SORCERER'S GAMBIT
Epic Battle
From its perch high on the summit of the steel-grey tower, the raven scanned for its next meal. The ink-black birds of the lands of Morr had feasted well in the past year: a seemingly endless supply of fresh meat spattered the land, as conflict after conflict reaped the blood-toll on the warriors who struggled endlessly for its possession.
The black bird’s head twitched from side to side, as its feathered ruffled in the winds that howled down the valley and lashed the high tower. A smudge of movement caught the bird’s eye. Another raven, its coal black feathers streaked with blue-grey, began a slow circle of the tower.
The raven cawed, an angry challenge to the intruder. For a week the old bird had strayed into the raven’s territory, and for a week they had dueled in sky above the tower. With an explosion of dark wings the raven leapt towards its foe, and swiftly the two birds locked in a tumble of beak and claw, splitting only to gain momentum for another attack. Harsh screeches burst from sleek black throats, challenges and threats, as the two combatants stabbed and slashed.
Far below the circling birds, illuminated by watchfires and blazing brands in the fading light, a ring of warriors shouted and screeched. Tall, brass clad men slammed heavy steel blades and axes into battered red shields. Opposite these, packs of black-furred Skaven uttered their skittering cries and clashed their curved and serrated blades together in a frenzy of bloodlust and fanatic excitement. And in the centre of the circle, two figures faced each other.
Hjalmar Redhand had fought countless battles in the fighting pits. His philosophy was simple: strike, press, strike again – never allow an opponent a moments rest. Borne of his relentless strength, his strategy had been honed over seemingly endless numbers of bouts and bloodmatches, and there were few who could stand before him in a one on one fight. Strike, press, strike again. At least this is what he boasted to the unwary in the drinking halls after another successful day’s slaughter.
Hjalmar epitomized the warriors of the north, especially those who devoted themselves to the blood god. A raging fury in battle, a whirling hulk of brass and steel, his blades spitting bloody death at any soul who ventured too close. Hjalmar was all this and more. Yet he also knew the truth behind the reputation: that the warriors of Khorne were more than simple butchers. They were the strid dansari – craftsman and artisans of combat, whose furies belied warriors of peerless skill, strength and training. A dancer of death whose sole focus was the delivering of razor sharp steel to the most vulnerable flesh.
Hjalmar’s axes, honed and oiled in a relentless regimen of worship to the Blood God, never ceased moving. Like an apex predator, their heads loped from side to side, always ready to uncoil in an explosion of savage strikes, and always in motion. All at once Hjalmar lunged forwards, both blades crashing towards his opponent in a brutal overhanded series of blows. His opponent rolled to avoid the strikes, and nearly lost his tail in the action, as he seemingly again underestimated the speed that Hjalmar’s brass clad enormity could conjure when he struck.
Hjalmar reassumed his fighting stance, and regarded today’s opponent: the rat-man was tall for his kind: all matted black fur, jagged steel and vermin agility. Like Hjalmar, the rat-man favoured a two-bladed technique, yet his jagged curving blades were made to stab rather than slash, meaning he had to work closer in that the towering northman to effect a killing stroke. Hjalmar had not given the Skaven War-leader the chance.
As always, Hjalmar watched the eyes: a warrior always betrayed his goal in the way he glanced, and a rat-man was no different. The rat-man’s beaded red eyes cast a quick but furtive glance to the right, even as he moved to the left in a clear feint to draw Hjalmar closer. Clearly he hoped to draw the northman into another overhead blow, and step inside the attack to deliver a deathblow beneath the plate of Hjalmar’s right armpit. Hjalmar, ready for the counter, seemingly obliged, and brought his axes high for the attack before whirling down in a cross-cut of dazzling speed and power.
The blow struck through the right hand blade, which shattered as the razor edge of Hjalmar’s axe hit it side on, and carried through to meet the Skaven’s left wrist. Metal fragments pinged off Hjalmar’s armour, and Hjalmar savoured the imminent kiss of his blade severing flesh.
