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CREDITS
WARMACHINE created and designed by
Matthew D. Wilson Lead Designer, WARMACHINE Jason Soles Designer, Reckoning David Carl Project Director Bryan Cutler Creative Director Ed Bourelle Lead Writer Douglas Seacat Writing Matt DiPietro Geordie Hicks Zach Parker Additional Writing Matt Goetz Lyle Lowery William Shick Continuity Douglas Seacat Jason Soles Editorial Manager Darla Kennerud
Graphic Design Director
Josh Manderville
Graphic Design & Layout
Richard Anderson Bryan Cutler Shona Fahland Matt Ferbrache Laine Garrett Josh Manderville Art Director Mike Vaillancourt Cover Illustration Andrea Uderzo Illustrations Carlos Cabrera Oscar Cafaro Johan Grenier Kory Lynn Hubbell Nick Kay Raphael Lübke Marco Mazzoni Néstor Ossandón Andrea Uderzo
Lead Concept Artist
Nick Kay Concept Illustrations Roberto Cirillo Andrea Uderzo Mike Vaillancourt Chris Walton Studio Director Ron Kruzie Staff Sculptors Brian Dugas Doug Hamilton Michael Jenkins Ben Misenar Additional Sculpting
Javier Garcia Ureña
Studio Modeler James A. Thomas Additional Modeling Stephen Scott Miniature Painters Matt DiPietro Geordie Hicks Studio Administration Assistant
Charles Foster III
Hobby Manager & Terrain
Stuart Spengler
Hobby & Terrain Specialist
Michael Archer
Photography
Matt Ferbrache
Project Manager
Shona Fahland
Licensing & Contract Manager
Brent Waldher
President
Sherry Yeary
Chief Creative Officer
Matthew D. Wilson
Director of Business & Branding Development William Shick Executive Assistant Michelle Horton Marketing Manager Lyle Lowery Web/IT Professional
Micah Scott Ralston
Convention Coordinator
Michael Plummer
Marketing Coordinator
Simon Berman
Organized Play & Volunteer Coordinator
William Hungerford
Quartermaster Assistant
Dianne Ferrer
Retail Support and Development Specialist Charles Agel Customer Service Adam Johnson Customer Support Justin Cottom Gabriel Waluconis
Writing & Continuity Manager
Douglas Seacat Editor Dan Henderson Video Producer Tony Konichek Publications Manager Aeryn Rudel No Quarter EIC Michael G. Ryan No Quarter Assistant Michael Sanbeg Director of Operations Jason Martin Production Director Mark Christensen Technical Director Kelly Yeager Packing/Shipping Manager Joe Lee Vendor Coordinator Geoffrey Konkel
Metal Casting Supervisor
Marcus Rodriguez
Resin Casting Supervisor
Scott Paschall
Lead Quality Control
Cody Ellis Production Oren Ashkenazi Ryan Baldonado Nelson Baltzo Felisha Bolzenthal Thomas Cawby Johan Cea Henry Chac Bryan Dasalla Alfonso Falco Joel Falkenhagen Maddie Gill Trevor Hancock Mike Harshbarger Bryan Klemm Mark Lawson Chris Lester David Lima Clayton Links Keith Loree Christopher Matthews Bryan McClaflin Chris McLeroy Antonio Mora Phuong Nguyen Antwan Porter Sam Rattanavong Erik Reiersen John Roth Rob Seamount Jesse Sterland Tu Thanh Chris Tiemeyer Ben Tracy Dara Vann Matt Warren Michele Wheeler Development Manager David Carl
Roleplaying Game Producer
Matt Goetz Game Developer William Schoonover Playtest Coordinator Jack Coleman Infernals Peter Gaublomme Travis Marg John Morin Gilles Reynaud D. Anthony Robinson Donald Sullivan Internal Playtesters Ed Bourelle David Carl Leo Carson Johan Cea Jack Coleman Cody Ellis Bill French Charles Foster William Hungerford Tony Konichek Lyle Lowery Bryan Maclaflin Michael Plummer Erik Reierson William Schoonover William Shick Jason Soles Jacob Stanley Gabe Waluconis Matt Warren External Playtesters Andrew Allen Alice Bettoli Jonathan Boggs Cody Brown Corey Brown Andrew Hartland Kristin Hartland Jake Hoffman Tom Hoffmann Federico Ingrosso Stu Liming James Moreland Shane Phillipi Thomas Phillipi Andrew Ready Owen Rehrauer Josh Saulter Tim Simpson Proofreading David Carl Dan Henderson Darla Kennerud William Shick
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART ONE . . . .4
THEME FORCES & CEPHALYX RULES . . 17
CYGNAR . . . .22 PROTECTORATE OF MENOTH . . . 34 KHADOR . . . 44 CRYX . . . 54 RETRIBUTION OF SCYRAH. . . 64 MERCENARIES . . . 74 MODEL GALLERY . . . .92 PAINTING GUIDE . . . 96
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART TWO . . 104
Bigger is better. That was the mantra we held to when we
unleashed colossals upon WARMACHINE tabletops across the world three years ago. Since that time these massive weapons of war have irrevocably changed the way battles are fought. The modern colossals have forced commanders to adapt new tactics and strategies, both when employing their faction’s own colossals and when fighting against their enemy’s ultimate weapons of war.
Even as Immoren itself still trembles from the impact of these first mighty constructs, the foundries and factories of the Iron Kingdoms prepare to deliver the next generation of colossals to the war-torn battlefields, each nation hoping that their innovations will provide them the much-needed edge to finally wrest total victory from their foes. These new colossals, outfitted and armed with the latest advancements in weaponry and technology their factions have access to, certainly demand attention—but they are far from the only new weapons tabletop generals can call on to aid them in their fight for supremacy.
Reckoning introduces powerful new character warjacks
for some of the most recognizable warcasters, including Cygnar’s Allister Caine and Khador’s infamous Orsus Zoktavir. New troops and heroes also heed the call to battle and add their formidable strength and skills to the armies of western Immoren as the struggle between the living and the dead comes to a dramatic and explosive climax. New warcasters, colossals, and character warjacks provide faction commanders with plenty of shiny new toys, but Mercenaries are by no means left out in the cold! The Talion Charter mercenary contract receives some long-awaited reinforcements, the Searforge contract gains the first Mercenary battle engine, and the Puppet Masters contract introduces a deadly new Cephalyx warcaster. Whether you fight for wealth or ambition, for the survival of Immoren or to lay waste to all beneath your gaze, the time for restraint is over. Roll out the big guns. It is time for Reckoning!
THE THORNWOOD NECROFACTORIUM, EARLY 609 AR
Kommander Oleg Strakhov sat on his haunches keeping watch on the entrance, glad to be free for the moment of the oppressive drudge helmet that he had been wearing for the weeks—or was it months?—since he first infiltrated the Cryxian base. He had lost all track of the passage of time amid his desperate bid to find and rescue Kommander Karchev. Time meant little below the earth with no sun or moons to mark its passage, and Strakhov had quickly given up trying to track it.
He had been back to see Karchev several times since discovering his location within the necrofactorium. When the great kommander was lucid enough to speak to him, he would ask Strakhov to kill him so that he could not be made into a weapon against the Motherland. Each time Strakhov had refused or deflected the request, asserting that he would find a way to free Karchev and return him to the fight against Khador’s enemies. The promises sounded increasingly empty to Strakhov’s ears. Karchev was clearly deteriorating, the torments inflicted upon him by his captors eroding even his legendary iron will.
