Warlord 4th Edition CCG - the epic fantasy card game

After finally being able to talk a few minutes to Laurence and getting our ideas for the story behind Warlord on the same page, here is another fruit of Laurence’s labor. Enjoy!

War on the Plains

by Laurence Sinclair

Sunlight streamed in through the window, bringing with it the heat that had given the Fire Plains their name, splashing from an unclouded – and thus ill-omened – sky. Each one of the noblemen and women lowered their head at the cardinal’s benediction, but still he could sense their unease. Every soul crammed into the makeshift chapel all but shivered with fear.
Except for the robed man leaning against the opposite wall, his dark eyes fixed upon the cardinal’s own.

They filed out, the worthy sons and daughters of power and privilege, nodding at the cardinal’s glance as they passed him, but not one stopping for a conversation or confession. Only the robed man seemed in no hurry, lingering with a grin showing beneath his hood.

“Thy choice of sermon was most… diplomatic, your eminence,” he hissed. “Thanks due to The Storm for our deliverance are all well and good, but I must admit that thou didst lack for some of the passion thou hast displayed in the past. And not a word for our most beloved emperor, may He reign eternal?”

“In these doubtful times, inquisitor, one must be sure of the foundations of faith before one tends to the finer details. We must all hold allegiance to The Storm above the crown.”

“Dost thou imply that they are not one and the same?” the inquisitor growled. “Such words are tantamount to heresy! I would have thought belief to be all the stronger in the man that didst crown our emperor.”

“Many have been the wonders seen since that day,” Cardinal Scelus said, scooping a chalice from the altar to drain the remaining dregs of wine. “The Storm-saints walking amongst us, and many miracles following in their wake. The Storm hath shown us Its favour; our emperor is less loving.”

“Indeed, thou never didst explain to my master’s satisfaction why thou wert sent from the light of the capital to our desolate quarter of the empire.”

“I am hardly likely to explain to such as thou then, am I, Chroneus?” Scelus snarled, pushing his bulk past the inquisitor to stride into the darkened corridors of the fort. “Be such information the reason Dmitir sent thee to shadow me this fine summer’s day?”

Inquisitor Chroneus followed after as the cardinal paced the unfamiliar carpets. “Not while I still find thee cooperative, your eminence. Pray that thy usefulness may last a while longer.”

“Then why?”

“A guest doth await at the gates, and Inquisitor Dmitir thinketh it most politic to have the church’s highest representative present.”

“Oh? The lord inquisitor doth deign to acknowledge my rank when it suits, doth he?”

“In these matters, aye. But his word shall command here so long as we remain at war with the Foe.”

Ah yes, Scelus thought to himself, how ever could I ever forget the mysterious Foe that hath us besieged? “I fully trust the Inquisition to protect us.”

“Good,” Chroneus said as the pair emerged into the open air, drier even than the fort’s interior. A scrawny boy in the garb of a stable-hand joined them on the march to the open gate, a single mounted figure silhouetted in wait.

“Flavien,” Scelus acknowledged, “I see thou dost still parade around as one beneath thy station. ‘Tis most unbecoming.”

“Your eminence, we didst not have the luxury of selecting which of our servants were whisked away to this place. Needs must when the Dragon doth drives, and so I fill in as necessary.”

Scelus raised an eyebrow at the youth’s impertinence, yet Chroneus cut in. “Such is precisely why we requireth the aid of the outsider yonder. ‘Tis vitally important that he doth ally himself and his people with us, and not the Foe. We must endeavour not to offend him.”

“Thou needst not lecture me on proper decorum, inquisitor,” Scelus said.

The trio closed on the rider, the sun’s backlighting concealing his face, but doing nothing to disguise the outlandish shape of his steed.

Four sturdy legs it possessed, but beyond that its similarity to a horse ended. The neck upon which its elongated skull rested curved most frightfully, almost independent of its malformed body. The rider himself sat before a grotesque, straggly-haired hump.

They waited patiently for the man to dismount, each wondering to himself how such a feat could be managed. Rather than attempt a leap however, the rider barked short, harsh foreign words and made a movement with his right hand. The beast gracefully collapsed, its long legs contriving to fold up beneath it, until its master could simply extend one of his own and step onto the dusty ground.

“Greetings, noble lords,” he said, his head inclining, “my name is Azam, and I would be happy to conduct business with you.”

The man’s brusque manner, wrapped in his juddering accent, was but one of the aspects that Scelus did not trust. He was garbed in a manner that reminded the cardinal all too much of the hated Isadrans, although their land, much like beloved Deverenia itself, was far, far from this daemon-haunted wasteland.

