I cannot convey how much I wanted to make a grand spectacle of Rhulic archons' debut, but alas, word count strikes, but also, it was a struggle to justify their inclusion as there was no context for showcasing them outside of 'yes, they exist, let's see them in action'. More so because there were no real plot-beats which focused on the dwarves. Even in Requiem, there was no real opportunity (or rather, cause) to describe them in any real detail. Maybe one day, a Rhul-centric side-story which gives them their due screentime will be released, maybe...
Henge Hold Scrolls - Summation Part 9
(first published @hengeholdscroll on Twitter, January 2022)
(story by Jason Soles & Matt Wilson, creative direction by Matt Wilson, additional direction by Matt Goetz)
As the tide of myrmidons and elven soldiers swept toward the Abyssal Fortress with no sign of slowing down, Makeda turned to Hexeris.
“We have shared purpose, Lord Arbiter, and it is no longer just politics.”
“It ceased to be politics between us weeks ago. They betrayed us, desecrated our heroes, and made a mockery of our efforts to Exalt the worthy,” Hexeris’ voice was oddly calm.
The Supreme Archdomina glared at him for an instant, but then a sneer slowly crossed her features.
“A nation with weapons such as those they wield now?” she sighed. “What a glorious war that would have been ours to declare and win.”
“At least the world will condemn them for spilling blood first,” the Lord Arbiter said.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Makeda warned, “The peoples of this world do not care about our struggle unless we bring it to them. Let the pain and hatred of this betrayal strengthen our people. Ultimate revenge against the Iosans will be sweeter than mere conquest.”
Still, there was no choice left to her for now except to order a retreat across the Abyss. The two warlocks heard oaths of vengeance to be taken with every step. Even so, Hexeris paused to reach into his satchel and retrieve one of the hybrid arcanika modules.
The Lord Arbiter gave his leader a knowing smile. “Our work has not ended, Supreme Archdomina.”
***
As the skorne retreated across the narrowest part of the Abyss, Elara glanced over her shoulder. She was suspicious of Ghyrrshyld’s absence but also that of Falcir. The hallytyr led the Iosan and Nyss forces seemingly without worry. With all other warcasters elsewhere, Elara made her way to the Retribution’s encampment and the elven archon’s quarters, gathering soulless followers as she went.
“Where do you go?” Nayl asked.
“It is time to end matters. We must return. Find horses while I retrieve Voass, for I suspect the hallytyr has finally tired of his presence. And have word sent to the risen eldritch. Advise them to make themselves scarce.”
She did not wait for the soulless’ response. All remained unmoving and silent before the entrance of the Great Fane. Nayl’s eyes betrayed nothing—as befit a soulless—while Ravyn’s gaze remained on him. Around them, priests and Fane Knights stood motionless opposite Nayl’s fellow soulless.
“These are my orders,” he said again, just as monotonously as he had done before.
“And these are mine,” the former mage hunter replied.
As they settled into another silence, Nayl took the priests and knights by surprise when he partially drew his sword. Ravyn’s hand sped to grasp Hellebore. She was about to assume a combat stance when she gazed down to see the icy blade of Voass emerging from below her ribcage. Ravyn struggled to turn and face its wielder.
“Elara? Why…?” she looked to the Fane. “Don’t. You doom us all.”
The eldritch leaned in and whispered, “Forgive me. Speak no more. I will send you on your way.”
Elara gently lowered Ravyn to the ground as blades clashed about her. The skirmish was brief; when she stood, it was already over. She looked at Nayl and his bloody greatsword. As ever, the soulless remained dispassionate and distant.
“Wait here,” she ordered. “I do not know how long this will require.”
Elara did not see his gaze follow her as she entered the Great Fane. In her hand, she carried a satchel containing the most intricately crafted of mortitheurgically infused arcanika. Behind her, she left the priests, Fane Knights, and a few of the soulless who lay dead around Ravyn’s body.
