As the visions from the Henge Hold Scroll intensify, the Hermit has fewer chances to wax eloquent and cultivate his mysterious airs (for Darkwing Duck he is not). We do, however, start to see the threads of these visions come together in an intricate weave.
You can find out what has already passed in the Henge Hold Scroll: Summation #1 and Henge Hold Scroll: Summation #2, and prepare for what comes at https://twitter.com/HengeholdScroll.
***
But even the noblest efforts can fail. Fabric woven from the strongest threads tears. The patchwork of western Immoren began to falter, giving blood, body, and soul in their defiant efforts. Yet light began to shine as the dimmest of stars burned brightly to offer hope.
—Hermit of Henge Hold
***
“We have reaped the rewards of the Wicked Harvest. Our legions grow,” rasped Asphyxious. “What troubles thee, Ravenmane?”
Skarre swirled the warm blood in her scrying vessel. “Thamar can no longer hide her sin. And I have seen what comes next…”
“What does she mean, my lord?” asked Deneghra.
“She means our herd is threatened.”
“Aye,” said Skarre. “They will leave us nothing.”
“Surely they are no match for Toruk,” Deneghra said.
“No. Our Dragonfather will take time to heal,” the lich said. “Time we do not have.”
Deneghra paced. “Then what will we do? “
Asphyxious glided before Deneghra and caressed her cheek with an iron talon. “My dear, is it not obvious? We will save the nations of men.”
***
The crack of his weapons splitting the beast’s skull was satisfying. He relished the spray of its unnatural blood on the ochre sand.
This was a war without end. Xerxis found it immensely gratifying.
Despite recent setbacks in the Western Reaches, the skorne had found bounties of slaves and conflict. Many had become exalted in battle.
Not every foe was suited to bondage in the east. A pity, but one couldn’t have everything, could they?
A phalanx of Cataphracts to his right encircled one of this new foe’s great beasts. A creature of blood and bone, many limbed that spewed black blood from many wounds. Xerxis moved his mount to join them, gore dripping from Lamentor.
His first swing from atop Suruk splintered one of the thing’s talons. The beast retreated, but he moved after it. His next blow crushed its face like an earthen pot. The beast’s excuse for lifeblood seeped from the ruin of its skull.
One of the extollers, a soulward, approached him after the battle.
“Tyrant, I beg to speak,” the extoller said. Xerxis bade him continue with a gesture. “My attempts to claim the souls of worthy fallen have been stymied.”
“How so?” Xerxis asked.
“Their spirits do not linger. It is as if this new foe sups on them.”
A smile crossed Xerxis’ face. “Wonderful.”
At last. The skorne had found another way to escape the tortures of the Void.
***
Ashlynn didn’t want to believe what she was hearing. But the messenger, a nondescript traveler with a Llaelese accent who, she decided, had little reason to lie in an audience with her, seemed sincere and earnest.
“Cygnar and Khador,” he said again, “have allied.”
She couldn’t tell herself she was surprised. Furious, yes. Betrayed, yes. But she’d seen sufficient fickleness and self-serving self-preservation among the leaders of both countries that she was no longer taken aback by anything they might do. Especially at Llael’s expense.
“How did you come by this information?” she finally asked.
“Personal observation,” the messenger said, donning his hat as if the conversation were concluded and he was prepared to depart. “It was not unlike seeing a dragon with two heads.”
“Do they march this way?”
“I don’t believe so. Not at the moment, anyway. I think they are overwhelmed by the common enemy that seems to be descending upon all of us. They may yet seek you out to join them, of course.”
Ashlynn could hardly imagine the vulgarity she’d bring to rejecting any such offer, but this was not the moment to envision her rage if that happened. Instead, she needed to address the messenger’s other request: protected passage to Leryn.
“I can spare two fighters to get you there as thanks for the information,” she said, though even that stuck in her craw as two too many. “After that, you’re on your own, Mr. Kyle.”