Scelus could not get the measure of the man, so much of him bound beneath turban and cloth of such intricate design the cardinal felt his own robe almost lacking.

The pair of curved blades at Azam’s belt were in plain view.

“Excellent,” Chroneus said, effecting a stiff bow. “May I introduce unto thee the eminent Cardinal Scelus, our representative of The Storm.”

“Yes, you have mentioned this Storm before, but I am not interested in religious matters at present. I was informed that you required mounts.”

“Our noble knights do lack for steeds, and we thought that a local… lord such as thyself wouldst know of beasts well-suited to these harsh plains.”

“Indeed. And I can supply you with many such as this.”

Flavien smirked as he realised that Azam was referring to the creature now kneeling in the gateway. “That? Thou dost expect Deverenian nobility to ride into battle upon such ugly monsters?”

“Hush boy,” Azam returned, “you’ll hurt her feelings.”

“Thou canst not address me so, barbaric churl! I am a son of Order Genecourt, and -”

Scelus cut Flavien’s rant short. “Perhaps thou shouldst have dressed the part, then. My most humble apologies, Lord Azam. The boy is simply afrighted by the unfamiliar, and I must admit that I have doubts over our knights’ reaction to a camel.”

“You are familiar with them?”

“I have never ridden one myself, but yes, they do exist on our world as here. Deverenia doth scorn them in favour of horses.”

“And in most cases, that would be most wise. But here in the Fire Plains, the camel by far has the advantage, able to cope far better under the heat and uneven terrain.”

Scelus, jows rolling with his laughter, swept away, back toward the keep. “I can see that thou dost know thy trade well, lord! Flavien shall sort out the details of our arrangement, but be assured that a fully-stocked treasury is one of the few luxuries that our displaced force hath retained. Thou shalt be well recompensed. Good day to thee.”

Chroneus was after the cardinal half a dozen heartbeats later, confidence having flitted from his voice. “Scelus? What game dost thou play now? Is this all that thou wilt contribute to the negotiations?”

“Oh, I shall meet with Azam again, I am sure. We will have other things to discuss besides camels though. It doth seem that I must make allies where I can. Now run along to that filthy peasant before that dullard Flavien offendeth him overmuch. Although, since thou canst not remember the correct term of address for a cardinal, I canst not see thee as any better a diplomat.”

“Mention of this shall be made to Dmitir,” was Chroneus’ parting shot.

Scelus ignored him. The man was an amateur.

***

The camp of the Nothrog was certainly more formidable than that of the Deverenians, Azam reflected. To occupy a weathered fortress that had been abandoned for as long as the songs remembered was as nothing before camping an army in the middle of the Fire Plains protected by nothing more than tents.

The twisted hyenas that prowled the area would have happily torn their way through anyone else that attempted it, but the Nothrog had almost thrived. As he rode closer, Azam attempted to count the neatly ranked hide-domes that lumped across the rising plain, but he had no means to prevent his eye from wandering back and recounting the same, regimented row time and again.

The guards came into sight soon enough to provide consolation. They were like no goblin Azam had seen in his years, easily seven or more feet tall, their physique barely contained by armour of barbed leather strips. In place of daggers, they leaned upon great, many-bladed spears, more fearsome even than their many-fanged mouths. Where the goblins had been craven, sneaking things, these warriors were not afraid to announce their presence.

At twelve yards they barked a challenge at him in their rough tongue, and he halted to dismount. “I am expected,” he told them.

“We know,” the tallest guard said. “She wonders why you are so late.”

It was a test, he was sure. He would have to show strength. “I make no apology. I am a busy man. Now, lead the way to your commander.”

“No need to deprive ourselves of these lads and lasses’ vigilance, is there?” jabbed a voice from behind Azam. “I’ll be your escort, if you don’t mind.”

He hadn’t heard this other Nothrog approach. Clearly, they did not wholly disregard the usefulness of stealth. “I’d prefer to be guided without a knife in my back, please.”

“Pleases and thank-yous, indeed!” the stranger laughed, although the guards remained stoic. He strolled around Azam’s right, a dark, hooded cloak pulled close to shade him from the sunlight. “It’s about time we met someone polite in this place!”

Azam managed a smile in response to the bared tusks in that lined green face. “Yes. I had heard that your forces had come into conflict with The Chosen.”

The cloaked Nothrog walked by the guards, further into the camp. “They didn’t take kindly to our intruding, that’s true. But they didn’t seem ready for a proper fight either; died nice and easy, so they did. My name’s Ter’til, by the way.”