But instead of taking the rat-man’s hand off at the wrist, the impact sang with an unexpected screech of metal striking metal. The axe-blade turned off the Skaven’s exposed wrist, and shock flew up Hjalmar’s arm. The shock of the blow stunned Hjalmar, but years of experience however served the northman well, and rather than reeling from the surprise, he turned to follow the blow with a savage shoulder-barge that hit the Rat-man full in the face and sent the creature sprawling to the dirt.
Hjalmar stepped back, still keeping his other blade in motion, and regarded the Rat-man warily. Slowly, the black-furred beast pulled itself to its feet. A feral grin parted its muzzle, and it saluted with its remaining blade before feeling for the place where Hjalmar’s blade had struck.
“Well fought, son of Khorne” it said, in a voice that no Rat-man’s throat should have been able to produce. Something was happening to the rat-man. As Hajamar watched, the creature’s form shimmered and flowed. It began pacing the pit, and Hjalmar’s eyes ached as he tried to see clearly the creature’s true form. He fancied he saw the hunched brute strength of a greenskin, then the slender curved armour of a Sea-Elf: he even saw the rotting flesh of the long dead pass before his eyes, and he looked away to spare himself the pain, noting that the creature’s shifting feet left no mark upon the sand.
“Wyrd!” he spat, and raised his blades again for another attack.
“Hold, warrior” the shifting form said, and Hjalmar looked again to see a heavily armoured claw raised in a warding aspect. The claw was larger than any human limb, and formed of shifting segments of crackling brass plates. The towering figure, no longer shifting, had two such claws, resolving the ends of powerful, red-thewed arms. Lightning danced down the arms, and snapped and cracked between the tips of claws. Like the arms, the torso and face were also a deep crimson, and a robe of torn sable hung about the giant. Hjalmir realized the figure was floating a foot above the ground.
“The man of the north are potent’, said the figure, with a voice that seemed comprised of a far off scream and an intimate whisper, “and I see you are strong among them, Hjalmir Redmane”. Hjalmir balked at the utterance of his name. Among the tribes of the north, as with all who followed the Dark Gods, one’s name was bound with one’s power. It was unsettling to hear his own name uttered with such familiarity from a complete stranger.
“I am Razzak, and the Gods favour me, “the red giant continued. “The foe approaches, Khorne’s son, in numbers too great for even your prowess to resist.” Razzak turned to gesture towards the flapping tri-fold banners of the rat-men’s camp at his back. “Thus, I bring you armies. The children of the Horned God today. The Druchii tomorrow. The slaves of Nagash the next day.” The figure contemplated the lightning playing about his fingertips. “Such is my boon", he said, although Hjalmar was unsure if the figure were merely taking to himself.
With a gesture, Razzak flung the lightning from his hands, and it seemed to Hjalmar that reality itself tore open. From the rent a whirring disc of dark metal tore from nothingness with the sound of ripping flesh. Razzak floated to position himself above the disc. “The enemy come; use your gift well, skull-hunter. I shall be watching”
With the fall of Morrstadt and the defeat of the daemon-queens of slaanesh, the forces of the empire advance into the realms they had lost. Under command of black steffan, a mighty column of black clad regiments push the hordes of chaos out of their lands in a series of running skirmishes. aiding them, a war host of dwarves push up from the south, having finally overcome the greenskin rabble that had thwarted them time and again.
However, even now the lords of chaos enact their dark strategies. The sorcerer razzak, having dropped the mantle of Darius, travels the unknown paths to lands far and wide.
As the Night Goblin war leader Skreet Durbak, he withdraws the blockade of the goblin forces and permits the dwarves access to the lands of men.
As Commander Thurgan Blackthorn, he diverts a druchii raiding fleet to the south end of blackfire pass, and pours the cruel warriors of the dark elves into the conflict.
As the Necrarch Priest Azakiel, he spirits a coven of necromancers into Morr's pastures and begins raising a new host from the untold numbers of dead that litter the battlefields.
As Overlord Gritsnik of Clan Krayn, he extends the tunnels running from the grey mountains, and shadows the Dwarves as they move Overland with a slave horde under the aegis of the seer vexim.
As the column of allies march towards the raven's nest, the twice-damned closes a noose about them. As steffan's forces arrive at the bottleneck of The Hourglass, the trap is sprung and the slave hordes of razzak are arrayed against them.