The messenger nodded tiredly as he gathered up his baggage. “I often am, madam.”
***
In the days following Nemo’s clockwork transcendence, he learned what Aurora put aside to preserve his existence. The entire membership of the Convergence had torn down the middle following her escape.
Over half remained loyal to the Iron Mother. To them, Aurora was a traitor to their cause and betrayer of the Great Work. Others, mostly from smaller cells outside the inner circle, sought her out to join strength.
Nemo levitated above a mechanical orrery, one more celestial object among many. Below, inscribed lines depicted Immoren, with patches of light glowing at concentrations of opposing forces.
“She gathers at Henge Hold,” he said.
“Yes. Mother had engineers preparing a gateway for transport there. That site possesses a unique geomantic resonance she believes can expedite her plan.”
“That being?”
“To bring Cyriss to Caen,” she said.
Nemo’s mind whirled. “That is,” he paused, searching for the right word, “ambitious.”
“The initial tests were promising. The gate works. She’ll have it well-guarded for transport to the henge.”
“We require this device.”
“What are you planning?” Aurora asked, skeptical.
“Acquisition of the gate, if it truly works, represents the best possibility for survival.”
“Do you think her plan will work?”
“No. Not as she envisions it. Possibly an inversion would,” Nemo said.
“You want to take people through the gate,” she said.
Nemo rotated, studying the orrery. “Beyond it. But not just people. The void above is an unknown sea, which they cannot cross without a vessel.”
“How many people—”
He cut her off. “All of them, if I could. Otherwise, as many as possible. Any resources you do not require to capture the gate must adapt your machines. Prepare your agents in other cities to guide refugees. This is the new Great Work.”
***
The world has become finite, but the ways it changes are infinite. Predictability is gone, as many have predicted. Expectations, however, still live on, even in the unexpected.
—Hermit of Henge Hold
***
“I do not have names,” Vayne di Brascio said. The gun mage and Marie Aguillon stood behind Ashlynn on one of the palace balconies overlooking the streets of Merywyn. She kept her back to them, as if she were scanning the city below for the deserters.
Marie glanced at Vayne, who simply shrugged. Ashlynn seemed to have become numb to ill tidings; she had said little to them about the alliance between Khador and Cygnar. Yet this news—that the military was secretly organizing flights from Llael—made her tremble with rage.
“We could stop them,” Marie offered, but Ashlynn held up a hand to silence her.
“Tell me the rest.” The Queen’s Blade bit each word as she spoke.
Vayne cleared his throat. “The rest, it is but a rumor. Still, it is believed by many.”
“The soldiers are taking our citizens to Henge Hold,” Marie cut in.
“In Cygnar,” Vayne said helpfully.
“And from there, the story is they’re leaving Immoren to be saved from this invasion.”
Vayne said, “But this is not confirmed, of course.”
Ashlynn turned to them; her face was composed, but her eyes burned. “It’s that old man. The hermit. He thinks he’s a shepherd of some sort, and he’s spreading fear to convince people to follow him.”
Vayne licked his lips and touched his magelock. “Do you want that I should find him?”
***
The city stood, but the land was dying. Every day, refugees came to Sul from forgotten villages across the Protectorate. They were the survivors. Far too many others had fallen.
Sovereign Tristan Durant tried to offer them hope, but his own had waned. Every day, infernal forces struck at Sul, testing the defenses in new ways. They assailed the walls and emerged within, aided by cells of cultists.
The land stunk from the burning dead. The tired, hungry, unwashed masses were given spears and told to fight if they could still stand. Outside, blazing columns of cavalry rode through the hordes, but fewer returned each night.
His mask was stifling. He pulled it free to face the desperate crowd below.
“Be joyful,” Tristan said, “for those we see to the other side did not die to the Enemy’s hunger, but their own. Their souls are intact, ready to journey to the City of Man.”
