® ®
WHEN DESTRUCTION
COMES, WHEN THE
WORLD ENDS,
I WOULD FACE MY
DOOM WITH MY
PEOPLE BESIDE ME.
WE STAND AS ONE
AGAINST DARKNESS,
EARTHQUAKE, AND
STORM. DHUNIA
WILL REMEMBER OUR
COURAGE EVEN AFTER
OUR BONES ARE DUST.
— MADRAK IRONHIDE
HORDES
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HORDES: Devastation . . . ISBN: 978-1-939480-83-5 . . . PIP 1062 HORDES: Devastation Hardcover . . . ISBN: 978-1-939480-84-2 . . . PIP 1063
Choices often come with unintended consequences, and doubly so for those choices born of desperation. A decision made under duress, in the heat of the moment, can lead to exactly the end it was meant to avoid. Such is the story of Madrak Ironhide and his choice to wield the ancient and terrible axe Rathrok in a desperate bid to save his people.
As the power of the axe stirs and grows with each blood-soaked battle, the Devourer Wurm turns from its eternal battle against Menoth in Urcaen and casts its gaze upon the world of the living. Sensing its master’s desires Wurmwood, the Tree of Fate, carefully manipulates events from the shadows, preparing to enact a ritual that will part the veil and unleash the Devourer Wurm on Caen. Amid these climactic events, legendary warlocks rise to the crisis, tapping heretofore-unknown inner reserves so they might avert the apocalypse…or perhaps hasten it.
As old heroes become new again, the wild factions of Immoren cast aside all pretense of hiding in the shadows and reveal the true extent of their might. Previously unseen gargantuans descend upon the battlefield, their footsteps shaking the earth as they heed their warlocks’ calls to slaughter. Whether it be the crackling electrical fury of the savage Storm Raptor or the multi-headed, acid-spewing nightmare that is the Desert Hydra, these fearsome warbeasts will rock the very foundations of war within the Iron Kingdoms.
When the end of the world is at stake, nothing is off-limits. Unleash the full extent of your fury and know that
Devastation is at hand!
A WORLD IN THE BALANCE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
THE KEY TURNS . . . 4
THEME FORCES . . . 18
TROLLBLOODS . . . 20
CIRCLE ORBOROS . . . 30
SKORNE . . . 38
LEGION OF EVERBLIGHT . . . 48
MINIONS . . . 58
MODEL GALLERY . . . 70
PAINTING GUIDE . . . 72
THE SHARD SPIRES, EARLY 609 AR
Sheets of snow, stone, and ice flew through the air as the mountainside erupted in a burst of pent-up fury. A bestial roar echoed from peak to peak, threatening each slope with avalanche. Clouds of displaced snow shrouded the newly formed hole, and the hulking shape that arose from it came out swinging. After searching for more than a week among the frozen northern reaches of the Shard Spires, Hoarluk Doomshaper had found the first of the glacier kings of the north, cousins of the mountain kings awoken in the Wyrmwall. As anticipated, the ceremony of awakening he had invoked in the south had roused other ancient trolls from their prisons, eager to be free.
During his travels, Doomshaper had recruited two dozen kriel warriors and a handful of skinners from the northern tribes. Though seasoned and battle-ready, they fell back now, falling over one another to put distance between themselves and the troll legend pulling itself into the world. The old shaman found their panic aggravating but understandable; they could not have stood against such a creature even had they tried. Doomshaper did not flinch as a boulder hurtled past him and left a long gouge in the snow. Beside him, Mulg rumbled and stood equally resolute, smashing his reinforced club into the ground in a display of dominance.
As the glacier king emerged from the hole, its massive knuckles unceremoniously crushed one of the ancient krielstone markers that had mystically bound the slumbering trolls as much as their chains. A telltale scar running down the beast’s face matched descriptions from old legends of a far-northern troll king called Winter’s Maw that had raged against the trollkin intruding into its domain. Though in some ways the glacier king resembled the mountain kings of the southern ranges, it was unmistakably marked by the endless winter of the frozen north. Icicles taller than a man hung from its chin, and a mound of ice and snow upon its back reached toward the sky. The already frigid temperature of the surrounding air plummeted as a deeper cold radiated from the beast’s skin. The trunks of nearby spruces cracked and split.
Doomshaper set his teeth. If he could reach the beast and lay his hands upon it, he felt certain he could bind its will as he had done with the mountain kings. Without a battle raging about them to serve as a distraction, however, such a feat would prove difficult. He gave a mental command to Mulg, and together they advanced into the fray.
A burst of icy wind tore over the pair, partially numbing their limbs and inflicting frostbite in seconds. “Cold!” Mulg bellowed in Molgur-Trul, and the runes carved into the
stones upon the dire troll’s back flared. In the next instant, the winds that besieged them dissipated under the influence of Mulg’s power.
Doomshaper narrowly avoided a crushing blow from the glacier king, though the glancing impact knocked him off his feet. Mulg howled and struck the slow-moving fist with his banded club, shattering several of the great fingers and causing the enraged creature to draw back its arm in surprise.
The crack of stone splitting filled the air as rock and snow exploded from the nearby slopes to reveal two more of the primal trolls. These were slightly less immense than Winter’s Maw, but seeing the three together chilled the shaman’s blood.
Doomshaper stood, drawing on Mulg’s anger and vitality, and resumed his advance. If the first gargantuan were allowed to gather its wits, there would be no chance of stopping it. If he could tame this, the greatest of the glacier kings, the others would submit.
Again the troll king drew back its fist, eclipsing the waning sun, and struck. The fist shot past Doomshaper toward Mulg behind him. A howl of rage and the snapping of bones sounded as the fist slammed into the craggy dire troll. Looking through Mulg’s eyes, Doomshaper experienced being hurled back several yards in the air before tumbling end-over-end in the snow.
With Mulg down, gusts of frigid wind began to circulate again around the towering form of Winter's Maw, followed by a sudden, intense snowstorm that all but blinded Doomshaper. Mulg disappeared from view, and the shaman stepped forward blindly, reaching for the space where the glacier king’s knee had been.
