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CREDITS WARMACHINE created and designed by Matthew D. Wilson
Lead Designer, WARMACHINE
Writing & Continuity Manager
Brian Dugas Doug Hamilton Michael Jenkins Ben Misenar
Douglas Seacat
Jason Soles
Additi Addition onal al Sculp Sculptin ting g
Designer, Reckoning
Javier Garcia Ureña
David Carl
Studio Modeler
Project Director
James A. Thomas
Bryan Cutler
Additi Addition onal al Mode Modelin ling g
Creative Director
Stephen Scott
Ed Bourelle
Miniat Miniature ure Painte Painters rs
Lead Writer
Matt DiPietro Geordie Hicks
Douglas Seacat
Writing Matt DiPietro Geordie Hicks Zach Parker
Editor Dan Henderson
Video Producer Tony Konichek
Publications Manager Aeryn Rudel
No Quart Quarter er EIC Michael G. Ryan
No Quart Quarter er Assist Assistant ant Michael Sanbeg
Director of Operations
Studio Administration Assis Assistan tant t
Jason Martin
Charles Foster III
Mark Christensen
Production Director
Hobb Hobby y Man Manag ager er & Terrai errain n
Technical Director
Stuart Spengler
Kelly Yeager
Matt Goetz Lyle Lowery William Shick
Hobb Hobby y & Terra errain in Spec Specia ialis list t
Packing/Shipping Manager
Michael Archer
Joe Lee
Continuity
Photography
Vendor Coordinator
Matt Ferbrache
Geoffrey Konkel
Douglas Seacat Jason Soles
Project Manager
Metal Metal Castin Castingg Sup Super ervis visor or
Shona Fahland
Marcus Rodriguez
Addit Addition ional al Writi Writing ng
Editorial Manager Darla Kennerud
Graphic Design Director Josh Manderville Manderville
Graphic Design & Layout
Licensing & Contract Manager
Resin Casting Supervisor
Brent Waldher
Scott Paschall
President
Lead Quality Control
Sherry Yeary
Cody Ellis
Chief Creative Ofcer
Production
Matthew D. Wilson
Oren Ashkenazi Ryan Baldonado Nelson Baltzo Felisha Bolzenthal Thomas Cawby Johan Cea Henry Chac Bryan Dasalla Alfonso Falco Joel Falkenhagen Falkenhagen Maddie Gill Trevor Hancock Mike Harshbarger Bryan Klemm Mark Lawson Chris Lester David Lima Clayton Links Keith Loree Christopher Christopher Matthews Bryan McClain Chris McLeroy Antonio Mora Phuong Nguyen Antwan Porter Sam Rattanavong Erik Reiersen John Roth Rob Seamount Jesse Sterland Tu Thanh Chris Tiemeyer
Richard Anderson Bryan Cutler Shona Fahland Matt Ferbrache Laine Garrett Josh Manderville Manderville
Director of Business & Branding Development
Art Direc Directo tor r
Michelle Horton
Mike Vaillancourt
Cover Illustration Andrea Uderzo
Illustrations Carlos Cabrera Oscar Cafaro Johan Grenier Grenier Kory Lynn Hubbell Nick Kay Raphael Lübke Marco Mazzoni Néstor Ossandón Andrea Uderzo
Lead Concept Artist
William Shick
Executive Assistant Marke Marketin tingg Man Manag ager er Lyle Lowery
Web/IT Professional Micah Scott Ralston
Convention Coordinator Michael Plummer
Marke Marketin tingg Coo Coordi rdinat nator or Simon Berman
Organized Play & Volunteer Coordinator William Hungerford
Quartermaster Assistant
Nick Kay
Dianne Ferrer
Concept Illustrations
Retail Support and Development Specialist
Roberto Cirillo Andrea Uderzo Mike Vaillancourt Chris Walton
Studio Director Ron Kruzie
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Staff Sculptors
Charles Agel
Customer Service Adam Johnson
Customer Support Justin Cottom Gabriel Waluconis
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 Maclain Michael Plummer Erik Reierson William Schoonover William Shick Jason Soles Jacob Stanley Gabe Waluconis Matt Warren
External Playtesters Andrew Allen Alice Bettoli Jonathan Boggs Boggs Cody Brown Corey Brown Andrew Hartland Kristin Hartland Jake Hoffman Hoffman Tom Hoffmann Federico Ingrosso Stu Liming James Moreland Moreland Shane Phillipi Thomas Phillipi Andrew Ready Owen Rehrauer Josh Saulter Tim Simpson
Proofreading David Carl Dan Henderson Darla Kennerud William Shick
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS PART ONE THE THORNWOOD NECROFACTORIUM, EARL EAR LY 609 60 9 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 rst inltrated the Cryxian base. He had lost all track of the passage of time amid his desperate bid to nd 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 deected the request, asserting that he would nd a way to free Karchev and return him to the ght against Khador’s enemies . The promises sounded increasingly empty to Strakhov’s ears. Karchev was clearly deteriorating, the torments inicted 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 s o 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, Karchev, fresh from some new and horric 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 re 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 voic e hissed, breaking breaki ng him hi m from his though t houghts. ts.
“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 Cr yx
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had scavenged from the battleeld. Most of its piles held little more than shredded scrap. All the better pieces had been claimed clai med by necrotechs necrotec hs and taken to their laboratori la boratories. es. Following his last visit with Karchev, Strakhov had returned here, desperate to nd 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 prioriti zed and taken away, but among those that were rejected he sensed several of Khadoran manufacture that still had a s park of internal functi onality. 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 horric surgery that transformed them into mindless drudges to serve the cephalyx. Among these prisoners had been his unfortunate countrymen, including battle mechaniks waylai d in the last engagement.
“I need you to maneuver this piston here,” Alexi said, motioning with the steel cl amp 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 difcult 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 mi nor 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 modications 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 kill ed the overseeing overs eeing cephalyx cephal yx before being torn apart apar t by drudges. drudge s. He had not relished relis hed killing kill ing 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.
He swore their sacrice would be honored once he had succeeded in li berating Karchev.
This connective tubing will probably leak, and many of the parts are damaged. Anyway, Alexi, it’s ready for its corte x.”
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.
“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 attened.
“Now you’ll need to bend these back into position here , but be careful you don’t crumpl e the piston itsel f,” Alexi instructed.
Strakhov did as he was told while Alexi and another mechanik named Vadim use their mechanical appe ndages to secure the hydraulic array in place. “You can let go now,” Alexi said. Strakhov released the pi ston 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 condent we can get this kuchka to move, howeve r, 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 spi rits 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 nd 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 sheer power possible from its boiler array will give you plenty of speed.” “You’ll just need to watch your fuel,” Vadim added from his place atop the warjack’s chassis. His face, damaged by the cephalyx, had been hastily bandaged, and he struggled to speak clearly. “There’s a full load taken from the other wrecks, but that won’t last long if you push it.
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 atly. 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 xed his gaze on the mechanik.
Alexi chuckled. “But clearly she was a smart one.” Strakhov nodded. “The brightest I have ever known.”
SUDDENLY A MUFFLED BOOM ECHOED THROUGH THE CHAMBER WALLS, AND STRAKHOV FELT THE F LOOR OF THE ROOM VIBRATE.
