportunity for the enemy to renew the attack from the forest. Surprisingly, there was no immediate response from that quarter. The wisps of fog had thickened into a dense soup that hid the enemy, but no attack seemed forthcoming. In the enemy commander’s place, Xerxis would have thrown everything he had into the fray. What was holding the Iosans back? He called for Aptimus Sarangerel. When the extoller arrived, his crystal oculus glinting in the firelight, Xerxis asked, “Can the Iosans not use their devices to see through fog?”

“Even the most fearsome foe is vulnerable to an attack delivered at the proper place and time.” “I am not an expert, but it seems not.” “Good. We shall use that against them,” Xerxis said. Sarangerel nodded, and Xerxis smiled. “Send one of your apprentices to Vulto and the other to the left flank. You will come with me.” He turned to Dakar Saikhan. “Have the Venators clear a path.” The dakar gave the order, and the Praetorian lines opened up as every second soldier took a step back and sideways behind his closest peer. Venator reivers marched through the gaps, knelt, and fired their weapons into the fog. Karax warriors then advanced and formed a shield wall. The enemy commander had spread out his forces, both for the flanking maneuver and because maintaining tight formations in such dense forest was impossible. Sarangerel and his apprentices peered through their oculi and also used their powers to enable a chosen few others to spot ghostly figures in the fog, whose locations they relayed to Xerxis’ troops. By the time the afternoon sun had burned off the morning fog, most of the Iosan forces were destroyed or captured. Xerxis’ army had not gone unscathed. He listened with half an ear as Saikhan delivered the casualty list. A large number of Venators had fallen to the surprise attack at the rear, and the scarab packs had not survived the withdrawal of the

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Iosan cavalry. Despite the losses, any other commander would have counted it a great victory. Xerxis did not. Numbers were already against him, and he knew more Iosans would join the fight, including forces from Aeryth Dawnguard. Any casualty was one too many. They rejoined the main army two days away from the Hill of Scavengers, a giant slope that rose out of the surrounding forest where the main Iosan force was encamped. As soon as he reached his tent, Xerxis banished his advisors. Every morning, junior officers updated or redrew the maps sketched of the local region, adding features and adjusting the placement of small bone chits used to designate friendly or enemy forces, the former stained blood-red. There were far too few representing his skorne. He adjusted the chits around the base of the hill. Any way he positioned them, they were still dwarfed by the Dawnguard forces. He frowned deeply and rose. To a waiting slave he said, “Bring me Dakar Saikhan.” A few minutes later the stocky commander arrived and bowed deeply. “Report on the state of your soldiers, Dakar.” “They are under Primus Taalharn’s command now. We have lost one in five, but those remaining are eager and ready to fight.” Saikhan hesitated, then proceeded carefully. “I am curious as to why I was not assigned to another taberna?” “I asked that you be assigned to me,” said Xerxis. Saikhan’s eyes widened and he bowed deeply. “I do not deserve such honor.” “As the ranking officer in Sellk’s decurium, you know the land better than anyone.” He pointed to the map. “Tell me what we can expect at the Hill of Scavengers.” “There has been a fog every morning here,” Saikhan said, indicating where it lay heaviest. “And the enemy?” Saikhan’s attention shifted to the enemy chits on the Hill of Scavengers. “They are cowards and prefer to fight from a distance. Now that they have the high ground, they will cling to it.” With limited Venators, Xerxis’ forces were best up close, but if he charged up the hill his army would be torn apart by the Iosan ranged weapons. He needed to neutralize that advantage. “Dakar,” he said thoughtfully. “What did we do with our prisoners?”

It was a two-day forced march to the trees along the base of the Hill of Scavengers. Xerxis had commanded the paingivers and a few dedicated mortitheurges to lend his troops fresh

energy, or at least the will to ignore their fatigue. His plan hinged on hiding the disposition of his troops, and he was well aware of the difficulty of doing that in terrain the Iosans knew better than he. There was one bright spot: as Saikhan had predicted, the area was shrouded by thick fog. Until now, this had largely worked to the defenders’ advantage. Xerxis guided Suruk above the fog level to get a clear look at the enemy, and his retinue followed. “We’re like reptile hounds going up against an archidon,” Loraak said when they finally saw the Iosans. He had spoken louder than he intended and looked abashed when he realized he’d been overheard. Xerxis frowned but had to admit the comparison was apt. They had to reach the foe to harm them. The Iosans looked impressive in armor that practically glowed in the early light. Their cavalry, both riders and steeds, were as heavily armored as Cataphracts. Their fighting machines looked like giant suits of armor carved with glowing sigils. “Even the most fearsome foe is vulnerable to an attack delivered at the proper place and time,” he told his nephew. Saikhan emerged from the fog, jogged over to them, and dropped to a knee. “The beast handlers are having difficulty with the bronzeback. It is high-spirited and they do not wish to dampen its reflexes with drugs. They respectfully request that you commence your attack soon to take advantage of its temper.” Xerxis searched with his mind and found the fiery point of rage that was the bronzeback. The paingivers had used spiked chains secured to sensitive points on its hide. The pain was meant to control the beast, but the bronzeback was too stubborn. Xerxis applied just enough of his will to tamp back its burning rage. “The timing of our attack will be at my choosing, not that of a titan. Tell them to remember that, lest I have their tongues removed.” Xerxis turned Suruk back into the fog. It was time to rejoin the army. Just inside the edge of the fog bank were several rows of shackled figures. These captives were the key to Xerxis’ plan— one that never would have worked against a skorne house. He was about to find out if it would work against the Iosans. At his signal, a runner dashed off into the fog. A moment later a horn sounded. Paingivers cracked their whips, and the prisoners began to move. They were Iosans, captured fighters as well as villagers from every town between here and the border. As the prisoners emerged from the fog, a cry of dismay arose from the Iosan army. Standards dipped, and a horseman broke away from his unit to gallop along the front line and consult with his commander. Xerxis had read them correctly.

Eventually they would determine they had no choice but to fire on their countrymen—after all, their entire nation was at risk—but he did not intend to let them take any decisive action that was not according to his plan. When his forces were a quarter of the way up the slope, Xerxis lifted his war standard and thrust it twice overhead. The Cataphracts saw the signal and tightened ranks around the prisoners. One of the captured warriors tried to push past the armored skorne. The blade of a polearm spilled his guts out onto the grass. The rest of the Cataphracts, following Xerxis’ command, tore into the prisoners savagely. By design, most of their blows were not immediately fatal. Iosans screamed as arms were severed and stomachs opened. A few captives broke free and dashed toward the Iosan line, only to be run down and killed. Xerxis had instructed the Cataphracts to butcher the captives in order to goad the enemy into attacking. Despite the discipline of the Iosan army, several units started to break formation, and their commanding officers had to shout them back. The damage was done, however: the shifting line was in disarray, their soldiers in emotional turmoil. It was not the knights who attacked first. Instead a lightly armored arcanist directed one of the myrmidons behind the front lines—a huge construct with a metal blade on each arm and a single horn, similar to Suruk’s—to step forward and fire. A shimmering field of light manifested around it, then coalesced into a beam of powerful energy that hit one of the Cataphracts and burned through his armor. Some Iosans interpreted this as the signal to attack, and many forward elements broke ranks and charged. The two lines met in a clash of thunder and steel. The heavy armor of the skorne protected them initially, but the Iosans commanded their myrmidons skillfully. Xerxis watched as one machine closed with a group of Cataphracts, using an arcane field to slow their movement, and then ripped into them with arm-mounted glaives. Another rippled with blue flame, leaving fiery corpses in its wake. Melee swirled around Xerxis. From atop Suruk he swung his deadly flail. Two huge aradus sentinels stood on either side of him, their scorpion-like tails claiming a victim with every thrust. Any Iosan who managed to close was snatched up by their mandibles. Xerxis empowered these beasts with a burst of speed and sent them against a fiery myrmidon that had seared its way through the surrounding Praetorians. The sheer number of enemy soldiers was too much for his force, and his lines began to give. The myrmidons were exacting a gory toll. With a snarl he focused his power, and a field of jagged rocks erupted from the earth in front of him to send one of the machines toppling to the ground, along with a pair of cavalry. Cataphracts moved in to finish them.

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He looked around and spotted Loraak, who had just knocked over an enemy halberdier with his shield and impaled him. “Give the order!” Xerxis bellowed. “Fall back!” The younger skorne nodded, then lifted an ivory horn to his lips and blew. The skorne began to disengage. Praetorian phalanxes backed slowly down the hill, shields locked. Lines of Venator reivers fired their needle guns to cover the rest of the army as they pulled back. Even the Cataphracts gave ground. A cry of victory arose from the Iosans and they surged forward down the hill, exacting a heavy price on the retreating army. Some among them alternated between firing short-ranged but heavy-hitting firearms and hacking left and right with the attached blades. Xerxis was among the last to reach the fog bank. He yanked hard on Suruk’s reins. The enormous cerops snarled a protest as he drew up short and turned around. An avalanche of warriors pursued them. Just as Xerxis had hoped, his ploy had enraged the Iosans, and the retreat had them scenting blood. But their lines were spread out, with mounted troops far ahead of the infantry, and their myrmidons even farther back. Behind him skorne were reforming into tight, orderly units.

“Regardless of what happens here, you are doomed.” “Release the titans!” he ordered. A few heart-stopping moments later the Paingivers had urged Tiberion, Xerxis’ personal warbeast and leader of the herd, into combat. More titans rose to their full height behind it—most prominently the bronzeback, which trumpeted a battle cry. Xerxis focused his arcane power on Tiberion and several of the largest titans, directing them to attack. The beasts smashed into the ranks of the Dawnguard first, snatching up warriors in full armor and tearing them in half. Though the Iosan elite troops rallied as best they could, they were no match for the warbeasts. These fighters were not Xerxis’ primary objective for his warbeasts, however, and he sent the titans against the myrmidons that had so brutally torn through his warriors earlier. Joined by Tiberion and two more aradus warbeasts, Xerxis advanced. He sensed the enemy commander close by, in the middle of a knot of myrmidons. Saikhan’s captured Iosan had said the general’s name was Pelyth and that he was from a noble house. To Xerxis, the man seemed a small, unassuming creature with a bald head, oversized ears, and tattoos across half his face. Despite his appearance, this arcanist wielded tremendous force. A Cataphract unit

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had dared engage a heavy myrmidon nearby, and Pelyth gestured at them almost dismissively. Blue fire leapt into being and spiraled around one arm. With a shout, he threw the vortex at the Cataphracts, sending them spinning into the air like dried leaves. This was an opponent worthy of single combat. Xerxis compelled Suruk into a charge, guiding the cerops squarely into a nearby myrmidon’s chest. There was a squeal as the beast’s horn parted steel, and Suruk’s huge neck muscles bulged as he lifted the construct into the air. Blue flame washed over them as the myrmidon’s energy field exploded, but Suruk’s armor and hide were thick, and the flame was no more than an irritant, enraging the beast even more. One of Xerxis’ aradus attempted to engage another myrmidon, but the white machine flickered and disappeared as the insect’s pincer swept through empty air. A second later the myrmidon reappeared a few feet closer and lashed out with an energy-field-enhanced punch that cracked the beast’s armor. It retaliated, tearing through the hardened steel of the myrmidon’s torso with its powerful mandibles, following with a rake of one of its claws. Xerxis stood in his stirrups and drove the point of his war standard into the myrmidon’s back with all his might. The weapon pierced the construct and came out the other side. With a touch of his will, flames erupted along the shaft and he heard a wail of metal distorting in the intense heat. As the myrmidon toppled onto its back, the banner was lifted high, unfurling to display the symbol of House Kophar. That got the attention of the enemy commander. The Iosan warcaster turned his steed and stared up undaunted at eight feet of skorne atop thirteen feet of cerops. Xerxis readied Lamentor. He felt renewed pain in his back and chest but suppressed it, showing no weakness to the foe. The warcaster reached over his shoulder and drew a disproportionately long two-handed sword, curved and glowing. The Iosan spoke, surprising Xerxis with his command of the skorne language: “I am Pelyth, and this is the sword that felled the eldritch Damonsenes. Dying by this blade is an honor a barbarian like you does not deserve.” “It is an honor I do not seek,” answered Xerxis. “But if it comes, I will accept it. You fought well today. Your descendants will remember your name and mark the place where you fell.” Pelyth advanced, holding the sword horizontally just above his head. “The captives you killed deserved a better end.” “Perhaps,” said Xerxis. “But a worthy death must be earned. I will grant you the opportunity for such a death.”

“The Dawnguard will hunt down every one of you,” spat Pelyth. “Regardless of what happens here, you are doomed.” Xerxis shrugged. “So be it.” The two fighters circled each other. The cerops reared onto its hind legs and came crashing to the ground, nostrils flared and horn lowered. The Iosan stallion’s eyes rolled, but Pelyth snarled and spurred it forward, forcing obedience. When the cerops swung its head sideways to smash the creature, the Iosan reacted with surprisingly agility, vaulting from his horse to grab the great horn and using it to swing onto the cerops’ back. Xerxis was barely able to catch Pelyth’s blade on the haft of his flail. The Iosan’s momentum carried him through the strike and his shoulder hit Xerxis just below the breastplate, sending the two tumbling to the ground. Pelyth sprang to his feet with his sword held in a low guard. Xerxis rose slowly, feeling the pain of his unhealed wounds. Sensing an opening, Pelyth leapt toward Xerxis’ right side, away from the flail, and brought his blade down in a sharp overhand slash. Unable to avoid the blow, Xerxis absorbed it on his thick armored pauldron. He felt the sharp sting of the blade’s edge as it bit through, but the wound was not deep. Needing room to swing the flail, Xerxis surged forward and slammed his shoulder into Pelyth, and the Iosan was thrown backward. Xerxis whipped Lamentor around his head once to build momentum and then lashed out. Pelyth immediately brought his sword up in a high guard, but the heavy chain struck the blade and the flail’s weighted end wrapped around the sword to strike the Iosan in the chest with crushing force. With his opponent knocked off his feet, Xerxis strode forward, his wounds forgotten in the pleasure of an imminent kill. He whirled Lamentor around again and brought it crashing down as the Iosan struggled to rise. The blow shattered Pelyth’s helm and skull, splattering blood and brains in a wide arc. Just like his army, the Iosan had seized an opening that wasn’t there.

Xerxis’ army had emerged victorious, though at a terrible price. Nearly half his warriors were killed, many during the strategic retreat that had eventually won them the day. On the other hand, he had lost few warbeasts, while nearly all the myrmidons they had faced were destroyed. There were no prisoners. After seeing how Xerxis had made use of his most recent captives, the Iosans had either fled or fought to the death.

He left the cleanup to his subordinates and retired to his tent. Venators had scoured the battlefield for exotic weaponry, and the most intact were brought to him. Several fine examples had been laid out before him. Both the lances and the short-bladed rifles of the Iosan knights were intriguing, each designed to be as deadly at range as in melee. It suggested a philosophy very different from hoksune—tactically flexible but with little concern for a warrior’s honor. His nephew’s shadow fell across the floor, and he looked up from the weapons and nodded, allowing him entrance. “The extollers are busy, Uncle,” Loraak said. His midsection was bandaged and the tip of one ear had been severed by a glancing blow, but he was otherwise unscathed. “The sacral stones of our guardians contain a wealth of worthy companions for the exalted. Of those who survived, even the lowliest Venator will tell of the time he fought on the Hill of Scavengers against an army four times the size of his own. A great victory, if not the one we were sent to achieve.” He said the last as an afterthought, and immediately bowed his head in contrition when he realized it sounded like a criticism. Xerxis picked up a curved Iosan sword and fingered its edge thoughtfully. “You are correct. Supreme Archdomina Makeda sent us to besiege Aeryth Dawnguard, and that fortress still stands.” “On that, I bear good news,” Loraak said. “A runner reached us with word Supreme Aptimus Zaal followed our course and brings his forces, including ranks of immortals. Perhaps we can yet complete our mission.” Xerxis had no fondness for Zaal, but any soldiers and warbeasts he brought would be welcome. As for their mission, other possibilities were forming in his mind. “A wise commander knows the heart of his ruler, not only her words,” he said at length. “We will not besiege Aeryth Dawnguard.” Xerxis noted Loraak’s evident surprise and continued, “Our mission was to neutralize Iosans from the north and prevent them from interfering with the supreme archdomina. Tying up the garrison at this northern fortress seemed the way to do this. But now we have crushed the greatest of their strength in the open field. I hazard what remains is sufficient only to man their battlements and hold us at bay. We will not indulge them. We will force the Iosans to send more soldiers against us, while the Dawnguard cower behind their walls.” He swept the Iosan weapon through the air and then brought the flat of the sword down on the makeshift stone table. The blade snapped at the pommel and fell to the ground. “We will destroy every town, kill every citizen, and raze every structure we find. Ios will be forced to assemble another army to stop us. The ancestors willing, we will crush them as well.”

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Xerxis, Fury of Halaak Skorne Epic Cavalry Battle Engine Warlock We need not look to the ancient exalted for paragons of hoksune. He who leads us embodies every virtue set down by Vuxoris.

—Primus Kritax of the Cohort of House Kophar

XERXIS SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

7 8 8 4 13 19 9

Lamentor

POW P+S

7

15

War Standard

POW P+S

4

12

Mount

POW

14

Fury 5 Damage 19 Field Allowance C Warbeast Points +5 Huge Base

Feat: Hand of the Ancients

As one of the greatest military leaders of the age, Xerxis can invoke the power of his ancestors to imbue his cohorts with renewed strength and unwavering accuracy. In a moment of perfectly orchestrated precision, his forces sweep the enemy from the field. All models are in Xerxis’ control area. Friendly Faction models/units gain an additional die on attack and damage rolls. Discard one die from each roll. Hand of the Ancients lasts for one turn.

XERXIS

Combat Rider – During a combat action it did not make a charge attack, this model can make one melee attack with its Mount. Warbeast Bond – One non-character warbeast in Xerxis’ battlegroup can begin the game bonded to him. Once per turn during his activation, Xerxis can cast the bonded warbeast’s animus as a spell without spending fury.

Lamentor

Magical Weapon Reach

Brutal Charge – This model gains +2 to charge attack damage rolls with this weapon.

War Standard Reach

Mount

Knockdown – When a model is hit by an attack with this weapon, it is knocked down. Pitch (HAttack) – Instead of making a normal damage roll on a hit, this model throws the model hit as if it had hit with and passed the STR check of a throw power attack. The thrown model suffers a damage roll with POW equal to the POW of this weapon. The POW of collateral damage is equal to the POW of this weapon.

Leading his cohort of House Kophar’s finest warriors, Xerxis is a skorne of indomitable power and determination. He has proven his ability to overcome overwhelming odds in battle, emerging victorious despite seemingly insurmountable challenges. Through such victories he has reached a level of esteem ordinarily reserved for the exalted and has become a paragon to every warrior of the Army of the Western Reaches.

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Spells

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Ignite

2

6

–

– Yes No

Mobility

2 Self Ctrl

–

No No

Stranglehold

2

11

No Yes

Target friendly model/unit gains +2 to melee attack damage rolls. Affected on their normal melee attacks. models gain Critical Fire Models in this model’s battlegroup currently in its control area gain +2 for one turn. SPD and Pathfinder

10

–

A model damaged by Stranglehold forfeits either its movement or its action during its next activation, as its controller chooses.

Tactical Tip

Ignite – When this spell is cast on cavalry models, it affects mount attacks.

At the core of Xerxis’ strength is his unflinching adherence to the hoksune code, whose most important precept is the willingness to embrace death in battle. An adherent enters combat accepting he has already died—a resumption of life is earned only through courage and martial prowess. In recent clashes Xerxis faced this principle directly after suffering what should have been mortal wounds. As death came for him he confronted what it was to be a tyrant and warrior. He endured and emerged from the experience with renewed resolution. Every additional day of life he snatches from death is dedicated to unflinchingly confronting the enemies of Supreme Archdomina Makeda. Before his wounds had even healed, Xerxis set out again to ensure the success of the supreme archdomina’s conquests. Lest his injuries hinder him, he prepared himself for war by taking as his mount an enormous cerops only he could tame. Only a very few of this dwindling species remain in eastern Immoren, and the creatures have never responded well to the beast handler’s lash. Years ago Xerxis claimed this particular cerops, named Suruk, breaking its will and subjugating it to his own. Now more than ever he relies on its strength. The tyrant is truly awe-inspiring when he crashes through battle lines atop this remarkable beast. What the mighty Suruk manifests in flesh, the Fury of Halaak exemplifies in both body and spirit. Breaking all that stands against him with ruthless force, Xerxis expertly guides his mount’s unstoppable charges through strength of will alone. With no need for reins or spoken commands the tyrant can focus on commanding his army and leveraging his own attacks, striking down foe after foe with his flail Lamentor. When Xerxis punches through enemy lines, his cohort surges to follow, inspired by their tyrant’s example. Before him and his supremely disciplined troops, fortifications topple and ranks of defenders scatter like sand in the wind.

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Scarab Pack Skorne Warbeast Pack Let the scarabs feed on the bodies of the fallen. They have earned their banquet.

