The Present...

Warm breath hissed out in the cold air, but the owner ignored the chill. The cold never really let go here in the North. Even in the summer it wasn’t uncommon to find ice in shadowed pools. With autumn pressing in, the temperature was dropping by the day.

Their enemies didn’t seem to care about the cold, however. Their lust for combat rivaled that of any berserker, and indeed, there seemed to be a few ravagers among their number, especially the ones that preferred to dress in shades of red.

Rorn Greywolf didn’t much care. His Heavy bastard Sword, Mournfang, ripped across some fellow who thought having a bare stomach was a good way of fighting, and as his stomach muscles collapsed under the weight of those very improbable pauldrons, he folded, and Rorn smoothly hewed his head from his thick neck.

Silent Jhon smashed into another Warped striking at him from the side, his Shield taking the pincer-limb misting a vile black gas, and then he drove his Fangmace into the fellow’s slitted helm to show his appreciation. He pulled sideways, turned, and Talatha’s graceful longsword drove into the side of the mutate’s neck, severing the vertebra and ending the fool’s life.

Rorn brought Mournfang down on another of these pincer-armed bastards, saw it catch, and in the same motion kicked out the mutate’s knee. As the Warped buckled, Barus’ burning bear-Spear drove into his liver, angled up, and charred his chest cavity to a crisp. Rorn levered the corpse sideways, then leapt aside.

The mutates there looked up in shock as the grizzly slammed down upon them. They were flattened to the ground, steel-shod claws rending at them as the bear kept going, and both Rorn and Talatha made almost identical spinning dips of their blades through throats, plunging them deep and pulling them out so quickly it didn’t interrupt their rhythm at all.

Into the gap Brown had made for them, Rorn led the way, Jhon guarding one flank, Barus the other, Talatha backing one up...

A small hand grasped his belt as he lifted Mournfang again. He braced without thinking about it, and as his Sword came down and was blocked, the hyn that ran up his back and over him wasn’t. Swirls of dark energy accompanied the twin daggers that went in both sides of the mutate’s neck, crossed, and as the hyn tumbled over and past, the much-bigger brute was flipped over backwards and his corpse, head half-severed, was sent flying into two others.

Before the two could get up, Rorn drove Mournfang through one’s skull, and Jhon’s Fangmace crushed the helm and skull of the second.

There was the roar of a furnace, and a flaming streak raced by, smashing into another mutate and sending him flying into his companions. The Hammer that delivered the blow burned and beat with the sound of a forge as it spun back to its wielder. Grym, Clanhammer of Clan Dauer, bounced like his short legs were pistons, taking him right into the face of another mutate who wasn’t happy to learn that Rockborn generally weighed more than humans, even mutates... especially when decked out in full Shieldplate.

The group worked together like smooth machines, completely confident in the overwatch arrow fire coming in smoothly and surely around them. Sometimes it was lethal, sprouting from eyes or throats, sometimes it was through a knee or arm, drawing one of their targets off-balance and opening them up for a kill-strike.

Their path behind had closed, savage Warped were converging on them, waving arms transformed into pincers, blades, razored tentacles, knobbed bludgeons...

The fireball was very precise, the flames expanding and stopping exactly one foot away from Feist, who opportunistically knelt down, punched and grabbed a knee and belt respectively, and a startled mutate twice his size fell over him and right into the coming inferno.

Liiss stood next to her half-sister fifty yards away, green eyes fixed intently on them and weighing the best moment to Cast her next spell as a whole cluster of converging Warped were reduced to ash on bone. Riann’s matching green eyes stayed focused as she drew arrows steadily from a Quiver that seemed almost empty, but always had one more arrow in it...

They had come together for the first time only two weeks ago, but already their names were on the lips of the clans here, who watched the mechanical and devastating teamwork they displayed when disposing of their foes in disbelief, as if they had fought together for years.

There was a Song burning in their hearts and minds, and Khadifyr, the Bard who had for some reason forsaken the comfort of the halls of the lords of the land, gave it a grim, yet spirited voice as his yarting rang with supernatural clarity over the battling clansmen, reciting grim lines in the old style.

“Mourn them, pity them, lost in their dream.

Fire, flame, and burning souls, let them scream.

Their lords, their bane, their doom, their slain,

Heap them high, their lives, cut that strand

Of their fate, and Feed the Land...

Tremble, oh oooh oh, Tremble, we come...”

A month ago, he had been a Junior Bard, traveling among the keeps and lords of the land, bringing tales and news from one keep to another, entertaining them with music hard to come by in the North.

Now he was the lorekeeper and skald for the entire force, dominating the older Bards effortlessly, keeping up the fire and endless use of yarting and voice to empower them in their fight against these twisted invaders from another land.

Rorn had been a young man, an experienced warrior of his village for his age, but not one of the elite berserkers. In the eyes of his elders, it seemed he’d barely breathed, and suddenly he had become one of the most devastating swordsmen they’d ever seen. Even the berserkers of the tribe were looking askew at him, as his feats at arms rivaled or exceeded their own.

Silent Jhon Bearclaw had been rendered mute by the same rabid beast that had scarred his face and given him his name, a Ranger and hunter of trolls and ogres in the cold forests and hills. He had come out of the forests with a golden beauty on his arm, a Halvyr swordswoman and wizardess, that no one had ever heard of or seen before, acting as if they had known one another for years.

Feist and Grym were old friends, the clan of the former farming the lands of the latter. Why one of the elite Hammer Guards of Clan Dauer had decided to up and cross half the north, the cheerful and ownership-challenged hyn coming right along with him, still confused everyone, as the hyn as a people generally tried to stay as far from the battles of their bigger neighbors as possible... and yet, both of them were murderously efficient at bringing bigger foes down to their size.