Strakhov’s own mind had begun to fray under the pressures of remaining unseen in the bowels of the Cryxian base for so long. He had forgotten the taste of real food, subsisting on the vile substance employed to nourish cephalyx drudges. His apparent impotency to rescue Karchev from the torments that were slowly breaking the kommander was far worse than any deprivations, though. His own darkest moment had come when he found Karchev, fresh from some new and horrific interrogation, raving incoherently and with wild eyes, incapable of recognizing him. Strakhov had almost drawn his blade to end the kommander’s suffering. As his hand had tightened on its grip, his resolve had returned, as if the familiar feel of the hilt had reignited the fire within him that had been smothered by the necrofactorium’s darkness. The next time he had visited, Karchev had been his usual stoic self, his mind intact, though weary beyond belief. “Kommander, I need your assistance,” a gruff voice hissed, breaking him from his thoughts.
“Of course, Alexi,” Strakhov said in a similarly low tone, trying to keep his voice from carrying. He stood and made his way to his fellow Khadoran, carefully picking his way through the scattered scrap piles of the necrofactorium’s mechanical salvage area.
Strakhov had discovered this place shortly before he had found Karchev. At the time he had dismissed it as useless; it had appeared to contain only the worst of the wreckage Cryx
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS
had scavenged from the battlefield. Most of its piles held little more than shredded scrap. All the better pieces had been claimed by necrotechs and taken to their laboratories. Following his last visit with Karchev, Strakhov had returned here, desperate to find something—anything— that could help him make Karchev’s life-sustaining equipment mobile. He had determined that the undead used a systematic approach to sifting through the scrap. Intact cortexes were prioritized and taken away, but among those that were rejected he sensed several of Khadoran manufacture that still had a spark of internal functionality. Strakhov was able to steal the best of these before they could be broken down and reclaimed.
His limited mechanikal aptitude was another barrier, and it was this that had prompted him to seek help. He had entered the necrofactorium alone. During his explorations he had come upon chambers where recently captured prisoners underwent the horrific surgery that transformed them into mindless drudges to serve the cephalyx. Among these prisoners had been his unfortunate countrymen, including battle mechaniks waylaid in the last engagement. “I need you to maneuver this piston here,” Alexi said, motioning with the steel clamp that had replaced his hand. “None of the rest of us have the necessary delicate touch, thanks to our captors.” Alexi spat into the cold earth at the mention of the cephalyx.
“You have made do. As true soldiers of the Motherland,” Strakhov said. He forced himself not to think about the fate of the men he hadn’t saved. It had been difficult to stand by as his countrymen, and even the Cygnarans, were cut apart, violated and transformed into mindless abominations. He’d had little choice, of course; trying to save them all would only have led to his death—and Karchev’s. So he had waited and watched, until he saw Alexi’s small group of mechaniks.
It had taken all his skill to liberate them without alerting the entire base. Unlike with the mindless thralls or drudges, the death of a cephalyx, even a minor one, would not go unnoticed. It was an unavoidable risk. He had been unable to intervene until after the cephalyx had begun many of the external modifications to the men. In order to throw off the rest of the base as long as possible, Strakhov had staged the scene to appear as if several prisoners had broken loose and killed the overseeing cephalyx before being torn apart by drudges. He had not relished killing his own countrymen, but those chosen had been suffering and were slated for a fate worse than death. It had been imperative that the scene be as authentic as possible.
PART ONE
This connective tubing will probably leak, and many of the parts are damaged. Anyway, Alexi, it’s ready for its cortex.” “Did you pick one out, Kommander?” Alexi motioned to the three cortexes Strakhov had selected. Each had severe dents from direct impacts, and one had been partially flattened.
Strakhov pointed to the one on the left. “That one.” Lazlo looked skeptical. “That one by far has the worst wear. Are you sure, Kommander?”
“My mother told me once, the prettiest girls rarely make the best wives,” Strakhov said flatly.
A light of amusement entered Lazlo’s eye. “A strange lesson, Kommander.”
“My mother was not an attractive woman.” Strakhov’s face showed no humor as he fixed his gaze on the mechanik. Alexi chuckled. “But clearly she was a smart one.” Strakhov nodded. “The brightest I have ever known.”
“Stop chit-chatting with the kommander,” Vadim growled from atop the ’jack where its access hatch had been opened wide. “Get his cortex up here! My ass is getting numb.” Lazlo looked between Strakhov and the delicate but heavy cortex, then down at his own hands—one a cauterized stump, the other an oversized metal gauntlet. “Um, Kommander . . . ?”
Strakhov patted Lazlo on the shoulder once and went over to pick up his chosen cortex. Alexi followed. Suddenly a muffled boom echoed through the chamber walls, and Strakhov felt the floor of the room vibrate from the activation of heavy machinery in the heart of the necrofactorium. He stopped and listened as his hand instinctively went to his blade. The walls had come alive He swore their sacrifice would be honored once he had
succeeded in liberating Karchev.
He was depending on the hope that the cephalyx cared so little about individual humans they would not notice the deception. This meant he was trying to conceal an entire group from the inhabitants of the lower tunnels. The clock was ticking. They would be noticed eventually.
“Now you’ll need to bend these back into position here, but be careful you don’t crumple the piston itself,” Alexi instructed.
Strakhov did as he was told while Alexi and another mechanik named Vadim use their mechanical appendages to secure the hydraulic array in place.
“You can let go now,” Alexi said.
Strakhov released the piston and stepped away. He winced at the sight of the slapdash nature of the thing. “You’re sure you can get this machine operational?”
Alexi scowled, exaggerating the heavy lines in his sallow face. “Depends on what you mean by ‘operational.’ The legs are misaligned and the steam engine has faulty relief valves, which could lead to a boiler explosion. I’m confident we can get this kuchka to move, however, and so get Kommander Karchev out of this place.”
Strakhov nodded, though looking at the thing along with the ragged band of survivors he had his doubts. He had saved their lives, but they were scarred, mentally as well as physically. The horror they had endured combined with the strain of scurrying about the base had left its mark: they moved more like mice avoiding a housecat than soldiers of the Motherland. Normally he would never have tolerated such weakness, but he knew he must rely on these men, for they had skills he lacked. He recognized their tenuous mental state and had made it a point to bolster their shattered spirits in whatever way he could. He said, “Once we make our move, we’ll have precious little time before the alarm is raised.”
“We were lucky to find a chassis with so little boiler damage,” Lazlo interjected, speaking quickly and with enthusiasm. The scrawny youth’s harrowing experiences had clearly not extinguished his energetic personality. “Doubly so that it was on one of the new Grolars. The
SUDDENLY A MUFFLED BOOM ECHOED THROUGH THE CHAMBER WALLS, AND STRAKHOV FELT THE FLOOR OF THE ROOM VIBRATE.