—Paingiver Beast Handler Kilexaan

LEADER & Grunts

LEADER & Grunts SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

5 5 5 1 11 12 5

Mandibles

POW P+S

H 3

8

Fury * Threshold 7 Damage 10 ea Field Allowance U Leader & 3 Grunts 5 Small base

Advance Deployment

Snacking – When this model boxes a living model with a melee attack, this model can heal d3 damage points. If this model heals, the boxed model is removed from play. Steady – This model cannot be knocked down.

Swarming Scarabs – This model gains a +1 cumulative bonus to melee attack and damage rolls for each Aradus warbeast or other model in this unit engaging the model it is attacking.

Mandibles

Critical Paralysis – On a critical hit against a living model, the model hit has its base DEF reduced to 7 and cannot run or charge for one round.

Scarabs are enormous, ravenous insect-like creatures native to the Trembling Waste. They dwell in the extensive tunnels of the aradus, living off the scraps left by the larger creatures and consuming many times their own mass each day. Skorne beast handlers drive scarabs mad with hunger, then loose them onto the battlefield in advance of a main force to consume any living thing in their path. The terrifying

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ANIMUS

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Scuttler

2

6

–

–

No No

Models in target friendly warbeast pack immediately Dig In. While affected by Dig In, a model gains cover, does not suffer blast damage, and does not block LOS. A model remains dug in until it moves, is placed, or is engaged. A model cannot dig into solid rock or man-made constructions.

Tactical Tip

Snacking – Because the boxed model is removed from play before being destroyed, it does not generate a soul or corpse token.

sight of these voracious beasts swarming over defenses has caused even veteran soldiers to flee for their lives. Scarab packs will attack the nearest source of nourishment, converging on a victim in multiples and locking onto its limbs with specialized mandibles. Creatures brought down by the pack are rapidly devoured. To nourish these insatiable creatures without exhausting their own supplies, after a battle is won the skorne allow them to scour the battlefield and feast upon the bodies of the dead.

Aradus Soldier

Skorne Heavy Warbeast I’ve stomped a good many bugs in my day. I find it troublesome that there’s a bug that can stomp back.

—Alten Ashley

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Heightened Metabolism 2

6

–

–

No No

Target friendly warbeast gains Snacking. Heightened Metabolism lasts for one turn. (When a model with Snacking boxes a living model with a melee attack, the model with Snacking can heal d3 damage points. If the model heals, the boxed model is removed from play.)

Tactical Tips

Heightened Metabolism – Because the boxed model is removed from play before being destroyed, it does not generate a soul or corpse token. Pull – “Any distance” means “as much as necessary,” not “any distance the player chooses.”

Advance Deployment

SOLDIER

Pathfinder

3 11 6

SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

5 11 19

Carapace – This model gains +4 ARM against free strike damage rolls and ranged attack damage rolls.

H 7

Steady – This model cannot be knocked down.

L

6

Mandibles

POW P+S

18

Barbed Claw

POW P+S

4

15

Barbed Claw

Barbed Claw Reach



R

Pull – If this weapon hits an enemy model with an equal or smaller base, immediately after the attack is resolved the hit model can be pushed any distance directly toward this model.

1

POW P+S

4

15

2 BODY

3 4

IN D

M

For centuries the skorne on the eastern fringes have utilized the ferocious aradus in warfare. Many slaves perish gathering the precious eggs from the aradus tunnels, and the painstaking process of conditioning the creatures begins the moment they hatch. Once they are mature, the skorne go to great lengths to train them for battle.

SOLDIER

IR IT

ANIMUS

SP

6

5

Fury 4 Threshold 9 Field Allowance U Point Cost 9 Large base

The most common type of aradus is the soldier. When not at war, aradus soldiers labor constantly to expand the tunnels of their colony. If the territories of two colonies overlap, waves of soldiers clash violently, ripping each other limb from limb. Protected by a thick layer of chitin, aradus soldiers lash out in battle with hooked claws to drag enemies toward their vicious mandibles. The aradus soldiers used by the skorne as warbeasts are goaded with whips and prods to indulge freely in this ingrained behavior, driving deep into the heart of enemy formations.

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Aradus Sentinel Skorne Heavy Warbeast Our sentinels will shower our enemies with a poison rain.

SENTINEL

SENTINEL SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

3 11 6

5 11 19

6

Venom Blaster RNG ROF AOE POW

— 10 1

3 13

Claw

L

14

Claw

R

1

14

2 BODY

3 4

IR IT

M

IN D

SP

6

Carapace – This model gains +4 ARM against free strike damage rolls and ranged attack damage rolls.

Venom Blaster

POW P+S

3

Pathfinder

Steady – This model cannot be knocked down.

POW P+S

3

Advance Deployment

5

Arcing Fire – When attacking with this weapon, this model can ignore intervening models except those within 1˝ of the target. Poison – Gain an additional die on this weapon’s damage rolls against living models.

Claw

Open Fist

Fury 4 Threshold 9 Field Allowance U Point Cost 8 Large base

As skorne armies plunge deeper into western Immoren, they bring with them terrible and unfamiliar beasts from their eastern homeland. In recent years, the horrifying creatures called the aradus have reached the western lands. Wild aradus live in expansive underground nests in the wastelands of Tor-Sarikaan, preying on the other bizarre creatures of the Trembling Waste. Looming over the battlefield on a cluster of many-jointed legs, these tremendous insectlike creatures are protected by chitin armor thick enough to stop bullets. Mighty and durable but relatively slow, aradus must be compelled to press inexorably forward, shrugging off attacks that would drop lesser beasts. Sentinels are a specialized strain of aradus that emerge from the nest to confront any significant threat, such as an attack from a rival colony. Only limited numbers of aradus develop into sentinels, but for centuries skorne beast handlers have known the secrets of forcing this development. From each batch of larvae, dozens are carefully selected and set aside for the conditioning that will guide their growth into sentinels.

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ANIMUS Swarm

—Lord Arbiter Hexeris

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF 2 Self

–

–

No No

This model has concealment. Living enemy models suffer –2 to attack rolls while within 2˝ of this model. Swarm lasts for one round.

A sentinel’s long tail has heavy venom sacs that can be constricted to fire a precise blast of debilitating venom over distance. Living tissue exposed to this venom necrotizes in an instant, sloughing off bone in gobbets. Goaded by beast handlers’ whips, ranks of sentinels fire this toxin over the heads of soldiers to reduce entire enemy units into scraps of armor amid a sea of sludge.

PraetorianSkorne Keltarii Unit We shall show our enemies how the true warrior’s blade becomes the tempest that scorns the bullet.

—Primus Taarex of the Praetorian Keltarii

Honor, discipline, glory—the Army of the Western Reaches is a proud testament to these values, the foundational tenets of the hoksune code. Legions of Praetorian warriors stand ready to fight and die at the command of the tyrants and dominars under Supreme Archdomina Makeda’s rule. Praetorians of the keltarius tradition are no less dedicated than the swordsmen of the warrior caste, but their path in combat is around and through the blades of oncoming enemies rather than directly into them. The keltarii use their double-bladed glaives, or toboresh, to turn aside enemy blades so that they may slip past their opponents unharmed. This deft, evasive maneuver allows keltarius warriors to bring sharpened steel to bear against the most dangerous foes rather than simply those closest at hand. Keltarius training involves incessant drills that push aspiring warriors past physical limits to a subconscious awareness of all battlefield movements around them. In the field, a veteran keltarius knows not only who will be next to fall at the edge of his blade but also exactly where and when every other toboresh in his datha will strike true. Secure in this knowledge, each keltarius can be assured that the enemy he just put at his back will not be there for long.

LEADER & GRUNTS

Combined Melee Attack

Blade Shield – This model gains +2 DEF against ranged attack rolls. Parry – This model cannot be targeted by free strikes. Reform – After all models in this unit have completed their actions, each can advance up to 3˝.

LEADER & GRUNTS SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 6 6 4 13 14 9

Double-Bladed Glaive

POW P+S

4

10

Field Allowance Leader & 5 Grunts Leader & 9 Grunts Small base

3 5 8

Double-Bladed Glaive Reach

Even more impressive than unerringly turning aside a foe’s blade is the ability of Praetorian keltarii to deflect lethal projectiles with the flat of their blades. Keltarii have been known to shift the trajectory of arrows, javelins, and even the occasional bullet, shunting them harmlessly aside rather than allowing them to find deadly purchase in flesh.

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Tyrant Zaadesh Skorne Character Solo A true warrior consumes pain and thrives on suffering—both his own and that of his enemies.

—Vuxoris, the First Exalted

ZAADESH SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 6 6 4 13 15 9

Deathsong

POW P+S

6

12

Fury 4 Damage 5 Field Allowance C Point Cost 3 Small base

ZAADESH

Spells

Lesser Warlock – This model is not a warlock but has the following warlock special rules: Battlegroup Commander, Control Area, Damage Transference, Forcing, Fury Manipulation, Healing, and Spellcaster.

When an enemy model is damaged by Perdition, immediately after the attack is resolved one warbeast in this model’s battlegroup that is currently in this model’s control area can make a full advance toward the nearest enemy model. A model can advance as a result of Perdition only once per turn.

Fearless

Protective Battlegroup – Once per round, when this model is directly hit by a ranged or magic attack during your opponent’s turn, you can choose to have another model in this model’s battlegroup within 2˝ of this model that is not incorporeal, knocked down, or stationary to be directly hit instead. The chosen model is automatically hit and suffers all damage and effects.

Deathsong

Magical Weapon Reach

Not every member of House Balaash rejoices at Archdomina Makeda’s rise to power. Some traditionalists see an empire unified under one leader as the antithesis of what it means to be skorne. They contend it is strife among the houses that keeps their people strong. None hold to this belief with more zeal than Tyrant Zaadesh, a young noble of House Balaash who secretly despises the archdomina. Many in Zaadesh’s branch of the family—including his grandfather—sided with Makeda’s brother Akkad and lost their lives for it when she seized power. These same nobles viewed Vinter’s wars for unification as unnatural and felt Makeda betrayed skorne society by joining him. Those who raised Zaadesh loathed the archdomina and all she stood for even then. Now, they wish to see her overthrown by any means possible and Akkad installed in her place as leader of House Balaash. Though he is a skilled swordsman and battle leader, Zaadesh must bide his time for now; he knows he is far from ready to oppose Makeda directly. He has been tested in battle, however, and has endured despite setbacks that severely challenged his resolve—the most grievous being the injury that forces him to wear a mask over his disfigured face. Early in his career as a warrior, Zaadesh relied heavily on his swordsmanship and battle prowess, neglecting the study of mortitheurgy that an aspiring tyrant requires to lead warbeasts into battle. He was given command of a pair of aradus soldiers, and amid the press of battle he lost control. One of the creatures lashed out, striking his face

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Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Perdition

2

10

–

Tag Team

3 Self Ctrl

10

No Yes

– Yes No

While within this model’s control area, models in its battlegroup gain +2 on melee attack and melee damage rolls against models within melee range of another model in this model’s battlegroup.

Tactical Tip

Lesser Warlock – This model’s type is solo, not warlock.

and removing most of his lower jaw. Although he survived, his house was convinced he would never again take to the battlefield as a warrior. Zaadesh did not let this injury come between him and his goals. He undertook a rigorous physical and mortitheurgical training regimen, and within a year he had regained his former strength. He vowed to master mortitheurgy and perfect his power over beasts so he would never face such a setback again. At this time an unlikely ally emerged. While Zaadesh was still healing, Dominar Rasheth secretly contacted him through intermediaries, offering support as well as instruction in the occult arts. Zaadesh had deep reservations—as a warrior and an adherent of hoksune, he had reason to despise the indolent Rasheth. The dominar’s power and influence ultimately persuaded Zaadesh to enter into an uncomfortable but necessary alliance, as one more step toward his ultimate goal of returning the skorne to their traditional ways. After his recovery Zaadesh distinguished himself among House Balaash’s warriors in the eastern empire and was soon summoned to join the Army of the Western Reaches. Supreme Archdomina Makeda tasked him with a minor command, viewing him simply as a useful warrior and competent officer. She knows Zaadesh’s branch of her house supported her brother but sees the young tyrant as too insignificant to be a potential rival. For now, Zaadesh’s anonymity among the tyrants in the Army of the Western Reaches suits his goals, allowing him to continue growing in power, still secretly aided by Dominar Rasheth. As the skorne expand westward Zaadesh plans to use his martial experience to gather allies and hone his skills, each day moving closer to his inevitable clash with the archdomina.

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Legion of Everblight

Daughter of the Dragon

The Wythmoor, Ord

Thick, low-hanging clouds made it almost impossible for Absylonia to survey her troops with mundane sight, but she didn’t need to. She could feel them out there. The overcast sky was filled with winged spawn, all of them formed from her own blood and bound to her, as much extensions of her as she was of Everblight. Harriers and blight wasps, seraphim and neraphim and one graceful, serpentine angelius, all flying low and navigating without sight, relying on their blighted senses. Among them were the grotesques, creatures that, like her, had once been Nyss but were now more like the great dragon they all obeyed. Below them, the handful of land-bound forces that accompanied her occasionally surfaced from the fog like moving islands. For a moment, she was able to see Proteus striding steadily beneath her. She could feel his hunger, even when the fog engulfed him. It poured off him in waves and settled in the pit of her stomach to become her own. She felt the ground sucking at his feet with each step, saw the footprints he left behind slowly filling with water. Absylonia launched herself from a gnarled tree, membranes between her elongated fingers going taut to catch the currents of the air and carry her aloft. Her force had been chosen primarily for speed and maneuverability, and she kept up with them through a series of gliding leaps. When she drifted back to the ground she reshaped herself to prepare for the next leap. She envied the airborne spawn who could remain aloft without effort. She couldn’t have said how much of this feeling was her own desire and how much belonged to Everblight, whose mind inhabited hers, filling her with his memories of soaring aloft on powerful wings. She didn’t think to differentiate between the two. Everblight’s will was her will; his desires were her desires. She wanted it no other way. With the other warlocks she was often forced to resort to speech. Their minds were closed to her, impenetrable fortresses secured by inexplicable locks. With Everblight,

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however, communication was different, more immediate. Sometimes she heard his voice whispering in her ear, but more often it was like he was simply inside her body with her, like she was riding on the tide of his will. Now it was his need for the disembodied draconic athanc that drove her forward, the knowledge that the servants of the Dragonfather carried it farther from them with each passing hour. His hunger was so great that Proteus’ was merely its faded shadow. It was a desire that went beyond physical craving. She felt Everblight’s need in her bones, in her blood, as a heartsickness. And with it came something else: an anxiety that ran along her nerve endings and sent tremors through her body, manifesting as physical changes, such as when lines of scales and horns burst forth in ridges along her back and then receded. It was a sensation she knew, though she had never felt it so strongly before. It was the sense of a great beast on the prowl, of a shadow circling, coming ever closer. It was the feeling of her hackles raised in warning. Ever since Lylyth had battled the dragon Charsaug after the spawning of the archangels, this sensation had been evident in Everblight’s mental presence like a bowstring held taut in the back of her mind. Now it hummed louder than before, and she knew the reason was the warcaster she raced to confront. This was Venethrax, the Wyrmslayer, Lord Toruk’s master of draconic lore. Of all the Dragonfather’s generals, this was the one Everblight dreaded most. She had read the dragon’s disquiet, felt his indecision. He yearned for the disembodied athanc, and yet he was loath to send any of his chosen against Venethrax. Through the psychic bond they shared, she had felt the minds of all his other warlocks recoil. Each of them regarded her mission as a death sentence. That was why she had volunteered without hesitation. She knew her master needed her. Despite any fear she might harbor or danger she might face, the athanc was too important a prize not to attempt its capture. Everblight must have it, and to arrange that, she would risk everything.

Though facing Venethrax would almost certainly result in her death, she was first and foremost a survivor. Her very essence was an affirmation of blighted life and fertility, manifested in the creation of rapidly evolving spawn. Avoiding Venethrax would be failing Everblight, however, and that was inconceivable. She went to her fate gladly. She had dedicated her life to serving Everblight, and if her death could serve him as well, it was coin she was more than willing to pay.

Everblight chafed at the constraints of his divided consciousness even as he recognized its necessity. It was what would protect him against his siblings, even now that they were aware of his movements. None of them would ever have delayed physically reforming himself. None could ever have imagined dividing the athanc, sharing a single identity among many lesser creatures. His was the only cunning that could conceive of this path, which was his only defense against the other dragons until he grew powerful enough to defeat them. In his grasp now was the means to do just that: the disembodied athanc, found by Cryx through some unknown means and carried south by them in a hastily constructed wagon designed to keep its nature contained. Everblight hungered for it. Before Pyromalfic, he had never consumed another of his own kind, but now he knew the power of it. He burned for it. Now he understood better than he ever had before the hunger that Toruk must feel to become whole. Yet for Toruk each athanc was a small piece of what he had once possessed, while for Everblight consuming the essence of another dragon had magnified his own power far beyond what it had ever been. How much stronger would he be after consuming a third, or a fourth? The athanc promised power enough to defeat any of his siblings—and eventually to destroy Toruk himself. Any athanc was a treasure beyond price, but this was perhaps the greatest of all. This was the heartstone of one of the strongest of the dragons who had opposed Toruk during the earliest clashes in which his progeny had turned on their father. A dragon thought dead and devoured by Toruk thousands of years ago, before the ascendancy of man. How the athanc had survived, how it had remained hidden for so long, Everblight couldn’t guess, but powerful magic had certainly been involved. Now that it was exposed, Toruk must not claim it. It had to be Everblight’s. He could feel its nearness, taste its power on the air. He could imagine that power running through his being. The lure of such a thing was far more than simple ambition—he required it for his very survival. He must find a way to turn the tables on the other dragons who, even now, were circling ever closer.

He was aware of their scrutiny, though he did not know where they were. He had seen Charsaug through the eyes of his warlocks, and the feeling of pride that had welled inside him when Lylyth drove that dragon away was slowly being replaced with seeping dread. Blighterghast and the other dragons were aware of him in a way they had not been in centuries. Even now their agents were out in force, hunting for him. He knew even the blackclads whose armies now harassed his flanks must be in league with them. It was only a matter of time before the other dragons discovered his secret and grew to understand his divided existence. He had hoped to have longer to build his forces before this day came, but that was not to be. He had to be ready, now. Added to the encroaching presence of the other dragons was a new threat—or, rather, a reminder of the oldest threat, the first threat. The Dragonfather. Everblight knew what few other beings on Caen did, that the entire purpose of Cryx’s empire was to build a power base strong enough for Toruk to find and slay his offspring. He also knew the name of the chief architect of that mission, the lich lord Toruk had put in charge of studying, tracking, and confronting the other dragons: Venethrax. One of the only once-mortal creatures on Caen to have battled a dragon and lived. If Venethrax were to learn enough about Everblight, the lich lord was one of the only beings that could pose a true threat to his existence. The danger was not just to his warlocks and his armies but to his very essence. Venethrax knew far more about most dragons than they knew about themselves, and he had the full might of Toruk’s army at his back.

Before Pyromalfic, he had never consumed another of his own kind, but now he knew the power of it. Venethrax marched at the head of an army of black iron and the reanimated dead. This army had split from the main Cryx column and doubled back to intercept Everblight’s forces and turn them aside. The lich lord intended to prevent Everblight from gaining the prize that was even now racing farther from his clutches and toward Toruk, his greatest enemy. The perspective of his warlocks was necessarily limited. They saw only themselves, separate individuals, each commanding his or her own forces and spawn. Though they could sense each other’s minds through the athanc shards that bound them together and they could feel the longing of the shards to reunite, they remained distinct.

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To Everblight, they were simply a part of him, a series of eyes through which he could view the world. Each set brought a different perspective, but it was always him gazing out. They were no longer individuals at all but one entity made up of many parts. He had assembled his warlocks carefully. Each had been chosen for the vantage that his or her eyes offered. Each had a role to serve, but they were all one vast army, united by his will. Now, however, the army was becoming ragged. Rhyas and Saeryn had been at the vanguard, but they had been delayed and depleted by the ambush of Circle forces. Lylyth and Bethayne still ranged ahead, nearest the athanc, but they were also beset by blackclads. Kallus brought up the rear, while Thagrosh and Vayl remained in the north, awaiting Everblight’s call. Venethrax planned to create a blockade, a dam that would stop the river of soldiers and spawn entirely. Everblight refused to let that happen.

Now it fell from the heavens like a sword dropped from on high, its spiked tail angled to pierce Venethrax’s chest and pinion him to the earth. He rankled at sending one of his warlocks against Venethrax. He knew he could not commit enough troops to stop the lich lord without compromising his true objective. Absylonia would serve only as a diversion, there to stall Venethrax. If she could sufficiently distract him, the others could get past and eventually reach their prize. He was more than willing to sacrifice a warlock to gain the athanc. What gave him pause was to sacrifice her to Venethrax, of all creatures. One of the hazards of his current arrangement was that he could feel his warlocks’ emotions and sense their thoughts. Through them, he had tasted what it was like to be mortal, to suffer the fears and frailties of such a short life. Through them, he had felt mortal hopes and mortal despairs, and he had tasted mortal fear. The feeling that settled in his mind when he thought of Venethrax carving the athanc shard from Absylonia’s body was disturbingly close to that sensation. It was not a feeling Everblight relished.