So casually he introduced himself after mention of a massacre! Azam followed him in silent contemplation. The summary rout of the local Chosen overlords in less than a week was the main reason why he was interested in dealing with the Nothrog. His own people had effectively lived as outlaws in the Fire Plains, as far from the cities of The Chosen and their daemons as they could get. The masked ones and their thralls had seemed eternal, invincible.

In less than a week, these glorified goblins had established themselves as the dominant force in the region, effortlessly routing the assembled armies of the local lords. Azam wished he had been there to see it.

This aftermath gave him a glimpse of the Nothrog’s power. Following Ter’til through the clustered tents, he passed training grounds marked out at regular intervals, where squares of infantry marched and fought in formation, synchronising their movements, one mind obeying the snarls of their officers. Such discipline, married with the stark physical power of the average Nothrog soldier…

Azam dearly did not wish these people to be his enemy.

The tent that Ter’til pointed out as belonging to the army’s commander was slightly taller than those around it, but otherwise unremarkable. “Within,” the Nothrog announced, voice raised, “dwells our esteemed Legion commander: Set’rokh, daughter of Sethusk, greatest tactician of our age!”

This was more comfortable. If the Nothrog respected great lineage, then Azam would impress them indeed, the previous twenty generations of his line memorised as a boy. Ter’til held the flaps open for him to enter, and he passed through into a dark, cold space hung round with flayed corpses. Clearly, the Nothrog idea of civilised behaviour only extended so far.
“And who are you?” The demand barked from behind an artfully stretched daemon-skin that bisected the tent’s interior.

“I am Azam, son of Hamid, son of Firouz,son of -”

The daemon-skin was torn aside forcefully, its velvet texture tearing in places as the Nothrog woman stomped out. At the sight of her fully armoured body, those parts of her not encased in spikes displaying muscles that could break Azam like a child, he paused in his recitation. From behind an untidy mane of black hair she almost dared him to continue.

“I am not impressed,” she said at length. “I do not care for your forefathers or their accomplishments.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Azam managed, too scared now to make any ’show of strength’. “But from your man’s introduction, I had thought -”

“That’s how they think,” she snorted, sitting cross-legged on a rug and gesturing for him to sit with one three-fingered hand. “They remember Sethusk for his mind, but none of them knew him.”

Azam eased himself down, running through the possibilities of what else could have once owned the too-human skins below.

“He was kept busy teaching Krun’s daughter,” Set’rokh continued, “and I can’t say I was upset when the ungrateful heir killed him for it. By that time, I’d learned to rely on myself.”

“Why tell me this?”

“The more an enemy knows, the less he will think of his ignorance.”

“So we are enemies?”

“I would hope not. The Chosen are enemy enough, guarding rich rewards of well-kept slave villages. A good foe,” she mused.

Azam caught the tone in her voice. “And yet?”

“Our intrusion and interference will draw greater forces here. It is only to be expected, and desired lest my Legion grow soft from fighting weaklings. But it also raises the possibility of defeat.”

“I and my people may turn the tide?”

“Local knowledge would be an asset. I am not ashamed to admit that surprise and luck were the main reasons for our recent victory. It would be better not to rely upon them again. When the true enemy arrives -” Set’rokh’s eyes widened at this - “I wish to be able to fully prove myself.”

“Very well. Our price -”

“Your price will be to live.”

“Excuse me?”

“We are not a rich people. We don’t have the money to spare for greedy mercenaries. However -” Set’rokh raised a finger to punctuate her point, and Azam watched the sharpened talon carefully - “once we have asserted ourselves here, we will need trusted allies to oversee our territory while we move on. I offer power, not wealth.”

“I… will consider your request.”

“You have until The Chosen next attack. Dismissed.”

Azam stood, unsure whether or not he needed to say more. Set’rokh had already turned away, so he left her, ignoring Ter’til’s farewell wave and retracing his steps to where he’d left his camel. As he rode, his time among the Nothrog was already seeming like a mirage-dream. How else could he have dared to walk amongst such war-makers and returned alive?

Only Set’rokh burned brightly in his mind. The intensity of her lust for a battle well-fought was more fearsome than all the blades of her Legion.

Yes, far better to have the Nothrog as allies than enemies.

His attendants were waiting at the assigned spot, a dozen men and camels, merely waiting for their chieftain before heading for today’s home. One among them, distinguished by richer robes unscoured by the sands, rode to meet him on his approach as the others made ready to depart.

“You have had a day.” The voice was deep, possibly accentuated by the elaborate mask the woman wore. “Have you fully considered the offer of the masters?”

“I will call for you when I have made a decision,” Azam said firmly. “I have many new possibilities to think over.”

to be continued…

Tags: Azam, Laurence Sinclair, Story, War on the Plains

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