“Stop chit-chatti ng with the kommander,” Vadim growled from atop the ’jack where its access hatc h had been opened wide. “Get his cortex up here! My ass is getting numb.” Lazlo looked between Strakhov a nd 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 mufed boom echoed through the chamber walls, and Strakhov felt the oor 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 with a vibrating hum. He thought he heard more mufed noises. Explosions? Gunfre? “What is it?” Vadim hissed, his eyes darting around nervously. Strakhov held up a hand for silence as he strai ned to listen. It was difcult to discern over the new sounds of the machinery, but he was certain he heard di stant explosions.
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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 thi s. 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 nal 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 THORN WOOD, 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 resembl ing 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 ofcers . These were reinforcements brought in to ll 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 ofoaded 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 ofcers their orders.
SHE SET HER LIPS AND FACED HIM SQUARELY, SEEING BEFORE HER ONE OF THE GREATEST ENEMIES OF HER PEOPLE.
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 o f the Khadoran reinf orcements warily. A single hooded form stepping down from one unmarked wagon was easy to overlook. Those with an attentive eye might have noted something signicant was happening at the largest command tent,
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adjacent to the new arrivals. This was a place set aside for meetings between ofcers of the two allied armies. More soldiers than usual were posted around its perimeter, among them several M an-O-Wars and elite Iron Fangs from highly decorated units. Also present were heavily ar mored 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 wago n 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 rmly, 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 ofcers, 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 ofcers together with their accompanying clerks and aides as well as a large table and several desks. The furniture had
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 pleasantr ies.”
He indicated the eld 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 nd ourselves in an unusual circumstance, one that has never arisen between our two nations.”
“WHEREAS YOU SEEK CONQUEST, CRYX SEEKS ANNIHILATION AND ETERNAL ENSLAVEMENT.”
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 nd peace in death. Your men saw terrible things in the streets of Point Bourne—pure evil, unadulterated by politics or mortal ambition. Your ofcers 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 aficting her people. Cryx had stretched its skeletal claws north before. Port Vladovar had suffered under its assault. Its horrors had even deled 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.”
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 ofcers have my utmost condence. I understand the reasons they chose as they did. The enemy we face makes other enmiti es seem paltry. If Cryx prevails, all s uffer.” 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 ames, your citizens slaughtered. Your army was not strong enough to protect them. It must have been difcult 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
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“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 benet 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 cal m 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
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 a dapt, 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 ris k h er lif e 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 and realized there was a growing vibration underfoot. Each of them stepped back, but before they could even raise a voice to shout an alarm the ground tore open with a rumble and creatures of blackened steel ripped through the earth to crawl up from below. Ayn stumbled briey as she stepped back. She was scrambling to right herself when something heavy landed in front of her, one of its
forelegs piercing the ground where she had just stood. Its hunkering form was fronted by a freakish gaping mouth lled 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 surrounde d by armored soldiers. Mov ing quic kly to the fore was Lord General Stryker, whose warcaster armor lled the tent’s interior with sharp blue light and a buzzing sound l ike angry bees. Spectral forms continued to pour from the hole below the tent, unnatural gures that seemed half shadow, attired in strangely archaic armor and wielding long bladed polearms. They struck down several of the nearest soldi ers before they were hacked apart. A cordon of Man-O -War shocktroopers surrounded Ayn, shields locked tightly together as they moved her back. “Wait!” she commanded, refusing to be pulled entirely away. The nearby encampment had been thrown into tumult by the attack and the air was lled with shouts, cries, and barke d orders. She saw Zoktavir annihilate another dark machine and then turn without thinking toward Lord
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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 nd 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?” Stryke r asked, folding his arms. “We do,” Irusk afrmed. “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 re on their xed 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 limi ted losses. Once we control the surrounding ground, we can approach the tower more systematic ally.” “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 simil arly to voltaic energy. Our stormsmiths described it as necromantic lightning.”
“That ts.” Irusk nodded. “Some of the external structures of the complex serve as conduits for this power.” He traced those areas on the sketch. “Before we allow our armies to close on the mai n tower, we need to disable these necromantic spires.”
“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 surfa ce conduit to the southern spi res. 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 avoi ded. We will use as few as w e 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.”
THEIR RESPECTIVE RULERS HAD CHOSEN TO MEET DESPITE ALL WARNINGS AND OBJECTIONS.
“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 re 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?” Irusk offered a tight smile. “Not directly. From Umbrey and Leryn.” When the lord general shot him a sharp look, Irusk added, “Great Prince Tzepesci brings his vassals. With them comes Hierarch Severius and his Northern Crusade.” He saw the blood drain from the Cygnaran’s face. “Severius was persuaded by the great prince to lend his strength against Cryx.”
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An acrid stench lled his nostrils, and he choked on the sulfur and ash that lled the air. The muddy ground was treacherous, yet he had no trouble nding purchase—he was rushing toward the enemy, and the ground always favored him in battle. His mind was lled 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 sts 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, ashing in time to the surging clouds above. Green re 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 balere before it could land.
Orsus felt nearly alone amid a eld of undeath. Other than the doom reavers, which were offered as sacrices to the mission, his army was not at his side; they had remained behind. The soldiers were afraid of balere 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 re. 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 esh 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 exploded wetly underfoot. A Slayer loped forward between the ranks of thralls ahead, unleashing an unholy howl of steam as it came at him, anked by Deathrippers. His eyes burned with power and his axe lit are with blue light. He sounded a short note on his war horn and the argus leapt together to confront the bonejack on the left, their fangs ashing in
the light. It was a nimble machine, snapping with its own necromechanikally augmented jaws. It sidestepped the rst 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 ying.
The Slayer came for him, swiping its claws, but his axe crashed into its torso rst. 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 eld. 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 buckl e and pinch his ski n. 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 voic es 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 gure 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 endish eyes of the Cryxian helljacks. Orsus wanted to surrender to the rising tide of violence and drive onward to confront Asphyxious. Nothing would please him more than to see the lich lord hacked into a bent and twisted heap—but he had a different purpose. Another squad of bile thralls closed from his left ank. Galloping soulhunters circled around the right side. Those that came too far forward fell under re from the Khadorans behind Zoktavir. He could sense cortexes in
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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 repower 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 Devastat ors to reload and re their grenade launchers again, hoping to clear the anks. He paid no mind to the doom reavers, leaving them to be shepherded by Fenris. Each would inict a toll before he fell. A number of ying bonejacks peeled off from the heights of the central tower and sped to intercept.
NOTHING WOULD PLEASE HIM MORE THAN TO SEE THE LICH LORD HACKED INTO A BENT AND TWISTED HEAP.
One of the extended tentacles of the colossal struck for him like a metal serpent and crashed against the brighte ned hemi sphere 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, teari ng throug h and buckl ing 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
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head, and then brought it down. The power he channeled blazed al ong 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 mac hine. 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 st. 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 eld ebbed. The Marauder hit a moment later, driving its steampowered 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, lling him with pain and grief . He clenched his sts 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.”
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 .
MONSTROSITY DAMAGE KEY On a monstrosity’s damage grid, the following letters represent the monstrosity’s systems: B: Brain L: Left arm weapons system
CEPHALYX WARCASTER
R: Right arm weapons system
SPECIAL RULES
H: Head weapons system
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:
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 ).
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 classied 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 specic battlegroup, each monstrosity is an independent model. MONSTROSITY
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.
SPECIAL RULES
FOCUS: BOOST
Monstrosities are not warjacks and do not have a cortex. Monstrosities can be controlled only by Cephalyx warcasters.
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.