Battlefield
The battlefield lies at the mouth of The Hourglass, a rocky pass representing the final point of defense on the road to what is now The Daemon’s Nest. The pass is defended by a single tower overlooking the narrow tract of rock-strewn land, which stands upon a rise at the pass’ western end. Series of dwellings huddle in the shadow of the tower, and the tiny hamlet of Rook’s Rest lies almost within bowshot. The rest of the field is strewn with rocky outcrops, and copses of fir thickets.
Armies
Each side’s armies consist of a combined points value of 12,000 divided into:
Empire and Allies (4000pts each)
The black bird’s head twitched from side to side, as its feathered ruffled in the winds that howled down the valley and lashed the high tower. A smudge of movement caught the bird’s eye. Another raven, its coal black feathers streaked with blue-grey, began a slow circle of the tower.
The raven cawed, an angry challenge to the intruder. For a week the old bird had strayed into the raven’s territory, and for a week they had dueled in sky above the tower. With an explosion of dark wings the raven leapt towards its foe, and swiftly the two birds locked in a tumble of beak and claw, splitting only to gain momentum for another attack. Harsh screeches burst from sleek black throats, challenges and threats, as the two combatants stabbed and slashed.
Far below the circling birds, illuminated by watchfires and blazing brands in the fading light, a ring of warriors shouted and screeched. Tall, brass clad men slammed heavy steel blades and axes into battered red shields. Opposite these, packs of black-furred Skaven uttered their skittering cries and clashed their curved and serrated blades together in a frenzy of bloodlust and fanatic excitement. And in the centre of the circle, two figures faced each other.
Hjalmar Redhand had fought countless battles in the fighting pits. His philosophy was simple: strike, press, strike again – never allow an opponent a moments rest. Borne of his relentless strength, his strategy had been honed over seemingly endless numbers of bouts and bloodmatches, and there were few who could stand before him in a one on one fight. Strike, press, strike again. At least this is what he boasted to the unwary in the drinking halls after another successful day’s slaughter.
Hjalmar epitomized the warriors of the north, especially those who devoted themselves to the blood god. A raging fury in battle, a whirling hulk of brass and steel, his blades spitting bloody death at any soul who ventured too close. Hjalmar was all this and more. Yet he also knew the truth behind the reputation: that the warriors of Khorne were more than simple butchers. They were the strid dansari – craftsman and artisans of combat, whose furies belied warriors of peerless skill, strength and training. A dancer of death whose sole focus was the delivering of razor sharp steel to the most vulnerable flesh.
Hjalmar’s axes, honed and oiled in a relentless regimen of worship to the Blood God, never ceased moving. Like an apex predator, their heads loped from side to side, always ready to uncoil in an explosion of savage strikes, and always in motion. All at once Hjalmar lunged forwards, both blades crashing towards his opponent in a brutal overhanded series of blows. His opponent rolled to avoid the strikes, and nearly lost his tail in the action, as he seemingly again underestimated the speed that Hjalmar’s brass clad enormity could conjure when he struck.
Hjalmar reassumed his fighting stance, and regarded today’s opponent: the rat-man was tall for his kind: all matted black fur, jagged steel and vermin agility. Like Hjalmar, the rat-man favoured a two-bladed technique, yet his jagged curving blades were made to stab rather than slash, meaning he had to work closer in that the towering northman to effect a killing stroke. Hjalmar had not given the Skaven War-leader the chance.
As always, Hjalmar watched the eyes: a warrior always betrayed his goal in the way he glanced, and a rat-man was no different. The rat-man’s beaded red eyes cast a quick but furtive glance to the right, even as he moved to the left in a clear feint to draw Hjalmar closer. Clearly he hoped to draw the northman into another overhead blow, and step inside the attack to deliver a deathblow beneath the plate of Hjalmar’s right armpit. Hjalmar, ready for the counter, seemingly obliged, and brought his axes high for the attack before whirling down in a cross-cut of dazzling speed and power.
The blow struck through the right hand blade, which shattered as the razor edge of Hjalmar’s axe hit it side on, and carried through to meet the Skaven’s left wrist. Metal fragments pinged off Hjalmar’s armour, and Hjalmar savoured the imminent kiss of his blade severing flesh.