Sobs wracked mothers, orphans, widowers among the mob. Some clung to the hands of the gathered dead lining the street beneath the temple steps.
“We are abandoned,” a man cried out. A squad of exemplars dragged him from the mob for his heresy.
“We are not!” Tristan called over his cries. “Menoth has given us many gifts. Law, wall, sheaf, and flame. But above all these, his greatest gift to us is one another. There is no shadow that can overcome such light.”
He spread his arms to encompass all gathered. “Many feel alone, who live in such times as these. But we are not! Cling to one another, share the flame of your kindness and strength with one another. Together we are stronger than we are alone.”
Tristan spoke a benediction over the dead, thanking them for the lives they shared with those left behind. He encouraged their spirits to pass into the next world and closed with words thanking Menoth for the gift of life he bestowed.
As they hauled off the bodies for incineration, Tristan Durant saw his words had comforted some. They wiped away their tears, had some glimmer of hope.
He wished he could say the same about himself.
***
Khador’s arrival in Caspia gave them a chance. A few days later, barges filled with Rhulic mercenaries appeared on the Black River. Trollkin, ogrun, dwarves, and the armies of two kingdoms took to the streets of the great city, fighting against an endless tide.
From overhead, Cygnaran and Khadoran ships reduced whole blocks to ashes. The flying machines were potent tools, but they couldn’t be everywhere. By the time one appeared overhead in support, it was often too late to make a difference.
For every force they crushed, though, a fresh one rose to take its place. Magnus had faced the same leaders, the masters, multiple times. No matter how devastating the wounds he landed, the damn master appeared again.
His forces, a mix of mercenaries, Cygnarans, and trollkin, had merged with Strakhov’s assault kommandos. They fought their way to Castle Raelthorne street by street, cutting down infernals the whole way. Their losses were high; at each wall, Magnus kept a tally of the dead.
When they arrived at the castle gates, Strakhov pulled him aside.
“My Marauders can breach the gate. After that,” he spread his hands, “no more coal.”
“Get us in. Julius wouldn’t want them scuffing his floors, anyway.”
The Khadoran smiled and closed his eyes, instructing his warjacks. Magnus had his soldiers spread out to protect them. This wouldn’t be quiet.
“Ready,” Strakhov said.
“Prepare for an attack,” Magnus said. “A gallon of vyatka to the most kills.”
They did not have to wait long. The booming of the Marauders’ rams on the door drew infernals like flies to a corpse. Pale grievers swarmed into the forecourt, mouthlike orifices hungrily snapping the air.
“Volley fire,” Magnus shouted. He fired into the approaching swarm, blowing a griever to bloody meat.
Rifles cracked and grenades flew at the infernals. They returned by vomiting streams of corrosive, burning bile. Magnus’ soldiers died screaming.
When the smoke cleared, dozens of infernal creatures lay dead. The rest fell back in retreat.
“Almost through,” Strakhov called out.
About damn time, Magnus wanted to shout. But what he saw froze the words in his throat.
The grievers were the vanguard of a massive force comprised of humanoid howlers, robed figures, and enormous beasts that defied reason.
There were too many to count.
***
“Into the palace,” Magnus cried. He called up a mental map of the layout, trying to remember the fastest routes to the throne room. “Take the east stairwell beyond the barbican!”
The survivors rushed in. As a final barrier, Strakhov crashed his Marauders shoulder-to-shoulder in the door.
They moved through the strangely quiet castle interior, boots clattering against the pristine floors. A shrieking pack of nightmares came snapping at their heels.
Not everyone was fast enough to outpace them. Soldiers fell under trampling howlers. Trollkin turned to face the mob, buying the rest time with their heroic deaths. When Magnus finally entered the throne room and barred the door, they were down to platoon strength.
The door shuddered under a massive impact. Magnus backed up, leveling his scattergun. He could hear the scrape of talons on the other side.
“That won’t hold,” Strakhov said, priming his carbine.