***
Elara reverently laid Voass in the fading Nyssor’s lap. As she let go, the sword shattered into a myriad shards, which fell to the chamber floor. The power released by the weapon’s destruction gave the Winterfather strength enough to open his eyes and stare back at her. She stood back, looking mournfully at her god and goddess. Strengthening her resolve, Elara reached out toward the divine energy as it crystallized around the mortitheurgical-arcanika placed about the Fane, drawn from the fading forms of Scyrah and Nyssor.
Though weak, their power was still great for one such as the eldritch warcaster. Yet it was not so great as to overwhelm her as she channelled it into herself. With it, she perceived the last images seen by her gods: the souls of the elven people within the forests of Ios. Into them, she poured that power. And onto them, she compelled a question.
“Choose,” she breathed to an empty, lifeless Fane.
***
“Are you certain?” Empress Ayn Vanar IX demanded.
“Very certain, Your Majesty,” the imperial physician responded, head bowed.
The empress of Khador sighed and sat down with deliberate care.
“Are we ready to depart for the south?” she asked, hand over her eyes.
“It may be wise to rethink this,” her attendant Greylord obavnik suggested. “An heir, even a potential one, must not be risked.”
Ayn’s glare matched the Butcher’s glowering from behind the throne.
“I am VERY aware of that,” she said. “We will continue as intended.”
“Your Majesty, do not be so hasty,” the physician said. “We must confirm the term will pass without undue complications and that the child will not be endangered as we journey toward the Hold. I am sure your other advisers have told you of the many—”
He trailed off, keeping his eyes down as he spoke. While all knew he spoke the truth, the tension within the hall was nonetheless palpable. They were eventually rewarded with another sigh from the empress. She was about to speak when the doors slammed open.
A harried officer sprinted in.
“The palace is under attack, Your Majesty,” the nervous kovnik reported. “Regna Gravnoy—she’s here.”
“It seems the Great Princess has run out of options,” the warcaster behind Ayn rumbled.
“So she has done the only thing she can,” the empress answered. “Kommander, you will ensure this pitiful attempt comes to nothing.”
The Butcher of Khardov hawked and strode out.
***
No matter how desperate she was, the Great Princess’ resources were great, enough to threaten the palace. They came from all corners of the city, madness in every eye. All her forces in Khadorstred, whether human or horror, descended upon Stasikov Palace.
***
There seemed to be no end to them as the Butcher lived up to his name. He was surrounded on all sides by the blood and flesh of the dead and dying. The White Queen’s power would be no more after today. But the calmness he found in this violence was marred. Lola cleaved through yet another horror, the blade burying itself in the stone of the courtyard. The Butcher watched, terrified, as a splinter broke from the blade and clattered away. It landed in a red splash. This was not meant to be. Lola was immortal.
Or supposed to be immortal. Frustrated, confused, he swung again and again. More blood spilled, more enemies of Khador were destroyed. But it did not help. Another attack broke a second piece from the blade. Then, a girl, a familiar one, came and went in his vision. A face he had seen before, perhaps not too long ago, though he struggled to remember when. He blinked, bewildered. Like a ghost, she appeared in one place and disappeared after just a glance. He should have been alone. Only him. And Lola. The red mist descended, built up as blood splattered onto his armor and skin. But it did not arrest his roiling thoughts. This had been his solace through the years…but the girl. She haunted this time and place he called his own. The battlefield was supposed to be his. She looked at him intently. Past the violence, past the blood, past the visage of the Butcher. Her face was without emotion or expression. There was something in her eyes, though, and Orsus wanted to know what it was. He did not know WHY he wanted to know. A tormentor’s claw scraped against his armor, nearly stunning him. Snapping his wrist back, he cut the offending limb away, half of the creature’s body soon joining it on the ground. So too did another small splinter from Lola’s blade.
This never happened when he fought. Orsus paused once all enemies within reach were destroyed. Before him stood the girl.
“What is your name?” he heard himself say.
If she replied, he did not have a chance to think on it. The screech of a lamenter made him look away.
***
“The Empress’ guard dog,” Gravnoy spat. “He is like our creatures—incapable of truly dying.”
She turned to give Bratya a calculating look.
“He’s here. You wish him saved, no?”