Skeletal trees stood draped in shrouds of hanging moss, jutting accusatory fingers skyward from pools of brackish water. The Wythmoor was choked by expanses of weeds

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and tall grass, the ground soggy underfoot. Above, the sky was a ceiling of low, dense clouds. Fog lay in heavy streamers that cut off mundane sight and distorted sound. Each skirmish became a closed room, the heat of the helljacks burning off the fog just enough to illuminate the immediate area. The muffled sounds of other battles echoed through the fog: the clash of metal, the screeching of dragonspawn, the cries of the living and the dead. Every sound seemed eerie and far away, like voices heard in a dream. Absylonia let her eyes sink away behind ridges of forming bone and opened her sight to blighted vision. With that, she pierced through fog and clouds to see the winged shapes that wheeled in the sky above her: an angelius locked in a battle with two of the winged bonejacks called Scavengers. As she watched, one of the constructs fell like a dead crow to splash in the muck at her feet. Within moments, the angelius drove its spiked tail into the side of the other, piercing the joint where tattered wing met metal shoulder and slicing the light ’jack in two. One piece plummeted to the watery ground, while the other spun away through the air, streaking the fog with black smoke. Absylonia called the angelius to her with a thought and turned her blighted sight toward the battlefield around her. Everywhere, blighted ogrun and spawn clashed with the necromantic nightmares of Cryx, some of them much nearer than the sound of their combat would imply. Only Proteus was directly at her side, the remaining raeks and nephilim farther afield. As she watched, Proteus lashed out with his barbed tendrils and pulled a soulhunter off its feet, dragging it into reach of his maw and talons before tearing it apart. She felt his frustration on tasting the undead flesh, but he continued to consume it; with so few living creatures among Venethrax’s forces, there was little to feed him. As she cast about looking for prey, she noticed strange plumes of blackened smoke that even her blighted vision couldn’t penetrate. Two massive engines of black metal and necrotite fire came barreling at her from out of the smoke. One was a Desecrator, a spiderlike horror with a buzz saw arm that advanced through the swamp on four spiny legs. The other was the sleek, tusked form of a Reaper. Between them came Venethrax himself. Absylonia assumed he had once been a man, centuries ago, but he now bore none of the hallmarks. He was a hulking creature of black armor and green flame, nearly as large as the helljacks accompanying him. Soul cages clanked at his waist, and plumes of black smoke poured from stacks on his back. Of his former humanity only his skull remained, and from that, green balefire eyes glared with a monstrous intensity that went far beyond human.

For hours, she had been leading Venethrax and his forces on a chase. She struck and withdrew, then curved around his army to pick at their flanks. Using her superior maneuverability, she slowly drew them away from the path of Everblight’s other warlocks. She proceeded carefully, for Everblight’s voice in her mind told her Venethrax was a canny foe, one who wouldn’t easily be misled. Her strikes had to look convincing, and each one cost her dearly. Dozens of spawn and countless blighted Nyss and ogrun lay dismembered and broken in the miles of moor behind them. Absylonia had lost most of her spawn in the various skirmishes, leaving her with only a bare handful. She had avoided engaging Venethrax directly, knowing that to do so would make another withdrawal almost impossible. Then she had seen him carve her ravagore apart as methodically as a hunter cleaning a rabbit. She had lost spawn in other battles, of course, but never had she seen anyone or anything capable of slaying them as effortlessly as Venethrax. It was as if his massive sword Wyrmbane knew exactly where to strike, for it seemed to leap of its own accord to weak points, to joints and arteries. Each blow was crippling, and Venethrax hadn’t yet struck a creature that didn’t soon die. Now, she knew, the time for avoidance had passed. Her force was too diminished for another running assault, and they were far enough away from the rest of the warlocks to guarantee their safe passage. Even if she fell here, it would be difficult for Venethrax to catch them. She called out to a nearby nephilim soldier. In spite of its wounds, she used its animus to spur it toward the Desecrator, its two-handed sword held high. Before the spawn could close the distance, though, the ’jack turned and fired a greenish gout from the cannon on its arm that struck the nephilim and exploded in a burst of flesh-eating fire, searing and eating away at the blighted flesh like a ravenous disease. In seconds, flesh was stripped from bone and the nephilim’s corroded sword sank into the bog. Absylonia had seen this before. The hideous biles and corrosive liquids the Cryxian army deployed were especially potent in proximity to Venethrax, who seemed to corrode the very air by his presence. It was a sensation almost like the blight but totally alien to her. Fortunately she hadn’t been counting on the nephilim as a fighter, just as a distraction to slow her enemies, keeping their attention while she sent Proteus around the cloud of choking flame and into the side of the Desecrator. She had seen him dash the heaviest of warjacks to the ground, but the spidery legs of the Desecrator gave it superior balance, and the attack simply drove it backward, digging its legs into the muddy ground.

Proteus wrapped his thrashing tentacles around the helljack’s chassis, while his talons ripped the cannon arm from its side and hurled it into the swamp. The Desecrator dug its buzz saw arm into the warbeast’s side, and Absylonia saw black blood spatter into the water at their feet. She could not afford to focus her attention on this confrontation, though; she had to trust her beast’s combat instincts and prowess to deal with this foe. The Reaper was wheeling around, aiming its harpoon cannon into the thrashing melee between Proteus and the helljack. Absylonia called the angelius and her remaining neraph from the skies. The neraph crashed into the Reaper, toppling it into the moor in a mass of beating wings and scything tails as the angelius struck at Venethrax. Absylonia had always admired the grace of the angelius, its form an expression of the draconic perfection of Everblight himself. Now it fell from the heavens like a sword dropped from on high, its spiked tail angled to pierce Venethrax’s chest and pinion him to the earth. As it fell, so fast it almost couldn’t be seen, Venethrax was already turning, swinging Wyrmbane just as fast and with a finesse that belied its size, and Absylonia knew even the grace of the angelius wouldn’t be enough for it to evade the strike. Wyrmbane sliced through the angelius’ tail, sending the spike flying. It grazed harmlessly off Venethrax’s power field and landed in the mud like an arrow fired from afar. The angelius shrieked, and Absylonia drew on its animus to create a blast of energy that hurled Venethrax backward, his taloned feet carving trenches in the earth. As the angelius beat its wings to rise back into the air, the Reaper pushed itself from beneath the body of the neraph. The spawn’s attack had rendered the helljack mostly defunct—one arm was a mass of twisted metal, and its engine was ruptured and leaking black smoke—but its harpoon was still intact. The barbed missile sank into the angelius at the base of one of its wings and dragged the spawn back down into the reach of Venethrax’s blade, which was enough to sentence it to death. With one sweep of Wyrmbane, the lich lord sheared the wings from one side of the angelius. It fell thrashing in the mud at his feet. Before Absylonia could react, he placed one metal foot on its neck and chopped downward to sever its head and send it tumbling. She tried to pull the blighted energy from the expiring spawn but found she could not. That energy was no longer hers, having already been siphoned away in long green streamers flowing from the slain beast to Venethrax, empowering him instead. As he looked up from his grisly work, his skull seemed to smile at her. “By all means,” he called, his metallic voice ancient and echoing, “send more of your pets for me to kill.”

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He pointed with Wyrmbane at Proteus, who was nearly finished with the Desecrator, but Absylonia had no intention of sacrificing more spawn to Venethrax if she could help it. She leapt into the air, her hands forming into wings to glide her toward her foe. As she dropped to the ground they changed again, bones disjointing with a series of sickening pops to transform her claws into brutal talons that raked at Venethrax. He stepped aside, and she carved furrows in his black armor. He brought Wyrmbane around, but she was already moving, her protean flesh already changing, reshaping itself to bend her out of the path of his blade.

Gazing through her eyes into the blazing sockets of the lich lord’s skull, Everblight could almost imagine Venethrax saw him. Her blighted vision showed other ’jacks approaching from the fog, while she had no more spawn in range save Proteus. Dodging another swing from Wyrmbane, one that cut so close she could feel the breath of its passing along her skin, she reached within herself and released a cloud of blighted energy to temporarily disrupt Venethrax’s connection to his ’jacks—and prepared to sell her life as dearly as possible.

Through Absylonia’s eyes, Everblight saw her brave last stand, employing all her powers to hinder Venethrax right up until the end. Venethrax confronted her personally, lashing out with spell and blade. Her mutable body evaded him and absorbed his blows with the resiliency and tenacity she alone of his warlocks possessed, but the lich lord was tireless and ruthless, entirely within his element and focused on a goal that could not be denied. Through her nerves, the dragon felt the pain of the heavy blow that finally crippled her. The battle had been fierce. Absylonia was slicked with blood, and Proteus was crippled from transferred injuries. Venethrax’s armor was rent apart, but still the lich lord stood strong, while Absylonia lay beaten in the mud at his feet. The other warlocks were distant to Everblight now, their thoughts and emotions muffled as he focused his full attention on the battle. He was inhabiting Absylonia as he had seldom inhabited any of his warlocks, the sensation

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different even than his joining with Thagrosh. He felt her death throes, and the agony that poured from her spread like a ripple through all the athanc shards. Each of his warlocks staggered for a moment as the shards in their chests burned with sympathetic pain. The pain itself, the physical sensation, meant nothing to Everblight. He had been completely unmade by the Iosans centuries before, and damage to his flesh was inconsequential next to the humiliation of defeat by a tide of mortals. The excruciation felt by living things as they died was foreign to him, a distraction he had deliberately avoided replicating in his dragonspawn. It wasn’t sharing Absylonia’s pain that kept him rooted in her consciousness. It wasn’t even the loyalty that he felt from her. She faced death with no fear for herself, only a crushing sense that she had failed him. What fixated his attention was Venethrax, towering over her. Gazing through her eyes into the blazing sockets of the lich lord’s skull, Everblight could almost imagine Venethrax saw him. If Absylonia fell now, here, like this, Venethrax would claim her athanc shard. There was no possibility this foe would simply leave her corpse, as the study of draconic minions was his obsession. He would take her back to Cryx and dismember her—if he even waited that long. The athanc shard would be immediately apparent to him, unmistakable in its substance and import. If any creature on Caen had the knowledge to understand what Everblight had done, to puzzle out how he had spread himself among his warlocks to create a composite greater than the sum of its parts, it was Venethrax. Should Absylonia’s athanc shard fall into Venethrax’s possession he would study it; he would see inside it and learn its secrets, Everblight’s secrets. And when he had wrung from it every last drop of knowledge that he could, he would offer it personally to Toruk, who would devour it. When that happened, Everblight knew Toruk would absorb a part of him. He was not willing to allow Toruk even a portion of himself. He felt compelled to act, though he knew it would cost him.

Absylonia knew she was dying. Her mouth was full of blood, and she could feel her lifeblood pooling on the ground beneath her. She reached out through her body and tried to will her flesh to change, but her normally fluid tissues were unresponsive. She was losing the feeling in her arms and legs. She couldn’t lift them, couldn’t fight. The light was beginning to go out, and through the haze she could see Venethrax approaching with one of his spidery necrotechs at his side.

Even as her sensation of her own body began to fail her, she felt the presence of Everblight. The heat of his nearness was like the sun beating against her, and she felt like at any moment she would burst into flames. Beneath the dragon’s rage, she felt something she had not sensed before—his fear. She saw what was coming through his eyes. She saw the athanc shard pulled from her mutilated chest, saw Venethrax hold it aloft, his eyes gleaming and herself trapped inside it. She saw Venethrax hold the shard out to a draconic form so black and vast her sight couldn’t encompass it, and it swallowed her vision like an eclipse of the sun. Everblight’s rage poured into her, a rage that burned hotter than any fire on Caen. It mingled with her own anger, her horror at the idea that she might ever fail her master so completely. She could not be the instrument by which he was delivered unto his greatest enemy. She was willing to die, but she couldn’t, not if it meant that even a tiny fragment of Everblight would find its way to Toruk. She couldn’t remember what it had been like to receive the athanc shard, but now she felt something of what it must have been like. Her veins burned with anger and blighted energy, with the knowledge of what would transpire if she fell and the conviction that it could not be allowed. The shard in her chest was like a fiery lance that pierced her, and she felt the heat from it radiate out, fill her, and expand beyond her. Absylonia was accustomed to changing. Her flesh had never been content to settle into one form. But the change she felt now was different. Her wounds sealed, new blood pulsed in her veins, and she felt the radiance of Everblight pour outward from her to Proteus, healing his wounds as well. Through new eyes she saw Venethrax stop, watching as a fully restored Proteus suddenly stood tall and roared at the sky, tentacles flailing.

a vessel, constantly itching to change, always straining to be nearer to the glory of Everblight. Now it had found its place. The power that had poured through her had remade her in his image, and now she was nearer to him than she was to the Nyss she had once been. Now she was truly his daughter. Proteus also had not stopped at healing. Bones popped wetly out of their sockets, and he, too, extended new wings. Though these appeared to be more of a temporary augmentation, obviously made of less stern stuff than her own wings, they would be enough to carry him with her out of harm’s way. Everblight’s energy poured outward from Absylonia with such strength that Venethrax was forced to shield himself. He poured all his arcane strength into his power field as he backed away, and the delay was enough to provide an opportunity for both Absylonia and Proteus to take flight. Everblight no longer had to speak to her in order to communicate. She could feel his approval, his pleasure in what she had become. She knew she had done enough for now. She had drawn Venethrax far enough away, and she should take her remaining forces and withdraw. When she took to the sky this time, strong wings carried her aloft, Proteus at her side. They were followed by a volley of shots from Venethrax’s ’jacks, but she quickly moved out of range. She circled once to gain a good perspective on the enemy forces arrayed below, allowing Everblight to better appraise them. She knew Venethrax would continue to seek to thwart them in their advance south, but also that several of Everblight’s other warlocks had made it around him and would continue on. She would join them soon, but first she needed to gain more familiarity with her new form and gather another army. Empowered anew by Everblight, she felt certain her next clash with Lich Lord Venethrax would be quite different.

She had used Everblight’s blighted energy to heal herself and her spawn before, but this time the outpouring of energy didn’t stop. Her skull split, allowing room for curving horns to spring forth. Her back contracted and curled as new muscles and bones layered themselves into place in seconds; then two wings, still wet from their transformation, burst forth from her back and unfurled like banners in the misty air. These were not temporary gliding membranes like the ones she had formed earlier. These were true and lasting wings. With the metamorphosis came pain, of course, as bones settled into sockets and muscles stretched into place, but the pain was eclipsed by the presence of Everblight. Absylonia had never been comfortable in her skin before this moment. She knew why now. It had been too limited

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Absylonia, Daughter of Everblight Legion Epic Blighted Nyss Warlock She acts without hesitation or forethought, with no concept of self. We should all envy her clarity and purity of purpose.

—Thagrosh the Messiah

ABSYLONIA SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

7 8 7 6 15 16 8

Claw

POW P+S

6

14

Stinger

POW P+S

4

12

Fury 6 Damage 18 Field Allowance C Warbeast Points +5 Medium base

Feat: Metamorphose

Showing his favor, Everblight’s blighted power flows freely through Absylonia and responds to her call. When she unleashes a massive pulse of draconic energy, her followers are transformed. Their bodies seethe and change to emulate their master—limbs lengthen, muscles thicken, and wings sprout from their backs. They launch themselves high into the air before falling on their foes with a dragon’s fury.

Models in Absylonia’s battlegroup that are currently in her control area gain +2 STR and Flight, and their melee weapons gain Reach . Metamorphose lasts for one round.

ABSYLONIA

Abomination

Conferred Rage – Warbeasts in this model’s battlegroup beginning their activations in its control area can charge or make power attacks without being forced. When this model destroys one or more enemy models during its activation, warbeasts in its battlegroup beginning their activations in its control area gain +2 SPD and MAT for one turn. Flight – This model can advance through terrain and obstacles without penalty and can advance through obstructions and other models if it has enough movement to move completely past them. This model ignores intervening models when declaring its charge target.

Claw

Magical Weapon

Stinger

Magical Weapon

Energy Siphon – When this attack hits an enemy model with 1 or more focus or fury points on it, that model loses 1 focus or fury point and this model gains 1 fury point.

Absylonia has been no stranger to transformation. Her body in constant flux, she has been as mutable as required by the will of Everblight. The first day the athanc shard sent blighted power rippling through her body, Absylonia gladly surrendered her prior self and was reborn for the dragon. Her role in his armies has demanded a different kind of service from her than from other warlocks, one that drew on her generative power to amass swarming throngs of dragonspawn to bolster the Legion. But now she has entered a new phase, taking to the sky to fight alongside the winged spawn she birthed as the daughter of the dragon.

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Spells Fortify

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF 2 6 – – Yes No

Target warbeast in this model’s battlegroup gains +2 ARM. The affected model and any friendly model B2B with it cannot be knocked down, pushed, or moved by a slam.

Psycho Surgery

2 Self Ctrl

–

No No

Return Fire

1

–

–

No No

Teleport

2 Self

–

–

No No

Each model in this model’s battlegroup currently in its control area immediately heals d3 + 1 damage points. This spell can only be cast once per turn.

6

When target friendly Faction model is targeted by an enemy ranged attack, after the attack is resolved the affected model can make one normal melee or ranged attack, then Return Fire expires. Return Fire lasts for one round. Place this model anywhere completely within 8˝ of its current location, then its activation ends.

Tactical Tip

Teleport – This model cannot be placed in an obstruction or in impassable terrain as a result of this spell.

In her recent encounter with Venethrax, Absylonia entered battle expecting to die for the glory of Everblight. Instead, she was gifted with an outpouring of blighted energies beyond any the dragon had ever unleashed on his chosen generals. True wings burst fully-formed from her back, and massive curving horns rose from her brow. The endless shifting and changing of her body subsided, and she settled into a constant, cohesive form. This metamorphosis brought agony but also the knowledge that she had been blessed. She had become as perfect an embodiment of the dragon’s essence as a flawed mortal could hope to be. Absylonia has wholeheartedly embraced her new anatomy, gladly surrendering any lingering ties to her former life. Hers is a deadly elegance, a savage grace bestowed by Everblight himself. She acts in accordance with his will and desires nothing more than to serve as his vessel on the battlefields of Caen. While other warlocks sometimes struggle with the dragon’s gifts, Absylonia sees in these boons a transcendence, a clear pathway to unity with his draconic perfection. In her new form she flies over the battlefield, conveying her killing rage to the spawn that follow her. Absylonia’s blood has always been attuned to blighted energies, and the spawn of that blood now gain the same mutability she once possessed. There are few sights more terrifying to foes of the Legion than a ravening tide of protean beasts pouring toward them, mutating with the power of the blight, with Absylonia sailing above on graceful wings, ready to strike with breathtaking speed and deadly ferocity.

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Blight Wasps Legion Warbeast Pack The air about them droned with the buzzing of countless wings.

LEADER & grunts SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

7 4 5 1 12 11 4

Stinger

POW P+S

4

8

Fury * Threshold 8 Damage 5 ea Field Allowance U Leader & 3 Grunts 4 Small base

LEADER & grunts

ANIMUS

Annoyance – Living enemy models within 1˝ of this model suffer –1 to attack rolls.

Models in target friendly warbeast pack gain Killing Spree for one turn. (When a model with Killing Spree destroys one or more enemy models with a melee attack during its combat action, after that attack is resolved the model can move up to 1˝ and make one additional melee attack.)

Eyeless Sight

Blood Creation – This model never attacks friendly Faction warlocks and cannot choose them as its frenzy target.

Flight – This model can advance through terrain and obstacles without penalty and can advance through obstructions and other models if it has enough movement to move completely past them. This model ignores intervening models when declaring its charge target. Hunting Pack – This model gains a +1 cumulative bonus to melee attack and damage rolls for each other model in this unit engaging the model it is attacking. Soulless – This model does not generate a soul token when it is destroyed.

Stinger

Critical Poison – On a critical hit, gain an additional die on this weapon’s damage rolls against living models.

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—Travian Jules, monster hunter

Overwhelm

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF 2

6

–

–

No No

Moving as a single mass of beating wings, scything claws, and pulsing stingers, swarms of blight wasps sow panic and death across the battlefield as they inject enemies with the poison of dragon blight itself. A stung victim suffers excruciating spasms as his body erupts with spurs of bone. A single dose of blight wasp toxin is enough to kill a man, but the creatures mindlessly sting over and over again as the hapless victim writhes in agony before finally succumbing to death. The Legion can create multitudes of these horrors with alarming ease, and the wasps grow to full size within hours. In battle a blight wasp swarm moves unpredictably to harry and eliminate enemy warriors and warbeasts. The swarm is most formidable against ranks of enemy soldiers, which they attack as a vicious, stinging cloud. Against larger prey, they converge and attack from multiple angles until they have destroyed their quarry.

Neraph

Legion Heavy Warbeast Walls and battlements are futile against the spawned miracles of Everblight.

—Bethayne, Voice of Everblight

Vortex

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF 1 Self

–

–

No No

Enemy models currently within 2˝ of this model are immediately pushed 2˝ directly toward it in the order you choose.

Eyeless Sight

Blood Creation – This model never attacks friendly Faction warlocks and cannot choose them as its frenzy target. Flight – This model can advance through terrain and obstacles without penalty and can advance through obstructions and other models if it has enough movement to move completely past them. This model ignores intervening models when declaring its charge target. Serpentine – This model cannot make slam or trample power attacks and cannot be knocked down. Soulless – This model does not generate a soul token when it is destroyed.