A fist emerged from the blizzard to seize Doomshaper with enough force to crack his ribs, and he was lifted high above the earth. He struggled futilely against the glacier king’s grip. His shattered ribs threatened to pierce vital organs, and he had no choice but to shunt the damage to Mulg, adding to the injuries the troll had already sustained. Doomshaper achieved the contact he sought with the great troll, but pain prevented him from focusing. Darkness threatened his vision.
The face of the glacier king emerged from the vortex of snow. Its maw unhinged, exposing the gateway to a bottomless hunger, and from the beast’s throat issued a roar worthy of the legends. Spittle flew from great tusk-like yellowed incisors, and the sheer force of the sound rattled Doomshaper’s teeth. His eardrums exploded, and the roar gave way to an incessant ringing. Disorientation overtook him.
He drew on his last strength to lash out with Willbreaker. The mystically augmented staff splintered one of the massive incisors. Doomshaper felt rather than heard a second roar, and the glacier king shook him mercilessly. Willbreaker slipped from his grasp and tumbled down to clatter against the beast’s teeth before disappearing into the yawning darkness of its mouth.
Doomshaper stared unblinking into the troll’s eyes and reached out to its mind with his own. He radiated confidence into the mind of the glacier king, subjecting it to the power of his will. What ensued was not unlike the
Tohmaak Mahkeiri, as their minds joined and he immersed
himself in the hunger and rage of Winter’s Maw. In his mind’s eye, Doomshaper saw flashes of images, memories of Winter’s Maw clashing with other beasts of the steppes or devouring them afterward. He called forth the memory of feeding his own hand to Mulg in a bid for the dire troll’s loyalty, showing the glacier king that all trollkind shared the same blood, a kinship more powerful than anything else on Caen. The bloodlust etched on the troll’s face shifted in puzzlement as it squinted at Doomshaper, and the blizzard swirling about its shoulders died down.
“Well met, Winter’s Maw,” Doomshaper said. He issued a mental command, and the creature placed him back on the ground. The bond was forged.
The other glacier kings were closing on Mulg to tear him limb from limb. Doomshaper commanded Winter’s Maw to intervene. With a roar, the glacier king placed himself between his troll brethren and the dire troll, hitting his chest forcefully and baring his teeth. The others stepped back and slumped slightly in submission. Doomshaper took the opportunity to touch the other two, and within moments all three looked down at his tiny form with anticipation. The kriel warriors who had fled to a safe distance now crept back, gaining confidence at the sight of Doomshaper standing unharmed and defiant. Mulg returned to the shaman’s side, limping and dragging his club in the freshly fallen snow. The blow he suffered at the hands of the gargantuan had been tremendous, but his natural regenerative powers were already at work, accelerated by Doomshaper’s urging. Above, a glacier king tore a boulder from the mountainside and shoved the rock into its eager mouth. They would need real food soon, but at least the first step toward taming the kings of the north was complete. With Winter’s Maw at his side, the rest would follow.
THE KEY TURNS
Though Willbreaker was lost to the belly of the first glacier king, Doomshaper found inspiration amid the shattered remnants of the krielstones that marked where Winter’s Maw had been imprisoned. Beneath his hands he felt the thrumming of Dhunian power, still potent after millennia, and he used his cunning and lore to bind that power into a weapon. He leaned on the new staff as he walked, and Mulg trudged alongside him with his usual scowl. Doomshaper was forced to expend some of their limited food supplies to facilitate the dire troll’s recovery, yet Mulg still hungered.
“How much farther until we reach the Khadorans?” Doomshaper asked the trollkin skinner beside him. Hundreds of northern pines and a mountain of stone had disappeared down the gullets of the glacier kings, but this had barely curbed their hunger. The gargantuan trolls eyed the kriel warriors hungrily. Doomshaper kept them locked down with his will, but it required close attention.
“Just beyond these peaks,” the skinner said, pointing up the slope. Doomshaper could hear the anticipation in the trollkin’s voice. “They’ve had this coming for a long time.” For years, nearby kriels had clashed with a Khadoran logging community on the fringes of their territory. When game to feed the glacier kings came up scarce, the trollkin had suggested turning that insatiable hunger on their longtime enemies. Doomshaper well understood that impulse and was more than willing to assist his northern kin’s vengeance.
The group topped the rise, and before them a little-used path wound down the mountain to the frozen tundra beyond. A short distance from the mountain’s base, curls of smoke rose from the chimneys of the Khadoran town the scouts had identified as Daliskov. A stout wall encircled the holdings, punctuated by several watchtowers.
“It is not Ceryl, but it’s a start,” Doomshaper said under his breath. As they hiked downward, he imagined the gargantuans casting down the meager walls and falling upon the town’s inhabitants, stuffing them into gaping mouths one after the next and ending their screams with a satisfying crunch that splattered the streets with blood. Movement caught his attention. To one side of the path, perched on an outcropping of stone and balancing on one clawed foot, stood a battered ’jack that appeared to have been cobbled together. Unlike most warjacks, this one lacked arms, its engine solely committed to driving its long legs. Its chassis was a faded red where rust had not overtaken its surface. A series of ropes and buckles held a bedroll and
several satchels to its frame. With grace uncanny for its size, the ’jack bounded over the rocks, each step marked by the scrape of steel on stone. Doomshaper recognized the machine as the one called Scrapjack.
“Stop,” a voice commanded, and a hunched figure draped in layers of threadbare clothing now blocked the path. She had an air of preternatural antiquity about her that seemed potent even against the backdrop of the Shard Spires. Each of her fingers extended into a steel talon, and a crow perched on one of the pipes protruding from the warcaster armor buried beneath her garments. Although he had never met her, Doomshaper knew enough lore to identify Zevanna Agha, also called the Old Witch of Khador.
“Step aside,” Doomshaper said, his voice rough and threatening. “The children of Dhunia do not answer to the likes of you.”
“Do you expect me to valk avay and leave Daliskov to you?” She cackled. If the presence of the glacier kings daunted her, she did not show it. “Your plan I vould reconsider. Tragedy avaits those you left in the south. If you hurry, perhaps you can save them. Perhaps.” She made a clucking sound, and something between a scowl and a smile tugged at her wrinkled face. “Children of Dhunia? Also of the Vurm, vhich does not hesitate to devour its young.”