Yes, Bratya did wish to see her father saved. But it would not be for the Great Princess’ purposes. As fast as her young, malnourished arm could move, a dagger snaked out from amidst her rags.
***
She was just in front of him. But this time, she stayed, a bloody knife in hand.
“I know you,” he said. “I should have given you a better name. One she would like.”
Orsus looked down at what was left of Lola. The haft was all that remained. Bloodied splinters of steel were scattered about the courtyard. He looked to the sky and remembered. The girl stood calmly, looking at him as he lowered his head to meet her eyes. He remembered her smile. Her voice. Her laugh. Her dreams. Lola’s undying belief in him. He had forgotten them for so many years. Why did he remember now of all times and places? Why so clearly? For once in a long while, Orsus felt a desire to sit. To rest. Strange that a girl with so crude a name would let him near her without backing away.
Stranger still that he paused to give thought to this.
“No!” he called out in a voice both his own and not.
Orsus caught the girl as she slumped to the ground. He ignored Gravnoy as she was ushered away by another surviving infernalist. The fading wound in the Great Princess’ back and her calculating grin were things he did not care about. Only that she was gone mattered. His gaze turned to the girl he held.
“Kommander, pursue her! Hunt the pretender down and bring her back to me, cowering!”
Orsus did not hear who commanded him. He did not care. Only Bratya, such a small child next to him, held in the crook of his arm.
“Let me rest.”
All eyes were upon him. Incredulous eyes.
“I have no use for an attack dog if it has lost the ability to kill,” Ayn snapped.
He looked blankly at the empress, then at the hesitant, uncertain soldiers surrounding him. The empress wrung her hands in disgust and gestured sharply to the Greylord obavnik. Arcanists moved to stand between warcaster and monarch.
“I command you again, Butcher of Khardov—”
“No,” he rumbled, closing his eyes.
Orsus stood and took a step toward the palace gates. In one hand was the haft of his axe while the other carried his injured daughter, who rested against his shoulder. They ignored the shouts that rang across the courtyard behind them.
***
A man watches as a procession makes its way toward a setting sun. Sounds of rejoicing rise from those who reach the peak of the hill where the Creator’s light emanates. The light is awry, though, and he feels trepidation. It flickers, as if impure, its brilliance does not reach all it beholds. Without warning, it is extinguished. Dread and doom fill his ears as darkness descends. He is drawn away, and the sight of this salvation grows distant. He turns away, knowing the answer cannot lay here.
He hears footsteps on the dirt and stone. Clear at first, but more footsteps join in, and they soon grow distant. In the darkness, the sound of gentle waves approaches. The man walks through an unending expanse, head bowed. Ripples of water soak his tattered priestly robes. But his Menofix, the only thing his bowed head sees as it sways with every step, remains pristine. He drags a thick rope over his shoulder. Blood trickles down his arms from his exertions. The rope is also stained red. As the sun rises from his left, its pure white light shimmers about his form.
His figure is as a flame on the surface of the water. Inexorable, sacrosanct, enduring. Behind him, the rope divides into strands beyond counting, each one towing a ship, a skiff, or even a modest boat. On every deck, before every seatwell, the faithful kneel in solemn prayer. As the sun shines upon a land in the distance, a growing giving of thanks is heard from all around. The prayers from the sea are answered by the welcome of the land. The man looks back toward the faithful, and he weeps in relief.
***
Tristan snapped his head up and saw the skyship disappear through the gate. Several figures in flight circled overhead. The light goes out, he thought to himself, terrified. As he tried to make sense of this new vision, he ignored the chaos around him.
He knew the meaning of what he saw, but he wept not knowing how to accomplish it. Seconds after clearing his mind, a bolt of lightning arced down from the afternoon sky. Tristan struggled to contain his grief as he watched the first stone fall. There were still thousands of faithful among the refugees, now with nowhere to turn. The skyship did not reappear as it had before. Cries of despair rose among the pilgrims.
“This was to be our salvation!”
“What are we to do now? Where are we to go?”