The shriek of feral machines sounded beyond the door. It mixed with the cries of the infernals in a hellish chorus, driven by the beat of metal and flesh. The air began to stink of spilled blood, hot metal, and choking fumes.
Magnus waited after the sounds faded before peering into the hall. Infernal corpses littered the floor, their foul blood staining the royal tapestries. They had been ripped apart.
“Guard this room,” Magnus said. Lt. Harcourt moved to comply. Magnus and Strakhov stalked out, weapons ready, to the nearest window.
In the city below, green lights glowed. Dozens of bonejacks and helljacks, accompanied by reeking mobs of thralls, flowed through the streets.
Impossibly, the Cryxians seemed to be turning the tide. The undead drove the vast infernal horde back, cutting it off at dead-end streets. Though the Cryxians suffered immense losses, it seemed they were winning the battle of attrition.
“The souls,” Magnus whispered.
“The dead are starving them,” Strakhov said. “They cannot consume something that isn’t there.”
Two shapes swooped into view. A dark king, accompanied by his black princess, riding on wings of shadow and a rotting leviathan of flesh and metal.
Asphyxious and Deneghra, on high, showered magic down on their infernal targets.
Strakhov grinned. “We need to get word to Irusk and Grundback. Cryx has given us a chance to drive these things from Caspia. Let’s not let it go to waste.”
***
Asphyxious descended, a dark guardian angel, toward the awestruck mortal throng. If he had the flesh to smile, he couldn’t have concealed his pleasure. With a sweep of his blade, he gestured across a sea of red- and blue-garbed soldiers.
“Be not afraid,” Asphyxious said, his voice booming across the Caspian square, “for I am merciful.”
Several haggard warcasters approached. Asphyxious recognized old rivals he’d faced time and again. Irusk was there. Old Asheth Magnus. They were wary. The weight of Cryxians behind him, his mob of hissing thralls and ’jacks, was hard to ignore.
“Why?” was Irusk’s only word.
Asphyxious regarded him with a baleful eye. “Art thou lost? Thine empress must be worried.”
“Why?” The warcaster repeated, more forcefully.
Magnus lit a match and lifted it to a cigar. “It’s a ploy. Has to be.”
“Nay, not a ploy nor a plot. An act of pity. A pledge to the scrabbling mortals,” Asphyxious said, “that all creatures infernal shall perish at our soulless command. Humanity has a new savior this day.”
Magnus stepped forward now, his good eye boring into Asphyxious’ own. Clouds of blue cigar smoke leaked from his mouth.
“You forgot someone,” he growled. The mercenary showed no hesitation or fear as he faced off against the lich lord.
“What is thy meaning?”
“You aren’t all soulless.” Magnus tapped on Asphyxious’ black iron frame with his own mechanikal hand. “It might not be in here. But it’s somewhere. Maybe somewhere hard to find. But after today, they’ll be looking.”
***
Days wound into weeks, weeks spun into months, and the tides of battle ebbed and flowed across the Iron Kingdoms. Like the rebellion that shaped this land, alliances between unlikely parties were needed to keep the spark of hope glowing.
Living and dead fought together against the infernals. Blackclads struggled to keep their wilds. My people struck bargains with our bitter rivals. For a time, at least, it seemed as if there might be a chance to hold back the darkness.
—Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Her closest allies were gone, and Ashlynn was alone.
She had sent Marie Aguillon and Vayne di Brascio to do work she no longer felt she could trust to even her highest-ranking officers: halt the military support of turning the citizens of Llael into refugees.
Barring that, they were commanded to get every Llaelese soul to safety.
Including themselves.
It was tempting to allow Vayne to seek out this so-called Hermit who was the voice of doom and gloom all across western Immoren and then bring the old man’s visions to a bloody halt.
I bet you wouldn’t see that one coming, she thought.
