PIP 1058
® ®
EVERY PROMISE HAS ITS PRICE
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.
AWAKEN YOUR FURY AND HOLD NOTHING
BACK IN THE WAR FOR SURVIVAL!
™
™
ISBN: 978-1-939480-45-3 • PIP 1058 • $34.99 • www.privateerpress.com
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NO MATTER HOW RASH
THEY MAY HAVE BEEN,
IT IS TOO LATE BY
FAR TO UNDO THE
DECISIONS OF THE PAST.
NOW THE SKIES DARKEN,
AND WE CAN ONLY
ATTEMPT TO NAVIGATE
THE STORM.
— OMNIPOTENT LORTUS
WARMACHINE
created and designed by
Matthew D. Wilson
Lead Designer,
WARMACHINE
Jason SolesDesigner, Exigence
David CarlProject Director
Bryan CutlerCreative Director
Ed BourelleLead Writer
Douglas SeacatWriting
Matt DiPietro Jordan Ellinger Matt Goetz Orrin Grey Aeryn Rudel William ShickAdditional Writing
David Carl Lyle Lowery Jason SolesContinuity
Douglas Seacat Jason SolesEditorial Manager
Darla KennerudEditing
Dan HendersonGraphic Design Director
Josh Manderville
Graphic Design & Layout
Richard Anderson Bryan Cutler Shona Fahland Matt Ferbrache Laine Garrett Josh Manderville
Art Director
Mike VaillancourtCover Illustration
Andrea UderzoIllustrations
Néstor Ossandón Mateusz Ozminski Andrea Uderzo Justice WongLead Concept Artist
Nick Kay
Concept Illustrations
Kory Lynn Hubbell RJ Palmer Andrea Uderzo
Studio Director
Ron KruzieStaff Sculptors
Brian Dugas Doug Hamilton Michael Jenkins Ben MisenarAdditional Sculpting
Carlos Castaño Russ Charles Benoit Cosse Jonathan Flanders Todd Harris Olivier Nkweti Steve SaundersStudio Modelers
Nate Scott James A. ThomasMiniature Painters
Matt DiPietro Geordie HicksAdditional Painting
Meg MaplesStudio Administration
Assistant
Charles Foster III
Hobby Manager & Terrain
Stuart Spengler
Hobby & Terrain
Specialist
Michael ArcherPhotography
Matt FerbracheProject Manager
Shona FahlandLicensing & Contract
Manager
Brent Waldher
President
Sherry Yeary
Chief Creative Officer
Matthew D. Wilson
Director of Business &
Branding Development
William ShickExecutive Assistant
Michelle HortonMarketing Manager
Lyle LoweryWeb/IT Professional
Micah Scott Ralston
Convention Coordinator
Michael Plummer
Marketing Coordinator
Simon Berman
Organized Play &
Volunteer Coordinator
William HungerfordQuartermaster Assistant
Dianne FerrerCustomer Service
Adam JohnsonCustomer Support
Justin Cottom Gabriel WaluconisWriting & Continuity
Manager
Douglas SeacatVideo Producer
Tony KonichekPublications Manager
Aeryn RudelNo Quarter EIC
Michael G. RyanNo Quarter Assistant
Michael SanbegDirector of Operations
Jason MartinProduction Director
Mark ChristensenMold Manager
Kelly YeagerPacking/Shipping
Manager
Joe LeeVendor Coordinator
Geoffrey KonkelMetal Casting Supervisor
Marcus Rodriguez
Lead Quality Control
Cody Ellis
Production
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 John Roth Rob Seamount Jesse Sterland Tu Thanh Chris Tiemeyer Ben Tracy Dara Vann Matt Warren Michele WheelerDevelopment Manager
David CarlRoleplaying Game
Producer
Matt GoetzGame Developer
William SchoonoverPlaytest Coordinator
Jack ColemanInfernals
Peter Gaublomme John Morin Gilles Reynaud D. Anthony Robinson Donald SullivanInternal 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 WaluconisExternal Playtesters
Alice Bettoli Cody Brown Corey Brown Andrew Hartland Kristin Hartland Federico Ingrosso Stu Liming James Moreland Andrew Ready Owen Rehrauer Josh Saulter Tim SimpsonProofreading
David Carl Dan Henderson Geoffrey Konkel William ShickCredits
3
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First printing: June 2014. Printed in China.
HORDES: Exigence (ebook version) . . . .ISBN: 978-1-939480-76-7 . . . .PIP 1058e
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 fellblade-wielding 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 ever-escalating 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, bare-knuckled and brutal. There is no time for hesitation or restraint. Exigence is now!
NeW BLOOd rises
taBLe Of CONteNts
BLOOd deBt, part ONe . . . . 4
ruLes aNd theme fOrCes . . . . 16
trOLLBLOOds . . . . 20
CirCLe OrBOrOs . . . . 36
skOrNe . . . . 52
LegiON Of everBLight . . . . 66
miNiONs . . . . 80
mOdeL gaLLery . . . . 96
paiNt guide . . . . 102
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?”
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.”
BLOOd deBt
5
“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.
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.
she heLd the dyiNg Nyss up,
suspeNded upON the tiNes
Of her divided BLade, aNd
WatChed as he died .
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. 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.
As yet, the archer warlock had kept these largest spawn in reserve. As Krueger watched from on high, he saw
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.
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.
He had been startled to realize the scope of Everblight’s forces advancing south, far more numerous than what he or
7
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.
“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.”
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 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. 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. 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.
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.
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
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
LiNkiNg his fate tO the
dragONs had Left him
uNiqueLy vuLNeraBLe iN mOre
Ways thaN ONe .
9
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
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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. 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,
11
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.
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
the Lesser spirits arOuNd
her sCattered aNd fLed,
eaCh With a siLeNt psyChiC
shriek Of terrOr .
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. Jaga-Jaga 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.
“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 Jaga-Jaga. “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
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
“the mOmeNt yOu BeCOme aN
OBstaCLe tO my asCeNsiON,
yOu Cease tO exist .”
13
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.”
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.
“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
15
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-great-grandmother 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 honor-bound 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.