Though Doomshaper’s expression remained unchanged, he felt the impact of the Old Witch’s last words. This mention of the Devourer Wurm was unexpected and unsettling. He reminded himself that the crone was known for her cryptic speech. He said, “I have no time for your riddles. Speak plainly or be gone.”
“The Tree of Fate vishes to reclaim vhat it views as its own. The axe of Horfar Grimmr vill bring the ruin of your people. Perhaps mine also.” She clacked her talons along the staff she carried. “You could change this.”
“I have heard enough,” Doomshaper said. Behind him, grumbles issued from the glacier kings as they sensed his anger. “I will not be dissuaded by your threats or prophecies. How many of your own people have you sent to early graves with a few words?”
“Believe vhat you vish.” She looked down the mountainside to the distant town of Daliskov. “Leave this place. Go back to the desert sands vhere your people need you. I vill not varn you again.” With that, she blinked out of existence only to reappear farther down the mountain, Scrapjack standing beside her. For a moment, she held Doomshaper’s gaze, then she and her machine walked out of sight behind several boulders.
“What was that about?” the skinner asked. Doomshaper only shook his head. The Old Witch was not to be trusted.
Finally he hauled himself over the lip of the cliff, his chest heaving. At the top of an incline littered with boulders and the occasional stunted pine loomed Cassius, and behind him, Wurmwood. The ancient tree’s roots wrapped about loose soil and stone, and the many bones hanging from its limbs clattered in the wind.
Kromac removed the burlap sack from his waist and emptied the contents at Wurmwood’s base. A dozen human hearts and a smattering of other choice organs landed in the dirt, looking like slick and spoiled fruit in the moonlight. The Tharn dropped to one knee and uttered words of greeting and respect in Molgur.
“You have returned,” Cassius said, his hooded form gliding between the sentry stones, “though without the axe of Horfar Grimmr.” His eyes were empty, two extinguished coals wrapped in pale skin.
“Forgive me, Oathkeeper,” Kromac said, feeling his shame keenly. “I was thwarted.”
Cassius' voice was deep and resonant, as though his words carried from the bottom of a well. “You underestimate your foe. The trollkin are also children of the Wurm.”
In Kromac’s memory he saw himself closing on the axe only to be tackled by one of the trollkin chieftain’s lieutenants, the two of them brawling across the ground until they went together over the edge of a cliff. The lieutenant was a powerful warrior, and by the time Kromac narrowly bested him, the opportunity to confront Madrak had been lost. Kromac clenched his fists, his claws cutting into his palms. “I will not disappoint you again.”
“You were named champion of the apocalypse. You must prove worthy. You will have your chance, and soon. Events converge to offer a chance at redemption.”
“I will take the axe from Madrak Ironhide after I have taken the heart from his chest.” Kromac’s blood stirred as he spoke, his primal side straining like a collared beast. “You must wield the axe of Horfar Grimmr.” The statement was made with cold certainty, the matter decided. “World Ender nears the completion of its purpose in the northern Bloodstone Marches. Step forward when the time is right. Rise now, and go.”
Kromac stood. His muscles ached from the climb, and thin rivulets of blood flowed over the knuckles of each clenched Whatever advice she offered, she worked toward her own
ends. Even so, he couldn’t help but wonder how much truth lay in her words.
“What of the town?” asked one of the kriel warriors. Doomshaper hesitated. “We proceed as planned,” He said after a moment. He would not allow a figure out of Khadoran folklore to influence his actions. For too long the empires of men had pushed his people to the fringes, treating them as inferiors. They would pay a price in blood—not once, but many times. This town was meaningless, only the first of many he would erase. He would not back down at the demands of anyone speaking on behalf of his enemies, even Zevanna Agha.
Doomshaper looked up to the gargantuans looming above. One of them sucked on a boulder discontentedly. “The glacier kings still hunger," he said, "and it would not do to let the transgressions of the people of Daliskov go unanswered.”
WESTERN WYRMWALL
Kromac’s muscles strained as he hauled himself up the cliff face. Above, the granite sheet ascended into the night sky, and sharp stones waited below to receive his fall. His fingers slid over the surface in search of new handholds, the cuts on his palms leaving smears of crimson.
A burlap sack hitched to his belt slid back and forth over his thigh like a pendulum as he climbed. Like the stone under his palms, the bottom of the sack was a dark red. A trickle of blood filtered through the bag and fell into the yawning darkness, one drop at a time.
The three moons looked down upon him like pale faces. Calder, the largest, shone as a blue-white half crescent. The speckled red-brown Laris was nearly full, as was pale green Artis, the smallest of the three. Already the pull of the upcoming lunar conjunction threatened to drive Kromac into his bestial form. He had not undergone a transformation since his defeat at the hands of the trollkin, and despite the physical demands the ascent placed on him, he resisted the urge to transform now. The shame of his failure clung to him, and he did not wish to draw upon his connection to the Wurm while unworthy. In a few weeks’ time, however, the three moons would be full, and the Beast of All Shapes would be upon him regardless of his resolve.
Handholds crumbled beneath his fingers and the winds of the peaks threatened to rip him from the cliff, but he would not be shaken. At the edges of his vision, a hooded figure appeared beneath the shadows of distant rock faces. The suspicion that Cassius watched spurred him to overreach and to try unstable handholds, and one time he was left dangling by a few clawed fingernails.
“YOU WERE NAMED CHAMPION
OF THE APOCALYPSE. YOU
THE KEY TURNS
fist from the wounds on his palms. The blood pattered at his feet, where the gnarled roots of the Tree of Fate wrapped around the hearts offered as tribute. His blood, too, was pulled in by the roots.
A mist rose from the ground, swirling and growing thicker. The forms of Cassius and the Tree of Fate disappeared in the wall of fog. The calls of birds Kromac knew to be native to the Glimmerwood sounded from unseen branches. A sense of disorientation lingered as he steadied himself. When the fog burned away, he stood in a ring of standing stones hundreds of miles from where he had been moments before. Kromac took only a moment to consider his course. Several Tharn tribes loyal to him resided in this region. He would gather them and see the will of the Beast of All Shapes done, even if it meant his end.
NORTHERN BLOODSTONE MARCHES
Madrak sought out Kargess across the gathered crowd and smiled. Despite his misgivings about returning to his exiled people, it was beyond good to see her. She smiled back, but there was something reserved in her expression. He felt the familiar ache in his chest grow heavier even as the axe on his back pulled at him. He had not been a good mate lately, or a good leader for these kin. He had done the best he could, but his failures weighed heavily upon him.