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:
FOCUS: SHAKE
During your Control Phase after allocating focus, if this model is knocked down it can spend 1 focus point to stand up.
Monstrosities have damage grids like warjacks.
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.
DESTROYED MONSTROSITY
MONSTROSITY POWER ATTACKS
When a destroyed monstrosity is removed from the table it is not replaced with a wreck marker.
This model can make power attacks. When a monstrosity performs a power attack or a model performs a power attack against a monstrosity, follow the WARMACHINE: Prime rules as if the monstrosity were a warjack. All monstrosities can make the slam, head-butt, and push power attacks. Heavy monstrosities can make the trample power attack.
DAMAGE GRID
FEARLESS
Though it does not appear on their stat lines, all monstrositie s have the Fearless advantage.
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THREADS OF FATE POINT BOURNE INFIRMARY, 609 AR
Victoria Haley clenched and unclenched her right st. She watched intently as her ngers folded toward her palm and straightened again. Much had changed since her death and restoration, but the re-creation of the limb she had lost so long ago held her attention above all else. She had become accustomed to her metal prosthetic, and the feel of esh on esh was oddly foreign. At the foot of her bed, her new storm chamberpowered armor stood upon an armor rack. General Nemo had completed the suit during her illness in hopes of raising her spirits with the promise of continued service as a warcaster, though she had not believed that would happen. Now she was glad he had taken the time to craft the suit. Its presence, and the insignia on the right shoulder that marked her as a major, conrmed her continuing place in Cygnar’s ranks. She and Nemo had discussed much after her unexpected restoration. The relic Stryker’s forces had recovered from the Cryxian column, the current state of the alliance with Khador— these events were pieces of the same puzzle. Nemo had left Point Bourne the previous day to rendezvous with the armies gathering in the southern Thornwood for a second possible assault against Asphyxious, and she yearned to join them. A soft knock sounded on the door, and Vigilant Peer Carrick Dolan stepped into the room. Dolan was the Church of Morrow’s foremost expert on supernatural afictions and poisons, and despite Haley’s protests that the debilitating poison she had carried within her no longer plagued her body, he continued to pester her. He did so on Nemo’s orders, as she well knew. “Still feeling right as Caspian rain?” Dolan asked. “Never better,” Haley replied. Dolan chewed his lower lip and narrowed his eyes, looking her over. “I still can’t understand it,” he said after a moment. He shook his head. “I’d like to run a few more tests and keep an eye on you for a while longer.” “More tests?” Haley asked, indignant. “There’s a war on, if you hadn’t noticed.” “Major Haley, the fact that you survived the poison is remarkable; I don’t mind saying you surprised us all. But though I appreciate your contributions to the war effort, the war is not my primary concern. The well-being of my patients is.” She sighed and waved him on, and he went about his examination. She knew he would nd no sign of the poison or its effects. In truth, Haley accepted these intrusions because they gave her an opportunity to conduct an examination of her own.
As she had done half a dozen times before, Haley relaxed her mind as well as her eyes and focused her attention on Dolan. A slender, ethereal thread glowing gold seemed to materialize from Dolan’s chest and oated there as he worked. She knew he couldn’t see it. For a moment the glowing strand faded, and Haley redoubled her efforts. The thread brightened and revealed more of itself, weaving from Dolan to the doorway and the hall beyond. There it split in two, one part leading left and the other right. Even through the thick stone walls she could see the luminous strands branching again at other junctions. Dolan nished and said something about rest before heading to the door. Haley nodded absently. As he spoke, the thread leading to the right faded, together with all its branches. A choice had been made, extinguishing a series of possibilities. Dolan turned left, closing the door behind him. Haley slid from the bed and crossed to the window. Dolan wouldn’t be back soon; none of his threads led in her direction. Outside, the damage wrought by the invading Khadorans a nd Cryxians lingered over Point Bourne like a pall. Displaced citizens and soldiers roamed the streets, collecting bricks in wheelbarrows and hauling supplies alongside laborjacks. Haley focused on the thin strands of energy owing from the people toiling below. Gradually, the threads came into existence, rst hundreds and then thousands viewed through the foundations of buildings in the same way she had seen Dolan’s threads. She swayed momentarily and held the window frame for support as the multitude of decision lines washed over her. Great spools of threads wove about churches and the makeshift eld hospitals housing the injured. She let most of them go to focus on one—her own—which wound through the streets, though not in the direction she had imagined it would. Haley asked aloud. She had expected to be drawn north, toward the Thornwood. She focused harder, gripping the windowsill. Her thread was faint and very difcult to follow, but she saw it, pulled taut like wire and strained to the breaking point as it stretched off to the Wyrmwall Mountains. She gasped to see a roaring black vortex there that swallowed the mountain tops some presence far beyond any mortal fate. Her thread vanished into its dark heart, a prospect she found terrifying but also alluring. Something pulled at her mind, drawing her there. When she turned away, under her relief lay an undeniable certainty. “South?”
She turned to the armor that until her restoration she had expected to never wear and reached for it with her mind, effortlessly lifting it into the air. By the time anyone came to check on her, she would be long gone.
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BEARING WITNESS CENTRAL THORNWOOD, NEAR THE CENTRAL NECROFACTORIUM
The rhythmic sound of mortar re grew louder as the combined force of the Northern Crusade and the Umbrean army neared the valley where the Cryxian stronghold was under assault. Upon the approach, the Umbrean cavalry had spread to the right while Menite vengers went left to climb the hills and gain the superior vantage. From there, they would be able to charge down to join the fray when ordered. The long column of infantry had proceeded through a narrow entrance to the valley. Severius rode atop a palanquin resembling a golden throne, resplendent in his scrutator mask, warcaster armor, and gleaming vestments. Although a lifetime of service had taken its toll on his body, the hierarch took pleasure in spending his twilight years crusading in the name of the Creator. High Exemplar Kreoss rode on his right, and several Protectorate warjacks strode alongside. On his left rode the Umbrean Vladimir Tzepesci; the great prince’s warjacks were with his soldiers at a distance. “Vile things have long ourished in this dark forest,” Vladimir said, speaking serviceable Sulese. “We thought we had uprooted the corruption. Clearly we were mistaken.” Severius said, “The light of the Creator shines brightest in the darkest places. We will cleanse these lands with faith and resolve.” “I am not certain you have taken a proper measure of our foe.” “The faithful have faced Cryx before. We will force them back.” The palanquin dipped slightly as its bearers struggled against the tangle of roots. “I thought the same when I discovered their foothold here years ago. The concentration of their s trength is greater than you imagine.” The prince faced forward as he spoke, eyes scanning the thick trees. Severius admired his vigilance. It was a shame the man was a heretic, carrying the tainted blood of his line and dancing on the puppet strings of the Old Witch. With the proper guidance and willingness to forsake his legacy he might have made a good Menite.