But instead of taking the rat-man’s hand off at the wrist, the impact sang with an unexpected screech of metal striking metal. The axe-blade turned off the Skaven’s exposed wrist, and shock flew up Hjalmar’s arm. The shock of the blow stunned Hjalmar, but years of experience however served the northman well, and rather than reeling from the surprise, he turned to follow the blow with a savage shoulder-barge that hit the Rat-man full in the face and sent the creature sprawling to the dirt.
Hjalmar stepped back, still keeping his other blade in motion, and regarded the Rat-man warily. Slowly, the black-furred beast pulled itself to its feet. A feral grin parted its muzzle, and it saluted with its remaining blade before feeling for the place where Hjalmar’s blade had struck.
“Well fought, son of Khorne” it said, in a voice that no Rat-man’s throat should have been able to produce. Something was happening to the rat-man. As Hajamar watched, the creature’s form shimmered and flowed. It began pacing the pit, and Hjalmar’s eyes ached as he tried to see clearly the creature’s true form. He fancied he saw the hunched brute strength of a greenskin, then the slender curved armour of a Sea-Elf: he even saw the rotting flesh of the long dead pass before his eyes, and he looked away to spare himself the pain, noting that the creature’s shifting feet left no mark upon the sand.
“Wyrd!” he spat, and raised his blades again for another attack.
“Hold, warrior” the shifting form said, and Hjalmar looked again to see a heavily armoured claw raised in a warding aspect. The claw was larger than any human limb, and formed of shifting segments of crackling brass plates. The towering figure, no longer shifting, had two such claws, resolving the ends of powerful, red-thewed arms. Lightning danced down the arms, and snapped and cracked between the tips of claws. Like the arms, the torso and face were also a deep crimson, and a robe of torn sable hung about the giant. Hjalmir realized the figure was floating a foot above the ground.
“The man of the north are potent’, said the figure, with a voice that seemed comprised of a far off scream and an intimate whisper, “and I see you are strong among them, Hjalmir Redmane”. Hjalmir balked at the utterance of his name. Among the tribes of the north, as with all who followed the Dark Gods, one’s name was bound with one’s power. It was unsettling to hear his own name uttered with such familiarity from a complete stranger.
“I am Razzak, and the Gods favour me, “the red giant continued. “The foe approaches, Khorne’s son, in numbers too great for even your prowess to resist.” Razzak turned to gesture towards the flapping tri-fold banners of the rat-men’s camp at his back. “Thus, I bring you armies. The children of the Horned God today. The Druchii tomorrow. The slaves of Nagash the next day.” The figure contemplated the lightning playing about his fingertips. “Such is my boon", he said, although Hjalmar was unsure if the figure were merely taking to himself.
With a gesture, Razzak flung the lightning from his hands, and it seemed to Hjalmar that reality itself tore open. From the rent a whirring disc of dark metal tore from nothingness with the sound of ripping flesh. Razzak floated to position himself above the disc. “The enemy come; use your gift well, skull-hunter. I shall be watching”
With the fall of Morrstadt and the defeat of the daemon-queens of slaanesh, the forces of the empire advance into the realms they had lost. Under command of black steffan, a mighty column of black clad regiments push the hordes of chaos out of their lands in a series of running skirmishes. aiding them, a war host of dwarves push up from the south, having finally overcome the greenskin rabble that had thwarted them time and again.
However, even now the lords of chaos enact their dark strategies. The sorcerer razzak, having dropped the mantle of Darius, travels the unknown paths to lands far and wide.
As the Night Goblin war leader Skreet Durbak, he withdraws the blockade of the goblin forces and permits the dwarves access to the lands of men.
As Commander Thurgan Blackthorn, he diverts a druchii raiding fleet to the south end of blackfire pass, and pours the cruel warriors of the dark elves into the conflict.
As the Necrarch Priest Azakiel, he spirits a coven of necromancers into Morr's pastures and begins raising a new host from the untold numbers of dead that litter the battlefields.