They stood in the largest space in the newly built village in the Bloodstone Marches—its great hall. The hall was secured within what Calandra called the “inner village,” protected by a high stone wall and battlements. Most of the half-built main community sprawled beyond the inner village. Even here lay evidence of fresh construction, yet the space had been made as festive as possible to welcome Madrak. A large fire was at the center together with what ale and food had been gathered for the feast. The hall was packed with champions, elders, lesser chieftains, and other leaders of the United Kriels, but Madrak had eyes only for Kargess. He went to where she stood apart from the tumult, accepting welcoming claps on the shoulder and greeting old friends as he made his way. She held her hands out to him and he clasped them eagerly, leaning in to touch foreheads. He had been away too long. For a moment he breathed in her earthy smell, and the noise around them faded into background, but then she pulled back.
“It is good to see you,” she said, “but how did you arrive? Rumors are multiplying in the village, each more unlikely than the last.”
He shook his head. “I cannot say. We had just come down from the Wyrmwall Mountains, with weeks of travel still ahead of us, when we were swallowed by a fog. Then we were in the Marches and Calandra was greeting us.” He squeezed her hand and gave her an apologetic look. “I should find Grissel. There is much to discuss. Things have changed since I left.”
Kargess nodded. “Indeed they have. But Grissel can wait. She will see you later at the feast. Take a moment to rest. You can be spared for a few moments.”
Madrak nodded and followed his mate to their new dwelling, one of the small buildings attached to the defensive wall of the inner village. It looked familiar even though he hadn’t seen it before. He saw Kargess in the details: the arrangement of the furniture, the cloak laid across the back of a chair, items salvaged from their old home. Her own armor and weapons hung, cleaned and ready, in a place where she could readily seize them. He wondered what she had faced in his absence. He took a moment to rinse his face at a washing bowl. From somewhere nearby he heard the sound of a baby crying and he smiled. Even in times of war there was new life.
As Madrak dried his hands he realized the sound came from another chamber of their hut. This was not a surprise— children in a kriel were a communal matter, and Kargess had always dedicated herself to the well-being of the kriel, including caring for the young. He hoped to have his own family someday. Perhaps once Rathrok’s claim on him was satisfied.
Kargess returned carrying a young trollkin, less than a year old. Madrak eyed the bundle with amusement. “Whose little one are you looking after today?”
“Ours,” Kargess said softly.
Madrak opened his mouth but the words would not come. Surely he had misheard her.
Kargess smiled. “Say hello to your son.” She handed him the shifting bundle, and he cradled the child in his arms with a gentleness that felt both unfamiliar and natural. He looked down at the swaddled form, and a pair of large and curious eyes peered up from a pale blue face with full cheeks.
A tiny hand reached up and groped at the growths on his chin. “I have a son?” Madrak asked, his voice thick. He'd held his share of young trollkin. He’d taught several how to fight and instructed them on the kriel’s traditions, but holding his own son brought with it a sense of wholly
FROM SOMEWHERE NEARBY HE
HEARD THE SOUND OF A BABY
CRYING AND HE SMILED. EVEN IN
TIMES OF WAR THERE WAS NEW LIFE.
unexpected pride. He and Kargess had just decided to begin their own family when the Thornwood was invaded, and they had put off that dream amid the tumult. He thought back to how long he had been gone. His son had been conceived during those last weeks before he left to find Doomshaper, to distance himself from his people before Rathrok brought them greater harm. As he looked into these wide eyes, old fears resurfaced. Here he held a piece of himself—his future—and at the same time the axe of Horfar Grimmr hung from his back like an ominous weight anchoring him to a destiny fraught with darkness.
“I have been calling him Dag,” Kargess said. An old name, from a Molgur-Trul word for day. “There will be time to decide if it sticks or if another is better suited.”
“A good name,” Madrak said, looking at his child. Was he an albino like his father, or only pale? He was not sure. Kargess stepped close and placed her hands on Madrak’s elbows so the baby rested between the two of them. “Grim wanted to tell you, but I insisted he wait so I could give you the news myself. I was hoping it would be sooner, but we are together now, the three of us.”
His mate’s words echoed in his mind. Yes, they were together, and while he should rejoice, his apprehension was stronger than ever. He had left those he cared for to spare them the horrors that followed him. He had sworn he would not return before ridding himself of the accursed weapon, yet here he was, still in its possession, putting his kriel at risk—and now his son as well.
Kargess leaned forward and their foreheads pressed together, initiating the Tohmaak Mahkeiri. Rather than meeting her gaze and completing the bond that would allow them to peer into each other’s mind, Madrak pulled away.
“What is it?” she asked, collecting Dag from his arms. “You look every bit as tired as you look happy to be a father. What happened while you were away?”
“Later,” Madrak said, shaking his head. He placed his hand on the bundle and a small hand gripped one of his fingers. “In one sense, nothing has changed. In another, everything.” “Later, then.” She studied his face for a long while, then said, “We should prepare for the feast. Your people wish to speak with you. Their chief has been missed.”
“It has been too long,” Grissel said as she and Madrak embraced. “We send you off to retrieve Doomshaper and instead you return with half the Wyrmwall! The entire village has been going on about the mountain kings.”
“The chieftain who walks with legends,” Horthol said with a grin. He stepped forward to clasp forearms with Madrak. “Congratulations on your son. I am sure he will grow up to be every bit as impressive as his father.”
“My son!” Madrak smiled. “Thank you. It is good to be in the company of old friends.” He then explained Doomshaper’s quest in the north as the three of them stood inside the entrance to the newly erected feast hall. Massive pillars hewn from trees dragged from the mountainside braced the impressively high ceiling, and the fine masonry of the walls held in the warmth of a central fire over which roasted two desert oxen. Every notable champion and chief was present, and the cadences of conversation and laughter filled the hall. It had been a long while since Madrak had felt such warmth, though he couldn’t bring himself to relish it. He looked from Horthol to Grissel and considered what his return might cost them.