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART ONE
“Above,” he said, an excited edge to his voice, “our comrades have commenced a new attack.” He turned and looked to Alexi. “We will never get a better chance than this. Our enemies will be distracted. We have to move, now!” The group worked quickly, Alexi overseeing Vadim and Strakhov’s installation of the cortex while Lazlo stoked the warjack’s boiler. When the final conduits were connected, Strakhov felt the dull pulse of the warjack’s damaged consciousness surging to life. Though its mind was clearly impaired, there was an impulse still there: a need to serve. Strakhov gave a sharp nod. “Let’s get Kommander Karchev.”
SOUTHWESTERN THORNWOOD, TWO WEEKS EARLIER
The dark-haired woman rode in an enclosed wagon that looked like any of the many others comprising the long resupply column. It was ahead of several wagons hauling inert warjacks and behind a number of iron-banded and barred wagons resembling prisoner transports. These displayed the sigils of the Greylords Covenant and contained dozens of doom reavers. Regular soldiers were already descending from the front wagons and being swiftly assigned to tents among the forest encampment by ranking officers. These were reinforcements brought in to fill the ranks of war-ravaged kompanies. Grim-faced arcanists in fur hats and coats assembled outside the doom reaver transports, awaiting orders. The doom reavers themselves would be offloaded and bivouacked under Greylord supervision, assigned to isolated tents. Through the wagon’s slatted window, she observed Obavnik Kommander Zerkova, who had led the convoy’s military escort, disembark from one of the forward wagons to give the ranking Greylord officers their orders.
The army encampment was bustling with activity, and not only among those wearing the uniforms of the Motherland. A portion of the encampment was dominated by soldiers attired in blue, gold, and white—Cygnarans, who watched the arrival of the Khadoran reinforcements warily. A single hooded form stepping down from one unmarked wagon was easy to overlook.
Those with an attentive eye might have noted something significant was happening at the largest command tent,
adjacent to the new arrivals. This was a place set aside for meetings between officers of the two allied armies. More soldiers than usual were posted around its perimeter, among them several Man-O-Wars and elite Iron Fangs from highly decorated units. Also present were heavily armored Cygnaran knights, both Stormblades and Stormguard, and though their voltaic weapons were dormant at the moment, a blue glow simmered within each. Some of the knights wore armor that gleamed silver, bereft of the typical blue. Several warjacks rumbled at either end of the tent, their numbers divided exactly between Cygnaran and Khadoran machines. She noted that this precise parity continued among the tent’s watchful guardians, which included among them a battle-seasoned warcaster from each side. Every man standing guard around the tent was tense and wary.
Before she stepped down from the wagon the slim woman had been stopped by a hesitant sound from another passenger, a much older man sitting partially in the shadows. Though aged, he retained a robust frame and there was an alert gleam to his eyes when the light caught them. “You are certain you do not want me to join you?” “I am sure,” she said firmly, though her eyes offered the barest smile. “We will speak afterward. You worry overmuch.”
“Of course I do,” he said with a sigh. He spoke in that rare tone reserved for when he wished her to think of him as family. “But you have heard my warnings already. I will not tire you with their repetition.”
“Good,” she said. She knew all too well the risks she was taking, yet she also knew how vital it was to be here. “I am nowhere safer than here with my officers, my countrymen.” His look suggested he could think of several more secure locations, but he held his tongue.
As she approached the opening of the tent, she saw, as she had requested, the hulking presence of a certain warcaster. He stood leaning part of his weight against his great axe, the butt of its shaft set into the soil. Sensing movement, he turned to face her with a scowl. She pulled back her hood, revealing her face. On her brow was the simplest of her crowns. The nearest guards immediately turned to her, removed their helmets, and bowed deeply. An expression of wonderment crossed the face of Orsus Zoktavir before he, too, bowed, lowering himself as far as his thick armor would allow. She inclined her head slightly to him and laid a hand on his shoulder as she walked past him and into the tent.
It was a large space, intended to accommodate dozens of officers together with their accompanying clerks and aides as well as a large table and several desks. The furniture had SHE SET HER LIPS AND FACED
HIM SQUARELY, SEEING BEFORE HER ONE OF THE GREATEST
been pushed back to clear the center, where only a pair of chairs remained. The tent was empty of occupants except for a single figure standing at the other side of the cleared area, adjacent to one of the chairs. He was thin and narrow of shoulder, though not as short as she had been led to believe. He wore attire that resembled a military uniform, such as those worn by nobles when they wished to demonstrate their former service, his chest festooned with a variety of medals. Something about his bearing and attire struck her as funereal. She stepped forward into the light cast by the oil-fed lanterns, and they stared at one another for several long seconds, each feeling the tension. She saw that his black hair included grey and that his face was lined and looked weary, though he possessed
She waited, allowing him to speak first. She would let him decide if this was courtesy or insult. It felt as though they both stood on a precipice, staring into a chasm of unknown depths. At last he broke the silence. “Empress Ayn Vanar, it is my great honor to greet you. I offer hospitality and welcome. I am pleased you accepted my unorthodox invitation, and I am also glad you arrived safely.” He spoke in passable Khadoran, but in his southern accent the words sounded like profanity. She noted that he did not use the royal "we."
She gave a small inclination of her head. “King Leto Raelthorne,” she said. “We are pleased you are enjoying our hospitality in what was until recently a place of contention. We acknowledge the courage you demonstrate in accepting the
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART ONE
it to hearing a southerner speak Khadoran. He added, “Let us speak without unnecessary formality.”
She stepped forward a pace and he did the same, allowing them to address one another more comfortably and discreetly. She kept her expression carefully blank, revealing none of her loathing. Once she would have thought the only way she would ever stand so close to this man was with him in irons, her prisoner, begging for mercy. A pleasing image.
“Yes,” she said. “Let us not waste time on idle pleasantries.” He indicated the field chairs. “Would you like to sit?” “I prefer to stand,” she said. “We both know why we are here: to discuss the strange alliance our armies entered into unbidden.”
He nodded, pensive. After a pause, he said, “We find ourselves in an unusual circumstance, one that has never arisen between our two nations.”
She said, “You should know, before all else, that I did not consent to ally. Given the circumstances it is clear that neither did you. Those who made this bargain might be deemed guilty of treason and could be executed in both our nations. It is only the extraordinary circumstances and the supreme kommandant’s value to me that forestalled my hand. I am still weighing whether I should proclaim this alliance null and void.”
His eyes widened. He replied carefully, “While it is true that I was also taken by surprise by this arrangement, my commanding officers have my utmost confidence. I understand the reasons they chose as they did. The enemy we face makes other enmities seem paltry. If Cryx prevails, all suffer.”
Ayn’s lips compressed. She did not consider the claims of the Khadoran Empire and twelve centuries of grievances
paltry. She said, “It was natural for your generals to beg for
help. None can fault them. Your city was in flames, your citizens slaughtered. Your army was not strong enough to protect them. It must have been difficult for your generals to ask aid of those they blamed for their suffering.” Leto’s expression darkened. “Yes,” he said softly. “Point Bourne would not have been vulnerable to Cryx had your
army not cracked its walls and invaded its streets. Despite this, I do not hold you to blame for what transpired at Cryx's hands. We have been at war for a long time. Khador’s objectives were military ones, and I believe your forces would have treated the civilians with honor. But whereas you seek conquest, Cryx seeks annihilation and eternal enslavement. Those who fall to the lich lords cannot even find peace in death. Your men saw terrible things in the streets of Point Bourne—pure evil, unadulterated by politics or mortal ambition. Your officers reacted as any sane person would have. The living must stand against the undead. So was this alliance born, as a means to counter the darkness. I see this as a moment of clarity and sanity.” Ayn was not unmoved, though her face did not show it. She could not help but imagine the same fate afflicting her people. Cryx had stretched its skeletal claws north before. Port Vladovar had suffered under its assault. Its horrors had even defiled her own cathedral in Korsk. Still, this was no time for compassion. She said, “War is harsh and innocents suffer. You hold me to blame for the deaths of thousands of your countrymen: in Llael, at Northguard, in Point Bourne. Neither can I forget the spilled blood of countless sons and daughters of the Motherland slain as a result of your commands. It would be foolish to pretend to be friends.”