But ultimately, she knew it would be killing a prophet for daring to prophesize. It wasn’t the Hermit’s words that were driving even the most patriotic zealots to flee their homelands; it was the gibbering, slavering monstrosities descending upon them doing this.
Now the palace was painfully quiet as she made her way to the queen’s throne room. The normal bustle of the domestics and the royal guards had been reduced to a quivering silence of isolated soldiers, those who were either too devoted or too afraid to leave their posts.
As she ascended the stairwell, she heard a sound from the gates: the snarling of starving horrors that could smell souls within. They were fearless, without caution, and whenever they breached the walls they were destroyed—but not before taking souls of soldiers with them.
When she entered the throne room, she knew instantly that Kaetlyn de la Martyn could hear those infernal nightmares as well: the tears on the young queen’s cheeks spoke to her fatalism.
“My Queen,” Ashlynn said softly, “I’m afraid it’s time.”
“What you mean is ‘there IS time,’” Kaetlyn answered. “We’ve nowhere else to be.”
Ashlynn shook her head. “We… You do. Someplace safe. The military is leading our people to Henge Hold. From there, they travel beyond the reach of the monsters.”
“I’ve heard this flight of fancy already. It’s likely a Protectorate plot or a Skorne trick.”
“If—”
“I will not leave our land.” Kaetlyn tightened her grip on the arms of her throne as if Ashlynn meant to pry her from the seat. “I trust your soul and mine feel the same.”
“Where the queen goes, so goes the Queen’s Blade,” Ashlynn said. She almost smiled; she imagined she sounded like Vayne. “At least that would be my assumption. I am as new to this as you are.”
“Then we are together?”
Ashlynn nodded. “Of course, my Queen. Until the end.”
The queen sighed. “Why must everything always be life or death?”
“Because,” Ashlynn answered, “that’s all there ever is.”
“Is that truly what you believe?” The queen’s eyes watered more. “When was the last time you felt happiness, my Blade? Or honestly enjoyed life?”
Ashlynn drew her estoc—the two-handed sword her father had called Almace that she had renamed Revanche—and held it up to inspect it. The howls of monsters, and men made into monsters, echoed up from the palace gates. She looked at her queen.
“Just now,” she said.
***
The proud Army of the Western Reaches gathered at the boundary of Ios. Rank and file stood in perfect position, framed blocks of Cataphract and praetorian. The warbeasts remained still, yoked under the will of their masters.
It was a gathering enough to make the Iosans tremble in their white fortress. Many thousands would be proud to die at Makeda’s command, to hurl themselves against the Iosans in a wave of flesh and blade.
But the Supreme Archdomina stood under a banner of peace.
An Iosan host rode out from the fortress on horseback.
“It is Incissar Vyros,” said the Iosan slave who stood beside her. He was a prize plucked from Makeda’s aborted war with the Iosans who was now her translator. “The leader of the Dawnguard.”
Makeda’s warriors made way for the Iosans. They remained wary, hands on their great swords, as they approached.
The slave spoke. Makeda understood the language, but wanted her counterpart to hear her words in his own tongue.
“Supreme Archdomina Makeda of the Skorne Empire offers you safety for this council,” the slave said.
“Has she not lost enough soldiers fighting us?” Vyros asked dryly. “Or does she come seeking our mercy?”
The Incissar regarded her with his remaining eye.
“Tell him that the Skorne Empire comes with a proposal,” she said. While her slave translated, she studied Vyros, judging him by his posture. A skilled fighter, no doubt, but he bore himself with a weariness that betrayed long days fighting against their new, mutual foe.
“Here to beg the release of skorne prisoners? Tell her she’s too late. They’re long dead.”
She chose her next words carefully. They needed to guide the Iosan toward her desired end but not reveal her true objectives. The translator slowly conveyed her message.
The slave began. “Spirits of the void walk the world, indiscriminate in their hunger. They are within our western holdings and, we assume, among your own. We have spilled much of each other’s blood, but it was the blood of the living. Not the filth of these beasts.”