Grissel caught his eye and said, “Do not seek troubles that
are not already yours.” It was an old saying. She continued,
“There is much to do, but many to share the burden.” He nodded. “This is true.” Beyond the open doorway, the mountain kings roamed in the encroaching dark, eating stones and trees. He waved vaguely in their direction. “Keeping such creatures under thumb takes its toll on the mind, but the march is over. Thank you both. I knew I could count on you to keep everyone together.”
“We had help,” Grissel said. “You were right to send Calandra. Without her, I don’t know if we would have made it out of Crael Valley intact. Gunnbjorn has also proven invaluable, though we practically had to drag him from Skarleforth Lake before he would retreat from the skorne. He has done a commendable job organizing the camp’s defenses.”
Madrak looked to Gunnbjorn, seated beside Grim Angus at the raised table. The trollkin caught the chieftain’s glance and raised a mug of ale in salute and Madrak nodded in acknowledgement.
“Indeed, you have done more than I could have asked for,” Madrak said. “I am lucky to count you among my kin. It is remarkable what you accomplished here in so short a time.” “Don’t let him forget it,” Kargess said as she approached the three of them, young Dag in her arms. “Come,” she said, taking Madrak by the hand. “Others want to speak with you, and I am sure you are hungry from your travels.” Madrak nodded to Grissel and Horthol and started across the hall. He stopped every few paces to embrace kin who greeted him. Now and then someone would thrust a mug into his hands, and by the time he reached the raised table at the front of the hall he had drained several. Horthol, Grissel, and Calandra had joined Gunnbjorn and Grim, and the five
THE KEY TURNS
were talking at a fast clip when Madrak and Kargess joined them. Already plates of meat were being passed, though the slices were thin and few. The feast looked hard-won. “I examined the fortifications when I arrived,” Madrak said to Gunnbjorn. “You have done a fine job strengthening our position.” He looked around him at the construction of the hall once again. “All of you. You have done much to make this a new home.”
“Even so, there is so much more to do,” Grissel said. “This land sustains life only grudgingly. The soil refuses anything but weeds, and even those do poorly. Every skinner and hunter is out looking for game, but what they bring back barely sustains us. We must find other solutions.”
Gunnbjorn nodded. “Other supplies are scarce as well. We may have to raid the farrow or even the skorne, though we are not eager to provoke them.”
The faces at the table looked to Madrak. They all had questions. They wanted direction, and they looked to their chief to provide a path forward. He couldn’t see it. Beneath the table, Kargess gave his hand a squeeze, which he returned. She was the bedrock beneath the shifting sands upon which he had been walking of late. He felt the faith she had in him steady his footing once more.
“There will be time to discuss such matters,” Horthol said, sensing his friend’s mood. “For now, let us celebrate new beginnings and the reunion of friends.” He raised a mug. Ale sloshed over the top and down his arm. “To Chief Ironhide. To Dag, heir of Ironhide! He will earn his own axe soon!”
The others laughed and joined his toast, as did those at the long tables that stretched the length of the hall. Hundreds of mugs rose and were promptly drained. Mixed feelings assailed Madrak. He could not deny the gathering did his heart good. Yet despite the joyousness of the occasion, Rathrok remained an uninvited guest. He thought back to his recent battle against the druids, to how he had nearly given himself over to the axe in a fit of blind, psychotic rage. For one brief moment afterward, he had thought himself free of the axe. But the respite had been fleeting, and once again he had found the weapon waiting, still bound to him.
Without warning, Madrak saw the central fire and the various sconces go out, plunging the hall into semi-darkness. Down the lengths of the hall’s tables, each laughing face was caked with blood and bulging with putrefaction. Each laugh, joke, and boast melded into a cacophony of pained groans and screams. Only when Madrak began to stand and Kargess placed a hand upon his shoulder did the room return to normal.
“What is it?” Kargess asked, looking into his eyes. He could not abide the thought of telling her his mind was not his own.
“Nothing,” Madrak lied. “As Horthol said, there will be time to talk later. Let us enjoy the feast.” While we can, he thought.
“You spent so long away from us,” Kargess said later, when they had returned to their hut. “Yet your mind seems no clearer than when you left.“ At the opposite end of the room, Dag slept in his cradle, and she spoke softly so as not to wake him. Madrak faced away from her, leaning against the door frame, and she eyed his back wearily. He had seemed distracted during the feast, and he appeared no better now that they were alone.
“It is the mountain kings. Even at a distance, I bear them in mind. I cannot command them from here, but I must work to remind them of my previous orders, to keep them from descending. It is exhausting.”
She couldn’t recall ever hearing him sound so tired. “I am sure that is a strain, but there is more,” she said. “Do not shut me out. Tell me, what truly troubles you?”
Madrak shook his head as he turned back to her. “I failed,” he said after a time. “That which I sought to cast off remains. The curse is not broken.”
“Put it out of your mind. The important thing is you have returned. Your people need you, Madrak. I have done my best to hold them together, as have Grissel and the others, but they have been through a great deal.”
“Yes. Grim told me of the hardships. Even so, my presence can bring nothing but misery. It was cowardly for me to return. I wanted to come home, but we have no home now. Not truly.”
She let that stand for long seconds and then said, “You sound as if you are considering leaving again. You are talking yourself into the wrong course. Your desire for homecoming was right. Your heart knows it. Your people have lost their friends, their families, their homes. But they still find harmony in kith, kriel, and kin. Do not deprive them of their chief again.”
“Too many have fallen on my account.” There was desperation in his words. She knew she was seeing a side of him he would never reveal to another. She recalled the look of horror that crossed his face at the feast. Whatever haunted him had found its voice on the road and whispered louder than ever. She hated the axe he bore, but it was too late for such regrets.
“It is not just dreams any longer, is it?” she asked. “The nightmares find you even when you are awake.”
He nodded. “If you saw the things I have seen, you would understand why it is best I leave.”
“No.” She said it flatly, authoritatively, but with no anger. He looked up, startled. Kargess continued, “It is of no use. You cannot leave your family. Even were you to walk away from us, I would find a way to stand beside you. What did going off on your own accomplish? I know you had to try, but stop punishing yourself. Everything you have done, you have done from a desire to do right by your people. Perhaps there is a curse. Even so, it does not follow only you. It affects us all.”