Vladimir nodded, focusing his gaze elsewhere. “I saw more than enough, yes. I only regret I could not cleanse this place fully. I would not rely on reports, especially given the recent information. I feel this time is different.” Since starting south to join the forces amassing in the Thornwood, the great prince had done what he could to maintain communication with Khador’s supreme kommandant, Irusk, to coordinate their movements for the coming engagement. The plan outlined a joint effort with the Cygnarans, calling upon Severius and Vladimir to launch an assault from the north at his signal. Although the hierarch had said nothing, such orders were of no consequence to the forces of the crusade. Perhaps the Cygnarans were content to follow the commands of their northern rivals, but Severius would assess the situation upon his arrival. Another round of mortar re sounded, and the crackle of ries carried on the wind. The battleeld lay just ahead. “Let us see what it is we face,” Severius said. The sound of war became deafening as they passed the last few blackened trees and he beheld the scene before them. Severius stood on his palanquin, his scalp tightening as a chill played along his spine. Below lay a valley of death, within which nothing natural remained—not grass, nor trees, nor the trickle of streams. The stench of decay and necrotite choked the air. Dozens of enormous spires jutted from the ruined earth, with masses of the dead swarming like insects beneath their towering forms. Brilliant green light streaked from these spires to lash the hills, drawing the hierarch’s gaze to the embattled forces there. Each blast tore agonized screams from trenchers and Winter Guard alike as it snuffed out their lives and snatched their souls to be fed to the necrofactorium, the promise of Urcaen lost to them forever. In the depths of this valley dwelled certain ruination.
“So many thought, including our kommandants as well as Cygnaran commanders. We underestimated the enemy. Such evil must be seen rsthand to be fully comprehended.”
Severius felt the spiritual void before him and ice owed through his veins. It was one thing to know how Cryx abused the souls of the fallen but another to see depravity on such a scale with his own eyes. Every soul torn from esh here was stolen from the Creator. Yet amid his horror shone a icker of hope looking upon the desperate battle, he understood a way Cryx’s gluttony for souls might eventually be turned against them. Such a course would require great sacrice, but the lich lords of Cryx would suffer a blow from which they would not soon recover. Menoth had led him to this precipice so he might observe something only his eyes could see.
“I also read of your signicant role in the events surrounding the temple.” The hierarch’s words carried an edge, for it was Vladimir who had struck down the Harbinger at the height of the conict.
“Menoth give me strength,” intoned the hierarch. He gripped his staff, feeling a familiar re kindle within his breast despite his age. In that moment he felt not despair but steadfast resolve. He did not fear death, so long as his life served the Creator.
“I read the reports of the Battle of the Temple Garrodh,” Severius said. “The Cryxian armies there were all but destroyed, swallowed by the earth.”
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UNTAMABLE SOUTHWESTERN THORNWOOD, COMBINED ARMY ENCAMPMENT
Orsus Zoktavir clapped a massive hand to the closer of the argus’ twin heads and smoothed its fur before cinching the next strap of its armor. As he let go, the argus gave a bite to his forearm and shook its head. This might have dislocated the shoulder of a lesser man, but the Butcher of Khardov only wrapped his free arm around the other head and applied pressure until the rst relented. While the rest of the camp bri stled with preparations for the upcoming battle, the corner Orsus and his men occupied remained relatively quiet. Dozens of masked doom reavers stood scattered around him. Fenris stood nearest, obscured by the shadow of his nightmare steed. Orsus brooded, the lingering anger over the recent attempt on Empress Vanar’s life rst in his thoughts. He could not entirely dispel the icy feeling of dread that had lled his veins when he heard the sounds of violence within the tent where she was meeting the Cygnaran king. “Orsus Zoktavir,” said an authoritative feminine voice behind him. He turned to nd Kommander Aleksandra Zerkova, anked by a pair of reaver guards. The weapons they bore were clearly of Orgoth origin. His eye was drawn to an unknown warjack behind them, which emitted a low rumble as exhaust rolled from its smokestacks. “Kommander Zerkova.” He’d had little interaction with the warcaster, but even among the secretive and manipulative Greylords, Zerkova carried a particularly sinister reputation. The insignia on her tabard indicated a promotion to Obavnik, one of the highest ranks within the Covenant. She took in the lay of the camp with her good eye, the other being scarred over by some past trauma. “I come bearing a gift from Khardov,” Zerkova said. Her gaze returned to him. Orsus felt as though she were mentally dissecting him. The argus behind him growled, and the other came alongside, sensing his unease. Zerkova merely indicated the warjack rumbling behind her. “The high obavnik arbiter has granted you use of this machine in the coming battle. It is one of a kind.” Suspicious, Orsus frowned but stepped closer and looked the ’jack over. Its chassis resembled existing designs, but the relics attached to it were another matter. One st gripped a huge blackened mace, and the armored plate along the back of the other st had been shaped from an ornate Orgoth buckler and glowed with sinister power. Orgoth runes marked both artifacts as well as other ornaments afxed to the machine and the metal plates bolted to the cowling around its head. He thought he could hear indistinct whispers and felt a strong desire to connect with its cortex.
“Does your high obavnik often give gifts?” Orsus gave Zerkova a sideways glance. After a pause she said, “Its name is Ruin. It has proven . . . difcult to control. It crushed its controller during a eld test outside Khardov and would heed no commands. Several Greylords were likewise killed before it ran out of fuel.” Zerkova nodded to the argus and then Fenris. “Given your afnity for the untamable, the Covenant has deemed you suitable to test its use in battle. Place your hand on the chassis. I will relinquish my hold, though you must be quick to seize the cortex. Ruin will not remain idle if left to its own devices.” Orsus ran a hand over the warjack. He felt a strange rapport with the machine and its seething anger. “Ruin,” he said. “A good name. Why not claim it for yourself?” She gave him a tight smile. “Orders are orders.” Orsus felt Zerkova surrender her bond to the cortex. Almost immediately the warjack hunkered and raised its arms to readiness. It pulled back its mace, but the arm froze as Orsus plunged his mind into its cortex, swiftly delivering the code images to seize control. He had done this countless times, but this felt very different. Whispers suddenly ooded his mind, as though he were surrounded by a legion of ghosts. For a moment it was as if his mind were not his own. Rage lled him and he felt a strong urge to seize the haft of his axe. He restrained himself with effort, gritting his teeth to force the voices to quiet. “You see?” Zerkova asked softly. “Only the strongest warcasters can endure it.” He asked, “You will ght alongside me in the assault?” It was clear she desired the machine. She hoped to see him perish so she could reclaim it. He intended to see her disappointed, to master this machine. She frowned. “As much as I would enjoy joining you in seizing the necrofactorium and plumbing its depths, I have other duties. I am to stay at Empress Vanar’s side.” Orsus inched as if struck. Once again he saw the empress stumbling as a death-fueled construct lunged at her. That he hadn’t been chosen to oversee her safety opened an old wound in his mind. “What? Why?” The words sounded more hostile than he had intended. Zerkova looked to Ruin and back. “There are times we must obey and play the role given us.” Her tone was cold and suggested a meaning he did not apprehend. Of course she must obey the empress. To do otherwise was unthinkable. Without another word, the obavnik turned and walked away, her reaver guards following. A strong wind pulled at her coat and the scattered tents. Orsus barely heard its howl over the whispers lling his mind. 45
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UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES IOS, NORTHEAST OF SHYRR