Grasping Tail

NERAPH SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 10 6

5 14 16

7

Grasping Tail

POW P+S

— 4

14

Hammerhead

POW P+S

h 6

1

16

2 BODY

3 4

IN D

M

Winged hosts of Everblight’s dragonspawn darken the skies over battlefields, pitching downward to scatter the enemy and sow bloody chaos among them. Swooping over fortification walls and the heads of rival forces, these flying spawn are able to strike at the heart of the enemy no matter how well defended he believes himself to be. The neraph is one such fearful creation, a sublime hunter that plunges from above to snatch prey with its tail and wrench it skyward.

NERAPH

IR IT

ANIMUS

SP

6

5

Fury 4 Threshold 9 Field Allowance U Point Cost 7 Large base

Coil – When this model directly hits a model with this weapon, its melee attacks against that model automatically hit for one turn.

Four leathery wings hold aloft the neraph’s sinuous body, producing swirling eddies of blighted energy as it darts through the sky. It can produce a vortex of these blighted currents that warps the world around it, drawing nearby enemies into the reach of its long, grasping tail. A cruel constellation of sucking orifices lock onto the skin of the neraph’s prey, preventing escape as the beast binds its prize in a quick series of constricting loops of its tail. Trapped in the heavy coils of the tail, the neraph’s victim is incapable of evading the crushing blows that follow. The neraph hoists a target aloft and contorts its powerful body to hammer the life out of it with the hardened chitin of its eyeless skull. Each strike carries all the force of the creature’s blighted strength, snapping bones like twigs and bursting skulls like rotten fruit. Once its quarry is felled the neraph takes to the hunt once more, wheeling over the battlefield in search of prey.

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Zuriel Legion Nephilim Character Heavy Warbeast With the gifts I have bestowed, Zuriel shall be my finest instrument—a weapon to clear the path to my destiny.

—Saeryn, Omen of Everblight

ZURIEL

ZURIEL SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 11 7

5 12 19

9

Dragon Breath RNG ROF AOE POW

h SP 8 2

—

12

L

POW P+S

5

16

War Blade

R

1

POW P+S

5

16

2 BODY

3 4

IR IT

M

IN D

SP

6

Gunfighter Affinity [Rhyas] – While Zuriel is in Rhyas’ control area, he gains Stealth . Affinity [Saeryn] – While Zuriel is not engaged and is in Saeryn’s control area, she can channel spells through him.

War Blade

Eyeless Sight

5

Fury 4 Threshold 10 Field Allowance C Point Cost 10 Large base

Flight – This model can advance through terrain and obstacles without penalty and can advance through obstructions and other models if it has enough movement to move completely past them. This model ignores intervening models when declaring its charge target. Special Issue [Rhyas or Saeryn] – This model can be included in Rhyas’ or Saeryn’s theme forces. It can also be bonded to Rhyas or Saeryn.

Dragon Breath

Continuous Effect: Fire

Damage Type: Fire

War Blade

Chain Attack: Char – If this model hits the same model with both its initial attacks with this weapon, after resolving the attacks it can immediately make one ranged attack targeting that model.

Zuriel is the product of Saeryn’s attempt to create a spawn embodying the essence of both herself and her twin sister, Rhyas. Saeryn combined the blighted blood of both sisters into a single draught she then gave the Nyss host chosen to bear this nephilim, for she intended to create a powerful beast uniquely receptive to the twins’ minds. That Saeryn was able to accomplish such a feat has not gone unnoticed by Everblight. For the time being, the dragon is content to allow Saeryn her accomplishment as long as the spawn proves obedient. Zuriel demonstrates the stealth and fighting prowess of Rhyas together with a unique receptiveness to Saeryn’s magic. Larger and more physically imposing than other

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ANIMUS

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Predator’s Instinct 1 Self

–

–

No No

This model gains an additional die on attack rolls against nonwarcaster, non-warlock warrior models. Predator’s Instinct lasts for one turn.

Tactical Tip

Special Issue – This only gives the warbeast the potential to bond to the warlock. It does not automatically add a bond.

nephilim, Zuriel also possesses keen intelligence and a warrior’s pride. In battle he soars through the sky on powerful wings as he searches out those marked for death by his mistresses. Targets who attempt to escape the reach of his blades find themselves engulfed by dragon fire from his fanged maw.

StriderLegion Blightblades Blighted Nyss Unit You’ve been cut by a most tainted blade. Trust me in this: far better that you let me take the arm and hope to grow a new one.

—Kalena Bloodwhisper, trollkin shaman

In reconnaissance and assassination, few can compare with the blighted Nyss striders. Their incredible speed and elusiveness are gifts of their draconic master that cannot be duplicated through mere instruction and training. Striders slip unseen from one shadow to the next and can traverse formidable terrain easily, foiling many expert marksmen. Strider blightblades eschew the traditional Nyss longbows in favor of a pair of wicked curved blades fabricated using blighted energies. The angry, blackened wounds these blades leave behind are only the beginning of a victim’s suffering; enemies who survive a blightblade’s cold touch might spend weeks wishing they had perished, and hardy warriors have been felled by mere flesh wounds. Battle surgeons and healers of all races familiar with these wounds favor amputation whenever possible to prevent the fatal blight from creeping inexorably into the veins of their patients. The blighted blades do not cause an infection in the traditional sense, rendering standard medical treatment and even alchemical restoratives ineffectual. Little can be done to relieve a victim’s excruciating pain besides entirely excising the blight.

LEADER & GRUNTS

Combined Melee Attack

LEADER & GRUNTS

Pathfinder

7 6 6 5 15 11 8

Stealth

SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

Blade

POW P+S

Ambush – You can choose 3 9 not to deploy this unit at the start of the game. If it is Field Allowance not deployed normally, you Leader & 5 Grunts can put it into play at the Small base end of any of your Control Phases after your first turn. When you do, choose any table edge except the back of your opponent’s deployment zone. Place all models in this unit in formation within 3˝ of the chosen table edge.

2 6

Blade

Critical Grievous Wounds – On a critical hit, the model hit by this weapon loses Tough, cannot heal or be healed, and cannot transfer damage for one round.

As stories of shadow warriors wielding dual blades of death spread among the armies of western Immoren, fear of the strider blightblades has grown. The Legion can rely on them not only for assassination but also to sow chaos and terror among the enemy.

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Fyanna the Lash Legion Blighted Nyss Character Solo All blighted must adapt to their new flesh, and for some this is a trial. In the end we all serve the same master.

—Captain Farilor

FYANNA

FYANNA SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

7 7 7 4 15 12 9

Barbed Lash

POW P+S

5

12

Pathfinder

Attack Type – Each time this model makes a normal melee attack, choose one of the following abilities:

• Beat Back – Immediately after a normal attack with this weapon is resolved during this model’s combat action, the enemy model hit can be pushed 1˝ directly away from the attacking model. After the enemy model is pushed, the attacking model can advance up to 1˝.

Damage 5 Field Allowance C Point Cost 3 Small base

• Dismember – When this model hits a warbeast with a melee attack, roll an additional damage die. • Pitch – Instead of making a normal damage roll on a hit, this model can throw the model hit as if it had hit with and passed the STR check of a throw power attack. The thrown model suffers a damage roll with POW equal to this model’s STR plus the POW of this weapon. The POW of collateral damage is equal to this model’s STR. Evasive – This model cannot be targeted by free strikes. This model can advance up to 2˝ immediately after an enemy ranged attack that missed it is resolved unless it was missed while advancing. Prowl – This model gains Stealth while within terrain that provides concealment, the AOE of a spell that provides concealment, or the AOE of a cloud effect. Rapid Strike – This model can make one additional melee attack each combat action.

Barbed Lash Reach

Chain Strike – This weapon has a 4˝ melee range during this model’s activation. Chain Weapon – This attack ignores the Buckler and Shield weapon qualities and Shield Wall.

Before the arrival of the dragon Everblight and the assimilation of the Nyss into his blighted legion, Fyanna was a charismatic and renowned hunter. It was widely assumed that upon the death of her shard’s leader Fyanna would assume that responsibility. All that changed, however, following the cataclysm that shattered the Nyss and placed them in thrall to Everblight. Fyanna was transformed into a strider, with the blight amplifying both her predatory nature and a certain ruthless spirit developed over years of fighting for survival within the harsh wilds of the Shard Spires. While seeming to accept the blight as her fellow Nyss

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Tactical Tips

Beat Back – The attacking model can advance even if the enemy model is destroyed by the attack. Pitch – A model cannot throw a model whose base is larger than its own.

did, Fyanna struggled with both her remade form and the new society forged after Everblight’s blighting touch. She had once enjoyed rising renown among the Nyss, but she now turned inward and avoided contact with others of her kind, growing increasingly feral. At last she was cast out of the tightly knit fellowship of striders entirely and labeled hyvyloash—outsider. Forced to live on the fringes of the corrupted Nyss society, Fyanna allowed her most basic instincts—now augmented by the blight—to overtake her. She became little more than a predator, hunting and killing whatever happened to fall into her path. For a long time she roamed far beyond the lands inhabited by the Legion. Yet despite the increasing dominance of her savage side, Fyanna retained a tenuous connection to the dragon through the blight. One day in her wanderings she stumbled upon her shard’s old settlement. There she found painful reminders of the proud hunter she had once been and came to recognize the pathetic creature she had allowed herself to become. Determined to reclaim her pride and prove her worth or die trying, Fyanna set out to hunt down and eliminate those few unblighted Nyss who resisted the Legion’s power. As she stalked her prey throughout the traditional Nyss hunting grounds and lands, Fyanna used her intimate knowledge of the wilderness to lure her quarry into traps where she could eliminate them face-to-face. As her collection of trophies from these encounters grew, word of her deeds spread and blighted Nyss wishing to follow her example began to seek her out. Having achieved acceptance among her fellow fighters together with a certain harmony with her new form, Fyanna the Lash earned her place as a hunting pack leader within Everblight’s legion.

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Minions

Forging a Dynasty

The Bloodstone Marches

Helga the Conqueror stepped out from the smoky darkness of her great hall into the afternoon sun. The Marches were always hot in the day, even in the spring. In the wide space before her, hundreds of farrow were drilling under the stern guidance of her primary chieftain, Grulla. Grulla walked toward her, leaving behind a group of slaughterhousers attacking tall wooden poles with their cleavers. “Warlord,” the older farrow said as she approached, dipping her head. Helga nodded. “Grulla, tell me, how are our troops faring?” Grulla crinkled her snout. “I’ve got the brigands shooting straight but they still can’t switch between pig iron and club on the charge. Half the slaughterhousers think their pole cleavers are close combat weapons. And our razorback crews couldn’t hit the broad side of a mountain.” Helga smiled and clapped Grulla on the shoulder. “Sounds like progress to me,” she said. Grulla snorted. “If you say so. There is still much work to do.” “And you’re the best one for it.” Helga’s tone became more serious as she added, “I must speak with you.” Grulla cocked her head. “Is something wrong?” She had been Helga’s battle master for years, the only of her chiefs to swear allegiance to her without requiring a show of force. Helga trusted her. “Yes,” Helga said. She began walking toward the main group of huts, passing the slaughterhousers. Those nearest stopped drilling and stared. Helga was used to this; most of her farrow regarded her with almost worshipful reverance. She had earned their respect through many long and bloody fights as she consolidated the tribes in the area. “Back to it, you wallowing bastards!” Grulla barked. Alarmed squeals erupted from the idle farrow as they immediately surged to attack their wooden targets.

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Helga and Grulla continued in silence, making their way through the orderly rows of farrow huts. They heard the sound of gunfire as they moved through the camp. Beyond the main encampment, farrow brigands were practicing with their pig irons, firing into a berm of piled earth. “Lord Carver is coming,” Helga said without preamble, feeling a surge of dread at the powerful farrow’s name. “His forces were spotted entering our territory this morning.” Grulla’s hand instinctively fell to the haft of the axe at her belt. “How many?” she said, fairly growling the words. “If he wants a fight, we’ll give him one.” “That’s the thing,” Helga said. “He sent word he wants to talk.” Grulla shook her head. “He thinks you will simply step aside. You can’t possibly trust him. He has conquered or killed every warlord and chief who stood against him. Even Midas now serves him.” It was true that Carver’s subjugation of Midas was troubling. She would have expected the proud and stubborn bone grinder to fight to the death before submitting to that indignity. Helga grunted. “I will hear him. It could be a ruse, of course. If we must fight, we will. Carver will bleed if he seeks to take my lands.” “Good,” Grulla said. Helga smiled, but a knot of apprehension tightened in her stomach. She knew the strength of her forces, which she would gladly pit against that of any other warlord in the Marches. But Carver was something different. It was not simply his army that Helga feared—it was also his command of the terrible monstrosities provided for him by his pet human doctor and inventor. She had heard tales of their unnatural ferocity and speed. “Come,” Helga said. “We must prepare to meet our honored guest.”

Lord Carver was perplexed. The feeling made him want to take Hand of God from his back and kill something. Instead he turned to the thickly muscled bone grinder warlock behind him. “This is her encampment?” They had moved forward from the main army and closer to the walls, along with a small honor guard of warbeasts and brigands. “Yes,” Midas said. “The largest of several.” “This does not look like a farrow compound,” Carver said. “It looks almost . . . human.” Midas nodded. “Helga has strange ideas about how warriors should be trained.” “Trained? Farrow are not trained; we are born warriors, and the stronger rise above the weaker. Still, she has managed to seize a large expanse.” “And swiftly,” Midas said. “She has defeated many.” It was true. Helga had proven herself a mighty warrior, subjugating many of the male chieftains in the area and forcing them to serve her, then absorbing their tribes into her own. “Her lands are the equal of those once held by several of your greatest warlords.” “Perhaps her strange ways have some merit,” Carver said grudgingly. “I have heard her farrow are both disciplined and precise. Though it likely takes a lot of bother, more than I would be willing to put up with.” Carver crinkled his snout. He’d never liked that human word, discipline. He’d heard Arkadius say it when speaking of the farrow, as something they lacked. He looked down at the encampment in the valley below them. The orderly rows of buildings, the palisade wall and deep ditch encircling the camp, the neat lines of stakes within and just behind the ditch—all spoke of this discipline. He quickly assessed how difficult it would be to attack such a camp. Even his road hogs would have trouble negotiating that ditch, and the narrow entry would bottleneck his forces, largely negating the advantage of his superior numbers. Looking back to the lines of his gathered army, Carver saw a number of his chiefs eyeing the encampment with troubled expressions. Midas said, “If she sees this as an invasion and attacks . . .” Carver snorted. “Ridiculous,” he said. “She is ambitious, not stupid. She will speak with me.” Midas drew a deep breath, and Carver sensed he wanted to say more. Midas was not used to accepting orders, but he held his tongue.

“I seek a mate, and there are few females worthy to bear my progeny,” Carver said. “I have chosen her above all others for this honor.” “She may see it differently.” “Impossible,” Carver said. “But if she would rather fight than accept my offer, I will crush any champions she sends against me.” Midas did not look convinced. “As you say, but she may not trouble with formalities. She may just send her army. Or shoot you from here.”

“if she would rather fight than accept my offer, I will crush any champions she sends against me.” The mere thought of such an affront sent white-hot bolts of rage coursing through Carver. He would annihilate any forces sent to discourage him. If Midas could not stomach a fight, Carver would slaughter them without his help. “That’s a good sign,” Midas said, pointing toward the encampment. A small group of farrow had come forth and was heading in their direction. A tall and stout female, clad in steel plate and gripping a great spear and shield, walked at the fore. This could only be Helga. Armed for war, she cut an impressive figure. Beside her walked another heavily armored female chief, a subordinate carrying a massive axe. A pair of razor boars advanced ahead of Helga, obviously leashed to her mental command. Following these were slaughterhousers moving in three ranks of ten, their poleaxes held high, their movements synchronized. Again, Carver was struck by how human it all looked— the order, the discipline. He looked back at his own troops milling about or lounging in the shade of the few withered trees they could find. They seemed almost lazy in comparison to Helga’s slaughterhousers. He saw that Helga’s farrow were headed for an open area, clear of boulders and other obstructions. It was not lost on him that with their longer weapons her slaughterhousers would have the advantage on that field. So she was a thinker and a warrior. He was intrigued.

Minutes before they left the encampment Grulla had turned to Helga, deadly serious, and said, “We should just kill him.”

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Helga had considered this, but even with the hundreds of farrow she commanded and an entire pack of razor boars, she felt uncertain about facing Carver in open combat. Moreover, while his army looked only loosely ordered, their numbers were substantial. Even were she to perform a lightning strike on his immediate escort, she did think she could kill him before being encircled in turn. His resilience was the stuff of legends. “No,” she had told Grulla. “We’ll see what he wants.”

Helga continued, “I am not averse to considering the idea, though, given certain assurances.” She couldn’t deny that mating with Carver would have its advantages. She had not sought a mate because of the inherent problems involved, problems male chiefs and warlords could ignore. But if she could somehow maintain her standing and also gain access to the powerful hybrid warbeasts created by Carver’s pet arcanist, a more lasting alliance could be extremely advantageous.

Outside the shelter of her encampment she felt vulnerable. As they drew closer, she saw Carver’s war hogs more clearly and was both repulsed by their patchwork grotesquery and intrigued by their obvious strength. The smaller gun boars were also impressive, and she wondered how accurate their cannons might be.

“What assurances?” Carver said, plainly taken aback that she hadn’t immediately accepted the proposal.

Carver himself was a towering figure clad in heavy armor with spiked pauldrons and wielding a gargantuan twohanded blade, very much like a great cleaver, across his back. His right hand rested on a double-barreled scattergun holstered low on his hip. Next to Carver and slightly behind him was another large armored farrow with a saw-edged axe and a pair of large knives tucked through his belt. A huge cauldron filled with bones, meat, and other totems was chained to his back. In his own way, Midas was as fearsome-looking as his master.

“Second,” she continued, “tradition demands that a suitor prove himself in battle. I respect the old ways.”

“Lord Carver,” she called out. “I welcome you to my lands.” As Carver moved toward her, she glanced at Grulla, nodded, and sent a mental command to her razor boars to stay where they were. Then she and Grulla walked out to meet the great warlord. “Helga the Conqueror,” Carver said. “I have heard much of your exploits.” “I am flattered,” she said. He nodded imperiously. “But what brings you to my lands?” “I have come to bestow upon you a great honor.” Helga exchanged a wary look with Grulla and said, “Please, tell me, what is this boon?” “I require a strong female to bear my young, and there is none stronger than you. You will help me forge my dynasty,” Carver said, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of generosity. She stared at him, mouth open, as her mind raced. She found herself at a loss for words. “Again, you flatter me. This is indeed a  .  .  . surprising offer,” she said finally. “However, a pregnancy and the resulting time needed to raise young would put me in a vulnerable position. It would weaken my standing among my chiefs.” Carver nodded. “Underlings are a duplicitous lot.” He glanced back at Midas, who glowered in return.

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“First, I would want access to the creatures your human, Arkadius, provides to you,” she said. “That could be arranged,” Carver conceded.

“What are you doing?” Grulla hissed from behind her, but Helga ignored the battle master. She knew exactly what she was doing. “The old ways?” Carver said, surprised. “After my countless conquests, you would have me prove myself in battle?” “I would see your might firsthand,” Helga said. “You say I am worthy to bear your young; I only wish to determine if you are worthy. I have refused all others. I must know you are not just strong and skilled but are also one who can command well and seize spoils. Only a real battle can show this, not a simple one-on-one duel.” “Very well,” Carver said, considering. “I know where there are human villages not far from here, belonging to a tribe that has defended their lands from others in the past.” Helga’s eyes narrowed; she knew the settlements he meant. They belonged to a tribe that served the blackclads. She had considered adding those lands to hers in the past but had held back to avoid drawing the ire of the druids. If the blame for the attack were to fall on Carver instead, this could be her opportunity to gain the territory without direct reprisal. “Perhaps,” she allowed. Carver nodded decisively. “I will take but a fraction of my army, to prove my strength. You will accompany me and I will show you why I am the only suitor worthy of you.”

In truth Helga had no doubt Carver was a mighty warrior— perhaps the greatest farrow warrior who had ever lived— but she required some time to gauge the merits of what was proposed. Nonetheless, she could not deny that she found the prospect of seeing Carver’s war hogs in action quite compelling.