He stared at her slack-jawed. “I had not considered this.” “Let us say troubles are drawn to us, and Rathrok is the cause. So be it. We will face them together. Your fate and that of your kin are one. We will fight, and if need be die, together. Let your people support you as you have fought for us. Let me stand at your side. Whatever burdens you bear, you do not face them alone.“ She took his hand in hers. “Thank you,” Madrak said as he took her in his arms. “Your words are true. We must stand united. Together, perhaps we have hope.”
There in the darkness, Kargess finally felt that Madrak had come home at last.
NORTHERN KHADOR, SOUTH OF THE SHARD SPIRES
Along the outer walls separating the town of Daliskov from the frozen tundra beyond, alarm bells were ringing. The town’s defenders rushed to its defense, only to meet their doom at the hands and maws of the glacier kings.
Doomshaper grunted in approval as another section of the town’s walls crumbled under the assault. The crackle of rifle fire had surged when the first troll breached the defenses, but now the shots came in sporadic bursts. Through the whole gruesome scene he thought of the Old Witch’s demands to stay clear of the town. He hoped she watched from some remote perch, vexed at his defiance. For too long the kin had bowed to threats.
Once the glacier kings were past the wall and into the town’s streets, the kriel warriors of the north surged through the gap, eager to cut down any remaining Khadoran defenders. People were screaming and fleeing their homes while soldiers sought to provide covering fire. Doomshaper followed the glacier kings through the gap with Mulg lumbering at his side. The persistent call of birds hung on the air. Handfuls of crows stared down in judgment from their pearch atop a battered, leaning watchtower. Such birds were sometimes the old crone’s eyes, Doomshaper knew.
“Look on all you like!” Doomshaper shouted to the crows. He pointed the tip of his staff in their direction. “Your talons have no power here. The hunger of the Shard Spires has come for those who would trespass on kriel lands.” He treaded through freshly fallen snow left behind by the glacier kings. There was little blood and fewer wounded; the appetites of the great troll legends did not allow for prisoners. Ahead, a church topped with a bronze Radiance of Morrow ruptured into a hail of splinters as a glacier king drove a fist through the roof and proceeded to devour those huddled inside.
Shots rang out, and a bullet tore past Doomshaper’s head. A handful of Winter Guard huddled in the skeleton of a building worked to reload their rifles. Doomshaper gave Mulg a mental command and the dire troll charged, bellowing in rage at the attempt to harm his master. A wide swipe of his club splintered the remains of a wall and caught the nearest guardsman hard enough to shatter the man’s ribs and send him crashing into his comrades. The tangle of soldiers flailed in the snow, panic plain on their faces. Those posted here were inexperienced and complacent, distinct from Khadoran garrisons closer to contested borders. It had been years since the inhabitants of this region feared the nearest kriels. Doomshaper doubted they would feel so secure after this.
Mulg brought his club down and crushed the remaining Winter Guard. The dire troll huffed, exhaling clouds of vapor into the cold air as he looked about for further threats. Overhead, the call of crows sounded again. Hundreds perched on the shattered structures and hundreds more circled above the heads of the glacier kings. Clouds of black wings approached Daliskov’s shattered walls from the distant mountains, growing more distinct as they neared. A pair of crows dived for the shaman’s head, striking ineffectively with their beaks before returning to the sky. Others streaked past Mulg, who swatted at them in aggravation. The glacier kings, too, were beset by beaks and talons, more a nuisance than a real threat, though the concentration of birds suggested something greater at play. Doomshaper felt a prickling of unfamiliar magic along his skin.
The sky went black, the sun no match for the myriad wings gathered above. Without warning, the crows descended to envelop those beneath them.
“YOUR WORDS ARE TRUE. WE
MUST STAND UNITED. TOGETHER,
PERHAPS WE HAVE HOPE.”
THE KEY TURNS
“The Old Witch seeks to deter us,” Doomshaper shouted to Mulg over the din of the crows, “but she knows not our strength!” He turned to one of the pygs who assisted in bearing his scrolls and pointed sharply at one of the smaller tubes. “Quickly! We must unravel her efforts. No, the one below that!”
The pyg adjusted his grip on the tied bundle, extracted the scroll Doomshaper demanded, and thrust it into the shaman’s hand. With a twist, the parchment unfurled to reveal an old rubbing taken from a long-destroyed stone. Doomshaper held the scroll high before him and read the words in a booming voice. Runes blazed into existence and orbited the staff he clutched in his other hand. He raised his voice higher, as though the words would beat back the cloud of crows. Then he, too, was enveloped, as was Mulg. Soon there was nothing on the wind but the shrill calls of crows.
Each swirling column of crows drew in on itself and then exploded outward in a rush. Birds scattered in every
direction, reeling and diving to avoid one another. Then they streaked toward the horizon, a streaming dark flock heading south.
Doomshaper, Mulg, and the glacier kings were nowhere to be seen. The kriel warriors looked about in confusion. Then a series of metal barbs erupted from the ground to skewer them. The warriors cried out as the metal punctured their legs and pierced their torsos. Those not killed outright struggled to free themselves.
The whistle of escaping steam echoed in the shattered town. Scrapjack darted into the street seconds later. Its two long legs pumped furiously, pistons hissing, before the machine crashed talons-first into one of the impaled trollkin.
The old woman followed close behind. She slashed through the invaders with her own blackened-iron talons, easily stepping aside from the downward stroke of an axe before driving her blades between a different trollkin’s ribs. Within minutes the remaining trollkin hung limp from the barbs that held up their bodies, and the town was quiet once again.
THE BLOODSTONE MARCHES
Calaban kept a low profile, moving among the arid hills that bordered the northwestern reaches of the Bloodstone
Marches. The heat and dry environment left him distinctly uncomfortable, but he tried to ignore the itching between his scales. The warlock was grateful the timing allowed him to carry out the rendezvous under cover of darkness. Maelok moved alongside him, the flames of the various candles crowning his head burning low in the dark. A handful of undead bog trogs shambled behind them with glassy eyes. A single gatorman bokor with unwavering loyalty was the only living being in the entourage. Regardless of the outcome, the even meeting was an act of treachery. Calaban could ill afford to bring anyone who might inform his temperamental leader what transpired among them.