The hooves of undead mounts battered the forest oor in a swift yet silent gait as the ethereal forms barreled through trees and undergrowth to carry their riders ever deeper into Ios. Goreshade had set out from Eversael two days earlier with a host of eldritch and banes riding at his back. His circuitous route to the capital had swung them north and west in hopes of avoiding undue attention, but even proceeding with caution they had still needed to actively evade far-reaching patrols. That they were not alone in their incursion, however, was soon apparent. They discovered the smoldering ruins of a village late in the rst day. Near midday on the second, they spotted several columns of smoke rising into the sky far to the north. Here and there, the thralls riding at the northernmost limits of the group came upon tracks of both men and beasts. “Warriors from across the sands,” Goreshade said as they reined in their mounts in the forest outside a village. He had diverted their course to inspect the source of smoke nearby, and now they watched through the trees as pale, armored soldiers in red and gold torched the remaining structures and clapped survivors in irons. Thick chains ran from one set of wrists to the next, and the steady crack of whips forced the prisoners into orderly lines. Although Goreshade’s knowledge of the marauders was secondhand, he recognized them as skorne—the same vicious race that had pursued his people in their exodus from Lyoss after the destruction of the Bridge of Worlds. “An invasion! Where are the Dawnguard?” Lothvyn asked from Goreshade’s side. Despite his initial hostility, the former Silowuyr noble’s disposition had changed considerably after he had been bested beneath the ruins of Eversael. Thus far, the eldritch had proven himself knowledgeable of the area’s comings and goings despite his exile, and Goreshade felt no regret at sparing his existence. “Hiding,” Goreshade said, his voice heavy with disdain for the self-righteous knights of House Nyarr who traditionally protected this region. His gaze lingered over the column of Iosans being led from the village, youths and even some few children among them. “Cowering behind their walls while those who depend on them fall prey to barbarians.” His race had grown weak in his absence, and the thought of the oncegreat people falling to outside aggression goaded him deeply. “They stay comfortable in their strongholds, abandoning the rest to ruin,” Lothvyn said. Hearing this from a fallen member of House Silowuyr, whose members dedicated themselves purely to the defense of Shyrr, grated on Goreshade. “What of you?” he snapped. “How many centuries did you spend hiding in Eversael before I came to
drag you out kicking and screaming?” He looked to each eldritch in turn. “The Dawnguard are short-sighted imbeciles. But you—some of the greatest minds of your time!—you have no excuse for years of cowardly inaction.” The words hit their mark. Lothvyn hissed and looked toward the village, drawing his weapon, and several other eldritch followed suit. “We will prove our resolve,” he said. “No!” Goreshade said sharply. “At least, not yet. We must know more. This force is but a raiding party.” Once the last of the skorne and their captives had departed the village, Goreshade urged his steed from among the trees. Lothvyn and the other eldritch followed, Suneater and his bane thralls trailing behind. Black smoke swirled around them before billowing into the sky in a fountain of ash. A roof collapsed with a crash, and a cloud of sparks rose from beneath it to are and die. Tracks lay thick upon the ground. Goreshade said, “This group is too feeble to have made it through the border on their own. From the smoke, it is clear they intended to attract attention, though to what end?” “We will be spotted ourselves if we are not careful,” Lothvyn said. Goreshade guided his mount around the roaring remains of the village, taking in the gruesome details. Here and there limbs and heads lay on the ground near the Iosan bodies they had been severed from, including some hands still gripping the hilts of blades. There were no skorne corpses; if the attackers had suffered casualties, they had taken away the fallen. Goreshade’s eyes narrowed. Too many questions remained. The fact that this force was connected to an army was all but certain. His mind turned to the capital and its defenses. In all his planning, dealing with Shyrr’s defenders—most notably House Silowuyr—had been least clear in his mind. The presence of the skorne so near opened up a number of possibilities. “We will follow these raiders and discover their intentions,” Goreshade said. “What of the capital?” Lothvyn asked. “This will help prepare the way. Send word to our forces beyond the border to make ready. We may need to seize an opportunity at short notice.” Goreshade gripped the hilt of Voass, feeling the thrum of power from the blade. Never had he been so close to achieving his goals. Although the presence of the skorne was unexpected, he felt condent he could accommodate for them in his plans. If Ios must burn before it could be saved, so be it. 55
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MARCHING ORDERS IOS, EAST OF THE GATE OF MISTS
Two dozen of House Ellowuyr ’s nest swordsmen traveled an ill-used path through the northern reaches of the Mistbough. Each was committed to the rites and traditions of their house, which bound them to their blades, to their ghting discipline, and to one another. Foreign invaders had brought war to Ios, and their blood stirred. Boasts and promises conveyed their excitement and apprehension alike. “I’ve heard of new invasions north of the capital,” said Rayl, the youngest of the volunteers. “Rumor has it the village of Yren was enslaved and Shynl burned. I’m surprised we aren’t marching there.” “The main skorne army threatens Iryss from the south, coming through the Twilight Gate,” sneered Fynar, a bladesman of the rst mark. “That is where we go. Leave the north to the dogs of Nyarr. The loss of those villages is their shame, not ours.” Rayl reected that these incursions were a mark against all the great military houses but only said, “I wonder which coalition houses we’ll be ghting alongside.” “Worried?” asked Melyna, to his left. She walked with a nonchalant stride, her blade balanced across her thin shoulders. Rayl shrugged. “Curious. What about you?” “No. We have him.” Melyna nodded toward Thyron at the head of the column. He loomed over the other warriors, his cape and ornate helmet suggesting his noble standing, with a pair of large, graceful myrmidons in Ellowuyr colors anking him. The noble’s skill with the blade combined with his warcaster talent and leadership made him a unique asset. Rayl had seen the issyr best several adept opponents simultaneously, demonstrating awless technique and blinding speed. The path turned and they reached a clearing occupied only by the ruins of a watchtower. From here the trail split, one strand heading west to Iryss while the other disappeared deeper into the Mistbough. Thyron raised a hand and brought the column to a halt. He climbed atop the remains of a low wall and looked out over the gathered Ellowuyr elite. “My brothers and sisters, I hold each of you in tremendous regard for volunteering to join me. Before we proceed, I need to clarify our situation. “As you know, our nation faces an invasion for the rst time in history. We must draw upon every resource, employ every tactic. Consul Brysor is limited by the political realities of the Consulate Court, and the majority of the warriors of our house have been ordered to remain at Aeryth Ellowuyr to guard the interior. That is not what I intend. It is in times like these when a trusted few must serve in the consul’s stead,
walking a path he cannot. Know that he is glad we are here, though he cannot openly acknowledge this. “I march not to ght the enemy alone, nor to join the Homeguard Coalition. Rather I have chosen to join those who we called our rivals House Shyeel, House Vyre—even the Dawnguard of House Nyarr.” A murmur rippled through the warriors; each of those houses was allied to the Retribution of Scyrah. Thyron continued, “This is not a temporary measure, nor is the choice based solely on the enemy incursions. I have chosen to aid the Retribution by any means necessary. The rest of our house may never follow, though I am not alone in my thinking.” Silence hung over the soldiers. Rayl looked at the bewildered faces around him. He knew individual nobles of some the lesser houses had similarly gone over to the radical sect, taking their liegemen. But they were House Ellowuyr, held to a higher standard. Conicting emotions tightened his chest. He had never heard the Retribution spoken of with anything but scorn and loathing. That Thyron embraced their cause was beyond shocking, yet it also made him wonder if his own presumptions had been wrong. “I know your loyalty, but I do not order you to join me. This decision is yours alone, and you are free to turn back. I would only say that some threats must be confronted to avoid a greater disaster. Blood spared on the front will be exacted tenfold from the innocent in our cities. Beyond this foe, our enemies are myriad. They would be glad to see us extinct. Let us stand for our house among those who already bleed for Ios, accepting risks refused by those bound by tradition. I will go on alone, if need be.” The issyr’s stern gaze moved from one swordsman to the next. A part of Rayl longed to return to his house, but another ached to take up arms against their foes. He was not alone in having marveled at the return of Nyssor and enviously watched the triumphant procession of Incissar Vyros of the Dawnguard. The Retribution did not seem loathsome. How could a group so committed to the preservation of Ios deserve censure? He knew what he must do. Before he could speak, a voice cried out, “Allegiance to you, Issyr!” Rayl turned to see Melyna with a st pressed against the ceremonial knife tted to her shoulder. “Allegiance to you, Issyr!” Rayl shouted, placing a st over his own shoulder. He exchanged looks with Melyna and Fynar, seeing his excitement reected in their eyes. One by one those around him took up the cry. “Very well,” Thyron said, smiling at last. “Let us show the Retribution the true steel of Ios. We bring them the sword of Ellowuyr!”
