Old Campaign #7

[Padre]

This is a different sort of campaign compared to the previous 6. This one was all mine, and is really a story of my own devising which was fueled by the results of battles. The story led to a battle, then the result of the battle led to more story, round and round. I got volunteers to play the armies (nearly all of which are my own figures), mostly someone playing against me, but I always let them decide which army they wanted to be.

Warning - This is a long but (as yet) still unfinished project. I will complete it one day, just need to find a player with a certain army to provide the final foe.

The campaign was called 'All that Glistens', but I am changing that title for reasons to obscure to trouble you with to All That Glitters.

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All That Glitters

Map of Tabriz Town

The Bent Cutlass Inn
Port of Tabriz Pirates’ Commonwealth
Bubaqua Isle off the western coast of the southern Southlands

“Ho, Grijalva!” shouted Captain Bartholomeus Pasterkamp across the smoke filled room. He could not see where the innkeeper was, or even if he was there at all, so he made the shout as loud as possible. It woke several of the drunken denizens snoring nearby and startled the remainder, easily done considering there had been nothing more than muttering for the last quarter of an hour.

“What?” answered Grijalva, himself one of those woken by the cry. “What?” he repeated, this time more angrily as he came to his senses and annoyance replaced his initial surprise. “Who is that shouting?”

“Here! It’s me!” said Captain Bartholomeus almost as loudly as before. Several rum addled men scowled at him, including (he noticed) some of his own. “You know me. It ain’t as if we ain’t sailed together. You gone deaf or are ya just riddled with wax?”

“Neither, Captain,” came the answer as the smoke, a mixture arising from tobacco pipes, the ashes of the fire and the blackened remains of a wild pig upon the spit, parted like threadbare stage curtains through which the innkeeper emerged. He had upon his head the woollen hat he always wore, a garment entirely out of keeping with the close heat of Bubaqua. His beer belly stretched tight the linen of what was intended to be a baggy shirt, as well as ensuring his leather waistcoat’s buttons had not seen service for years. Little, round eyeglasses sat upon the top of his nose. He only used these when reading or writing yet never removed in between, thus the rest of the time he peered over the top of them.

“Now you tell me, old friend, what ails thee? And if it’s thirst, why not call for a wench?”

“I’m always thirsty,” answered Bartholomeus with a distant look in his eye, “ever since the sun got to me that time, burning right into me and turning a portion of my brain into brawn. Cooked I was, and not rare but well done. Braised by the bright rays and the jungle steam, boiled in my own sweat …”

“Bart!” interrupted the innkeeper. “I’ve heard it all before and have no wish to hear it all again. I know you didn’t call me over here simply to wax lyrical about old injuries, so I’ll ask again: what ails thee?”

Captain Bartholomeus pretended to be hurt by the innkeeper’s words. He pulled himself up straight and tugged at his long, blond wig to make it sit a little more squarely upon his head. He had always been a proud man when it came to dress, often claiming that one could surely tell a proper gentleman by his attire. He himself took the lesson to heart. His long red coat of finely patterned damask was trimmed with golden braid and bound at his waist by a silken yellow scarf and at his neck he sported an almost clean cambric cloth, a whiteness rarely seen in Tabriz and only spoiled by a line or two of yellowish stains from the sweat. He reached out so that his hand emerged from the large cuff upon his coat sleeve, uncurled a finger to point at the table immediately next to his, then he corrected his aim to direct Grijalva’s gaze specifically at the man sprawled across it. “Your question, my kind if impatient host, should be directed not at me but at him, for if I am not mistaken he’s dead.”

Grijalva peered at the recumbent patron in question, making no move as yet towards him, and attempted to ascertain if the fellow was indeed breathing or not. The Captain, meanwhile, went on. “But then, unless he was one of the accursed undead, you wouldn’t be getting much of an answer out of him would you? Even if he were such an unholy thing, then any words his rotten tongue might try to deliver would be, no doubt, completely indecipher ... incomprehend-idabible… in … un … What’s the word I’m after?”

“Don’t know,” said Grijalva. “I can’t tell what you’re saying.”

“I didn’t ask for a definition,” said the Captain.

The innkeeper was not really listening to the Captain, being quite distracted by the appearance of a corpse in his inn. Then it dawned on him who it was - Webbe Nijman - because that was where he always sat and that was the lousy shirt he always wore. This realisation settled him considerably, and he gave a snorting laugh laced with relief. “If he’s anything, then it’s dead drunk, not plain dead,” he said more to himself than the captain. “Let me take a look.” Now feeling much more confident he strode over, grabbed the man by his matted hair and yanked his head up to take a look at his face. It was Webbe alright, and he appeared to be just on the right side of the seam that separates the quick and the dead. “He’s alive. Drunker than I’ve ever seen him, granted, but alive. He can sleep it off here and not in the Doss House, after all it’s me he owes for the punch he’s had and I don’t want him slipping away all quiet and forgetful.”