“I do not seek your friendship,” Leto said. “But our path and cause are for the moment aligned.”
“So you are decided that you wish to extend this alliance, even knowing it will not end the bitter enmity between our people?” It gave her some satisfaction to see the pained look in his face at her blunt speech.
Leto continued in a measured tone, “There are deep grievances between our peoples, ones not easily put aside. I still think it worth the attempt. If afterward a resumption of war is needed to resolve them, I will accept that. But not now. Not today, or tomorrow, or any day Cryx holds a portion of the mainland. We should agree to a period of extended cooperation terminating only when Cryx is driven from these lands. We can resume our discussion then.” Ayn narrowed her eyes. She said, “What do we gain from this cooperation? Certainly Cryx is terrible. We have fought them before and will again. I am uncertain if it is to our benefit to tie our fate to yours. We should discuss real terms. In any negotiation there is a stronger and a weaker party. The weaker must compromise and satisfy the stronger.”
At last she had broken his calm demeanor; she saw anger flash in his eyes for the first time. “Terms? This is not a peace negotiation. We are not surrendering. The issue is whether we can save thousands of lives by cooperating “WHEREAS YOU SEEK CONQUEST,
CRYX SEEKS ANNIHILATION AND ETERNAL ENSLAVEMENT.”
to eliminate a threat that faces your nation as much as it does mine.”
She found it reassuring to see a break in the serene veneer he preferred. She said, “Those are noble sentiments, but it is misleading to suggest Cryx is as much a threat to us as they are to you. They dwell off your western shores, and ours are only rarely troubled. Now that we are aware of the extent of the problem in the Thornwood, it will be dealt with.”
“The recent defeat of our combined armies suggests otherwise,” Leto said. “You do not have the luxury of time to assemble a greater army here. We know this enemy. They are deeply entrenched. If not extracted now, they will only extend their hold. For the moment we have an advantage, won at great cost: we have learned the disposition of the enemy. We have found their heart. Give them time to adapt, and their vulnerability will vanish. They can recover more swiftly than we can. Combining our forces now is the only way to ensure we can root Cryx out before it becomes impossible. This foe relies on fear and hesitation.” He spoke with rising energy and conviction.
Near the end, however, she saw him open his mouth to say something else before he apparently thought better of it. What was he withholding? His hesitation called to mind reports from her spies regarding a recent clash in Ordic territory along the Dragon’s Tongue River, west of Point Bourne. Something significant had transpired there, she was sure; the Cygnarans’ eagerness to resume the fight in the Thornwood had followed immediately thereafter. She also knew many Cygnaran nobles were increasingly restless, almost defiant. The southerners were near the breaking point, which made her loath to do anything to bolster them.
Balanced against this was the recent and unexpected visit from the Old Witch. More than anything else, it had been this that had convinced her to risk her life to travel to this forsaken place. The ancient crone had delivered dire pronouncements regarding Cryx. She had said that Ayn would regret ignoring the Thornwood. The annals of Khardic and Khadoran sovereigns contained proof of tragic calamities befalling those who disregarded Zevanna Agha.
“Did you feel that?” King Leto asked abruptly. She frowned
forelegs piercing the ground where she had just stood. Its hunkering form was fronted by a freakish gaping mouth filled with long bleached teeth, and along its lower jaw gleamed a pair of hooked metal mandibles.
The outer wall of the tent tore open in a half-dozen places as the guardians stationed around the perimeter reacted to the disturbance. Even as the bonejack lunged for the empress, an Iron Fang moved to interpose himself. He gave a choked cry as the creature hooked into his torso, piercing his lower breastplate and driving upward into his chest cavity. An Iron Fang kovnik put himself before her next, driving the machine back with his axe.
A smaller, more spindly bonejack with a skeletal head leapt at Leto, and he narrowly evaded, stepping to the side. It shattered a table behind him, its sharpened foreleg piercing the outer wall of the tent, before it whirled back around, hissing through its open jaws. Then that side of the tent was torn and more defenders poured in.
There was a roar and Ayn was pulled back as Orsus Zoktavir strode past, his face red and livid. His great axe was drawn back to strike. He pushed past the kovnik and with a single great blow cut through the Helldiver, which split apart with a shriek of protesting metal. The air of the tent quickly became rank with necrotite as the machine’s fuel reserves spilled across the ground. Orsus paid no heed, giving a bellow and striking at the next Cryxian thing in reach.
The entire tent was in uproar, and Ayn found herself being ushered back and away as Khadoran soldiers converged. Leto had a sword in hand, perhaps given him by one of his men, and he drove its point through the skull of the Stalker that had sought to skewer him. Undeterred, the machine struck again as Leto moved aside. Then he, too, was pulled back and surrounded by armored soldiers. Moving quickly to the fore was Lord General Stryker, whose warcaster armor filled the tent’s interior with sharp blue light and a buzzing sound like angry bees.
Spectral forms continued to pour from the hole below the tent, unnatural figures that seemed half shadow, attired in strangely archaic armor and wielding long bladed polearms. They struck down several of the nearest soldiers before they were hacked apart. A cordon of Man-O-War shocktroopers surrounded Ayn, shields locked tightly
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART ONE
General Stryker, who had closed from the other direction. Zoktavir snarled and drew back his axe, seeing only a hated enemy. The looming form of an Ironclad came up behind Stryker, its hammer raised.
“Orsus!” Ayn yelled sharply through the chaos. He checked his swing, preventing it from making its deadly arc. Though Stryker’s warjack seemed to have sensed the threat, the man himself realized his peril only when he saw the huge axe stop. His power field hummed and glowed brightly, but it likely would not have saved him. The thought entered Ayn’s mind that if not for the larger threat of Asphyxious she would have remained silent. The moment passed, and the two warcasters returned to annihilating the last banes and bonejacks erupting from below.
Ayn heard shouting outside and realized there was more fighting beyond the tent. Clearly more than one hole had opened to unleash Cryxian horrors. She saw Aleksandra Zerkova, flanked by her reaver guards, engaged on the other side near where their wagons had arrived. What of Blaustavya? She felt relief to see him with his own escort at a safe distance. Armed Cygnarans were converging on additional shadowy forms to the south, where their own tents were clustered.
Despite the initial clamor, it was not long before the fighting ended. Cryx had not sent a force large enough to threaten the armies themselves; assassination had clearly been their goal. The Cryxians elsewhere had been intended to sow confusion while those in the main tent murdered the sovereigns. Her protectors had been swift, however, as had Leto’s.