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EARLY DEPARTUR ES CEPHALYX TUNNELS BELOW THE THORNWOOD NECROFACTORIUM
Cognifex Cyphon cocked his head and listened as another explosion sounded far above him. From his place within the sanitation chamber linking cephalyx and Cryxian levels of the hive, the cognifex could sense mental and emotional emanations from both human armies above and the cephalyx remaining in the upper levels. Fear and doubt radiated from the invading forces. In contrast, members of the hive demonstrated heightened urgency and awareness, but those thoughts were efcient and focused. A good number of lower-ranking cephalyx had gathered their drudges to contribute to the ght above. Behind Cyphon, a pair of warden monstrosities stood in silent vigilance. Already the exulons had retreated deeper underground, and persistent queries from remaining cephalyx petitioned his mind, many disregarding the etiquette for such communication in favor of expedience. Contingencies had been set in place for this very threat, but the assault on the necrofactorium was early by several weeks, and what was to have been a calculated withdrawal now contained a greater number of variables. What aggravated Cyphon the most was that Thexus had left to attend to some urgent matter with the hive’s northernmost holdings, which forced Cyphon to coordinate matters on the exulon’s behalf. The descent of the remaining exulons deeper into the hive to avoid the unpleasant prospect of speaking with their Cryxian allies only amplied his discomfort with the situation. A series of metallic clacking sounds issued from the opposite end of the chamber, and Master Necrotech Mortenebra entered the room with a pair of helljacks anking her fabricated form. A sense of revulsion washed over Cyphon at the sight of her. He possessed no strong biases against Cryxians, but Mortenebra had once been a disciple of the Maiden of Gears, and the taint of the association remained—her necromechanikal body was not so different from those used by the Convergence of Cyriss. Even so, he was here on orders from the exulons to assess the situation and pressure their allies. uery Entity Asphyxious projected distant date for attack by externals. Explain discrepancy. As soon as he sent this mental message, Cyphon sensed it had not connected. This was not unexpected; other cephalyx had reported that the minds of the sentient undead were not reachable—a puzzle he might return to, when time allowed. Though he loathed communicating through his articial vocalizer, he saw little choice in the matter. “Assault disrupts predetermined agenda,” Cyphon said aloud. “Continued existence of the hive is in jeopardy.” “The hive will be secured,” Mortenebra said. Another explosion rained ecks of debris from the ceiling, and the necrotech’s
limbs clattered as they moved to compensate for the vibrations. “No more than the upper levels will be lost to the mortals.” “Upper levels contain projects of import,” he said. Mortenebra nodded. “I, too, have work housed nearby,” she said. “If we act quickly, some of these projects may be saved. Doing so will require a diversion. The drudges and monstrosities created since the last battle should sufce. I have been instructed by Lich Lord Asphyxious to remain with the hive and assist with any complications.” Immediately Cyphon’s mind factored in these potential losses against the gains they had seen from the alliance with the undead. The inefciency from faulty planning hovered at the edge of acceptable limits, yet the survival of the hive outweighed any other considerations. The commitment of an irreplaceable asset like Mortenebra at least signied the lich lord did not plan to entirely abandon them. “Submit alternative action plan,” Cyphon said. The clamor above was growing steadily louder, and even now, a dozen cephalyx telepathically pressed him for information. “A not inconsequential number of thralls have been sent to assist your drudges in nishing the closure of the tunnels. We must buy them time to complete their task.” “Current resources are insufcient to stall the advance,” Cyphon replied. “Cryxian retreat implies a low probability of success.” The warcaster appeared unfazed. “We must prod the enemy and draw them to tunnels of our choosing, which we will collapse upon them. They will suffer casualties. By granting them victory on our terms, we shall direct their investigations away from tunnels yet to be sealed.” “At considerable cost.” “There is no other way to preserve the experiments and protect the hive,” Mortenebra said. “The losses are acceptable. Delay will only increase inefciency. Consider also the resources and data that might be collected on such an excursion.” Behind Cyphon, the monstrosities shifted in their mindless fashion. It had been some time since he had seen such creations in action. A venture to the surface would have benets, such as the potential to capture an isolated Greylord or wounded warcaster and submit them to surgical and telepathic scrutiny. Conict brought the risk of discovery, but it brought the means for discovery as well. “Alternative plan accepted,” the cognifex said. Cyphon issued mental commands to half a dozen subordinates to organize the requisite force while another portion of his mind ran through a list of current and future projects and prioritized the various types of captives each required. The list was long indeed. 75
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DEEPER OBLIGATIONS PART TWO THE THORNWOOD
“This is beyond anything I have seen before, brother,” said Sid Norvor to his fellow paladin Anson Durst.
Durst grunted afrmation. After a pause he said, “Strange that we will soon join battle alongside unbelievers who invaded Sul.” Both members of the Order of the Wall had only just joined the Northern Crusade. They had been diverted midway through their trip to the Llaelese city of Leryn, sent instead to meet with Intercessor Kreoss, who was already marching south into the Thornwood. Other than the sigil identifying their order, the two paladins were very different. Durst was by far the larger of the two. Impressive as Norvor was in his ancient blessed armor, Anson Durst was a giant among men. He was a full head taller and considerably wider, outweighing the other man by more than a hundred pounds. His heavy armor was of a more modern style, recently forged by the Sul-Menite Articers and equipped with the arcane turbine that marked him as a warcaster. Their weapons displayed a similar disparity— Norvor wielded a traditional rebrand passed down from antiquity, while Durst’s mechanikal weapon Recompense had been forged for war only recently. The warcaster paladin found it difcult to think amid the chaos of the battle sprawled across the perimeter of the darkened valley below. Dozens of skirmishes were raging around the great Cryxian fortress, which seethed with unholy power. The sky above pulsed unnaturally with strange, churning storm clouds, while lightning ickered below, adding pale ashes within the green surges of necromantic energy. The Khadorans had situated mortars along the hilltops surrounding the valley and were lobbing shells down into areas where the Cryxians were concentrated. Occasionally these blasts fell perilously close to their own soldiers. Closer to the center the undead enemies were protected by a variety of bulwarks and barricades, and the ground was riddled with trench-like chasms that facilitated Cryxian troop movements. Both thralls and cephalyx drudges emerged periodically from these gashes to rush the nearest attackers. Durst understood that such defensive ghting was counter to Cryx’s usual tactics, but their position seemed strong. Both the Khadoran and Cygnaran armies were keeping their distance, preferring to deal damage at range, and it seemed as though the incoming re was doing little except further rending the already ravaged valley. When word had come to Durst that he was called to join the Northern Crusade, he had initially been troubled. Countless
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civilians had seen their lives destroyed in Llael, and the Northern Crusade had played a part in that. His order taught that there were innocents even among unbelievers; such people deserved protection, not persecution. Llael was no place for a simple man, a soldier of the faith, as Anson viewed himself. The world and its moral ambiguity had become difcult for members of his order. Perhaps that was why they were so few.