The two chiefs marched with their warriors toward the closest of the human settlements, some ten miles from her main encampment. Helga was outfitted for battle and carried the long hunting spear that had belonged to her father, a powerful chief in his own right. She also carried a shield fitted with a short cannon modified from one used by razorback crews. Carver had brought only Midas, a small number of warbeasts, and his immediate escort. Helga’s own force consisted of thirty slaughterhousers and twenty brigands, all marching in orderly ranks behind her and Grulla. Three razor boars moved ahead of her, controlled by her mental command. Her largest warbeast, the hulking bipedal great boar Snar, walked beside her. Her reason for bringing this large a force was simple. Carver had a reputation for being temperamental, and if for some reason he turned on her, she needed numbers to counter his aggression—not that she liked her odds in that scenario. “Look at them,” Grulla said to Helga, pointing at the brigands milling around Carver and Midas. “How has he conquered so many with fighters like that?” Carver didn’t seem to mind that his troops were more a mob than a trained fighting force. Helga replied, “Simple. He has numbers, considerable personal strength, and the monstrosities made for him by his human.” “You give him too much credit. He’s a thug. A strong one, surely, but still a thug.” “We cannot underestimate Carver,” Helga said. “He has shown enough cunning and strength to conquer every warlord in his path. And his warriors bear the scars of many battles. Individually, they know how to fight.” Grulla grunted and shook her head. “Maybe, but I—” Her point was cut short by the twang of crossbows discharging their bolts and the resulting howls of pain from the farrow struck by the missiles. They had entered an area strewn with large boulders and outcroppings of stone—a perfect place to spring an ambush. The bolts had struck Carver’s band, some fifty yards ahead of Helga’s force. “Slaughterhousers! Ring!” Helga shouted. Her warriors moved swiftly to form a circle around her and her beasts, a dense thicket of projecting blades. Helga summoned her will, and bright yellow runes flared around her outstretched hand. The spell washed over the slaughterhousers, shrouding them in arcane wards. More crossbow bolts came whizzing from the cover of nearby boulders but were turned aside. “Brigands! Two lines! Covering fire!” Grulla’s commands rang out loud and clear. The brigands split into two

groups to flank the ring of slaughterhousers, then began firing their pig irons at the shadowy figures hiding in the rocky terrain. A savage cry rose over the din of gunfire as a group of human warriors clad in animal skins and sand-colored clothing and armor charged Carver and his brigands. They wielded heavy cleft-bladed spears, and their armor bore stylized patterns and whorls. Helga counted twenty individuals. Carver surged forward with his war hogs in the middle of his farrow mob. He cut down two humans with his mammoth blade within seconds of first contact and blasted two more with his scattergun. His war hogs trampled, crushed, and flung aside any humans foolish enough to close, while his gun boars fired on those at the fringes. A crossbow bolt thudded into Helga’s shield, pulling her attention away from Carver. She glanced around and saw more human warriors emerging from cover, their crossbows bearing heavy blades on the stocks. Helga looked ahead and saw Carver’s small force had nearly overwhelmed the humans they were fighting. The arrogant warlord was showing her his skill in battle—well, she would show him why she was master of these lands. “Move aside!” Helga shouted. The slaughterhousers parted swiftly, allowing her and the great boar Snar to push through, followed closely by her razor boars. The humans were closing in on both sides. “Grulla!” Helga called out. “I have the left flank!” The battle master gave a stiff nod and began shouting orders to the farrow around her. Helga reached out to her beasts. She felt their animal fury coursing along her connection with them, and it filled her with a heady battle lust. The humans were coming on fast, and Helga urged her razor boars to charge. The two-hundred-pound beasts slammed into their foes, tusks ripping gaping wounds and splattering blood in wide crimson arcs. She sent Snar next and ran close behind him, spear readied at her right shoulder. The great boar barreled into a group of four humans, its armored fists rising and falling to smash the weak, pale creatures into gory paste. Helga ran out from behind Snar toward another group of humans firing their crossbows at her razor boars. They were backing up as they fired, clearly looking to retreat. She charged, summoning her magic to quicken her gait, and was on them before they realized the danger. She lunged with her spear to catch the first human in the throat, nearly taking his head off. The remaining three moved apart in an attempt to flank her. She took a step back, then lunged to her left and slammed

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her shield into the nearest one. The female staggered backward, and Helga’s spear followed, skewering her. Helga yanked her weapon free, whirled around, and flipped the weapon up into an overhand grip, better for close combat. She lashed out at her next opponent with a heavy hoof, smashing his knee. He went down, and she buried her spear in his guts. The final human warrior turned and ran. She let him get a dozen steps away, took aim with her shield cannon, and depressed the firing stud. The cannon unleashed a deafening roar, kicking hard, but the shot was true. Her target was blown forward, arms and legs flailing limply, a fist-sized hole in his torso. Helga scanned the battlefield. Their enemies either lay dead or were swiftly retreating, and Snar and her razor boars were greedily devouring the corpses. Carver was leaning on his sword thirty feet away. Clearly he had been watching her. She walked up to him, her spear balanced on her shoulder. “Well fought, Lord Carver,” she said. “And you,” he replied. “You prove yourself more worthy of my attentions with every passing minute.” “You took some casualties, I see.” She pointed at the many farrow lying dead on the sand behind the warlord. Her own forces were entirely intact. Carver snorted in irritation. “They were weak,” he said simply. “Or poorly trained.” Carver cocked his head and stared at her. His face was unreadable, but his eyes narrowed. “Perhaps,” he said after a long pause, “they could benefit from your methods.” Helga met his eye, and after a moment she gave him a small nod. “Let us continue on. I would see the mighty Lord Carver wipe this human settlement from my lands.” Carver offered her a tusk-filled smile. “That will soon come to pass.”

The settlement was surrounded. Its walls were stout, but its defenders were beginning to waver. There were already a dozen human bodies at the base of the wall, felled by pig irons from Helga’s bandits or spells hurled by Midas or Lord Carver. Sentries manning the palisade had fired crossbows down at the farrow with deadly accuracy. Neither side possessed the ranged advantage, and the farrow had backed off for the moment, knowing they had their enemy trapped.

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Carver had not yet sent his war hogs against the wall, but he would soon tire of the siege, use his beasts to batter down the walls, and then slaughter every human inside. It was an outcome that seemed inevitable. “You see, Helga?” Carver said. “These pitiful humans cannot stand before my strength.” Helga shrugged and said, “Your skill is beyond question, but I am keen to see how you will handle the final stage without losing half your warriors. Will you be rash, or can you be patient?” Carver scowled and said, “I shall—” A flash of bright light and a sound like distant thunder stopped him midsentence and caused all three farrow warlocks to whirl around. Before them stood a human wearing a hooded black cloak and carrying an axe-like weapon that appeared to be made entirely of wood. A blackclad. Helga’s razor boars and Carver’s war hogs instinctively surged toward the newcomer. The two warlocks pulled them back, though Helga noticed Carver let his beasts get a bit closer to the newcomer than she allowed hers. She was well aware blackclads had powerful magic. This one seemed unfazed by the huge beasts and the hundred armed farrow in front of him. “Warlords Carver and Helga,” the human called out. There was no fear in his voice. “I would speak with you.” He spoke in Cygnaran, which they understood easily enough, but he enunciated his words with an exaggerated care and slowness that made Helga bristle. “What do you want, human?” Lord Carver said. “Have you come to challenge me?” Helga doubted that. The blackclad had come alone, so he likely wasn’t looking for a fight. “I am Wayfarer Ilius,” the human said. “You must end your attack on this settlement. It is protected.” Helga frowned. She had known the tribe here to be connected to the druids but had not expected them to intervene directly. “Why should I not crush you along with the rest of these feeble humans?” Carver said, leaning casually on the haft of Hand of God. The black hood hid most of the human’s face, but Helga saw his mouth twist downward. “If you continue this attack, the retaliation will be more terrible than you can imagine.” He held up his staff and pointed at something behind Carver. On a high bluff above the village stood a tree she was sure hadn’t been there before. Several objects hung from its gnarled, leafless branches by short lengths of rope—skulls, farrow skulls among them. Helga felt cold dread settle into

the pit of her stomach. She knew the legend of the Tree of Fate, a being that fed on blood. Calamity followed where it appeared. “That is Wurmwood, Lord Carver,” Midas said, breaking the silence that had settled over the farrow. “This is no idle threat.” Carver fumed. “We have bled in this battle, and my farrow have been promised spoils! Your tree does not frighten me.” The tree did frighten Helga; whatever its connection to the village, it was not an entity to provoke blindly. But she could smell the possibility of advantage beneath the druid’s words, and she said, “I wonder why the human came to treat with us rather than simply unleashing the power of Wurmwood upon us? Perhaps there is an agreement that can be made to our benefit.” Carver only grunted, but Midas nodded, his eyes gleaming. He turned to the blackclad. “Do you have something to offer us in exchange for giving up our spoils, druid?” After a moment the human said, “You would find little of value here, but there is another place where great gains could be had, for those willing to take risks.” Helga snorted. “You would turn us against your enemies? That is fair. But speak plainly and do not insult us.” The blackclad inclined his head. “Very well. Go north. There you will find a trollkin settlement, newly established and filled with warriors wounded and tired from a great battle. There is much to be gained from their destruction.” It was a tempting proposition. Taking a large trollkin settlement would provide food, supplies, and—most importantly—valuable weapons and armor. It would also allow Helga more time to turn Carver’s proposal to her full advantage. His blood already enflamed by combat, Carver had yet to see the full benefit. “End the attack?” he said. “Hogwash! Why should we?” Midas’ ear twitched as he looked at his leader with barely concealed disdain. “These humans have proven to be an unworthy foe, Lord Carver,” Helga said. Even were she present with her entire army, she would be reluctant to provoke Wurmwood. But Carver had his pride and would not back down unless he could do so without appearing weak.

Midas muttered, “Troll livers and hearts make powerful fetishes, too.” Seeing Carver’s unimpressed look, he added in a stronger tone, “Trollkin produce fine weapons, and Ironhide’s are likely to have powder stores as well. Your chieftains have been running lean for too long. They grow restless for fresh spoils.” Helga was surprised and gratified to hear him support the notion. “If they are depleted, we must strike soon. Trollkin resilience is well known; their wounded will recuperate if we wait.” Midas nodded his agreement, but bloodlust still shaded Carver’s expression. Helga met his glowering gaze. “There is another reason,” she said. “We should do it because together we can. Ironhide is said to have a mighty army. Each of our forces on its own might not be enough.” Carver huffed menacingly, but she pressed on. “Our forces blended, the pair of us marching at the fore—surely we can accomplish great things. Let this be our true test, Lord Carver. Let us lead our great armies in battle, side by side, for the glory of a future dynasty.” Carver scratched at the tuft of fur on his chin. He was spattered with blood and stank of sweat and death. Helga knew she was standing on the precipice of disaster; the unpredictable warlord might do anything at this moment. He did the one thing she didn’t expect: he smiled. “Very well, human,” Carver said to the blackclad. “We will leave your village standing. But if you are lying about these trollkin and their wealth, I promise our retribution will be more terrible than anything you or any human can imagine.” The blackclad nodded. “I do not promise it will be easy. You should hurry,” he said, and then he disappeared in a burst of green light. Carver turned to Midas. “Return and gather the rest of my army. Send word to Arkadius as well, and have him bring Sturm and Drang.” Midas nodded. As he turned to go, he also nodded at Helga—though whether that signified the beginning of an alliance or simply grudging respect, she could not say. “Now, Helga, you will see why the world will one day lie at my feet,” Carver said with a savage grin. “You will see why my dynasty will rule for a thousand years, and why I am called the Bringer of Most Massive Destruction!”

“The human is right about the weak state of this new settlement,” Midas said. “I have heard of these trollkin. They are Ironhide’s people, from the Thornwood. Very wealthy, at least they were before they fled their homes.” Carver grunted, his temper cooling slightly. “Trollkin are more worthy foes than these cowardly humans.”

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Helga the Conqueror Minion Farrow Warlock She intrigues me. She stands apart from the other warlords, as cunning and adaptable as they are pig-headed and intractable.

—Dr. Arkadius

Feat: Grand Finale

HELGA

The great warlord Helga can draw on her arcane reserves to bestow mystical strength on the minions fighting beside her. Their every blow becomes a battering ram, capable of sending enemies flying back to shatter through walls, trees, or anything else in their way.

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Cyclone

2 Self

Dash

While in Helga’s control area, when a friendly Faction model hits an enemy model with a normal melee attack, the enemy model can be slammed d6˝ directly away from the attacking model. The POW of the slam damage roll is equal to the P+S of the attack. The POW of collateral damage is equal to the STR of the attacking model. Grand Finale lasts for one turn. Minion – This model will work for Circle, Legion, Skorne, and Trollbloods.

Field Marshal – This includes this model.

SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

5 7 6 6 15 16 8

Shield Cannon RNG ROF AOE POW

10 1 — 13

Hunting Spear

POW P+S

5

12

Fury 6 Damage 16 Field Allowance C Warbeast Points +6 Small base

HELGA

Tough

Farrow Warlock – This model can have only Minion Farrow warbeasts in its battlegroup. Field Marshal [Gang Fighter] – Models in this model’s battlegroup gain Gang Fighter. (When making a melee attack targeting an enemy model in melee range of another friendly Faction warrior model, a model with Gang Fighter gains +2 to melee attack and melee damage rolls.)

Hunting Spear Magical Weapon Reach Inflict Pain – When it hits a warbeast with this weapon, this model can place 1 fury point on or remove 1 fury point from the warbeast. Set Defense – A model in this model’s front arc suffers –2 on charge, slam power attack, and impact attack rolls against this model.

Helga the Conqueror stands as an equal among the most formidable warlords the farrow have ever produced, controlling a vast swath of territory in the southeastern Bloodstone Marches. Having secured these lands through a deft combination of strength and cunning, Helga has earned both the respect and the fear of her cohorts. In a time when most farrow with a thirst for conquest have bent the knee to Lord Carver, she remains independent. Helga gained power in the traditional way of her people— through force and coercion. Her rise was all the more

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Spells

–

–

No No

2 Self Ctrl

–

No No

Defender’s Ward

2

6

–

– Yes No

Distraction

2

8

–

–

No Yes

Muzzle

2

10

–

12

No Yes

This model immediately makes a full advance. It cannot be targeted by free strikes during this movement. At the end of this movement, this model can make one melee attack against each model in its LOS that is in its melee range. Cyclone can be cast only once per turn. While in this model’s control area, friendly Faction warrior models cannot be targeted by free strikes. This model and friendly Faction warrior models activating in its control area gain +1 SPD. Dash lasts for one turn. Target friendly Faction model/unit gains +2 DEF and ARM.

Target enemy warrior model/unit cannot make ranged attacks and suffers –2 DEF and MAT for one round. An enemy warbeast damaged by Muzzle cannot advance toward this model for one round.

Tactical Tips

Grand Finale – The slammed model is moved only half the distance rolled if its base is larger than the slamming model’s.

noteworthy for taking place in a culture dominated by males. She overcame dozens of tribal leaders through strength of arms, often defeating rival chieftains in single combat. All these tribes she absorbed, adding their strength to hers. Though a fierce warrior by any measure, Helga has compounded her triumphs by skillfully employing her warlock powers to her advantage. Her ability to command the strength of various porcine warbeasts has helped assure her place as undisputed master of her domain. In battle Helga is direct and uncompromising. With her great spear and shield cannon, she is a whirlwind of steel on the battlefield, equally at ease skewering her foes or blasting them to pieces. Off the battlefield Helga personally leads raids on trollkin and human settlements for weapons, food, and other valuables. While her rise to power may have been traditional, the manner in which she controls her war band is quite unconventional. She has driven them to reinforce and strengthen her holdings with formidable defensive structures. She has implemented rigid discipline over her warriors, forcing them to endure rigorous training and adopt tactics most farrow would dismiss as too humanlike. Helga is a natural leader, and it is more than simple fear of her wrath that compels the loyalty of her followers. Her warriors regard her with awe. They are proud to bear her banners and eager to bring her spoils.

Helga has lately drawn the attention of Lord Carver, a development she knew to be inevitable given the extent of his conquests. Surprisingly, he came to her not to force her into submission but because he sees her as something unique: the key to a dynasty, the only farrow worthy to bear his young. While as yet unwilling to make any such commitment, Helga has not rebuffed Carver’s advances. She knows that as a warlock she has much to gain from

joining the Thornfall Alliance, but she would do so on her own terms. She may be eager to gain access to the weapons Carver’s army has created, but she is determined to achieve this goal without relinquishing her autonomy. In return, she would bring to the alliance both a fierce and disciplined army and her own tremendous talents as a warlock and battle commander.

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Jaga-Jaga, the Death Charmer Minion Gatorman Warlock

The will of Kossk comes to me in the bloom of blood in the river, in the unwinding of spilled entrails, in the taste of flesh killed by my hand.

–Jaga-Jaga

JAGA-JAGA SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 6 6 5 14 16 9

Death Snake

POW P+S

5

11

Fury 7 Damage 16 Field Allowance C Warbeast Points +5 Medium base

Feat: Legion of Death

Those who perish near JagaJaga dance to her will and their broken bodies become like puppets under her cruel control. The darkness and cold of the grave surrounds them, sowing weakness and vulnerability.

When a living or undead enemy non-warlock, nonwarcaster warrior model is boxed by an attack while in Jaga-Jaga’s control area this turn, you can take control of it. If solo, you do, the model becomes a friendly Faction Undead gains Dark Shroud, heals 1 damage point, and can immediately make a full advance. During this movement, the model cannot be targeted by free strikes. The model cannot activate and is removed from play when Legion of Death expires. Legion of Death lasts for one round. (While in the melee range of a model with Dark Shroud, enemy models suffer –2 ARM.) Minion – This model will work for Circle, Legion, Skorne, and Trollbloods.

JAGA-JAGA

Amphibious – This model ignores the effects of deep and shallow water and can move through them without penalty. While completely in deep water, it cannot be targeted by ranged or magic attacks and can make attacks only against other models in deep water. While completely in deep water, this model does not block LOS. Gatorman Warlock – This model can have only Minion Gatorman warbeasts in its battlegroup.

Death Snake Reach

Chain Weapon – This attack ignores the Buckler and Shield weapon qualities and Shield Wall. Poison – Gain an additional die on this weapon’s damage rolls against living models.

Twisting her way up from the deep waters of the Marchfells, Jaga-Jaga has risen to prominence as a high priestess of the Blindwater Congregation. In her talons writhe the spirits of death and of the swamps, eager to bend to her designs. She is an enigmatic creature, whispering into the darkness to converse with ravening things of shadow. Around her the unseen spirits bubble close to the surface, drawn to her as leeches are drawn to disturbances in the water. Other gatormen commune with such spirits, but they perceive only a glimmer of what she knows. Her eyes pierce the tenebrous barrier between Caen and that which lies beyond. She sees a larger, immaterial world, and from it she charms forth intangible beings to serve her whims and offer her council.

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Spells

Cost RNG AOE POW UP OFF

Deadweight

2

8

–

12

No Yes

Escort

2 Self Ctrl

– Yes No

Ghost Walk

3

6

–

–

Grave Wind

2

6

–

– Yes No

Spellpiercer

2 Self Ctrl

When Deadweight destroys an enemy living or undead model, choose an enemy model within 2˝ of the destroyed model. The chosen model must forfeit either its movement or its action during its next activation, as its controller chooses. Warbeasts in this model’s battlegroup beginning their activations in its control area gain +2˝ movement. This model gains +2 ARM while one or more warbeasts in its battlegroup are within 3˝ of it.

No No

Target friendly model/unit gains Ghostly for one turn. (A model with Ghostly can advance through terrain and obstacles without penalty and can advance through obstructions if it has enough movement to move completely past them. An affected model cannot be targeted by free strikes.) Target friendly Faction model gains +2 DEF and Poltergeist. (When an enemy model misses the model with Poltergeist with an attack, immediately after the attack is resolved you can choose to push the enemy model d3˝ directly away from the model with Poltergeist.)

–

No No

While within this model’s control area, friendly Faction model/units’ and Blessed. Spellpiercer lasts for one weapons gain Magical Weapon round. (When making an attack with a weapon with Blessed, ignore spell effects that add to a model’s ARM or DEF.)

Tactical Tips

Amphibious – This model can attack other models that are in deep water. Deadweight – Remember, a model that forfeits its action cannot run. Escort – Modifiers to movement apply only to a model’s normal movement. Legion of Death – Legion of Death models can make free strikes. If you lose control of a model you controlled with Legion of Death, it is still removed from play when Legion of Death expires.

Jaga-Jaga is linked to the dark forces of the swamp through her forebears. Her bloodline has a long history of brokering power with such spirits, and she has maintained many of these pacts. It is by dark and bloody rituals that JagaJaga’s line has long called upon Kossk as a wellspring of power, supplicating the great spirit by walking the path of predation and becoming friends with death. The boons granted by Kossk must be repaid with sacrifice, however, or the spirit takes what it desires from the flesh of the seer. It was through Kossk that Jaga-Jaga had visions of Bloody Barnabas as a living shadow of her master, walking the bloody path as an avatar of the spirit and its hunger for slaughter. Though Jaga-Jaga knew Barnabas’ actions would doubtless lead to the death of countless gatormen, she also believed that this would leave a stronger people, tempered by conflict and imbued with spiritual power. Carefully weighing the options set before her, she chose to entwine her fate with Barnabas’.

Jaga-Jaga soon made her way to the territory of the Blindwater Congregation to meet the venerable warlock. She spoke to him of unknowable truths, of his imminent and glorious fate, of tides of slaughter and powers unimaginable. To the amazement of those such as Calaban who predicted Barnabas would destroy her, he instead brought the perceptive Jaga-Jaga into his fold. Each step Barnabas takes toward his goal of ascension, Jaga-Jaga walks with him, whispering in his ear the words of the spirits. She is now one of his favored mystics, one of many tools he uses to sharpen his understanding of the world beyond. In Barnabas she sees singular supernatural potential that she can shape to her will. From her position within the Blindwater Congregation, she works steadily toward darker, greater goals.