As Overlord Gritsnik of Clan Krayn, he extends the tunnels running from the grey mountains, and shadows the Dwarves as they move Overland with a slave horde under the aegis of the seer vexim.
As the column of allies march towards the raven's nest, the twice-damned closes a noose about them. As steffan's forces arrive at the bottleneck of The Hourglass, the trap is sprung and the slave hordes of razzak are arrayed against them.
Battlefield
The battlefield lies at the mouth of The Hourglass, a rocky pass representing the final point of defense on the road to what is now The Daemon’s Nest. The pass is defended by a single tower overlooking the narrow tract of rock-strewn land, which stands upon a rise at the pass’ western end. Series of dwellings huddle in the shadow of the tower, and the tiny hamlet of Rook’s Rest lies almost within bowshot. The rest of the field is strewn with rocky outcrops, and copses of fir thickets.
Armies
Each side’s armies consist of a combined points value of 12,000 divided into:
Empire and Allies (4000pts each)
- The Army of Morr, under the leadership of Black Steffan Ravenswartz
- The Army of the South, including The People’s Prophet
- The Dwarven Column
- The Daemonforge Army of Khorne
- The Tribes of Slaanseh (no demons – see below)
- The Slave Army of Razzak El Venayesh
The Chaos army deploys its entire force first. Its deployment zone is the width of the table, up to 18” from the northern table edge. The slave army has been raised by Razzak for the purposes of defending the pure hosts, and as such may deploy an additional 12” further from the northern edge. The Chaos army must also deploy:
After deployment of all forces is complete, Razzak may employ his scrying power to allow one unit only from each of the three Chaos forces to be redeployed anywhere within the 18” zone (if a forward unit is redeployed, then this unit must be placed in the normal Chaos deployment zone).
First Turn
The Empire forces roll a D6 to determine the first turn. If they roll a 6, then they can steal the first turn, otherwise the Chaos forces can choose whether they want to go first or second.
Victory
At the end of the game, each side is awarded 1VP for each 1000pts they have destroyed, rounding down.
The following bonuses are also awarded:
The Altar of Lubricity
With the daemon hosts of Mth’r’kaia defeated, and the Keeper Helganeth slain, the Slaaneshi forces no longer have the support of their daemonic allies. They immediately begin construction of an altar in order to once again feel the blessed touch of the divine and summon forth the Dark Prince’s host.
The Altar is almost complete when the Dwarven and Empire forces appear. Construction of the Altar is as follows:
Over the dozen or more decades Razzak has cursed the world, he has assumed many guises and done the Changer’s work in many lands. Rarely does he lead armies, or participate in the howling uncertainty of open battle, but when he does, he can call upon minions scattered far and wide across the races of the world.
Razzak’s army is built of contingents from the following army books:
Razzak starts the game in the guise of one of his Warlords. Secretly nominate which character he is. Whilst in this guise, he looks, acts and has all the rules and characteristics of the model he is purporting to be, with the exception that he always has his three Wounds.
At the end of each Empire turn, roll a D6. On the roll of 6, then he is revealed (see below). Add +1 to this roll for each warrior Priest or Runesmith within 12” of Razzak’s concealed character. Razzak may also reveal himself in the Remaining Move phase of any player turn (Chaos or Empire).
When Razzak is revealed, the shroud of illusion drops from him and he immediately summons his disk from the aether.
- One unit to occupy the Watchtower, which must consist of no more than 20 infantry models and a single character on foot
- One Slaaneshi unit who deploy in skirmish formation on the Altar of Lubricity. This unit counts as the construction crew (see special rules)
After deployment of all forces is complete, Razzak may employ his scrying power to allow one unit only from each of the three Chaos forces to be redeployed anywhere within the 18” zone (if a forward unit is redeployed, then this unit must be placed in the normal Chaos deployment zone).
First Turn
The Empire forces roll a D6 to determine the first turn. If they roll a 6, then they can steal the first turn, otherwise the Chaos forces can choose whether they want to go first or second.
Victory
At the end of the game, each side is awarded 1VP for each 1000pts they have destroyed, rounding down.
The following bonuses are also awarded:
- Holding the Watchtower (5 VP’s) - should the Empire forces seize the Watchtower, then they will automatically have the first turn in the final battle.
