The Mortal Realms are engulfed in chaos as the Dawnbringer Crusades set out to conquer the wilds. However, amidst the chaos, a relentless tide of troggoths wreaks havoc, leaving destruction in its wake. The Fyreslayers of Aqshy, deeply affected by these rampaging creatures, gather around the campfire to share their tales of heroism and tragedy. In the latest edition of the Dawnbringer Chronicles, we delve into their captivating stories and immerse ourselves in the world of Warhammer Age of Sigmar.
Night was never too dark in Aqshy, Volgard observed. The star-splattered sky was cut with a nebulous haze of smoke from the Great Parch’s veins. Long after Hysh had made its descent, the realm remained ablaze with its own never-ending energy. And bellicose warrior Margorn Thorriksson thrived in the centre of that energy, his arms spread wide, trying his best to channel it.
‘Every single one o’ those troggs was as tall as a Magmadroth, with huge hands that could crush a warrior as easily as a bloodfruit.’
The gathered fyrd of Fyreslayers formed a silent ring amongst the basalt rocks. They were so still that Volgard could hear the twigs crackling in the campfire. Many watched with half-eaten salamander skewers hanging limply out of their mouths.
Volgard leaned back against one of the dark stones and frowned so deeply that his eyes vanished under his eyebrows. He couldn’t help but signpost his scorn towards Margorn, who was, after all, prone to exaggeration.
‘Their skin bloomed the colour o’ bruises and they hurled great boulders like they was pebbles,’ Margorn continued, gesturing emphatically with ash-stained hands. ‘I was there. Watching my kin getting scooped up by those foul creatures as I took an axe to their mates. Hearing the crunch o’ their bones as blunted fangs tore their flesh. Wenigvost was a decent-sized outpost, just south o’ the Splitbrow Lake, but they crushed us as easily as a passing ash-flow might smother a single torch.’
‘How did you not see them coming?’ Volgard huffed, taking another skewer from the fire.
‘All the preparation in the world couldn’t’ve saved our post. Not when an unstoppable tide of those creatures is on the move. Besides, beardling,’ Margorn added with a glint in his eye, ‘it’s not like you did any better.’
The fire-ale that had so far collared Volgard’s temper was abruptly overruled by his pride. The warrior tossed his skewer aside and drew his axe.
‘You have no right to speak of my people’s plight.’
Margorn picked up his poleaxe from where it lay by the fireside, his smile darkening into a heavy-set snarl.
‘Go on then, runt. What makes you think you fared better than I?’ the duardin challenged, taking a step towards Volgard as he spoke.
‘Even a Dankhold would have been droth-pickings for our men,’ said Volgard, relishing in the feeling of the fyrd’s story-hungry eyes turning upon him. ‘We fought something even worse.’
Brandishing his axe, he stepped up to the campfire and let it illuminate him brilliantly from below.
‘Picture the biggest troggoth you’ve ever seen. Make his flesh as hard as the earth, and as cracked and unforgiving as it, too. Give his eyes a madness, a hunger for nothing but wanton destruction. And atop him…’
Volgard sucked in a breath and leaned down towards the flames. He drew his arms in a great arcing sweep over his head.
‘Atop his back stood a portal, heavy with magic—’
‘Such a creature does not exist!’ Margorn growled, slamming the butt of his poleaxe into the ground and making Volgard flinch. ‘You and I faced the same foe, Volgard. Don’t try and escape from the shame of our losses by inventing a foe you couldn’t defeat.’
‘He was very much real. And he crushed three of my kin for each one you lost.’
‘Sounds like your brethren should’ve laid off the fire-ale.’ Under the flaming waterfall of Margorn’s beard, Volgard caught him smirking.
For a heartbeat, he stared down Margorn’s ruddy little face. Every heartbeat that echoed in his ears whispered the names of the fallen. Drolf. Yarok. Gunvar.
Then he charged.
Brilliant sparks exploded between them as fyresteel met in a three-way clash. One of the gathered crowd had stirred to life from beside the shadowed rocks in an instant. The interloper crossed the campfire and glanced the warring blows off his sparking hammers. The fire’s glow was replaced by the pulsing of a light so warm, so primal, that Volgard found himself immediately entranced.
The entire camp fell silent as the grim warrior forced their blades down to their sides. The scent of burnt smoke formed an aura around him as it permeated the camp.
‘Enough,’ said the newcomer, a battle-scarred survivor who had introduced himself as Fjori. That single word held a weight that stamped out Volgard’s temper like an ember under his heel. ‘Each duardin life taken from us is united in equal tragedy.’
Volgard shot Margorn one more sour look, but there was no bite behind it. Their argument paled when looking at the paired hammers borne by the sombre grimbarazki, flickering with the embers of a Master Flame saved at the cost of a fallen hold. The memory of a thousand lives carried on a single set of shoulders, waiting to be rekindled once again – unless, shudder to think, Fjori died.
‘The duardin of Guzanhold…’ Volgard ventured, placing down his axe once again. ‘Tell us of them, Fjori.’
The exile stepped off the fire’s remains and sank down against the dark rock. He patted the ground near him, and the feuding survivors sat in the dust once again. Volgard reached for a fresh salamander skewer and handed it to the old warrior. Sighs of relief rippled across the gathered fyrd.
Fjori bit into his skewer and leaned back into Aqshy’s rocky cradle. The last of the smoke drifted softly away on the night breeze. All around the exile, the group of impatient duardin waited for him to speak. He chewed, swallowed, and allowed himself to remember.
‘Guzanhold wasn’t a large place, but it had a bright future ahead of it once,’ he said. ‘When old Jorgul-Grimnir first burst out of the shadow of his father, he had a great vision for his new hold. They built it between two mountains in the Adamantine Chain, and its halls and walkways struck out like the rivers of magma they bridged. ’Twas truly a masterpiece.
‘’Course, that was what did us in. Vermin surrounded us upon our bridges and tunnels. At the last, my brother Yulgar continued to beat them bloody even as they sliced the skin from his arms and legs with their wicked little blades.’
Fjori sat back and gazed darkly at the stars. Volgard held his breath. Images of his own outpost’s demise still haunted him – bodies burning with acidic troggoth vomit; corpses adhered to troggs’ giant hands where they had been squashed without a second thought; the tang of blood cooking on hot rock.
‘They didn’t kill us quickly,’ Fjori continued. ‘Cursed ratmen were dishonourable till the end. I’ll never forget old Jorgul-Grimnir’s steaming tears as he died shielding his Runeson from the skaventide.’
Silently, Volgard collected a new bundle of wood from his pack and piled it on the dead campfire. Fjori held his hammer above it, and with a soft spark, a new light flickered to life.
‘By Grimnir’s beard I do swear this,’ the exile declared. ‘We shall pay back the pain we have suffered a hundredfold. Every last vermin, grot and troggoth that lifted even a finger towards our kind will suffer by our hand.’
As the campfire blazed brightly once again, the Aqshian steam was pierced by countless raised fyresteel blades.
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