They called him the Rock of Faith, an epithet that made him uncomfortable. He had been content to be just a paladin, no more. He had been blessed with strength, fortitude, and skill at arms. He had not hoped for other gifts, but Menoth had a different plan. The recent emergence of his warcaster talent had forced him to accept new responsibilities. It had changed his place both in his order and among his brothers. After the order to join Kreoss reached him, he had sought out Grand Paladin Trenton Bouridor for advice. It was unclear to him how he could serve the theocracy’s military leaders and yet uphold his vows. The venerable l eader of their order had exhorted him to remain true to his code and his faith above all else. He was not an exemplar—the priests and scrutators must be respected, but his soul belonged to Menoth, and it was to Menoth he would ultimately answer. He was now joined with an unlikely alliance between formerly embittered armies working together against a profane foe. Providence had placed him where he needed to be, for which he prayed thanks to the Creator. Other than the faithful, their army included a host of Umbrean horsemen and heavy infantry loyal to Khador’s Great Prince Tzepesci. Yet this blended army did not march with perfect solidarity. Durst had heard rumors of heated words between Tzepesci and the hierarch regarding plans for the upcoming engagement. Tensions were high between the Khadorans and the people of the crusade, and each kept to their own camps. It was difcult to imagine how they would ght together, even without considering the Cygnarans they would soon be joining. Compared to the greater army, Durst led a relatively small force. The infantry under his command were divided between Temple Flameguard and Knights Exemplar, including several squads of cinerators and thirty knights errant. When he had received his orders Durst had been bringing fresh warjacks to the Northern Crusade from Sul, and so he retained a large battlegroup. Most were light warjacks, including Vigilants and Devouts, but l ooming over these were a pair of formidable Indictors gripping swords and shields as tall as a man. The powerful blessings on these warjacks allowed them to negate unholy magics employed against them or nearby, and Durst was glad to have them on this assault, given Cryx’s methods.
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART TWO aside several pieces of rubble as he called out, “Kommander! Kommander Karchev!”
warcaster seemed frail, his breath coming in slow, ragged gasps. His face was pallid and his complexion almost a blue-grey.
“I told you I would . . . catch up.” Karchev ch ided. His voice was still hard, but his words came slowly and with pauses for breath. A cursory examination revealed why. Much of the machinery that had connected Karchev’s support shell to the warjack’s boiler hung in tatters. Strakhov was disturbed to see uids leaking from rents in Karchev’s armored torso—one oily black, another like clouded water joined by the distinct color of blood.
When they emerged to the surface, Strakhov was so focused on getting Karchev back to Khadoran lines that he did not even pause to savor the taste of fresh air—albeit fresh air tinged with smoke and newly spilled blood. It was not until he registered the sight of white- and gold-armored Menites that Strakhov paused to take in the larger battle.
Ignoring the reprimand, Strakhov asked, “How bad is the damage?” “Nothing to dwell on,” Karchev said atly. “Where is . . . the mechanik?” Strakhov shook his head. If Karchev felt any remorse over Alexi’s death, he made no outward sign. Not that Strakhov believed by the look of the damage that the mechanik could have done much to help Karchev now. Strakhov needed to get the kommander back to friendly territory. “Can you move?” Strakhov asked. Strakhov saw the warjack’s eyes are as Karchev connected with the machine’s cortex to assess its capabilities. “The systems function . . . but my pace will be slow.” “I can assist with that.” Strakhov summoned runes to help empower the ’jack.
LIGHTNING SPLIT THE SKIES WITH THUNDER INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM THE ROAR OF KHADORAN HEAVY GUNS.
The pair made their way to the surface as quickly as the damaged ’jack would allow. Thankfully they managed to avoid any signicant Cryxian forces. Strakhov assumed that the vast majority of the undead were already engaged in the surface battle, which, by the sounds of it, had intensied. He was for a moment overwhelmed with the noise that had previously been mufed. Lightning split the skies with thunder indistinguishable from the roar of Khadoran heavy guns while the sound of steel upon steel rang beneath it all. He wondered if the destruction wrought by Karchev had been of use; he could not help but feel some optimism, hoping they had bought those embattled some advantage. He felt certain he could sense Khadoran cortexes and the slight tingle of nearby warcasters.
Far more concerning was Karchev’s physical state now that his life support systems had begun to fail. The once-indomitable
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He saw the blue of Cygnar alongside the red of his countrymen as expected, but the sight of so many Protectorate troops coming in from the north caused him a moment of alarm, then wonder. They were clearly focused on Cryx, ghting alongside the others rather than against them. It was as if all of western Immoren had come to destroy the cancer that festered within the Thornwood. Even so, the Cryxians were far from beaten. “We need to get you away from the front lines,” Strakhov shouted over the cacophony of battle. Karchev did not take his eyes from the battle beyond. “No. My place is here . . . beside my countrymen,” he said. His eyes ared into pools of blazing arcane energy, and his warjack carried him forward with a grinding of gears. The machine picked up an ice axe from a fallen uggernaut as it made its way toward a beleaguered group of Khadorans struggling to hold against a large mass of Cryxian thralls. Cursing under his breath, Strakhov moved quickly to keep pace with the other warcaster. He had not come this far only to lose Karchev now. He red several shots into the Cryxians, doing his best to clear the way. As they closed on the mass of undead, he found himself acutely aware of how much he missed having a battlegroup to control. Sensing a pair of nearby Khadoran cortexes, Strakhov veered them in that direction, shouting and pointing. Karchev’s warjack trampled through several thralls and annihilated several more with wide swings of its shimmering ice axe. Mechanithralls at the rear of another group of embattled enemies turned at the new threat, then gave an inhuman howl and rushed Karchev. Strakhov extended his will to evoke an explosion that ripped through the center of them, obliterating several. He followed with a pair of shots from his riot gun. The warcasters broke through the undead throng to nd themselves face-to-face with their astounded countrymen. Karchev’s warjack looked worse than ever, spewing steam and smoke from places it should not have been. Its right leg dragged, leaving a great fur row in the muddy ground. Strakhov grabbed an open-mouthed Winter Guard lieutenant by the arm and shouted, “I’m in command here now! I need to get Kommander Karchev to the rear!”
DEEPER OBLIGATIONS, PART TWO dropped what they were doing to stand at attention. Years of military life caused Strakhov to snap up as well, despite his fatigue—an ingrained reex.
composure. After a long moment, Irusk continued. “Your presence has been sorely missed in these last months.” It was the kindest tone Strakhov had ever heard in that voice.
Supreme Kommandant Gurvaldt Irusk walked down the aisle of soldiers, his armor and uniform showing signs of his own role in the recent battle. Nonetheless his posture was ramrod straight, and his keen eyes betrayed none of the fatigue the rest of those gathered could not hide.
Karchev nodded. “I am eager to resume the ght.”