- The Altar of Lubricity (3VP’s) - should the Altar be completed and still standing at the end of the game, the Chaos forces will be able to call on additional Daemonic Allies in the final battle. If destroyed, the Empire side is awarded the VP’s, if not the Chaos side is awarded these.
- Capturing Razzak (1/3VP’s) – should Razzak be killed, the Empire side is awarded one extra VP. If they are able to capture him, then 3VP’s are awarded and the Empire side may be granted the Boon of Tzeentch in the final battle. If Razzak survives, the Chaos forces will gain the Boon. Razzak is captured if he is killed or is broken in combat by any character or unit with magic items.
The Altar of Lubricity
With the daemon hosts of Mth’r’kaia defeated, and the Keeper Helganeth slain, the Slaaneshi forces no longer have the support of their daemonic allies. They immediately begin construction of an altar in order to once again feel the blessed touch of the divine and summon forth the Dark Prince’s host.
The Altar is almost complete when the Dwarven and Empire forces appear. Construction of the Altar is as follows:
- One unit in the Chaos army is assigned to be the construction force. This unit is deployed in skirmish formation on and around the Altar. It has no front, flank or rear, and cannot charge. The unit may have attached characters.
- Providing the unit does not move away, shoot, cast magic or fight in combat, it will continue to build the Altar. At the end of each Chaos turn that the unit built, D3+1 Damage points are added to the Altar. The Altar is complete when it reaches 16 damage points. Once complete, the only option for the Empire forces to prevent the Altar functioning is if it is then destroyed.
- Casualties to the building unit will slow construction. If the constructing unit falls below 20 models, then the number of Damage points becomes D3. If this unit falls below 10 models, the roll becomes D3-1.
- At any time, the construction unit may be replaced by another unit by simply moving away from the Altar, and moving the new unit into place. No construction occurs in any turn when this happens.
- The Altar has a toughness of 9 a 5+ ward save from shooting and magical attacks, and begins the game with 10 damage points. If the Altar is reduced to 0 Damage points it is destroyed.
- Hits from shooting and magic missiles strike the Altar and construction crew in the same way as monsters and handlers, with the exception that template weapons that result in a crew hit, kill D6 crew rather than one.
- If the Altar is completed, then the construction unit is consumed by the Altar, their flesh and spirits warped into more pleasing shapes. Models are replaced with Daemonettes on a 1:1 basis. Characters are replaced with Daemon Princes (if they can pass an unmodified Leadership test), or Chaos Spawn if they fail. Characters retain their magic items and wargear if they ascend, but lose it if they mutate.
Over the dozen or more decades Razzak has cursed the world, he has assumed many guises and done the Changer’s work in many lands. Rarely does he lead armies, or participate in the howling uncertainty of open battle, but when he does, he can call upon minions scattered far and wide across the races of the world.
Razzak’s army is built of contingents from the following army books:
- Skaven (no Clan Pestilens, who are Nurgle’s)
- Orc and Goblins
- Vampire Counts (no Ghoul Kings)
- Beastmen (no Tzeentch characters, or Nurgle marked characters or units))
Razzak starts the game in the guise of one of his Warlords. Secretly nominate which character he is. Whilst in this guise, he looks, acts and has all the rules and characteristics of the model he is purporting to be, with the exception that he always has his three Wounds.
At the end of each Empire turn, roll a D6. On the roll of 6, then he is revealed (see below). Add +1 to this roll for each warrior Priest or Runesmith within 12” of Razzak’s concealed character. Razzak may also reveal himself in the Remaining Move phase of any player turn (Chaos or Empire).
When Razzak is revealed, the shroud of illusion drops from him and he immediately summons his disk from the aether.
- Remove the Warlord model and replace him with Razzak. As Razzak is a flyer, he is immediately detached from any unit he may have joined, and placed 1” away from their front rank.
- If in combat, simply adjust the positions of any models so Razzak remains fighting the appropriate unit, but separated from his previous unit.
- Razzak immediately becomes the slave army’s General and the contingent’s BSB (if there was one) becomes the slave army’s BSB.
- Razzak carries over any wounds he may have suffered whilst disguised.