She realized her hands were trembling, more from adrenaline than fear. She took hold of the Morrowan pendant she carried, together with the icon of Ascendant Katrena, and offered a brief prayer. She allowed herself only a moment before putting it away, composing herself before the eyes of her soldiers.
“Thank you for your actions,” she said to the shocktroopers. “Attend me.” She motioned for them to step back. They stayed near as she circled the annihilated command tent. Additional soldiers and officers as well as several other warcasters and their ’jacks had closed on the area, though discipline held and the senior officers were taking matters in hand. Supreme Kommandant Irusk was among the arrivals, ordering the tunnels from which the foe had emerged to be scoured and collapsed.
He saw her and strode forward, taking a moment to bow deeply. “Your Majesty, you are unharmed? We should take you somewhere more secure.” Behind him Great Vizier Blaustavya also neared, flanked by his escort. His eyes warmed at the sight of her safe and whole.
“No,” she said. “Where is King Leto?”
She accumulated a larger escort of watchful officers as she made her way to where the Cygnaran sovereign was similarly protected. He had been pulled back from the command tent toward his own army, but his guardians parted respectfully at the approach of the Khadorans. The soldiers of each side seemed less wary of one another now after being reminded of their mutual foe—a sentiment Ayn could appreciate.
“Your casualties?” she asked. She felt her heart still racing and knew she was not entirely calm.
“Fortunately few,” he said, “though we don’t have a full tally. Yours?”
She looked to Irusk and he said, “The same. There were losses. It could have been much worse.” He stopped abruptly, perhaps aware of the extreme understatement. Frowning, Leto said, “I am at a loss as to how they knew to strike where they did. We undertook great precautions arranging this meeting.”
“As did we,” said Ayn. “The matter will be investigated.” She sent a look to Blaustavya, whose expression was grim. He gave a small nod; the guilty party would be punished. She turned back to Leto and squared her shoulders, taking a deep breath. Then she said, “Regarding the matter we were discussing: you were right. I should not have suggested otherwise.” A hush fell all around them, particularly among her contingent, none of whom had ever witnessed an admission of this sort from the empress. She said, “Let us put an end to Cryx, together, now.” King Leto’s eyes shone with a blend of relief and conviction. He nodded and said, “Together we will see it done.”
Later, in a hastily improvised command tent, Supreme Kommandant Irusk stood with Lord General Stryker discussing the plan Irusk had worked out among his senior officers. The two strove to arrange for the proper coordination required between their separate armies. Irusk felt tense, distracted by the aftermath of the attack on the sovereigns. He sought to focus on the maps and sketches of forest geography arrayed before him.
Among the soldiers of the two kingdoms the attack had created temporary solidarity. Irusk had seen several Winter Guard mingling with Cygnaran trenchers, enough to make him wonder at the state of general discipline, but he left the task of reprimanding such individuals to his sergeants and junior officers. In this tent there was no such camaraderie.
Irusk suspected he and Stryker shared some thoughts in common, such as how mad it had been to allow their sovereigns to meet here, in the Thornwood. Of course, they could never have expected Cryx to find a way to attack so precisely. But each also had experience with the stubborn resolve of a monarch set on a course of action. Their respective rulers had chosen to meet despite all warnings and objections.
“You have a plan to neutralize Cryx’s advantages?” Stryker asked, folding his arms.
“We do,” Irusk affirmed. “We put the best minds of the Greylords Covenant to the task. They have analyzed this fortress and its mystical workings. The lich lord’s necromancy is based on Orgoth principles, which our arcanists understand very well.”
“No doubt,” Stryker said, with narrowed eyes.
Irusk ignored the implied condemnation. “Now that we better apprehend their defenses, we can attack with greater effectiveness. We intend to approach deliberately, laying down extensive fire on their fixed positions as we encircle the perimeter.”
“We will lend our own cannons to that effort,” Stryker noted.
Irusk nodded. He continued, “I intend to shell the area for several days before we begin our main approach. Naturally the enemy will attack our artillery positions, but we will advance in formations to protect them. The Cryxians have extensive underground facilities, so shelling will accomplish only so much—its purpose will be primarily to allow us to seize the perimeter with limited losses. Once we control the surrounding ground, we can approach the tower more systematically.”
“What of the fortress itself? Its supernatural defenses are formidable.”
“Its strongest protections rely on fresh souls. It is absolutely vital we limit initial casualties. Every death in proximity of the fortress’ outer spires will make them stronger.” He tapped a sketch showing the known layout of Cryx’s outer defenses.
Stryker said, “The power wielded by those emplacements behaved similarly to voltaic energy. Our stormsmiths
“There are dozens of them,” Stryker said.
“The Greylords theorize we can disable the system by a focused two-pronged attack,” Irusk noted. “We will send one special vanguard here, to destroy this building we believe serves as a surface conduit to the southern spires. I have a force picked for this, comprised primarily of doom reavers and warjacks. Those should be immune to the necromantic defenses. Kommander Orsus Zoktavir will lead them. Their deaths will still empower the complex, but that cannot be avoided. We will use as few as we can. Simultaneously, I need you to bring a concentration of voltaic weaponry here.” He pointed to a portion of the complex on the opposite side. “If we can deliver a great surge of voltaic energy into the system at this northern conduit not long after the southern one is destroyed, the connections between the spires should overload, perhaps even harming the central fortress itself.”
“This is the recommendation of your Greylords?” Stryker asked, clearly skeptical.
“Yes. Their theories are sound, I believe. It will be risky.” After a moment the Cygnaran warcaster nodded. “While we reserve our strength the entire Cryxian army will seek to slaughter those sent forward.”
“True,” Irusk said. “I will go over detailed plans to divert the foe and provide covering fire to the forward elements. With just the numbers we have gathered, even the recent reinforcements, I would not hold our chances of success very high. But we will not be alone. A messenger has brought word of additional forces from the north. I am working to time their arrival to coincide with our main assault.”
Stryker frowned. He asked, “Reinforcements from Merywyn?”
THEIR RESPECTIVE RULERS HAD CHOSEN TO MEET
DESPITE ALL WARNINGS AND OBJECTIONS.
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART ONE
“You can’t trust Severius,” Stryker said vehemently. “He will use this to his advantage.”
Irusk clenched his jaw. “All I require of the Menites is to arrive and to fight. Great Prince Tzepesci assures me they are ready to do that much. I will entrust nothing more complicated to them; they will serve as a distraction. Without their numbers, Cryx would quickly overwhelm us.”
“Perhaps,” Stryker said. He was clearly troubled.
“The most vital aspects of this plan fall to your people and mine, Lord General.”
Stryker nodded and said, “If your people do their part, we will do ours.”
THE THORNWOOD NECROFACTORIUM On receiving the news, Asphyxious hissed his displeasure and lashed out, scraping long rents along the nearest wall with his clawed fingers. He slammed his sword Daimonion into the metal workbench in front of him, hewing the bench in twain. The pistol wraith who had reported to him cowered and backed away, though neither such efforts nor its insubstantial state would save it from the lich lord’s wrath.