Around him, they gathered, entreating Tristan for his guidance. The Sovereign’s throat was dry, and he knew there was only one way to proceed. Though Nadira was not the most verbose of his lieutenants, Tristan wished for her steadying presence beside him. For several moments, Tristan tried to find his voice. He looked into the eyes of the Menites who awaited his words. He stopped when his gaze met those of a group of sailors, many of whom were huddled with their families. Uncertain of what he intended, he made his way towards them to…do something. To say something.
“What is your name?” he asked the first sailor.
“Justine, your eminence.” She knelt hurriedly, perhaps as unsure as he as to what to do.
“Stand, Justine. I am no greater a being than you in this place.” Tristan placed a hand on her shoulder.
Uncomfortably, she returned to her feet but took a furtive step back.
“Which ship did you serve on lately?”
“The Swiftsure. As ship’s third mate.”
“And you?” Tristan turned to the next sailor.
“Simeon, a deckhand on the Wandering Minstrel.”
“And you?”
“Martin, lookout from the Lumiere.”
Tristan asked a dozen or more sailors, receiving just such answers from each. In the panic, all of them had been abandoned by their ships’ owners, whether businesses or entrepreneurs. They had nowhere to go. Crews went their separate ways. And rumors spread, rumors of a place to escape from the slaughter.
“All of you have come here from Mercir.” It was not a question.
The sailors glanced at one another and nodded. They were stunned, for they were from all parts of Cygnar, whether Caspia, Thuria, Southpoint, or elsewhere. Yet Tristan was certain.
“You men and women who find home and duty on the waves. You will bring deliverance your fellows. Not I. You know the lands far to the south across the ocean, where lives a people who the nations of Immoren have not spoken to.”
“And they, they worship Menoth. Though they do not call Him by this name, they, too, know He is their Creator.”
“H-ow do you know?” Justine asked.
“I do not. I have only seen it, heard it…”
***
Cries went up as the city came within sight. The caravan was long, slow, and above all, tired. Some had traveled far just to reach Henge Hold, only to return to where they had fled from. But the sailors realized what might become of them in a new land with a shared faith.
“The ships, they’re still in the harbor,” Justine called.
“From this moment onward, I give you a great burden,” Tristan said to her as he looked at the masts in the distance. “That of the future of these people.”
She looked at him curiously.
“I will have no great burden, no greater than when I command those of my watch. But your knowledge alone weighs much. And it means—is worth more than we plain folk can understand.”
Tristan was not as sure, and his heart sank when he saw the mounted warriors ahead.
***
Feora looked out of her ragged tent into the expanse of the Bloodstone, shrouded in the night. Feora fleeing, her flame of ascendancy in the Protectorate extinguished. It seemed everyone and everything conspired against her to bring her down. The last time she saw Malekus, he was fighting beside the Eye of Truth, both of them beset by Kreoss’ Exemplar lackeys. They were losing. The warcaster’s scouring flames were no more while his warjack’s shield had been ripped from its arms and smashed to pieces. It instinctively held up its bare limb to block the storm of attacks from the Exemplar bastions. Around her, Flameguard and Feora’s sisters among the Daughters of the Flame were felled by the traitors’ relentless advance. Yes, Kreoss was a traitor to the Protectorate. His ambitions were far beyond what he deserved, what he had earned. But there was no worse a traitor than Pyrrhus. Feora’s hands trembled as she held the pieces of her mask. Her symbol of office, broken by his treachery, which left her scarred.
Roughly shoving the pieces into her satchel, she turned back to stare into the flames of her dying campfire. She could see nothing but her rival’s assumption of power in the Protectorate. Presumption, rather. Angrily, she threw a handful of dirt to put out the dying flames. The Protector of the Flame, now but a miserly fugitive from those who were not even counted among the truly faithful. But Tristan Durant. Worse than any traitor, he was a horrifying enigma. This mere Sovereign had the adoration of the common believer. Nothing but heresy was to be found in his every thought. Thyra might succeed in her pursuit of him, but she would return to nothing. Who knew if she could even carry out her orders now that Imer was no longer in the hands of its rightful protectors?
***
The Daughters of the Flame dismounted and drew their weapons.
“The Synod sends its regards, Sovereign,” Thyra said as she approached Tristan.