“Does she ask to shelter within Ios? Never,” Vyros said.
“Makeda asks this: allow the Army of the Western Reaches to fight with your people. Let her join her strength to yours, so there might be enough survivors on both sides to one day resume our honorable conflict.”
Vyros scowled. “Utter nonsense,” he said.
Makeda instructed her slave. Her words shocked the Iosan, made him stammer.
“Makeda, uh, offers this token as a sign of her worthy intent,” he said.
She gestured, and the lines of praetorians parted.
Taskmasters led chains of captive Iosans through the gaps. They stared at the distant fortress with longing.
“All the spoils of our war, returned to your control,” her translator said. Though he didn’t say such, the enslaved speaker looked at Vyros in desperation.
Vyros rubbed his chin. “And if I refuse?”
Makeda replied. The translator’s throat bobbed as he gulped.
“She says that, in light of this new foe, caring for so many slaves is impossible and she would have to dispose of them.”
Makeda leaned back and spread her hands. In the Iosan tongue, she spoke for herself.
“Do we have an agreement?”
***
Asphyxious took great pleasure in the moment of his foe’s demise. Through his helljacks’ bond, he could feel the pulverized flesh of infernals and cultists give way beneath their talons. He could see the fractured spirit blow from the bodies like smoke.
From Caspia west into Ord, the lich lord was a smiting angel against the infernals. The living could only follow his trail like scavenging dogs, witnessing his growing tally of victories,
Deneghra flew her necrotic beast down to join him.
“What news, witch?”
She gestured west. “These were scouts for a larger group outside Tarna.”
“How fares Skarre?”
“Ravenmane has ships on the Dragon’s Tongue. They’re ready to provide fire support and reinforcement.”
“Let us not keep our foes in abeyance,” Asphyxious said. To his skarlock Vociferon, he gave the order for his thralls to clean up the stragglers, and he brought his helljacks to his side.
Another victory awaited him.
He marched on Tarna through a blasted land. Bodies of the infernals’ victims littered the countryside, overripe fruits of a forgotten harvest. Shells of towns on the road stood empty. Ordic and Crucible warjacks inert wrecks, their controllers long dead.
What fools these mortals be, he thought. The living had no hope of victory against such a foe. Only one as perfect as he could dream of triumph.
As he approached the city, the full scale of the infernal force unfolded before him.
Their presence darkened the world, muting its color and light to a dull gray. They clawed and scrambled at Tarna’s walls. Above, a priest exhorted the city guard to keep fighting, while two glowing avatars of Morrow battered the beasts like lantern-drunk moths.
Asphyxious spotted his target at the heart of the infernals. A living tower of flesh wreathed in smoke. One of their masters, a looming figure clad in black iron. At its silent gesture, the whole army of infernals surged against Tarna’s defenses.
Here was his prize. Let the infernals face the might of an unliving god.
Asphyxious and his helljacks charged into the infernals. His machines trampled forward to clear him a bloody path. Any creatures that survived the onslaught met their end at Daimonion’s edge.
He did not wait for Ravenmane’s cannons or Deneghra and their army of thralls. He would seize this victory by his own iron claws.
The headlong charge brought him and the master together.
“Turn and face thy destruction,” he shouted, “for thou confronts a lich lord of the Dragonfather!”
One of the infernal master’s oversized flails lashed out, bursting his power field and smashing Asphyxious back.
Deneghra flew at Tarna, high above the battlefield. She watched in mute horror as below an enormous infernal launched an assault against Asphyxious. The lich lord retaliated with an onslaught of dark magic, with his helljacks and his blade, but the infernal gave no ground.
She dove to give aid as the infernal’s flail caught Asphyxious’ dented frame. Pieces shattered off his body. Another strike and his bleached skull was ripped free. A final blow, and the infernal pulverized the lich lord’s body to scrap.
Asphyxious’ helljacks went inert.