Deneghra stood nearby, arms folded, unperturbed. She spoke to the pistol wraith, saying, “You may go.” It fled with alacrity, clearly glad to escape the temper of its lord. Deneghra eyed Asphyxious and saw how anger roiled from him like a tangible thing, manifested through the power that flowed effortlessly through and around his metal form. “I can find something else for you to destroy, if that is your desire.” She knew being sarcastic was a risk when he was in a temper, but he continued to rage heedless of her remark. “Failure!” He paced, his hands glowing with power. “The deaths of the human leaders would have left their armies—their entire nations—overwhelmed by grief and thrown into anger, despair, and confusion. It would have given us time. Time that is increasingly scarce.” “Yes, I heard the report,” she said. “You actually believed the attempt would succeed? I thought it more likely a gambit to provoke or divert them.”
“I do not comprehend the difficulty in obliterating a pair of insignificant mortals. They wither and die at the slightest touch.”
“These particular ‘insignificant’ mortals are the rulers of powerful nations,” Deneghra said. “Each protected by large and vigilant armies, each led by formidable individuals who have thwarted us before. You should have sent me. I would have seen it done.”
He turned to face her. His glowing eye appraised her and his metal hand clenched. “No. There is much yet to attend to that requires thy attention and thine alone. With the intelligence we possessed, the measures enacted should have sufficed.”
“It was a chance worth taking,” Deneghra allowed. “But I admit I had reservations about the source of your intelligence.”
“The information given us was accurate,” Asphyxious retorted. “An opportunity such as this will never come again. Perhaps I erred in not sending thee.”
Deneghra considered the depths of Asphyxious’ aggravation. It was unlike him to place so much stock in any one plan, particularly one assembled in such haste. She knew it was because of the thought of losing this necrofactorium complex. That was a blow he did not take lightly; even an immortal did not readily abandon decades of labor. Had this gambit paid off, perhaps they could have found another solution. Adding to the tension was another recent report relating the fall of Terminus at the Black River, a fact Asphyxious might once have welcomed. But much had been risked on the recovery of the athanc, and there would be consequences for failing the Dragonfather. Deneghra hoped only Venethrax would be held responsible.
However grave the situation with the athanc, they could not afford for Asphyxious to be diverted. The noose was tightening. “Assassination is always a gamble,” Deneghra said. “Regardless, now we need to focus on our next move.” She knew he did not want to hear it. “We should prepare to leave this place, and quickly.”
“No. Not yet.” His eye flared. “The cephalyx hive needs to be secured, their deepest tunnels sealed. We cannot surrender the necrofactorium until I am certain they will be undisturbed, for they are essential to my future endeavors. Nothing has changed, except the span of time left us. We must defend this place, keep our enemies at bay. Only when the hive is secure can we consider withdrawal.” “Very well,” she said. “I will be ready for them.”
steel prostheses clicking and scraping as it adjusted their weaponry.
Strakhov took a moment to consider his course of action. There were other pathways to Karchev’s cell, but none were close—and more importantly, none of them could accommodate the bulk of the Khadoran warjack vital to his plan. This corridor was his only option.
He made his way back to his motley team, who waited in a nearby corridor. Strakhov had used his obscuring magic to mask the presence of his makeshift warjack, as it posed the largest threat of exposing them. He let that spell fade now and conjured new runes about the machine’s frame to imbue it with increased speed and accuracy. He hoped this would be enough to offset its awkward movements. Its heavily battered cortex was a significant concern; though it had been responsive so long as he controlled it directly, if left to its own devices the machine seemed incapable of walking a straight line, instead stumbling into the corridor walls.
Strakhov made a quick assessment of the men around the ’jack. Alexi’s expression remained sullen, but his eyes showed resolve and strength. He had proven worthy of his rank. Vadim’s bandaged face showed his fear. His eyes darted at every noise and his body was tense. Strakhov expected him to spring back like a startled cat at any second. Lazlo looked like he was trying to make himself as small and inconspicuous as possible. In all, it was far from the squad Strakhov wanted at his back in a vicious close quarters fight.
He pointed at the men in turn. “Alexi, you are with me and the ’jack. Lazlo and Vadim, you two will follow behind. It will be safest there if we run into trouble.” Years of covert operations had taken away any twinge the lie might have given his conscience. Strakhov had learned long ago that morality often stood in the way of completing a mission.
THEIR CEPHALYX MASTER FLOATED AMONG THEM, ITS WICKED STEEL PROSTHESES CLICKING AND SCRAPING.
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART ONE
honed over decades of service take over. In the span of a breath he snapped off three shots, the explosion of the heavy powder loads booming like thunder in the confined corridor. Strakhov had hoped the element of surprise would allow him to drop the mind slaver quickly, but through some unnatural awareness several drudges instead placed themselves in front of his shots. The impact of the bullets threw them back to collapse and bleed out in silence.
He sent his will into the ’jack and then yanked Alexi tight against the wall mere seconds before the warjack’s boiler screamed and the machine rushed by, inches from their pressed forms. The warjack crashed into the hallway, Strakhov using its bulk to crush drudges beneath its iron onslaught. He pushed Alexi forward in the wake of the warjack’s rampage. He felt a rush of euphoria as he directed the warjack and threw himself into battle. The liberation of combat dispelled the oppression of so long spent skulking in this wretched place.
Stowing his riot gun, Strakhov drew his trench sword and began cutting a path through the drudges, doing his best to keep himself and the protection of his power field between the drudges and Alexi. He spared one glance back to make sure Alexi was following and caught sight of Lazlo and Vadim. He felt a moment of pride as he saw them cast off their terror and shout a battle cry as they charged their enemies, swinging crudely improvised clubs pulled from the salvage room. They disappeared behind a wave of drudges. They had found their courage in the end. Strakhov urged the warjack forward, having to direct it more closely than he would an undamaged machine. He imagined he could sense something akin to rage within its shattered mind as it avenged itself on drudges. Through its eyes, Strakhov saw the cephalyx slaver make a hasty retreat, disappearing down a side corridor.
With all guiding influence gone, the movement of the drudges slowed and their attacks became more erratic. In minutes the corridor was awash in the blood and black ichor of cephalyx creations. Strakhov turned to Alexi, who was scanning the mass of bodies for Lazlo and Vadim. He placed a gauntleted hand on the mechanik’s shoulder. “We must press on. It is only a matter of time now before the cephalyx brings an even greater force.” Alexi spared
another moment of futile searching before dropping his head. “They will be remembered for their service,” Strakhov said before urging the ’jack forward.
It took only minutes to reach the chamber where Karchev was being held. As his eyes met those of the legendary kommander, Strakhov felt a rush of panic. Karchev looked even worse than last time he had been here. The kommander hung limply within the life-sustaining contraption that held him. His eyes were dull, and his head drooped. For a moment Strakhov feared they were too late.
Suddenly Karchev’s deep voice grumbled through a dry and cracked throat. “So you have returned, Kommander.” Strakhov felt a surge of relief as Karchev’s head rose and the iron returned to his eyes. “I barely believed it when I sensed a Khadoran cortex nearby. I assumed it was a trick.” “No trick, Kommander,” Strakhov said. “Liberation!” Karchev fixed his eyes on Alexi, who stood mute, staring in awe at the famed kommander. “I assume I have you to thank for this machine?” the warcaster asked.
“Y— Yes, Kommander,” Alexi stammered. “I apologize it is not much to look at.”
“It moves. That is enough,” Karchev said.