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Efaarit Scouts Minion Light Cavalry Solo Only the deadly and the useful make it in the harsh world. We are both.

EFAARIT Scouts SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

8 5 6 7 14 14 8

Heavy Hunting Rifle RNG ROF AOE POW

12 1 —

7

Mount

POW

10

Damage 5 Field Allowance 2 Point Cost 3 Large base

Minion – This model will work for Circle, Skorne, Trollbloods, and the Thornfall Alliance pact.

EFAARIT Scouts Pathfinder

Camouflage – This model gains an additional +2 DEF when benefiting from concealment or cover.

Sniper – When damaging a warjack or warbeast with a ranged attack, choose which column or branch suffers damage. Instead of rolling damage on a ranged attack, this model can inflict 1 damage point. A model that participates in a combined ranged attack loses Sniper until the attack is resolved.

Heavy Hunting Rifle

Armor Piercing – When calculating damage from this weapon, halve the base ARM stats of models hit that have medium or larger bases. This weapon gains +2 to damage rolls against models with small bases.

Tribal nomads native to the Bloodstone Desert, the efaarit are a hardy race of talented survivalists. These untiring and observant beings patiently study opponents to exploit their weaknesses and wear them down with precise attacks and ambushes. They strike from the heart of raging sandstorms or the cover of distant dunes, always using the desert to their advantage. Atop their belligerent “bletcher” mounts, efaarit scout teams cross even the most punishing terrain to outflank an enemy. Precise fire from their powerful hunting rifles can bring down even massive warbeasts, as these scouts target joints and gaps in their adversaries’ armor with prodigious accuracy. Tribes of efaarit have followed the westward sweep of skorne forces at a distance, curious about what could motivate such an enormous military endeavor. An opportunistic race somewhat akin to the gobbers of western Immoren, the efaarit roam this new land to see what fortunes it holds. The

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—Efaarit scout aphorism

Tactical Tip

Camouflage – If a model ignores concealment or cover, it also ignores concealment or cover’s Camouflage bonus.

skorne typically view them as unworthy slaves, but even they recognize the efaarit’s proficiency as pathfinders and guides. Some have sought their fortune among the people of western Immoren, trading on their expertise as scouts and snipers. As they fight alongside unfamiliar allies, these displaced efaarit have had to rapidly adapt to their new surroundings. By modifying centuries-old techniques refined in the heart of the Bloodstone Desert, the efaarit are carving out a new home in Immoren, one deadly shot at a time.

Maximus

Minion Farrow Character Solo Maximus is the arrow that, once loosed, points the way to slaughter.

—Lord Carver

Tactical Tip

Spell Ward – This model is shielded from friendly and enemy spells alike.

Once a powerful warlord serving Lord Carver, Maximus proved his worth by destroying Carver’s enemies time and time again. He was long undefeated, and his influence among the farrow was on the rise. Despite his already fearsome reputation, Maximus’ enduring legend was born when he and his warband came upon a group of Greylords and their doom reaver slaves searching for Orgoth relics in the desolate swamps of the Marchfells. Maximus and his farrow attacked the Khadoran intruders but underestimated their strength. Caught off guard by the Greylords’ magic and the martial skill of the doom reavers, the farrow were cut down. Only Maximus survived to flee into the swamp.

Minion – This model will work for Circle, Legion, Skorne, and Trollbloods.

MAXIMUS

MAXIMUS SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

5 7 8 4 13 16 7

Abomination

Fellblade

Fearless

6

Tough



POW P+S

13

Damage 8

Field Allowance C Berserk – When this Point Cost 2 model destroys one or Small base more models with a melee attack during its combat action, immediately after the attack is resolved it must make one additional melee attack against another model in its melee range. Relentless Charge – This model gains Pathfinder activations it charges.

during

Spell Ward – This model cannot be targeted by spells. Unyielding – While engaging an enemy model, this model gains +2 ARM.

Fellblade

Magical Weapon Reach Weapon Master

Rage at the loss of his warband transformed Maximus and he returned to the Khadoran encampment alone. He attacked while most slept, killing several before they roused, but was then surrounded and set upon. When his weapon splintered, Maximus snatched up a fellblade from a slain doom reaver. The powerful magic of the Orgoth weapon took hold, heightening his rage. He cut down the remaining Greylords and doom reavers in seconds. Maximus has become a creature consumed by hatred and driven to slaughter by the ancient magic of his nightmarish weapon. He was once accorded the respect and influence due a great warlord among the farrow. Now he occupies a place somewhere between awe and terror among his own kind, a gore-splattered hero whose legend grows with each gruesome kill. Maximus wanders the wild places of western Immoren, his fellblade pushing him to seek out death and bloodshed. He still retains some loyalty to Lord Carver, who gladly makes use of this maddened farrow to terrify and slaughter his enemies.

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Meat Thresher Minion Farrow Battle Engine It is the crowning achievement of our race—it kills and cooks at the same time.

THRESHER SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

6 12 6

5 10 19 10

Hailer RNG ROF AOE POW

12 1 — 12

Minion – This model will work for Skorne, Trollbloods, and the Thornfall Alliance pact.

THRESHER Construct

Bulldoze – When this model advances into POW P+S B2B contact with an 4 16 enemy model during its Damage 22 activation, it can push that Field Allowance 2 model up to 2˝ directly Point Cost 9 away from it. A model can be pushed by Bulldoze Huge base only once per activation. Bulldoze has no effect when this model makes a trample power attack.

Crusher

Ride-by Attack – This model can make ride-by attacks. Weapon Platform – This model can make melee and ranged attacks in the same activation. When this model makes its initial melee attacks or a power attack, it can also make its initial ranged attacks. This model can make ranged attacks even while in melee.

Hailer

Auto Fire [2d3] – Make 2d3 ranged attacks targeting a primary target and any number of secondary targets within 2˝ of the first target. Ignore intervening models when declaring secondary targets. A secondary target cannot be targeted by more attacks than the primary target. Auto Fire counts as one attack for ROF.

Crusher

Blood Reaper – When this model makes its first melee attack during its activation, it makes one melee attack with this weapon against each model in its LOS and this weapon’s melee range. Grinding Wheel – This weapon gains an additional die on attack rolls against small-based models. Knockdown – When a model is hit by an attack with this weapon, it is knocked down. Trash – Gain an additional damage die against knocked down targets.

As the farrow continue to aggressively expand their holdings under the command of Lord Carver, their victories over more conventional military forces give them access to more salvage than ever before. While much of this plunder has gone to fuel the twisted experiments of Dr. Arkadius, he is not the sole architect of the Thornfall’s martial might. Some conservative tribal chiefs remain wary of the costs of Arkadius’ “progress,” but many among the new generation of farrow have embraced his philosophy. This enthusiasm has led to a renaissance in technology as enterprising young farrow combine principles of engineering with their own sensibilities.

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—Midas

Tactical Tips

Auto Fire – These attacks are simultaneous. Attacks against targets beyond this weapon’s range will automatically miss. Blood Reaper – The melee attacks are all simultaneous.

Though many of these questionable innovations end in disaster, some few come to successful realization. The meat thresher is perhaps the crowning achievement of farrow ingenuity, particularly as it owes none of its design to Dr. Arkadius. Indeed, it is unlikely that even his demented mind could have conceived of this monstrous fusion of riveted steel and porcine power. Only the farrow, with their blatant disregard for both safety and the applied laws of physics, could have birthed this rolling death machine. Despite the meat thresher’s questionable engineering, its design embodies the innate pragmatism of the farrow race. Having plundered a large stock of coal and spare parts during raids, farrow engineers devised a simplistic yet startlingly effective engine. Rather than relying on a complex boiler system to generate steam power, the meat thresher uses its furnace to heat a massive steel cylinder designed to hold a small herd of young razor boars. As the cylinder heats up, the panicked creatures begin to run, thus powering the machine’s locomotion. Of course, with no way to actually escape the heat, the razor boars are slowly cooked alive. Any other race would view this result as a design flaw, but the farrow see it as a valuable innovation. After all, razor boars are plentiful, and nothing stokes a farrow’s appetite like a hard-fought battle. The “efficiency” of the meat thresher’s design extends to its primary weaponry. The machine uses its forward momentum to crush enemy soldiers beneath its rotating drum. After testing, a particularly inspired farrow realized that with a series of blades added to the cylinder, it would simultaneously slice and tenderize its victims’ flesh. Upon seeing the meat thresher in action for the first time, Lord Carver ordered a second tier constructed atop the machine’s frame to hold a spinning hailer. This weapon’s impressive rate of fire combines with the machine’s armored bulk to make the thresher the perfect assault vehicle. What it does not mow down with heavy-caliber rounds, it minces and flattens beneath its bladed drum. While these weapons are still few in number, their slapdash construction means that despite the farrow’s minimal industrial manufacturing capability, the number of these nightmarish contraptions will only continue to increase.

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Sacral Vault Minion Gatorman Battle Engine When Kossk feasts on our sacrifice, the god’s strength becomes ours.

SACRAL VAULT SPD STR MAT RAT DEF ARM CMD

4 10 — 5

9 20 10

Spectral Fury RNG ROF AOE POW

12 1 — 13

Damage 20 Field Allowance 2 Point Cost 9 Huge base

Minion – This model will work for Circle, Legion, and the Blindwater Congregation pact.

SACRAL VAULT Construct

Eyeless Sight Gunfighter

Arcane Vortex – This model can immediately negate any spell that targets it or a model within 3˝ of it by spending 1 soul token before the RNG of the spell is measured. The negated spell does not take effect, but its COST remains spent.

Crypt of Souls – At the start of each of your Control Phases, this model gains d3 soul tokens if it does not have any. This model gains one soul token for each living model destroyed in its command range. This model can have up to five soul tokens at a time. During its activation, this model can spend soul tokens to boost attack or damage rolls at one token per boost. Soul Sacrifice – If this model is in a friendly Faction warlock’s control area, the warlock can remove 1 soul token from this model to gain a fury point. Each warlock can do this only once per turn and only during its activation. Soulstorm – While this model has one or more soul tokens, enemy models entering or ending their activations within 2˝ of it immediately suffer 1 damage point.

Spectral Fury Magical Weapon

Deathly Domination – When this weapon boxes a living or Undead non-warcaster, non-warlock enemy warrior model, you can immediately spend one soul token to take control of the model and make a full advance with the enemy model followed by a normal melee attack, then the boxed model is removed from play. The boxed model cannot be targeted by free strikes during this movement. Rapid Fire [d3] – When you decide to make initial attacks with this weapon at the beginning of this model’s combat action, roll a d3. The total rolled is the number of initial attacks this model can make with this weapon during the combat action, ignoring ROF.

Though they lie divided across the many swamps and bogs of western Immoren, the gatorman tribes have always shared the worship of Kossk and the belief in absorbing an enemy’s power through ritual consumption of their flesh. While most gatormen conduct these ritualistic feasts in small ceremonies, a few of the larger and more powerful tribes have constructed massive edifices dedicated to ritual sacrifice. These sacral vaults are specifically constructed to harness and store the energies of blood and death, literally housing the souls of those killed in its vicinity to power the dark rituals of the attending bokor.

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—Bokor Kallok 

Each sacral vault is a monument to the worship of Kossk and a fearsome example of the power that can be harnessed through deathly energies. When awoken by a bokor, a supernatural windstorm whips about the vault, carrying the forms of disembodied spirits. This ethereal wind swirls violently as the spirits attempt to break the bonds of the cage that holds them. Their spiritual frenzy allows these ghostly bodies to rip at the physical world, making the surrounding area particularly dangerous to those who have not appeased Kossk. At the direction of the bokor, these spirits can be sent forth to unleash their eternal frustration upon enemies far from the vault itself. For victims, a gruesome death at the hands of the vault’s occupants—their flesh rent to bloody rags by howling spirits, but their soul passing on to Urcaen—is in truth the best outcome to be hoped for, granted to only a few. For most, a far worse fate awaits them as the vault itself ensnares their souls. Their bodies are used against their comrades at the behest of the vault’s master before their souls are ultimately ripped from them and locked into the inescapable prison of the unholy tomb, there to await the call of their new master. Such is the hunger of the sacral vault that it does not distinguish between friend and foe; all living souls are inexorably drawn to its cold embrace. For the gatormen, however, such a fate is viewed with reverence. The most powerful sacral vaults are built of stone ruins unearthed from the swamps and long steeped in death and decay. The Blindwater region contains many aged fragments of Orgoth construction or older ruins from the days of the Molgur. These slabs are already inscribed in the profane texts of these civilizations and serve as perfect conduits for the power of death as they are set one atop the other to create a towering edifice. The bokurs consecrate these structures in blood and pile them with bones and candles made from the tallow of their victims, creating a haven for the spirits of the restless dead. The rise of the Blindwater Congregation under Bloody Barnabas has greatly increased the demand for and the use of sacral vaults. Unification has brought together both more building material and more mystic talent than ever before. The sacral vaults now being constructed were designed with mobility in mind so that their formidable strength might be used against Barnabas’ enemies. Not only does this allow the gatormen to employ these holy structures in battle, but Barnabas also believes that the ability to gather multiple sacral vaults together at the height of his greatest battle will be critical to his successful transcendence to godhood.

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Model Gallery

Fyanna the Lash

Helga the Conqueror

Legion Blighted Nyss Character Solo

Minion Farrow Warlock

Una the Falconer Circle Character Solo

Absylonia, Daughter of Everblight Legion Epic Blighted Nyss Warlock

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Tyrant Zaadesh

Jaga-Jaga, the Death Charmer

Skorne Character Solo

Minion Gatorman Warlock

Horgle IronStrike Trollblood Trollkin Character Solo

Borka, Vengeance of the Rimeshaws Trollblood Epic Trollkin Cavalry Warlock

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Dozer & Smigg Trollblood Dire Troll Character Heavy Warbeast

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Argus Moonhound Circle Light Warbeast

Neraph Legion Heavy Warbeast

Rotterhorn Griffon Circle Light Warbeast

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Strider Blightblades Legion Blighted Nyss Unit

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Praetorian Keltarii Skorne Unit

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Painting GUide HORDES: Exigence is packed with monstrous new models ready to be brought to life by your brush. We start with a full step-by-step guide for Absylonia, Daughter of Everblight that includes methods you can use for other Legion models as well. You’ll also find tips for approaching some specific

areas on your models: adding character to meaty trollkin fists, creating a convincing glow on heated metal, painting realistic metallic weapons, and bringing out the delicate details of feathers. These techniques help models stand out on any tabletop, so grab your brushes and paints and get ready to take your models to the next level!

Absylonia, Daughter of Everblight To bring out the inherent motion and character of this dynamic model, we integrated some additional textures and tones into the standard Legion paint scheme. Follow along as this monster comes to life and takes to the skies.

Flesh Step 1) Basecoat the flesh areas using Frostbite mixed with small amounts of Exile Blue and Skorne Red. Step 2) Darken the basecoat color with additional Exile Blue and Skorne Red. Use this mixture to apply some shading to the flesh. Step 3) Add more Skorne Red and Exile Blue to the mixture used in step 2 and use it to define the deep shadows of the flesh.

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Step 4) Apply smooth blends of Morrow White to define the flesh highlights. You may need multiple layers to build up the color.

Wings Step 5) Highlight the wing membranes with Carnal Pink. Blend Carnal Pink into the flexible joints of the model as well. Step 6) With a mixture of Beaten Purple and Ironhull Grey, create a scale-like pattern on the wing membranes.

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Step 7) Add small amounts of Battlefield Brown and Exile Blue to the mixture from step 6, thin it with water, and blend it over the scale pattern as a translucent glaze. This will help integrate the pattern into the existing highlights and shadows. Step 8) Accentuate the scale pattern with a mixture of Umbral Umber and Exile Blue. Step 9) Apply subtle blended glazes of Beaten Purple and Exile Blue to further integrate the pattern.

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Spikes and Chitinous Armor Plates Step 10) Basecoat the spikes and chitinous armor plates with Battlefield Brown. Blend the edges into the flesh and add a subtle scale pattern by dabbing with the blending brush. Reinforce this pattern with some well-placed freehand scales. Step 11) Highlight the spikes and chitin with Beast Hide. Aim for a feathered texture to give these areas some extra detail. Step 12) Emphasize the highlights and texture with lines of ’Jack Bone.

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Step 13) Apply a blend of Thamar Black with Brown Ink over the tips of the spikes to help integrate the texture. Then paint lines of Thamar Black at the end of each spike to complete the effect.

Frostbite

Brown Ink

Exile Blue

Coal Black

Skorne Red

Menoth White Highlight

Morrow White Carnal Pink Beaten Purple Ironhull Grey Battlefield Brown Umbral Umber Beast Hide ’Jack Bone Thamar Black

Radiant Platinum Pig Iron

10

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13

Blue Ink Red Ink Quick Silver Menoth White Base Ember Orange Sanguine Highlight Yellow Ink

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PAINTING Guide

Cloth Step 14) Basecoat the cloth areas using Coal Black mixed with a small dot of Thamar Black. You need to basecoat only the surfaces that face the light; the other surfaces should be left primer black. Step 15) Add Frostbite to the basecoat mixture and apply highlights to the cloth. Step 16) Add a small amount of Menoth White Highlight to the mixture from step 15 and use this to apply final highlights to the cloth areas.

Armor

Step 20) Apply a coat of matte sealant. Once this is completely dry, highlight the armor with Quick Silver.

Face Step 21) Coat the eyes and teeth in Thamar Black to separate them from the rest of the model. Using an extremely fine detail brush, apply some final touches in Thamar Black and Morrow White to define the enraged expression, making it easier to read at a distance. Step 22) Paint each tooth with Menoth White Base, being careful to leave a border of black between them. Use the same color to start painting the eyes.

Step 18) Shade the metal areas with a mix of Coal Black, Beaten Purple, and Pig Iron.

Step 23) Highlight the teeth and eyes with dots of Menoth White Highlight. Then use glazes to add tones to the details of the face. Glaze the teeth and eyes with Ember Orange, then glaze the lips and eyes with Sanguine Highlight. Reapply any lines obscured by the glazes.

Step 19) Use a mixture of Thamar Black, Blue Ink, and Red Ink to apply lining and definition to the metal. Then return with Radiant Platinum to clean up the lines and rivets.

Step 24) Carefully add final tones to the eyes and teeth with a thin glaze of Yellow Ink and a thin glaze of Red Ink. Now you only need to base the model, and Absylonia will be ready to fly into battle!

Step 17) Basecoat the armor plates with Radiant Platinum, taking care that this layer appears solid and uniform.

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Trollkin Flesh: Big, Meaty Fists When you paint a Trollblood army, you’re going to paint a lot of big, meaty fists. Here we illustrate a simple and effective method for painting battered fists that are full of character. Step 1) Basecoat the flesh with Trollblood Base. Step 2) Apply initial shading using a mixture of Trollblood Base, Sanguine Base, and Thornwood Green.

Trollblood Base

Midlund Flesh

Sanguine Base

Hammerfall Khaki

Thornwood Green

Battledress Green

Cryx Bane Base

Menoth White Base

Underbelly Blue

Sanguine Highlight

Step 3) Add Cryx Bane Base to the mixture used in Step 2 and apply additional shading. Step 4) Blend highlights into the palms using Underbelly Blue. Step 5) Work lines and blends of Midlund Flesh into the knuckles and cuticles. Step 6) Blend Sanguine Base into the knuckles and cuticles. Step 7) Using Hammerfall Khaki, add lines on the fingernails. Leave just a little of the black undercoat uncovered. Step 8) Shade the nails by blending Battledress Green over the lines added in Step 7. Step 9) Highlight the nails with Menoth White Base. Finally, use Sanguine Highlight to paint small scratches onto the knuckles and cuticles to complete the battered appearance.

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PAINTING Guide

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Menoth White Highlight Greatcoat Grey

Khador Red Base Sanguine Highlight

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Khador Red Highlight Ember Orange

Heartfire Yellow Ink Red Ink

Horgle Ironstrike: Red-Hot Metal When Horgle Ironstrike takes to the battlefield, his redhot blade sets enemies aflame. Here’s how to achieve a fiery glow that will stand out on the tabletop and forewarn opponents of their doom. Step 1) Starting from the tip, wash the majority of the blade with watered-down Menoth White Highlight. Basecoat the base of the blade with Greatcoat Grey and blend the color so it fades as you move away from the hilt. Step 2) Make a glaze using Khador Red Base and Sanguine Highlight. Apply this to the base of the blade and blend the color into the white area. Step 3) Apply further glazing using Khador Red Highlight. The placement of the colors is key in achieving the glowing effect, so be careful about where you apply your glazing.

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Step 4) Starting from the tip this time, apply a glaze of Ember Orange to the blade. Step 5) Apply additional glazing using Heartfire. Work the color into the upper edge of each inscribed rune to help make them distinct. Step 6) Highlight the blade with Menoth White Highlight, concentrating the highlights toward the tip of the blade. Apply lines to the center of the runes to further define the shapes. Step 7) To punch up the color, make a glaze of Yellow Ink, Red Ink, and water and apply this to the whole area. Aim for a thin, even coat and be careful not to allow the ink to pool in the recesses of the model.