“Do they? You are only here at the Priestess…”
“Protector,” the Flame of Sorrow cut him short, readying her swords, “of the Flame.”
Tristan struggled to stand, having barely deflected Thyra’s arcane attack. The refugees stood horrified upon seeing his bloodied robes.
“Protector.” Blood trickled down his face. “You are only here at her word. I am not so foolish as to be oblivious to her contempt for me.”
“That makes things easier, then.” The other Daughters moved to flank their warcaster.
“Look around us, Flame of the Sorrow.” Tristan gestured to the great caravan of Menites. “I have no quarrel with you, nor should you have with me. I wish no harm upon the Protectorate.”
“I serve only to protect and guide. These faithful, who have been displaced with nowhere to call home or temple and who have journeyed far with a great part of their voyage still to endure, they follow and precede me to a new land under the Creator’s light.”
“Should you strike me down, there is little I will be able to do to resist your swords. But upon your shoulders will be the weight of the future of all these people as well as the guidance through the trials they will face, be they here or within a new nation.”
“This is a weight I bear gladly, not because I wish to but because I feel it is right to do so.”
Tristan gazed at his counterpart.
“You think too highly of me but even more so of yourself. These people are not yours to lead but the Synod’s and the Hierarch they elect.”
“The Hierarch? You would see the Protector of the Flame be made Hierarch, wouldn’t you?”
“Enough! You have not the right to judge.”
But Thyra’s advance on Tristan stopped when the sailors and other, whom he befriended, counseled, and sought counsel with, blocked the way. The Daughters of the Flame raised their blades but hesitated as more people clustered around the Sovereign, determination in every gaze.
“Tristan Durant does not lead us,” Justine spoke up.
“We choose to follow him.” Her voice grew steadfast. “Of us, there is no demand but faith in the Creator and to encourage each other to keep our faith strong. Where he goes, so will we, even if it be to the City of Man.”
***
The seneschal approached Kreoss, making sure to keep his step even. He stopped only to salute the senior honor guard who attended the Intercessor.
“You lost her, didn’t you?” no one could mistake the dangerous tone coming from behind Kreoss’ mask.
Though able to restrain himself from fidgeting, the seneschal was nonetheless nervous.
“I’m afraid so,” he managed.
“Where?”
“Her last known location was Klokhor Fortress. We attempted to follow her west, but it seems she double-backed and ventured into the Bloodstone.”
“And by the time that possibility occurred to you, it was too late. She could be in Alchiere, for all you know.”
The seneschal did not answer. Instead, he tried not to march too quickly when he was dismissed. The First Knight of the Exemplar order watched him leave. As the door closed behind the seneschal, Kreoss turned to the High Exemplars and other leaders present.
“We can waste only so much effort hunting the renegade down. We must consider the future of the Protectorate and what is to be done about what was the Northern Crusade.”
“Our work, whether here or there, is in grave danger of being utterly wasted by the foolishness of traitors among our own and the opportunism of the heretics.”
“You know I stand with you, but the Synod–,” Reznik, the Wrath of Ages. rumbled from behind his heavy mask.
“They have torn themselves apart with their corruption and seem bent on taking the Protectorate with them. An inability to unanimously condemn the renegade is merely a symptom. Those loyal among them know the Synod is nothing but a backroom without purpose.”
“It must be torn down and rebuilt to restore its integrity before the Creator and his followers.”
All present nodded in agreement.
“And what of Tristan?” Cyrenia asked.
Of the Sovereign, Kreoss was not so sure. And judging from his stance, neither was the Wrath of Ages.
***
With one last look back at Thyra and the pier, Tristan stepped onto the gangplank and followed Justine onto the merchantman. Ahead of this last ship, a veritable armada of ships of all sizes and functions could be seen making its way south. He knew he must keep his gaze forward, but too much had happened in the land he was leaving behind. His membership of the priesthood, his role in the defence of Imer, witnessing his Hierarch die, and the tearing apart of the nation he so wished to call his true home.
He could not help but look to Immoren, the Protectorate, Cygnar, Llael…all of it. But he would not mourn.