Strakhov turned to face the mechanik. “We must be gone before the Cryxians muster a response. I need you to remove the kommander and attach his life support systems to the ’jack’s engine.”
Alexi’s eyes went wide. “I don’t know the first thing about such systems!” he protested.
A large explosion boomed somewhere overhead, causing the chamber to shake. Strakhov’s stare remained steady on the Khadoran mechanik. “You had better learn. Quickly.”
Orsus Zoktavir realized he had been eager for this, had been thirsting for it like a man left without water for days. A grin split his face as he waded into battle with Lola in hand, his two argus rushing ahead. Fanned out to either side of them were dozens of doom reavers, their Orgoth weapons readied, each reaver overtaken by destructive enthusiasm as his dark blades chanted litanies into his mind. Nearer to Orsus, his warjacks ran as quickly as heavy Khadoran armor could move, a mobile barrier to intercept the arcane death hurled their way. Behind them the air was rent by the sound of rifle and artillery fire, followed by explosions ahead. The conduit that was his target lay less than sixty yards before him and off to his right—but past the mob of thralls and necrotite-belching machines.
STRAKHOV HAD LEARNED LONG AGO THAT MORALITY OFTEN STOOD IN THE WAY OF
An acrid stench filled his nostrils, and he choked on the sulfur and ash that filled the air. The muddy ground was treacherous, yet he had no trouble finding purchase—he was rushing toward the enemy, and the ground always favored him in battle. His mind was filled with the barking of his argus and the susurrations of the fell blades around him. They made the perfect cadence within which to deliver obliteration.
The heavy blades of the doom reavers swung into motion as they reached the wall of thralls. They hacked through the walking dead even as the rune-covered thralls began to raise their giant fists to retaliate. Helljacks and bonejacks loomed behind the forward ranks, unleashed from the blackened fortress at the center of the green-glowing spires. Flickering emerald energy surged across the talon-like spires surrounding the structure, flashing in time to the surging clouds above. Green fire lashed out from the spires like whips, each dispersing just before reaching a doom reaver. It was as though the chanting of the gaping mouths along the sides of their Orgoth blades was disrupting the balefire before it could land.
Orsus felt nearly alone amid a field of undeath. Other than the doom reavers, which were offered as sacrifices to the mission, his army was not at his side; they had remained behind. The soldiers were afraid of balefire and did not want to risk their souls. He understood this fear, though he himself felt only a familiar blend of rage and joy.
The soldiers of the Motherland were providing what support they could by indirect fire. Destroyers and mortars sent shells arcing high into the air to come shrieking down in thunderous explosions amid the enemy ranks. The rest of the army would close after he had done his part. He could hear the clash of battle elsewhere as Sorscha, Zerkova, Irusk, and the various Cygnaran battlegroups directed their forces against Cryxians that had been drawn out to the wider perimeter. None were willing to close on the fortress. By going where the others would not, Orsus had drawn the Cryxians to him like hornets swarming from their nest.
Several doom reavers on his left were washed with caustic bile. They staggered as their flesh was melted through, and then their bodies dissolved into steaming sludge. Their souls were wrenched from their dying bodies, howling and gibbering as they were collected by the nearest spire. He directed one of his Juggernauts to trample through those bile thralls, which
the light. It was a nimble machine, snapping with its own necromechanikally augmented jaws. It sidestepped the first argus but not the twin heads of the second, which was maddened and empowered by the Butcher’s rage. Their teeth tore through metal plates and ripped the bonejack’s head from its body, shaking it to send pieces flying. The Slayer came for him, swiping its claws, but his axe crashed into its torso first. The impact drove through the armored ribcage to lodge deep into the helljack’s cortex. He yanked the weapon free amid a spray of sparks and greenish ichor even as the Slayer’s left arm clawed at him, its metal talons skidding across his power field. He hacked into its armpit, shearing through its shoulder and arm to the torso, then scrambled to the side as the helljack toppled. The second Deathripper launched itself to snap down on his armored left forearm. He yanked it free as the metal began to buckle and pinch his skin. A backswing with Lola sent the machine tumbling, skittering on its small legs to right itself. The pair of argus were upon it in a moment and ended its twitching movements.
More helljacks were coming and he directed his warjacks into them, letting their weight and momentum drive the Cryxians back. At his urging the two Devastators opened their armored shells to deliver an explosive barrage, obliterating both the ’jacks and the thralls nearest them. Ruin, the new machine delivered to him by Zerkova, waded into the battle as if it were another frenzied berserker, its enormous mace glowing with power akin to the necromantic gleam illuminating the helljacks and the spires around him. He could feel the chanting of the relics attached to its arms ringing within his mind.
The red haze threatened his vision, like blood seeping into his eyes. Orsus clenched his teeth and held madness at bay. The chorus of voices from the fell blades reached a crescendo around him as Fenris charged past astride his demented steed, one accursed blade in each hand. He was close enough to the main tower to see a figure at the apex, standing on a platform and surrounded by a runic halo. This was Lich Lord Asphyxious, who seemed capable of guiding the attacking forces from a great distance, no doubt aided by the talon-like spires. The lich lord’s dark intelligence gleamed behind the fiendish eyes of the Cryxian helljacks. Orsus wanted to surrender to the rising tide of violence and drive onward to confront
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART ONE
motion and knew a freshly delivered Victor colossal and the Behemoth were marching forward, directed by Irusk and Sorscha respectively, each lending firepower against the foe. Shells dug deep craters where they struck, and the twisted, horselike bodies of two soulhunters were torn apart in one forceful blast.
Ahead rose an enormous machine with long tentacle-like arms. It could only be one of the Cryxian colossals he had been told of—a Kraken. It moved with surprising speed on insectoid legs as its long tendrils snaked out to seize one doom reaver after another. Orsus gave a battle cry, his vision entirely crimson, and gripped Lola in both hands. He charged the colossal while runes surrounded him to empower his straining leg muscles. Ruin and his battered Juggernaut came with him. He set his Devastators to reload and fire their grenade launchers again, hoping to clear the flanks. He paid no mind to the doom reavers, leaving them to be shepherded by Fenris. Each would inflict a toll before he fell. A number of flying bonejacks peeled off from the heights of the central tower and sped to intercept.
One of the extended tentacles of the colossal struck for him like a metal serpent and crashed against the brightened hemisphere of his power field. He lashed out with a sweep of his axe with contemptuous ease, as if he were slapping the hand of a giant. Lola cleaved through the machinery at the end of the limb, sending pieces of metal flying. Another of the Kraken’s tendrils struck his Juggernaut, wrapped it in its coils, and sent the warjack hurtling away through the air until it crashed and tumbled end-over-end. The Cryxian colossal’s belly cannon spat sharpened steel at him, and he snarled as a piece tore through the armor at his waist. Consumed by anger and drenched in adrenaline, he felt no pain. Ruin reached the larger machine and struck a powerful blow, tearing through and buckling the metal on one of its forward legs. The argus at Orsus’ left veered off to intercept a brute thrall coming for him. He hardly noticed, his focus entirely on the Cryxian colossal. Ruin’s shattering of its front left leg had caused it to wobble, and it leaned forward as its great gears churned and it worked to recover its balance.