“Kommander Strakhov,” he said, his powerful voice ringing with authority. “Your return from the dead has been a subject of much . . .” Irusk paused as if carefully considering his words, then continued, “ discussion among the kommandants.” Strakhov needed no clarication. He had acted outside his orders in his efforts to rescue Kommander Karchev. By any interpretation of military law he had at the least deserted his post, a grave infraction. Warcasters were given tremendous latitude and might escape punishment for such an offense, but that was not always the case. He kept his expression neutral. “I saw an opportunity to recover Kommander Karchev, so I took it.” “A bold decision—one that led to our forces being deprived of your leadership in exceptionally dangerous times. And this is not the rst time your personal initiative has put operations at risk.”
“There will be ample opportunity in the days to come. The Motherland has no shortage of enemies.” The two shared a long look, and Karchev slowly smiled and again inclined his head. Irusk turned smartly and marched away, leaving a respectful silence behind him. SOUTHWESTERN THORNWOOD, TWO WEEKS EARLIER
Empress Ayn Vanar walked unannounced into the command tent where Supreme Kommandant Irusk and Great Vizier Blaustavya were meeting, savoring the look of surprise on both their faces before they hastened to offer her the proper obeisance. They were meeting with Aleksandra Zerkova, whose expression remained cool. Apparently she was not surprised so easily. “Forgive my interruption, Supreme Kommandant. I am in no mood to sit idly while others manage my affairs.” “Of course, Your Majesty,” Irusk offered quickly. He inclined his head toward Zerkova. “We were conrming that the encampment is secure once again. The Greylords have seen to it.” The empress nodded. “And making arrangements for my ongoing safety, I gather.”
“THIS IS NOT THE FIRST TIME YOUR PERSONAL INITI ATIVE HAS PUT OPERATIONS AT RISK.”
“I stand by my decision, Kommandant.” Strakhov’s voice remained completely level, his eyes never leaving Irusk’s. “What if you had failed?” Irusk demanded. Strakhov did not inch. “Failure was never an option, sir.” Irusk kept his intense stare on Strakhov for several long moments, his face unreadable. Strakhov could not help but notice how deathly quiet everything around him was. The only sound he could hear was his own heartbeat. He was not afraid, though. It was for such tasks as this rescue that he had been trained, and he had been successful. Finally Irusk released his gaze to turn to Karchev. “It is good to see you well, Kommander,” he said. Though his expression did not change, his voice wavered slightly and he paused. Strakhov felt startled to realize the supreme kommandant, overcome with emotion, needed to regain his
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“That is our foremost concern,” Blaustavya said. “We intend for Obavnik Kommander Zerkova to escort you in the days ahead, while we march on the Cryxian f ortress.” She looked from one to the other and then said, “I welcome her protection. But there are other matters that will soon require her attention.” “Your Majesty?” Irusk asked. She gave him an even look, but not an unkind one. There were certain protocols in the military, with its strict chain of command. She knew it was unseemly to exercise her authority in this way, with Zerkova present and Irusk the ranking ofcer, but sometimes it was important to remind her senior ofcers whom they ultimately served. She had been playing a dangerous and difcult game, and this was the last piece to put in place. She turned to Blaustavya and asked, “What of the traitor?” “He confessed and was hung. Too clean a death, by my reckoning.” “And this tent is secure? From both friends and enemies?” She could not resist a bit of emphasis on the rst half of that equation.
“Absolutely,” he said, looking wounded. “My agents have secured this area, and the Greylords have mystical precautions in place. We may speak openly.” Zerkova was watching the exchange with an appraising look in her one good eye. This was the rst time she had been taken into the empress’ condence, so her curiosity was understandable. “Traitor?” Irusk asked, his tone mild, though his jaw was clenched. “You found a spy?” Ayn gestured for Blaustavya to explain. He sighed before speaking. “Before our journey here from the capital, we discovered a member of our retinue had been compromised. It is fortunate for us that, cunning though they are, the lords of Cryx are less adroit at manipulating the living than they are the dead. Their methods to ensure compliance were heavy-handed and so not difcult for us to discover. I suspect the plot was hastily arranged. I would have ordered the man executed immediately, but the empress had other plans.” The way he emphasized his words left no doubt as to his disapproval of her choice in this matter. Ayn gave him a stern look and he grimaced. She said to Irusk, “You may have wondered how the Cryxians knew precisely where we were to meet.” Irusk nodded once and said, “I thought it likely a lapse by the Cygnarans.” She nodded. “A reasonable conjecture, but no, not in this case. The fault was ours. Mine. I allowed this traitor to learn of the meeting and to deliver that information to his master.” Irusk’s eyes widened and he stared at her in disbelief. Zerkova’s expression suggested surprise and approval. She was a woman quite familiar with complex and risky plots. Ayn continued, “This was against the great vizier’s recommendation, of course. I was condent that having foreknowledge would enable us to take sufcient precautions to ensure the attempt would fail. Naturally there would be risk. I did not wish to tip our hand and alert the Cryxians that we knew their plans, lest they change them. They might have sought to intercept me during the crossing of the Thornwood instead. The temptation to take out the leaders of both nations at once would be an opportunity they could not let pass. So, in one sense delivering this information may have ensured my safe arrival.” She did not say it aloud, but she had also weighed the fact that it would not bring her any grief if King Leto were to be killed in the attempt.
“Why put yourself in such peril?” Irusk asked. “You placed me in an unusual position, Supreme Kommandant, when you entered into your alliance with Cygnar.”
“I am sure that is true,” she said, locking her eyes on his. “Great Prince Tzepesci will undoubtedly say something similar regarding his agreement with the Menites. The outcome is the same. Your actions forced me to come here, to reassert my authority and to demonstrate to my army that you and I are in accord. It is vital they know that everything you do is an extension of my will, that any authority you possess ows from me.” After a pause she released his gaze and said, “Unwittingly, you also created an opportunity. This battle in the Thornwood against Cryx is vital, not only for the threat they pose, but for the aftermath of victory. We must ensure that the Khadoran Empire is positioned for the next stage in this war. Peace will not last. We must subjugate all enemies, including those who pretend to be friends. The moment Cryx is dealt with, they will plot against us. Both sides will be vulnerable.” She could see Irusk taking this in. He said, “That matter has occupied my thoughts since this alliance began.” “Let it distract you no longer,” Ayn said. “I am here to remove that burden, to allow you to focus on the battle at hand. We will not allow our enemies to move against us. Rather, we will seize the initiative.” She continued, “I will leav e the details to you and the great vizier, but I have certain requirements. First, I intend to speak to our soldiers, to commend them and inspire them, before you leave to confront Cryx. When you have gone to attend to that task, Kommander Zerkova will escort me north, to ensure my safety until I rendezvous with those who will deliver me to the capital. Meanwhile, Zerkova will prepare an ambush for Hierarch Severius on his return journey to Llael. You will muster other forces to seize Armandor and Torre Torcail in Ord and Stonebridge Castle in northern Cygnar immediately after we have our victory over Cryx. You will ght in good faith alongside our ‘allies’ against Cryx but regroup to secure positions after that battle, separating sufciently from elements of the Cygnaran Army to prepare for a renewal of hostilities against them. Ensure they are in no position to retaliate when word of our actions reaches them. There will be delay and confusion, amid which you will sei ze advantage for the empire.”
Their silence was absolute. The empress felt satisfaction to see that she had surprised them so utterly; even Blaustavya had not known of this. On his face and Irusk’s she could discern some deeper uncertainty, but on Zerkova’s there was nothing but readiness and admiration.
She saw him recoil. He said, “I am sorry if I acted hastily, Your Majesty. It seemed the only choice.”
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