The two sisters were both of noble birth, but their father had been slain in the internecine clan warfare that plagued the northern lands. The Archer Riann had provided the survival skills while the Sorceress Liiss provided the magic that kept them alive and independent in the warrior-dominated culture of the north. They, too, were suddenly far more dangerous than the tales told of them before.

As for the Druid Barus and his grizzly Brown, the men were pleased to have him, and a mite confused at his presence as well. The Druids were famously aloof from the strife of the clans, and unless it directly threatened the land itself, loathe to get involved in wars and combat. Yet here he was, merely an Initiate to a true Druid just a few weeks ago, and already displaying powers that his seniors had not developed yet in service to the Land. His bear Brown had essentially become a mascot for the entire force, carrying the Druid along, fighting for him, and sometimes being joined by him in bear form as they fought together as needed.

A Thunderbolt came down from the brooding skies above, punching a hole in a line of Warped about to break through the shield wall of clansmen. Liiss saw the risk, and her form flickered and was across half the battlefield in an instant. The Warped saw her arrive, and didn’t even have time to shout a warning before the Lightning Bolt tore down the length of their lines, the clansmen taking great care to hold as firm and straight as possible just to set this up for her.

Scores of Warped died instantly, some convulsing as their nerves were fried, others hurled into the air by the crackling arcs of energy that thundered past and through them, cooked and baked instantly.

The hard-pressed line cheered as the yarting’s notes broke across through them, and they shouted as one, “TREMBLE!” as axes chopped and flew into the reeling Warped before them.

Liiss ran away from the fight, and the few Warped who chased after her were rewarded for their efforts with merciless archery dropping them one by one as the sorceress headed back for her sister. The last one was only twenty yards away from Riann when a flaming Hammer roared into the side of his head, and blew his helm and skull into steaming shards.

Grym caught Slag on the return, barely nodding at the two women, and Riann sent an arrow past his nose into the knee of a Warped charging at him. Slag spun, roared, and the Warped’s headless corpse rose into the air and backwards, stump burning with the flames of the Hammer.

The North Wind didn’t stop, wreaking havoc as they worked towards the mounted Champion who led the host, dressed in improbably overdone Armor and wielding an impossibly overwrought Dire sword sized for an ogre. The berserkers chewing into his main line of troops, the Rangers anchoring the right flank, and the tight shields of the huscarls on the left were making it hard for him to find some hapless mortals to slaughter.

This was the fourteenth Warpband the armies of the Clans had faced. The weak were already dead. The rest had gotten stronger, much stronger than the Warped probably thought possible.

Rorn’s pale blue eyes were as flat and icy as the high tundra to the north. He freely alternated between remarkably adept swordplay and unflinching teamwork, distributing the load of the fight among them all to kill as efficiently as possible. If that meant Talatha poking a brute and lighting him up with electricity instead of him going mana-a-mano, he was more than satisfied to spin and pull the brute onto the point of her Sword. If he lopped off a leg and Silent Jhon finished the man, he did not care.

In their group, he was the only non-Powered, and yet they were following him!

In the dream, in the Nightmare, he had been a skirmisher, either dealing with foes breaking through the spear line, or sent rapidly here and there to strike at flanks or vulnerable forces. He used a shield when he had to, went zweihander at other times, and as his fights and deaths rose, so had his skill.

He vividly remembered the time Sage Sama had taken him aside, that first time he had fought to the very end of the day, and seen the mists sweep over them, and bring the battlefield away.

It had not taken that long, but it had not needed to be very long. Telepathy was a fast teacher.

She had showed him what his Sword could become, what HE could become, even if he couldn’t call on the lauded fury of his ancestors, or have his prayers to the gods answered.

When the Tattoos had materialized on his hands and back, three of them, he knew it was all true. He heard her voice again, he remembered what he had done, what she had done, and he knew his life was going to change.

Not just to follow Sage Sama Rantha. Oh, no. He was a Kaldenman, and despite his gifts, he had been looked down on for far too long. The Sage had shown him the path to power, and he was definitely going to take it!

He had advanced to Melee/7 with breathtaking speed, taken his Human/3, and stepped into being a Forsaken. The Land and gods had not given him power, but in return, he had his free will, and his Will was going to lead his people to new heights.

He was a Source and a King Among Men, forging his own destiny, burning through the tangled skeins Fate was throwing around, and drawing everyone in behind him.

Mournfang crashed into that overly heavy Dire blade, and the shocked Warp Champion watched him parry it and not give ground. Rorn levered it aside and hacked off the leg of the spiked horse, sliding aside with remarkable ease for a man his size as it tried to bowl him over.

The horse shrieked, the sound almost human, and naturally fell over, spilling the Champion away. The man in Warped Skinplate rolled with startling agility for the bulk of his gear, and then Rorn’s foot slammed into his head like an ogre’s boot. He went over backward, spikes biting hard into the soil, and looked up as a dark blur, trailing dark shadow-flames edged in pastels from his Daggers, came down. His desperate attempt to parry was locked down by Rorn’s Blade, and Rorn looked on coolly as Feist’s long Daggers went precisely into eye-slits and Banefire did its job.

Rorn’s destiny took him east and north. Yle Tyorm was there, power and glory for the taking.

Ahead of them, half a day’s march away, the Rockborn of Klintskun were encamped, waiting with supplies the clans desperately needed to continue. The Warped would eat their kills, their own dead, and even slaughter one another for food if need be. Mortal men still needed real food and drink to power their blows.

Sage Sama was waiting there ahead of him, too, not that she was more than a thought away now. Rorn swept a glance over The Map, noting the lands ahead of them, and continued with his killing.

The North Wind followed him, as did the clans of Kaldenheim, even if they knew it not.