A ring of runes surrounded Orsus as his magic poured through him. He leapt through the air, axe raised above his
head, and then brought it down. The power he channeled blazed along his arms, his entire body become a projectile with Lola at the fore. The axe blade parted steel with a whine when he struck and then fell downward, all his weight upon Lola’s haft as the blade carved a gash almost ten feet long down the front of the colossal. He tumbled under an awkward retaliatory strike from its remaining tendril’s claw. Another blow of his axe exploded through metal and shattered the innards of the machine. Alongside him, his warjacks battered it repeatedly. It toppled, swayed, and fell in a resounding crash.
Other helljacks would be coming. He had kept one of his Marauders in reserve, following behind. He sent it forward now to obliterate the conduit. As it got up to speed, he reached forth his left hand, which was surrounded by gleaming arcane runes, and then clenched his fist. With all his will he unleashed an eruption of rending energy into the target, creating an explosion that momentarily deafened him and caused the ground to buckle. A portion of the stone and metal foundation blasted free, and a hail of debris littered the area. His power field ebbed.
The Marauder hit a moment later, driving its steam-powered ram pistons into the structure. Orsus sent what power he had left into the machine, urging it to batter the building and its necromantic machinery to oblivion. Greenish power wrapped around the warjack and erupted outward from the building. Then there was a keening sound that ended in a tremendous fountain of sparks, and a number of the nearest fortress spires suddenly darkened, no longer fueled by the energy that normally fed them. He had done his part. Now there was only to survive long enough for his army to reach him. He saw more bonejacks and helljacks clambering toward him across the torn, pocked ground. He raised his hunting horn to deliver a single long, sustained note.
For a moment the red haze before his eyes receded and his memories returned to him, filling him with pain and grief. He clenched his fists and felt Lola’s haft within them, and then he looked to the horde of onrushing enemies. Setting his stance, he adjusted his grip on the axe and whispered, “I’ll be with you soon, my love. But not yet.”
NOTHING WOULD PLEASE HIM MORE THAN TO SEE THE LICH LORD HACKED INTO A BENT AND TWISTED HEAP.
THEME FORCES AND CEPHALYX RULES
CEPHALYX
WARCASTERS
Cephalyx warcasters do not control battlegroups of warjacks. Instead they control forces of surgically altered, mechanically enhanced giants colloquially known as
monstrosities.
CEPHALYX WARCASTER
SPECIAL RULES
Cephalyx warcasters can control only monstrosities and cannot control warjacks. A Cephalyx warcaster can allocate focus points to monstrosities in his battlegroup as if they were warjacks. A Cephalyx warcaster’s warjack points can be used on monstrosities even though they are not warjacks. In addition to their other special rules as warcasters, Cephalyx warcasters have the following special rule: HEALING
At any time during its activation, this model can spend focus points to heal damage a monstrosity in its battlegroup that is in its control area has suffered. For each focus point spent this way, remove 1 damage point.
MONSTROSITIES
Monstrosities are classified according to base size a light
monstrosity has a medium base (40 mm), and a heavy monstrosity has a large base (50 mm). Even though it is
assigned to a specific battlegroup, each monstrosity is an independent model.
MONSTROSITY
SPECIAL RULES
Monstrosities are not warjacks and do not have a cortex. Monstrosities can be controlled only by Cephalyx warcasters. Monstrosities are living models.
Monstrosities are so utterly dominated by their Cephalyx masters that they lack even the rudimentary capacity for free will required to form bonds.
Additionally, monstrosities have the following special rules: DAMAGE GRID
BRAIN
This model can be allocated focus. This model can have no more than 3 focus points at any time as a result of allocation. This limit does not apply to focus gained by means other than allocation.
Unless otherwise stated, this model can spend focus only during its activation.
FOCUS: ADDITIONAL ATTACK
This model can spend focus to make additional melee or ranged attacks as part of its combat action. It can make one additional attack for each focus point spent.
FOCUS: BOOST
This model can spend 1 focus point to boost any of its attack rolls or damage rolls during its activation. Add an extra die to the boosted roll. Boosting must be declared before rolling any dice for the roll.
FOCUS: SHAKE
During your Control Phase after allocating focus, if this model is knocked down it can spend 1 focus point to stand up. During your Control Phase after allocating focus, if this model is stationary it can spend 1 focus point to cause the stationary status to expire.
On a monstrosity’s damage grid, the following letters represent the monstrosity’s systems:
B: Brain
L: Left arm weapons system R: Right arm weapons system H: Head weapons system M: Movement
A monstrosity with a crippled brain (B system) loses any focus points on it and cannot be allocated focus points. It cannot spend focus points for any reason. Monstrosities with crippled left arms, right arms, heads, or movement suffer the same penalties as warjacks do (see WARMACHINE: Prime Mk II ).
THEME FORCES
TIER 1
Requirements: The army can include only the models listed
above.
You can begin the game with Haley Past and/or Haley Future in play. For each model in this unit in play at the start of the game you can redeploy one model/unit after both players have deployed but before the first player’s first turn. The redeployed models must be placed on the table in a location they could have been deployed initially.
TIER 2
Requirements: The army includes three or more Trencher
units.
Reduce the cost of Trencher units by 1.
TIER 3
Requirements: The army includes one or more Trencher
Commando units.
Units in the army gain Prowl during the first round of the game. (Models with Prowl gain Stealth while within terrain that provides concealment, the AOE of a spell that provides concealment, or the AOE of a cloud effect.) TIER 4
Requirements: Haley’s battlegroup include two or more
warjacks with the Arc Node advantage.
During your first turn of the game, models in Haley’s battlegroup gain +2 SPD.
WARJACKS:
Cygnar non-character warjacks, Thorn
UNITS: Field Mechaniks, Long Gunner Infantry, Trencher units
SOLOS: Journeyman Warcaster, Trencher solos
MAJOR PRIME VICTORIA HALEY
STRANDS OF FATE
Monstrosities with at least one non-crippled weapon with the Open Fist weapon quality can make headlock/weapon lock and throw power attacks. Monstrosities with two non-crippled weapons with the Open Fist weapon quality can make double-hand throw power attacks.
CEPHALYX WARCASTER DESTRUCTION
If a Cephalyx warcaster is destroyed or removed from the table, the monstrosities in his battlegroup become inert like warjacks and can be reactivated like warjacks.
MERCENARY
CONTRACT
To field a Cephalyx army, you must choose either the Cephalyx contract or a Theme Force. The contract and Theme Forces include rules for building the army. In addition to the guidelines presented in a contract or Theme Force, Cephalyx armies follow all the normal army composition rules.
The complete rules for Theme Forces can be found in
WARMACHINE: Prime Mk II. The complete rules for
contracts can be found in Forces of WARMACHINE:
Mercenaries.
PUPPET MASTERS
ARMY COMPOSITION
• An army constructed under the Puppet Masters contract can include Cephalyx models/units. Additionally, the army can include up to one non-Cephalyx Mercenary unit if that unit includes a Cephalyx Dominator UA. • Increase the FA of Cephalyx Mind Slaver Drudge
units by +1.
• Increase the FA of Cephalyx Overlord units by 1. SPECIAL RULES
• Units that include Cephalyx Dominator UAs gain Advance Deployment .
• The army can also include Bloat Thrall, Machine Wraith, and Pistol Wraith solos. These solos are considered to be friendly Mercenary models instead of Cryx models.