Since the Blindwater Congregation started traveling through the hills, trees and waterways had become increasingly rare, and being out in the open made Calaban feel exposed. He cursed Barnabas for his insistence that they travel to such a miserable place on nothing more than the visions of the death charmer Jaga-Jaga.
An unlikely opportunity had presented itself. An army of farrow converged from the west toward the same destination as their own, led by warlocks Calaban had fought before. Despite earlier skirmishes, the bokor thought he might have a kindred spirit in the opposing camp, a human advisor to the farrow warlord who desired this conflict as little as Calaban did. Whether the human held enough sway to alter the farrow’s plans remained to be seen. Calaban had risked much to arrange the meeting, relying on discreet messages carried by enslaved spirits. To this point his efforts had gone unnoticed by rival bokors; he could only hope his luck held.
Such risks were necessary. While Calaban had so far weathered Barnabas’ crusade for godhood, the time to seek the safety of the shallows had passed. The roaring falls of the warlock’s ascension neared. All that remained was to avoid the rocks below the plunge. To openly suggest they veer from the course would result in punishments worse than death. Calaban knew he must take a more circuitous and ambitious route.
Even as a degree of excitement stirred within him, Dr. Arkadius questioned his own judgment. As a man of science, he had been reluctant to listen to the strange swamp spirits that had visited him over the past several nights. The majority of his previous contact with gatormen had been hostile. He remembered the clash in the Marchfells not long ago, when he very nearly lost his life fighting alongside Lord Carver. Despite this, when the latest swamp spirit came calling, his curiosity got the better of him.
His finger traced the trigger of his combat syringe as he stared out into the dark. A pair of war hogs flanked him and several gun boars waited atop a nearby hill. Targ stood at his back, quiet as always. Now and then the pistons of the war hogs’ mechanical arms let out a hiss that sounded unusually loud in the night’s quiet. In the distance, a faint glow like that of candles winked at him, and as the light drew closer several forms took shape.
A trio of gatormen walked at the fore, a dozen smaller figures shuffling behind in the flickering candlelight. His two war hogs bristled, but Arkadius mentally held them in check. He recognized the leading masked gatorman as one of the opposing leaders involved in the Marchfells dispute. He recalled that this one had invoked powerful magic, summoning an enormous malevolent specter that nearly caused the death of Lord Carver and Arkadius both. He was not certain he had implemented sufficient precautions for the meeting.
“Greetings, roska’ahn. I did not think . . . you would come,” the masked gatorman said in a rasp, struggling with a rough version of Cygnaran ill-suited to his anatomy. Arkadius knew the literal translation of the Quor-gar term to be “pink skin” but did not take offense. “I am Calaban . . . bokor of . . . Fenn Marsh tribes.” The stench of decay emanated from the gatorman’s allies, most of whom appeared undead. While not surprising, this fact did somewhat unsettle Arkadius. He felt at a disadvantage fighting against such creatures, given the majority of his expertise relied on living tissues. “I am Dr. Arkadius,” he replied, also in Cygnaran. “I know your tongue. You may speak freely.” He found himself considering gatorman anatomy and the myriad distinctions between these creatures and the farrow he often had under his knife. The reptiles were an impressive canvas, though their biological systems were less sophisticated than those of mammals. Impressive as their anatomy might be—and clearly they were nearly perfect killing machines—their flesh was less mutable. Nonetheless, he imagined schematics for mechanized jaws and enhanced limbs as they spoke. Aloud he asked, “You have matters to discuss?”
“Indeed.” The bokor turned his head to the side, eyeing Arkadius with a single yellow orb. “The same trouble plagues us both. Our lives are bound to leaders with large dreams but small minds. These lords think they lead, while in truth we control the water’s flow. Our armies pursue the same prey. We are destined to butcher each other fighting over scraps. To what end?”
Arkadius nodded. Upon answering Carver’s summons for the current campaign he had vehemently expressed concerns on the matter, only to be silenced. Every farrow that Lord Carver expended in this foolish battle was a lost resource better employed elsewhere—such as in his own work.
THE KEY TURNS
Cautiously he said, “I do not have the ability to control Lord Carver.” With his newfound interest in Helga the Conqueror, Carver was proving even more intractable than usual. His desire to prove his fighting worth to his potential mate took precedence over all other concerns.
“Barnabas is similar,” Calaban hissed, the name seeming to evoke frustration within him. “He seeks slaughter regardless of the cost. He will hear of nothing else.” “If neither of us can influence these events, then it seems we are at an impasse, no matter how reasonable we each might be,” Arkadius replied. “I fail to see the point of this conference.”
“This is not an impasse, but a crossroads,” Calaban said. A sound that might have been laughter stuttered from the bokor’s maw, but the creature’s eyes remained devoid of emotion. “We must see Barnabas struck down. You must see him struck down. Slay him, and under my command the Congregation will withdraw and leave you the spoils.”
“Interesting,” Arkadius said. The notion of internal treachery within the ranks of the gatormen had not occurred to him, though it was not surprising. He knew from his studies that gatorman society obeyed an ordinarily rigid social hierarchy, though when change transpired it came violently. Still, he knew better than to trust Calaban. Gatorman beliefs regarding honor and obligation were an unknown. Even if those notions existed, the creatures might not feel obliged to apply them to an outsider.
The individual before him did have his own interests. It seemed logical that he might withdraw his forces after usurping power, to preserve his remaining strength. Agreeing to such a plan would cost the doctor nothing. Success would mean reduced casualties and fewer setbacks for his work; failure would leave the farrow in the same position they already occupied.
Already he imagined broaching the subject with Lord Carver, perhaps painting the reptilian leader as a prize to prove his reputation to his prospective mate. The farrow warlord was easily motivated by the desire for a worthy opponent, and if Arkadius were to present the information in the presence of the warlord’s subordinates, Carver would have little choice.
“Very well. I will see what I can do.”
Maelok followed obediently behind Calaban as they headed back to camp. From the open manner in which Calaban ruminated on his plans to his living bokur, it was clear to Maelok that his master considered him nothing more than a helpless slave.