Metal Weapons Metal reflects light strongly, which makes for nice contrast on metal weapons between bright sections where light falls directly and dark areas where it doesn’t. To paint a convincing metal weapon, concentrate on the way each individual face interacts with the light source. Broad, flat faces, such as the cheek of an axe blade, often have a gradient from light to dark. Curved surfaces, such as on the trollkin hammer shown below, have a gradient that starts dark on one side, becomes brightest where the light would reflect directly toward the viewer, and darkens again as the surface curves back out of sight. Not every face should have a full gradient from light to shadow. Sections of a blade that face upward toward the light source may require only highlights, with no shading at all. Likewise, faces of a weapon that are overhung or facing the ground may need only shade colors. The placement of highlights and shading is what will make a painted weapon appear three-dimensional. The weapons shown here are all painted with the same colors. Step 1) Basecoat the weapon with Pig Iron, using several thin coats for smooth coverage. Step 2) Apply the first level of shading using Greatcoat Grey. This shading will begin to define the shape of the weapon.

Pig Iron

Battlefield Brown

Greatcoat Grey

Cold Steel

Exile Blue

Quick Silver

Step 3) For the second shade, mix Exile Blue with Battlefield Brown to create a rich, dark grey. Apply this shading more sparingly, concentrating on the areas of deepest shadow and on any chips, notches, and cracks in the surface. Step 4) Begin highlighting with Cold Steel. Concentrate on raised areas, edges between faces, and surfaces that face the light source. Step 5) Before applying the final highlights, apply matte varnish to your miniature and allow it dry thoroughly. This will enhance the final highlights by smoothing the blends and reducing the shine of the metallic paints. Use Quick Silver to apply highlights sparingly to the hard edges and the lower lips of chips and notches in the weapon. (Sometimes reflected light from the ground or other nearby surfaces will cause a downward-facing edge to catch the light. If you’re feeling adventurous, apply “bounce light” highlights to the underside of weapons as well.)

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PAINTING Guide

Feathers

Falcons

Step 1) The most important thing to do when painting feathers is to make sure the shaft of each feather is distinct. Start by painting each shaft with a fine, straight line of Trollblood Highlight. Step 2) Using ’Jack Bone, fill in the feathers with thin, distinct lines. Make sure each line is separate, with the black undercoat separating the lines from the central shaft and from one another. Step 3) Make a glaze of Bootstrap Leather and apply this to the feather tips. The glaze should be translucent enough to allow the lines beneath to show through. Step 4) Add a pattern to the feathers using several light glazes of Umbral Umber, taking care that the layers beneath remain visible. Step 5) Apply final texturing with a mixture of Umbral Umber and Exile Blue. Step 6) Use the mixture from step 5 to clean up any mistakes from previous steps.

Trollblood Highlight ’Jack Bone

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Bootstrap Leather Umbral Umber

Step 1) Basecoat the falcon with ’Jack Bone mixed with a small amount of Frostbite. Step 2) The plumage of falcons tends to be darker on top with a pale underside. Start by shading the top side with Bootstrap Leather, with the goal of making each feather appear distinct. Step 3) Mix Brown Ink with Bloodstone and apply additional shading. Where possible, paint a line along the spine of each feather and add some fine patterning at the wingtips. Step 4) Add Exile Blue and Thamar Black to the mixture from step 3 and sparingly apply some dark shading to areas that need a bit more contrast. Step 5) Using Menoth White Highlight, add a few highlights to the feathers. Step 6) With the top side finished, you can move on to the underside. Start by shading with Bastion Grey, making each feather distinct from its neighbors. Step 7) Apply additional shading using Ironhull Grey. Also use this color to add a pattern at the wingtips that mirrors the pattern on the top side. Step 8) Finish the pattern by applying fine lines of Battlefield Brown mixed with Exile Blue.

Exile Blue

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Bloodstone

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Bootstrap Leather

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Battlefield Brown

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Legion Feathers

Step 1) Basecoat the feathers with Thamar Black, being sure to fill in any areas your primer did not reach.

Thamar Black

Blue Ink

Frostbite

Red Ink

Step 2) Paint the shafts of each feather with a thin line of Frostbite. Start each line at the base of the feather and stop near the tip where the shaft becomes thin and indistinct. Step 3) Paint the veins of the feathers with Frostbite, using repeated short strokes to apply a thin line on each raised vein. This can be challenging if your paint is the wrong consistency. You will need to add a generous amount of water to your paint so it flows easily from the brush; take care not to overload the brush, or the paint will flow too freely and fill in the spaces between the veins. To save time and effort, first paint only one side of every feather, then turn the model to paint the opposite sides. This way you will have to switch the position of the model only once, rather than rotating it for each feather. Step 4) Use a mix of Blue Ink and Red Ink to add a purple color to the feathers. Apply this color at the base of the feather and blend it toward the tip. While the ink is still wet, you may want to use your blending brush to wipe the ink off the center shaft so it remains distinct.

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Blood Debt Part Two

Upper Wyrmwall Mountains

Krueger had taken what precautions he could, but he knew his life would be forfeit if the dragon decided to destroy him. There was no point in bringing an army, as the heat of the being’s hiding place would end them, even without taking into consideration its blight. Only his wits and audacity would keep him alive, as it had been with Blighterghast at the start. Blighterghast’s emissary had directed him to a volcano, one of the few still active among the Wyrmwall Mountains, although it had not erupted in centuries. It was high among inaccessible peaks, requiring Krueger to negotiate dangerous currents and updrafts. One of the jagged teeth of the Wyrmwall had long ago had its point blasted off, leaving a smoking chimney a hundred yards across, deep within which he could see the pulsing glow of a lava lake. The superheated liquid steadily pushed to the surface through a vent connected to a massive magma chamber below, slowly releasing pressure that otherwise would have eventually resulted in an explosive eruption. This was an area known to the Circle, as the conditions here were rich with natural energies. Magma and lava were the lifeblood of Orboros. Places where molten stone reached the surface and refused to cool were akin to seeping wounds on the body of the Wurm. The energies of this place were not easily tapped, so there were no standing stones here, but a significant site drawing on residual energies lay twenty miles to the south. Several of the neighboring mountains housed hidden complexes built by worshipers of the goddess Cyriss, who had erected machines to harness these flows in their own ways. Krueger amused himself with the thought of provoking Charsaug to lay waste to those neighbors, thereby solving another problem. But it would be difficult enough to convince the dragon to perform the task he had already agreed to undertake. The Stormlord steeled himself and plunged downward, feeling the hot air pushing against him like stagnant breath. He summoned a vortex of cooler air, driving away the choking smoke and ash which would have filled his lungs and scraped his eyes. Amid this selfcontained storm he flew to a narrow rock spire jutting from the lava. Despite his efforts the heat here was almost more than he could bear. With it came an even more dangerous radiating energy: dragon blight, an invisible malignancy threatening to unravel his power. So focused was he on preserving the magic that kept him alive that he almost did not see the dragon until a great black form emerged from the lava lake, backlit by the orange fires. It loomed like a leviathan rising from the waters, runnels

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of lava pouring down its black scales. The glow visible between the slats of its ribs told of another fire burning within it, giving shape and definition to what was otherwise a void of light. It towered before him, massive and terrible, eyes afire. The great mouth opened to annihilate him with a single breath. It took all his will not to fly away. He gritted his teeth and focused on slowing his hammering heart. He had faced Blighterghast, a far greater entity. The blight radiating from Charsaug was weak in comparison. Nevertheless, it was one thing to consider this a weaker dragon in the abstract and another to be face-to-face with the monster rising before him. It was hypnotically fascinating to watch the long neck extend, the head approaching, the inferno within about to be unleashed. “Hold, Charsaug!” Krueger shouted as loudly as he could, “I am not your enemy! I am Krueger the Stormlord. I come as an emissary of Blighterghast, the Boiler of Seas. I tremble before your power and beg you not to annihilate me!” The great creature continued to glower but seemed to reconsider delivering an all-consuming blast of dragonfire. The voice when it came was a dull rumbling that emerged as if from the heat around him rather than from any vocal organ. “Blighterghast has no need for the likes of you to speak to me.” The dragon was nearer to him than Blighterghast had ever been, and Krueger felt the focused attention of those baleful eyes as pressure. Searing heat erupted along his arms, and he smelled his robes begin to smolder. He channeled energy to disperse the heat into the swirling wind, which was spiraling into the chimney above and returning with fresher air. He ignored the pain as the surface of his skin began to cook. It was difficult for him to remember what he had planned to say, though he knew he must be careful not to voice anything resembling a demand. “I am the architect of the plan your alliance has set upon. Your part in this is essential; all will unravel without you. I come to beseech you to return.” “Blighterghast knows the condition I require.” Despite the dragon’s power and the resonance of its voice, the words seemed almost petulant. “Our plans threaten to be derailed for this. Those lesser spawn are nothing compared to your might! They are meaningless.” “Our plans?” Charsaug asked, his voice booming with indignation. “You think yourself my equal?” The great jaws snapped toward him suddenly, a motion made as casually

and reflexively as a dog biting at a fly. Krueger was saved only by the buffeting winds he had pulled around himself, which he drew on in a moment of panic to fly backward over the lava, just out of reach of those closing teeth, each longer than his forearm. “Of course not, great one!” Krueger shouted. “Forgive my insolence!” The dragon had not lunged with any serious intent to kill and was now simply watching him. “You would have us scrawl on the earth, debasing ourselves to create a meaningless pattern. This effort is an insult, one for which I will make you suffer. Blighterghast should have consigned you to the fire.” “The pattern is not meaningless,” Krueger insisted. “That is why Blighterghast did not destroy me. Only I can see this through, connecting the ley lines controlled by my order. I am ultimately insignificant, but my part in this is necessary. Together we will see Everblight destroyed, a purpose that is worth some indignity. It was for this you came from the east to meet with your brethren for the first time in sixteen centuries.” “A mistake,” Charsaug said. “I should return and be done with this place.”

“You cannot,” a new voice proclaimed from above, loudly and with great depth and power, startling Krueger completely. “Promises bind us.” Krueger saw the enormous overshadowing form of another dragon plummeting into the volcano’s throat. This one’s scales were like burnished steel, lit by the orange light below. It halted its descent by spreading wide its huge and terrible wings, creating a downdraft that almost sent Krueger plunging into the lava. He returned to the rocky outcropping and cowered there, trying to overcome a primal terror that made his limbs shake. “I made no promises,” said Charsaug. “I am not bound.” “You and I heed the oath made by Erdross. Those promises are etched into our essence and cannot be undone. Only when the task is complete can we return to our war with the giants.” This dragon, similar in size to Charsaug, landed on the other side of the lava lake. The heat in the chamber became still more intense. “Erdross is no more,” Charsaug insisted. “Those promises are not mine.” “You cannot deny your nature.” The two stared at each other with naked hatred.

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Blood Debt: Part Two Krueger had regained his mind and sought to regain his dignity. He stood back to his full height, leaning on the shaft of Wurmtongue to steady himself. His mind raced, pondering matters they alluded to and the name they spoke. He remembered Erdross from the Wyrmstone, an artifact he had stolen from Omnipotent Dahlekov that had been inscribed with lore possessed by the Circle Orboros on the spawn of Toruk, the Dragonfather. Among the inscriptions had been mention of a dragon that had fled to the east: Erdross, one of the greatest that had survived the war against their father. Another hand had inscribed runes naming Charsaug and Ashnephos, also of the east, the only dragons known to tolerate the company of another of their kind for long. The runes implied they were twins spawned of Erdross, though it was unclear how or why this had come to pass. “I answered the call,” Charsaug said. “But Blighterghast does not show trust. How will Everblight be lured out by this ritual? That was not answered. This mortal makes demands—an insult beyond bearing. Let us incinerate him. Blighterghast can find another.” The dragon Krueger suspected was Ashnephos turned toward him suddenly, making him start, and demanded, “Where is Everblight? How will this pattern expose him? Speak plainly or die.” Krueger hesitated only briefly, knowing the threat was not idle. He sought a way to address the topic that would not appear to be dissembling. When he had explained matters to Blighterghast, they had agreed the other dragons were best left ignorant. Things had changed. “Everblight has no form,” he answered. “That is why you cannot find him.” He had their attention, if not their belief. He spoke quickly, hoping to prevent their doubts from birthing a murderous impulse. “Everblight has learned how to divide his athanc without dividing himself, and each piece is carried in one of his generals. His blood flows in their veins, and so long as even one of them exists, he cannot be destroyed. He learned this after his fall to Ios, when a mortal army destroyed his body and sealed his essence away.” Their eyes were fixed on him with a new intensity, but neither made a move to kill him—yet. “To destroy him, all his athanc shards must be taken at once. This requires knowing where each is at all times. The pattern, integrating your blight into the ley lines of the Circle Orboros, will give me that knowledge, but only if there is cooperation. My order will work to unravel what we have wrought the moment it begins.” Ashnephos made a deep, rumbling noise, and for a moment Krueger thought the creature was about to strike. The dragon’s eyes swirled with a strangely iridescent hue, and Krueger felt as if blight were roiling within him from his head to his bowels. The sickness abated as the dragon’s

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eyes returned to normal. Ashnephos said, “What he speaks is truth. Everblight is without form. I see it.” A rush of hot wind forced Krueger to seize hold of the rocky spire to resist being hurled into the lava. Charsaug had launched into the air on massive wings, climbing out of the volcano. A moment later Ashnephos followed. Despite his burned skin, ash-choked lungs, and hammering heart, Krueger felt triumph. He had persuaded them. He rose into the air, following at a distance behind the wing-beats of dragons.

The Mistbough, Ios

Dozens of crossbow bolts flew from the mist on their right flank and thunked into the Praetorian swordsmen there, prompting groans and the sound of soldiers falling. Supreme Archdomina Makeda did not need to issue orders to her soldiers, who responded with swift and immediate alacrity. She had carefully staggered her advancing forces with mixed units of soldiers, designed to reinforce one another. Heeding the orders of their primus, several units of Praetorian karax advanced through the opened lines of swordsmen to lock shields and intercept the next volley of deadly bolts. Strategically placed extollers employed mortitheurgy to augment the sight of warbeasts in their vicinity, including the mammoth and several titan cannoneers under Makeda’s control. She drew on the essence of a cyclops raider to bolster the range of the gargantuan warbeast’s siege battery, then together these creatures sent an explosive salvo to thunder amid the trees where the enemy hid. Trees were torn to shreds, together with numerous lightly armored Iosans. Those enemies who survived melted into the forest, where they would regroup and attack again. A number of nimble, dark-attired forms vaulted from the trees and rushed through the lines. They seemed a more elite and specialized group than the defenders in whitelacquered armor she had fought before. Makeda watched with admiration as they evaded retaliation and cut down a number of skilled swordsmen, each shadowy Iosan wielding a short curved blade in each hand. These enemies reminded Makeda of bloodrunners, and it was clear they were trying to reach her. Makeda did not even raise the Talon of Murzoul but faced them calmly, allowing her subordinates to witness that she was utterly unperturbed. It was their honor on the line now, not hers. Her warbeasts were near enough to intervene, but she kept them back. In these close quarters both the titans and the mammoth would have difficulty hitting foes without getting in the way of her own people. The nearest senior officers intercepted several attackers and made short work of them. Three more got past, one of them making a seemingly impossible leap over an intervening cataphract, while another disarmed and then disemboweled a veteran primus. These Iosans had true skill.

The ancestral escorts that kept to her side took two steps forward and adopted a ready pose, their obsidian blades raised. They never had to engage. Hakaar the Destroyer moved with a swiftness fueled by anger at the death of the primus, his great swords a blur. The first assassin saw his blade shattered as he sought to parry the ancient guardian’s stone sword, which continued without slowing to cut him in half. The second lost her head from a lightning-swift backhand strike, and the third took a sideways swipe with the side of the blade that shattered his skull. Hakaar turned and inclined his head toward Makeda. The bodies were swiftly hauled away as her officers berated the warriors on the outer lines who had allowed the Iosans to get so close to her. Cataphract incindiarii launched a hail of explosive fire that set the underbrush behind them ablaze, although their officers restrained them from wasting ammunition against shadows. After ensuring no immediately reprisal was imminent, the column continued its advance through the trees, hacking through underbrush to make progress possible. Makeda directed one of her titan gladiators back to the fore to resume assisting in making a path by shattering through smaller trees. Her army had adapted well, using all their discipline and training to respond to the unrelenting harassment attacks they had encountered since venturing north into the trees from the Twilight Gate. As her intelligence had suggested, this geography would be one of their most formidable barriers to making inroads into the elven nation, whose few major cities existed at a considerable remove from their borders. The skorne were well prepared to be set upon, and Makeda had anticipated their attacks as they carved their way through the maze-like forest. Still, the advance cost them time and lives. The Iosans had clearly spent centuries preparing for this place to serve as a killing field for any intruder moving toward their heartlands, with winding paths subject to assault from small watchtowers as well as defenders within the adjoining trees. The forest itself was not only overgrown but also laden with cleverly concealed traps— spiked deadfalls, tripwires connected to hidden projectile weapons, and other deadly contrivances. They had captured dozens of slaves, some knowledgeable enough to divulge useful information at the hands of their paingivers. Makeda had what she felt was a reasonably accurate description of the intervening geography and the location of the nearest Iosan city, Iryss. Her initial plan had been to reach this city as quickly as possible. She had hoped to break its outer defenses and use it as a stronghold from which to deplete the Iosan armies while her forces plundered valuable resources elsewhere. They had already seized multiple mines in the south whose wealth was now flowing through the Twilight Gate to the Skorne Empire.

The conquest of Ios would be an extended campaign. It required ensuring she could hold what she seized or see it razed to weaken the enemy. But the Iosans had left little exposed here she could exploit to her advantage. The entire Mistbough seemed to exist solely for defense. There were few townships or settlements that were not simply minor fortifications housing garrisons of soldiers, easily abandoned and containing nothing useful to the conquering skorne. Three days prior she had captured a small but wellpositioned forest keep, managing to overwhelm its defenders without doing substantial harm to the structure. She had manned the keep with her soldiers so it could serve as a strongpoint in her supply lines. The Iosans had already made it difficult to get food, ammunition, and other vital supplies to the vanguard, which had slowed her advance. The keep was but a step in the right direction.

Cataphract incindiarii launched a hail of explosive fire that set the underbrush behind them ablaze. They marched for another hour before a ferox rider emerged from the mists ahead—Tyrant Rhadeim. The soldiers at the fore parted to make way for him, and he leapt from his snarling mount to kneel before Makeda. “Supreme Archdomina,” he said, “an army is gathering south of Iryss.” Makeda called a halt and bid her senior officers attend her after establishing a secure perimeter. A space was cleared for Makeda, Rhadeim, and the other leaders to talk. Hakaar the Destroyer stayed nearby with Aptimus Marketh, the senior extoller prepared to translate in the unlikely event the exalted Hakaar wished to address them. Rhadeim quickly laid out what he and his Praetorian ferox had observed during their reconnaissance. It seemed the Iosans had been alerted sooner than they had anticipated and were already mustering a sizable army. Makeda listened to his observations closely and gave her subordinate dominars and tyrants the opportunity to speak and assess the situation. Ultimately she would decide, but she felt it was important to observe the strategic assessments of her officers, letting her know their worth. It was during this discussion that she heard Master Mortitheurge Kaleeta at the perimeter asking to be granted admittance. “Let her pass,” Makeda said to the cataphracts who had intercepted her. The severely slender mortitheurge wore a tight metal cowl that exaggerated her emaciated features. She prostrated herself until Makeda bid her rise. Kaleeta was the most

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Blood Debt: Part Two senior of the mortitheurges with Makeda’s vanguard. She had distinguished herself in Malphas before joining the Army of the Western Reaches at the bidding of Lord Arbiter Hexeris, who spoke highly of her. Makeda presumed her to be his spy in her camp, but such was to be expected. “Speak quickly, deliberations.”

Kaleeta.

You

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important

“I have information of relevance,” the mortitheurge said. “I just received a mystical sending from the lord arbiter.” Makeda waved for her to continue. She said, “His army, together with that of Dominar Rasheth, engaged as planned. They believe the majority of the forces garrisoned at the Gate of Mists and nearby environs have been enticed to remain in the west. However, one Iosan general surmised the nature of their ruse and disengaged. Her forces are headed this direction or to the Twilight Gate. The imminence of their arrival is unknown, as is their exact size or composition.” Makeda directed several pointed questions at the mortitheurge, from which she learned Hexeris had a high opinion of this Iosan general, a warcaster, and did not believe her to be a trivial threat. Reluctantly Kaleeta divulged that both the dominar and the lord arbiter had been outmaneuvered by this enemy, despite their numerical advantage. While Hexeris’ strategy had never been to fully commit, the accomplishment was still noteworthy. Whatever his faults, Hexeris was a skilled tactician, and Rasheth was clever enough not to waste resources. Makeda felt torn between a warrior’s thirst for conquest and her more intellectual assessment. Looking at the faces around her, she could tell most of her officers wished to push on. They were eager to confront this army from Iryss. It had been too long since they had enjoyed a proper battle in the open rather than fencing with shadows. Even the clash at the Twilight Gate had been unsatisfying. “Supreme Archdomina.” Aptimus forward. “Hakaar wishes to speak.”

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stepped

Makeda’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. I am eager to hear what the honored exalted has to say.” She had found the involvement of the usually aloof ancestors to be a mixed blessing. Their favor had served to her advantage, but they were unpredictable and unfathomable beings. It was because of Hakaar she had known of the weakness of Ios’ defenses and set upon this conquest. She felt grateful but did not understand the ancestors’ motives and their interest in Ios. Marketh’s crystal oculus glowed with a silver light, an indication he communed with Hakaar. When he spoke it was not with his own voice but one deeper and more resonant. “Advance on Iryss. In crushing them you will force their nation to tremble.”

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This pronouncement was met by nods and words of agreement. Among those eager for conquest was the relatively young Tyrant Zaadesh, a member of a branch of House Balaash that had been critical of Makeda and who had recently joined her army. He was staring at the ancestral guardian with a fixed intensity. Makeda looked to the towering and powerful form of Hakaar the Destroyer. His arrival outside the Abyssal Fortress after she had overthrown the Conqueror had been heralded as a tremendous sign of support by the ancestors. Tensions that might have accompanied her rise had been eased. And yet, Hakaar’s words now came perilously close to sounding like a command. She said to him, “Hakaar, your guidance is invaluable. Already you have given me much wisdom. In this conquest we have secured significant spoils.” She scanned the faces of the others before continuing. “But this is not the time to march on Iryss. We will turn back and fortify our position. There are potentially two armies advancing on us, one from the north and one from the west. We do not know their scope or disposition. We cannot afford to be cut off from the Twilight Gate. We will defeat both armies, but doing so here would be foolish. We cannot allow them to dictate terms of engagement.” She could see that most of her ranking officers disapproved, but they were too respectful and intimidated to speak. They bowed. There was something in Zaadesh’s eyes, a gleam she did not like, but she ignored it; he was unimportant. She watched Hakaar. Marketh’s oculus still glowed. He said in that same resonant voice, “Iryss is the spark by which this land can be made to burn.” “Yes. In due time. But not now.” The ancestral guardian stared at her. She asked, “Hakaar, whom do you obey?” Hakaar had not moved since he had arrived, but now he slowly stepped forward and knelt, the same posture he had assumed outside the Abyssal Fortress. Marketh said for him, “I serve Makeda of House Balaash. I serve she who rules Halaak.” Makeda nodded once. With that, she dismissed her officers, telling them to organize their withdrawal. It would not be a popular move, she knew, but she felt certain it was correct. She only hoped ignoring the advice of such a revered ancestor would not create a crack in the wall of authority she had worked to build.

South of Fharin, Cygnar

The powerful engine of the Royal Ellena devoured coal as it churned along its tracks heading north through the eastern Wyrmwall Mountains, whose peaks offered its passengers a majestic view. The descent into the foothills as the train began its acceleration toward Fharin presented an impressive view. Many of the passengers felt compelled

to crowd the windows on the right side of the train, watching as the mountains parted to reveal the eastern farmlands, with the Black River a distant divide and the red Bloodstone Marches beyond that. Wealthier Cygnaran citizens filled several deluxe passenger cars, but the rest of the train was packed with military personnel and supplies. Among these passengers were young recruits only recently finished with training. Many of these were less distracted by the view, their thoughts on the fighting that awaited them and whether they would survive to return to their families. Near the front of the train there was a cry of alarm that quickly spread to the back and prompted those clustered at the windows to rush to the other side of the train. One of the engineers in the engine car yanked on the steam whistle. He and the others up front could not help but stare with slack-jawed horror at what appeared to be a migration of enormous monsters clambering toward the railway. It looked for all the world like several pieces of mountain had torn themselves free from the peaks and were shambling forward. These towering creatures dwarfed more numerous smaller creatures marching before and alongside them. In that brief moment of terror and incomprehension no one identified them as trolls. “Should I pull the emergency brake!?” shouted the junior engineer who had first spotted them. “Morrow’s sword, no!” The chief slammed the speed lever to full, applying added pressure to the great engines at the fore and prompting their gauges to edge into the red. “Pray we make it past them!” After certain mishaps earlier in the war, the trains had added protections, including reinforced cars and thickened armor for both the wheel wells and the engine. Additionally, soldiers were specifically stationed with rifles to fire on potential hazards. The Lady Ellena had recently added a pair of metal

storm turrets, one atop the forward passenger car and one atop the caboose, though these uncomfortable perches were exposed to the wind and weather and so were manned only when trouble threatened. Long gunners even now scrambled up the ladders, then threw levers to engage the gears that rotated the turrets to face the approaching beasts. The nearest of the giant rock-faced trolls had nearly reached the tracks and loomed over the onrushing train, its craggy face scowling. It seemed ready to leap forward to intercept the engine. The engineers had often boasted that their great engine could smash through just about anything that got in its way, but none of them wanted to test that claim against

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Blood Debt: Part Two a troll the size of a mountain. Though such an impact might kill the troll, it would also knock the train off its tracks and down the hillside, killing the passengers and crew. The forward turret spat bullets into the chest of the creature. The giant troll opened its cave-like mouth to let loose a tremendous howling roar that rocked the entire train and blew out the windows of a full three cars. The turret was shorn off the train car, together with the car’s roof, sending the long gunner flying end-over-end down the hillside.

It took all Madrak’s will to hold the mountain kings in check despite the well of rage within the one at the fore. He was unable to stop that one, named Torn from Peak, from unleashing a great rending howl that impacted the swift-moving train like a cannon shot. Though the upper portion of one car had been torn off, he hoped the incidental casualties would be minimal. He could feel the hunger of the great beast; it wanted nothing more than to rip the train from the tracks or seize the people inside and cram them into its maw. These and many other violent desires poured into Madrak’s mind from his connection to the great beasts, but he gritted his teeth and fought them, and soon the train was past. Torn from Peak turned to glower at Madrak, but the warlock stared him down. At length the mountain king shook its head and walked on. Their column of trollkin, trolls, and mountain kings crossed the tracks to continue their descent out of the Wyrmwall. Doomshaper was missed. No other warlock had such facility at keeping a leash on the ancient trolls. Madrak felt drained from maintaining a mental connection to so many, particularly since he could not keep them all close enough to remain under his direct control. He had to watch those farther back, including the dire trolls, to ensure they did not turn on nearby trollkin in fits of temper or out of desperate hunger. “You should have let them rampage, Ironhide,” said Ulkor, one of the veteran champions marching nearby who had seen his struggle. “Their hunger may turn them against us soon. And the soldiers on that train will warn the army garrison at their next stop.” “Perhaps,” Madrak said. “But the people on that train had done us no harm.” Ulkor and the nearest champions seemed amused, and he heard several remark on how Doomshaper would have handled it. He ignored them. These were Hoarluk’s kin from the Gnarls; they had long been steeped in the shaman’s violent rhetoric. They were very different from the kin drilled

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and trained by Gunnbjorn and from the tight-knit champions of Madrak’s own kriels, being of a ruthless disposition and lacking discipline. Nevertheless, Madrak had earned their respect, and they submitted to his leadership. Ulkor’s words had some truth to them. They had been unable to keep all the trolls fed, not just the mountain kings. Those had been given priority, of course, but that meant the full-blood trolls were lean and dangerously hungry. From a pragmatic perspective, a train disaster and the subsequent carnage could have fed them all. Madrak could not bring himself to allow wholesale slaughter, though, particularly of noncombatants. War required difficult choices, but he was not that desperate yet. They had made remarkable speed winding their way through the Wyrmwall Mountains thanks to the guidance of Grim Angus and the efforts of their fell callers and chroniclers to maintain their spirits and energy through the grueling expedition. They had pushed themselves, sleeping little and marching both night and day when possible. Grim and his scouts had helped them evade several potential engagements, though they had been forced to defend themselves from unavoidable patrols. It was impossible for mountain kings to travel stealthily. Only amid the untamed peaks had they been able to travel without drawing attention. Now they were badly exposed. The worst lay ahead: hundreds of miles crossing open territory claimed by Cygnar, which was already on full war footing and hostile to them. He did not see an easy way to reach Grissel, though he knew he must, preferably with as much of his force intact as possible. Grim soon returned from scouting, and Madrak took him aside. The former bounty hunter was with the pygs that had become his constant companions, and all wore expressions of concern. Grim said, “I have no idea how we’re crossing the Black River. Where it narrows south of the Marchfells might be our best bet, but that region is infested by gatormen. Just past that, we’ll run the danger of intruding on farrow territories. Then we’ll be threading the needle between skorne east of the river and Cygnaran patrols going down it.” Madrak listened to the litany of perils and said, “The longer we tromp through Cygnar’s farmlands, the more we invite them to send an army after us.” He looked north toward the railway bridge visible in that direction, which the Lady Ellena had crossed. “If one isn’t already on the way. Better to cross the river as soon as possible. We can use the mountain kings as our bridge.” Grim scratched his head, looking skeptical. “You can control them enough for that?”

“With your help, I think so,” Madrak replied with a smile. “It will require keeping them fed. We need to find another herd to plunder. And soon.” The last great feast they had arranged for their trolls had come at the expense of a Cygnaran rancher who had cowered with his family in their farmstead while trolls tore apart his entire herd of cattle. They had destroyed the family’s livelihood, but such was the cost of the war for survival forced upon them. Better to massacre a few dozen cows than to lose control of his trolls as they passed the next village or small town. Their skinners had butchered those animals the trolls did not eat outright to stock up on meat for the next part of their journey, but they had gone through that meat quickly, despite rationing. The mountain kings had proven indiscriminate in their appetites, tearing up trees or thorn bushes to swallow whole and sometimes chewing on boulders when there was nothing else. Such fare merely blunted the bottomless void of hunger within their bellies, though. Only meat gave true satisfaction. “I saw a likely place,” Grim said. “Though goats and sheep won’t fill them like those cows did.” Madrak sat down with him to plan a nighttime raid on a nearby ranch spread across several hills that sheltered sizable goat and sheep herds for cheesemaking. Grim was certain there was a sizable supply of drying cheese wheels in a building adjoining the ranch house. He suggested the trolls get all the meat while the kin steal as much cheese as they could carry. Madrak sighed as he contemplated his great war band being reduced to goat, sheep, and cheese thieves. He was more eager than ever to return to Grissel and his kriels. He prayed to Dhunia to see them safely home.

As demeaning as Madrak had considered the raid, its success increased the morale of the entire band. A troll or trollkin with a full belly wanted little else from life. The fullblood trolls, dire trolls, and mountain kings all looked as though they had walked through a field of slaughter, which in truth they had. All were happily covered in gore, and many continued licking their fingers and hands as they fled the scene. Madrak held no illusions regarding how long this reprieve would last. The kin carried away as many wheels of cheese as possible, but those would not last. After the raid, the band set out, taking a circuitous route through the foothills, hoping to reach the Cygnaran farmlands by dawn. An hour before sunrise, with the hills rising on either side, Madrak began to feel strange. The stars and moons above seemed to shine down upon them with particular clarity, and the sky was bereft of clouds, but a thick mist began to form, bringing with it a chill. Madrak wiped his face. His

skin was clammy, and he felt dizzy. He might have easily dismissed the sensation given how little sleep they’d had, but he could feel his heart racing. Anxiety filled him, as though he were bracing to receive a charging foe. He squinted into the rising fog and realized the runes of Rathrok were glowing dimly, adding an orange light to the mist. He stared at the axe and noticed its haft was warm beneath his hands. He gritted his teeth and prepared for his mind to betray him. He had not had any dreams or visions from the axe in weeks, not since the ceremony that had awakened the mountain kings. With a pang he remembered the moments after the rite when he had thought himself free of the axe. He dreaded returning to his mate Kargess and the rest while Rathrok was still bound to his soul. Its recent relative quietude had allowed him to believe things might be all right. Now it was all happening again.

At any moment he expected shadowy figures to leap at him from the formless dark. “What do you see?” he asked Ulkor cautiously, not trusting his own senses. “Not much, thanks to this fog,” the champion groused. Madrak felt relieved to know the strange fog was not his imagination. At any moment he expected shadowy figures to leap at him from the formless dark. Would they be real? If something moved and he struck at it, would he discover he had killed a friend rather than a foe? He did not like such thoughts, but Rathrok was stirring, ready for battle. The fog enveloped them, damping all sound and forcing them to slow. Madrak looked to Grim, who walked not far ahead. The scout’s goggles could penetrate such mists, and he walked steadily, his rifle set to his shoulder. Reassured, Madrak decided he would take his cues from Grim, ignoring random shades that sought to provoke him. The air around them changed. A cloying thickness entered his lungs, and his armor and clothes began to feel hot and heavy. The temperature had increased markedly, and the air felt drier. Dizziness seized him, and he lurched before catching his balance. It startled him to feel a similar sensation from the mountain kings, one of which huffed and snorted in confusion. Several others growled at one another, and all were perturbed. Was his mood affecting them, or the reverse? The champions around him eyed their surroundings warily. Such strange fog and unnatural weather would have been in keeping with the powers of the blackclads. Madrak

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Blood Debt: Part Two forced himself to accept that the strangeness was real. They might be under attack. He saw forms moving in the fog ahead. He lifted Rathrok and readied to throw it. Glowing lights bobbed alongside the shadows, perhaps people holding torches. Their flickering orange light filled the fog without giving any definition. It seemed odd for anyone lying in ambush to give away their positions by lighting torches. This was the thought that kept him from ordering his people to attack. “Hold!” Grim said loudly. “It can’t be . . .” His tone was disbelieving. Madrak stared at those who approached—kin and fullblood trolls as armed and ready as they were. He lowered Rathrok at once, hugely relieved he had not simply cast it at the first shadow he had seen. At the fore of the trollkin ahead and flanked by a pair of axers was Calandra, Oracle of the Glimmerwood. She was staring at them with similar surprise. “Calandra?” he said, his voice raspy to his own ears. “What are you doing here?” She gave a laugh, and the way she put her hands on her hips told him at once it was really her, not some illusion. “I was going to ask you the same thing! This is remarkable! How . . .” Her voice trailed off and she took a step back as she took in the mountain kings emerging from the dwindling fog. The giant trolls looked down with suspicious scowls. “Friends! These are friends!” Madrak shouted for the benefit of both sides, even as he mentally clamped down on the mountain kings. Fortunately they did not seem inclined to lash out, perhaps because they had been freshly fed and perhaps because they picked up on Madrak’s emotions of kinship. Grim began to explain to Calandra about the mountain kings, and she listened in amazement. Madrak blinked and looked around as the fog entirely melted away. Dawn broke in the east and the landscape brightened. He took in many things at once, most importantly the fact that the ground he was walking had changed; now reddish sandstone and scrub replaced the mud, wet soil, and grasses of the hills he had left. He remembered becoming familiar with the fringes of the Bloodstone Marches when his people had moved into the Glimmerwood and its eastern environs. This felt very similar. There were a variety of exclamations and startled conversations among the gathered kin. “Where are we?” Madrak asked in a tone combining wonder and dread. “You’re almost home!” Calandra said. “At least, the home we’ve tried to make. Grissel’s encampment is just a few miles northeast. For days the portents have indicated an important event would occur here, something significant. I came to investigate.”

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Grim was scanning the hills and remarked, “We are definitely in the Bloodstone Marches. South of the Iosan Mountains, at least eighty miles northeast of Scarleforth Lake.” “Calandra,” Madrak said, “we were hundreds of miles from here just minutes ago.” “Four hundred and seventy miles,” Grim corrected, scowling. He shook his head and stared around them as if trying to force the landscape to return to what it had been. “How is that possible?” Madrak asked her. She gave him an uncertain look. After a moment of frowning and considering she said hesitantly, “It must be a miracle of Dhunia.” Madrak pondered this possibility but could not bring himself to believe it. Beneath his hand Rathrok had become almost uncomfortably hot but was now starting to cool. He looked to its edge, which was glowing as though it had been lying within a forge. Its runes were still lit. He did not think the axe had done this—such a feat was beyond anything he had heard of it in any legend—but it reacted to what had transpired. His instincts told him that if any higher power were involved, it was not the Great Mother. Perhaps sensing his uncertainty, Calandra said, “You have been sorely missed by all your kriels, Chief Ironhide. Kargess in particular will be happy to see you. We should have a feast to celebrate your return.” Madrak let himself and his people be led away, the trolls following. Already enthusiasm was spreading through both sides, and the warriors with Calandra warmly greeted those from the Gnarls as if they were long-lost relatives. Despite their high spirits, Madrak’s mood refused to lift. No part of this was right, Madrak thought, and he shared looks with both Calandra and Grim that told him both were similarly unsettled. He walked toward the reunion with his kriels with a deep sense of foreboding, as though he were headed to his own funeral.

Near Old Korska, Umbrey

The wizened figure leaned on her staff as she climbed the windswept hills until she could gain a proper vantage to look down on the shattered and blasted ruins of Old Korska, once the eastern capital of the Khardic Empire. What had been one of the glories of civilization had become a maze of ruins and half-buried streets overrun by bogrin above and dregg in the burial catacombs below. She did not look on the place with nostalgia, though she remembered how it had once dominated this landscape. It was proof of the ephemeral works of mankind. An age of ruin and desolation approached again. This time she was more invested in shaping the outcome to preserve

the great peoples of the north. No one understood the long centuries of subtle work that had restored Umbrey to Khador. All could be undone quickly, by the rash decisions of a few spurious and stubborn mortals. There was always risk, always gambles. The outcome was never certain, even for those such as she who could see the strands of fate and the dance of conflicting destinies. She had taken one of her largest gambles recently, when she had plucked the strand of a certain mortal already marked by fate—Krueger the Stormwrath, as he had called himself then. He was more stubborn, arrogant, and reckless than most. She had set him in motion, like a wildly spinning top, not knowing where he would fly, what he would knock against. It was often that way. She did not enter into this lightly. She had known he would set the dragons in motion. It was time. Those with short lives could not understand that stasis was death. She reached the crest of the ancient hill and began the rite. She reached into the bag at her side and drew forth the squirming one. Before it could yowl, she pricked its neck with one of her steel talons. She let the blood of innocence flow into the cracks of old stone, the fissures of the flat petrified trunk where once a tree had been hewn to form the first great hall of the eastern horselords. Extending her power through the blood and the stone into the earth, she sent an invitation she felt confident would not be ignored. She and the one she invited had many old disagreements, but they could address their differences. They had been enemies more than allies; the blood of countless thousands had been shed as part of their quarrels, but usually they fought only through intermediaries, not directly. In such a climate it was necessary to have a means of parley. It had been a long time. The other was not obliged to answer. Neither could she compel it. She turned away and looked to the stars and the moons above. If it refused to speak with her, that would signify something. A deepening of their conflict. A declaration of bitter enmity. She did not think it wished for such a thing, not now. She sensed a presence behind her and turned to see the robed and vine-enwrapped form of the Oathkeeper, his hood casting his face in darkness. A different Oathkeeper than she remembered. The sword in his hands pointed downward, and he gripped the crossguard in both hands. Wurmwood stood atop the adjacent hilltop, rooted as if it had always been there, but it preferred to speak through its conduit. Once they had not required such intermediaries, long ago. She ignored the Oathkeeper and said to the Tree of Fate, “I am here to varn you.”

have sought to interfere with my chosen oracle. Do so again only at your peril.” “That is already done. The seed is planted. I am surprised to see vhat you have been about. Your attention is misplaced. Do you know the vorld-eaters stir?” “All is known to me. What was taken from me by you will be mine again soon. Other conflicts are of trivial importance.” She gave a low, cackling laugh. “I do not think you believe this. Very busy you have been. Some plans have failed.” The Oathkeeper raised his head higher, letting her see his eyes, and through them the entity that looked back at her. “But not all. This will not turn out as you hoped. The dragons should have been left alone.” Zevanna shrugged and said, “The outcome could be beneficial to us both, yes? Vith your help. You could end this. All of this.” “The end you seek is different from mine.” She sucked a tooth. “I admit, your oracle did not do vhat I expected. Are you villing to accept the harm he intends you? The great serpents vill veaken you. This could be avoided, if you intervene. Give up the other matter.” Cassius shook his head slowly and said, “No. It is too late. As you say, the seed is planted.” She looked away for a moment and then he was gone, as was Wurmwood. She felt some surprise at his last reply. Was it truly too late to shape things? The dragons were such torpid and indecisive creatures, so reluctant to act. She did not believe the Stormlord could change this. Frowning, she closed her eyes and found her crows, scattered far and wide. She looked through myriad pairs of tiny, beaded eyes until she saw it. Saw them. Through the eyes of crows separated by hundreds of miles across the face of Immoren, she watched as great winged forms rose. They were reptilian, serpentine, massive, with scales gleaming in various hues of fire, metal, and smoke. They soared high above the Wyrmwall Mountains, then scattered in several directions at tremendous speed. They would go where the Stormlord had sent them, there to descend and ravage the earth, to unleash their blight and leave lasting scars upon the face of Caen. She shook her head, making a disapproving noise under her breath. This was not what she had set him to do. She had known Krueger possessed the potential to destroy the dragons, if things aligned just so. He had arrived at a clever solution—very clever. Too clever by far.

“Warn me?” the Oathkeeper said in Wurmwood’s voice. “It is you who should heed my warnings, Zevanna Agha. You

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