Although Maelok remained bound to Calaban, the integrity of the mystical threads that dictated his actions was fraying. For months he had mentally gnawed at these bonds. His acts of resistance were minor and only gradually increased in frequency. This rebelliousness included trekking into secluded swamplands to practice magic without permission. Together, these acts compounded into something resembling defiance. His was a tenuous and untested freedom, secreted away in his stilled heart. Now it seemed to him he must act against his enslaver soon, amid the chaos of the upcoming battle, before Calaban elevated himself to greater standing. “Not a word of this,” Calaban hissed to the living bokor at his side. “We will make what use of the doctor we can. If all goes well, we will consecrate my transition to leader of the Congregation with the blood of the farrow leader.” Calaban did not turn back to offer the warning to Maelok or the undead bog trogs behind him. For all his scheming he was oblivious to the hatred directed at him from the old enemy at his back.
THE BLOODSTONE DESERT
Void Seer Mordikaar traversed the barren wastes of the Bloodstone Desert, and spirits of the Void followed him. He had grown accustomed to their ceaseless wails as they swirled about the edges of the gateway in reality that had trailed him since his escape from the Void. From the time he was cast from the battle at Scarleforth Lake by one of the dirt mystic leaders, the rage of the spirits seemed more palpable. The portal attached to him flickered and stretched as if something large lurking in the Void longed to be set free. The face of the cowled human who had banished Mordikaar to the heart of the desert filled his mind, and each step he took was accompanied by a promise of vengeance. The cleverness of the dirt mystic’s actions bothered him more than the discomfort of his current situation. He and the mystic had met once before, outside the Castle of the Keys, when Mordikaar’s inseparable link to the Void stayed the mystic’s hand. This time, rather than seek to kill him, the mystic found a different solution. Mordikaar still did not comprehend the ritual through which he had been thrust deep into the desert. He had felt a rush of unfamiliar power and then the world simply vanished, to be replaced by an entirely foreign environment far from the Army of the Western Reaches.
“HE SEEKS SLAUGHTER
REGARDLESS OF THE COST.
HE WILL HEAR OF NOTHING ELSE.”
The desert sun beat down on his withered skin. Multiple sandstorms had assailed him in the last few days. He had eaten little—only the occasional lizard emerging from beneath the sand at night. He was alone with his thoughts and the wails of Void spirits.
His body had passed the point when most mortals would have collapsed from exhaustion, starvation, and dehydration. He could feel his blood pumping rhythmically just beneath his skin and the slow burn of his muscles as his legs continued to propel him forward long after they should have stopped. To be skorne and a mortitheurge was to be empowered to weather such hardships. Countless skorne over the centuries had defied the elements to cross equally inhospitable wastes under even harsher conditions. But such travels required at least marginal supplies. With no food or water, the challenge of the task multiplied. Even mortitheurgy had limits.
Though Mordikaar’s body continued to function, it resembled a dried husk. It began to consume itself for sustenance, a process slowed only by the infusion of energy provided by his will. He tottered on the edge of life and death, a balance he was convinced relied on his inexplicable link to the Void as much as on his mystical skill. He sensed a slow trickle of cold energy flowing from the Void into his shuffling form, a substitute for natural vitality. Something in the back of his mind warned him not to become too comfortable with this arrangement.
A familiar presence brushed his consciousness, and Mordikaar’s ceaseless march stopped abruptly. In all the time spent walking, he had encountered no one. And yet there it was again, a distant prod of familiarity. Mordikaar blinked at the horizon. At the edge of his vision, the form of a shambling beast stood out amid the hues of the desert. As it neared, plates of armor decorated in the red and gold of the empire took shape, as did the lanterns swaying from curved hooks that protruded from the beast’s back and hung over its head. Relief washed over the void seer as the beast known as the Despoiler closed the distance. A product of countless hours of experimentation, the beast was as much a manifestation of the Void as a living creature. He could feel its life force thrumming. Mordikaar drew upon the energy of the beast, pulling stamina from its body into his own. The sense of detachment he had been experiencing lessened. For a moment he held the Despoiler’s gaze, admiring the loyalty instilled in his creation.
“We continue west,” Mordikaar said, speaking to himself more than the Despoiler. “I have unfinished business beyond the sands.” With renewed vigor, he continued toward the skorne fortresses he knew awaited him, the Despoiler plodding after. The spirits of the Void screamed behind him, their mouths echoing some inevitable doom.
Mordikaar stood rooted in the sand. He was looking over his shoulder, his gaze tracing the edge of the Void portal drifting behind him. A subtle distortion worked at the portal’s rim. At times it seemed to elongate and lean to one side, as if pulled by some inexplicable force. The distortion had become more pronounced since he first noticed it several hours earlier and the pull seemed to originate from somewhere to the northwest. He had never witnessed such an anomaly and felt certain it was significant.
The vast desert sands had given way to hardpan, here and there broken by rock formations. The void seer recalled seeing these landmarks on his initial voyage into the west, and he felt sure his current course would lead him directly back to the Castle of the Keys, where he could continue his work. If he altered his course and headed north, he could find Tyrant’s Lash or one of the smaller outposts in the region. Once he reported in and resupplied, he could devote his attention to finding the source of the irregularity. His mind turned to the extended ritual that had been performed by the dirt mystics at the river battle, and he wondered if the two were related. Despite the narrow-minded opinions of his peers, Mordikaar knew now that they had underestimated this foe.
The clatter of lanterns sounded, and Mordikaar turned to see the Despoiler crest a dune. The struggling form of a lizard dangled by its tail from the Despoiler’s fist, trying in vain to bite its captor. From time to time the Despoiler disappeared into the desert to return with a wriggling morsel. Mordikaar’s pace had doubled since the beast rejoined him, his health restored through the small influx of nourishment the Despoiler retrieved.
Mordikaar’s lanterns glowed and the lizard thrashed as it died. The void seer absorbed the animal’s vitality and a surge of warmth flowed through his limbs. He then plucked the lizard from the Despoiler’s grip and sank his teeth into its neck. The flesh was tough and unappealing, but the trickle of blood helped to satiate his thirst. As he ate he considered his options, weighing his current path against seeking the origins of the portal’s pull.
Mordikaar’s return to his former post would most certainly see his time devoted to Makeda’s campaign through either combat or the harvesting of more void spirits for the war effort. The matter of the unidentified anomaly would go unexamined, and this prospect vexed him. He felt a growing certainty that he should not ignore whatever was affecting the gateway to the Void. He had spent his life in pursuit of tough answers.