Grijalva was just about to lower Webbe’s head back onto the table to let it lie there in a puddle of said punch, when he stopped. There was something around Webbe’s neck a- coin by the looks of it, like a lucky gold piece touched by some king and now hanging on a cord. “What have we got here?” he asked. “Webbe Nijman, you rogue, you owe me for a fortnight’s drink and promised me you’d pay in silver when your share came in. And yet here, dangling from your own neck, there’s gold.” Turning to Captain Bartholomeus, he pulled the coin out to show him. “You’re witness. He owes me and I’m taking this for payment. When he sobers up you can vouch for me. This ain’t theft, but the collection of monies owed.

The Captain, however, was frowning, staring at the coin hanging down over Grijalva’s fingers. When the innkeeper noticed Bartholomeus’ strange expression, he too looked more closely at the coin. It was gold, that much was true (and was all he had really bothered to take in before) but it was bigger than any minted in Bretonnia or the Empire, heavier than any from Marienburg, Araby or indeed any port in the entire Old World. Furthermore, there was no monarch’s head impressed upon it, nor coat of arms; no god or even a denomination. Instead there was a blazing sun with stars set about it in a neat circle. He flipped it over to scrutinise the reverse, where he discovered the face of a serpent surrounded by geometric swirls.

A voice suddenly broke the reverie that had ensnared him. "What is that?” asked the Captain, having got up to walk over to Grijalva’s side. The innkeeper held the coin up for Captain Bartholomeus to view and even managed to take his eyes off it to see what the fellow made of it. The Captain paused a moment to rub his good eye, then squinted at the coin. A smile manifested upon his face. “Ahhh! You know what that is, my friend, andwhere it comes from.”

“Aye, I do,” said the innkeeper.

“Then let’s wake old Webbe up and see about having him explain this to the Pirate Council. If he can show us whence it came, it’ll take a lot more than me and thee to get there and collect the rest. There’ll be a very mountain of gold no doubt, enough to keep every Tabrizian happy for years to come. No small sum, no small sum at all”

"We’ll do that,” said Grijalva loudly. Then much closer to the Captain’s ear he whispered, “And the Six will be interested to. There’ll be more than gold there, maybe even what our master wants.”

Bartholomeus appeared to have sobered up instantly. His face flared with anger at Grijalva’s words, but he kept it turned so that no one else at the inn could see it. Loudly, his voice almost as jovial as before, he said, “Gold, you say! The council will be interested, and will indeed want mastery of such a place.” With that the Captain grabbed a goblet, leaned down and used it to scoop out some of the contents of a pot under the table, then threw the stinking stuff in Webbe’s face.

Webbe woke to see his gold coin dancing before his eyes and could just make out someone talking about ‘doing some explaining’. Just as he began to wonder whether he had his knife on him, he found himself being lifted and dragged by two of Grijalva’s heavies. Still befuddled he was unable to summon the energy to protest, never mind to fight.

Captain Bartholomeus and Grijalva leading the way to the Council Fort as Webbe is ‘escorted’ behind by Grijalva’s hired thugs Goncalo Po and Alonso de Ovando.

 

[Padre]

Pirates’ Council Fort, Commonwealth of Tabriz

“Order, order! Please gentlemen will you hold your tongues?” was Wilfred Mostert’s desperate cry, but it could barely be heard above the din.

Umpteen captains and their closest men argued, laughed, bragged and cursed, and the whole interior of the fort (unusual in Tabriz in that it was mostly made of stone) rebounded with the resulting clamour. Few even knew that Wilfred had spoken, though considering they had only just elected him chairman of this meeting then had they put their minds to it they should have realised that he would probably attempt to address them at some point.

Wilfred once had a reputation as a fearsome captain, believed to have led a very bloody mutiny to capture his ship the Terrible Corsair. Since then, however, he had shown little evidence of his supposed ferocity. Many Tabrizians had begun to question the tales they had heard about him, with some even claiming he must merely have poisoned the crew to capture the ship then cut their bodies to make it look like the act of a dangerous fighter and so his standing had somewhat diminished over the months. The propagation of this particular rumour was fanned by the fact that none of the three fellow mutineers who had somehow sailed the Terrible Corsair into the harbour of Tabriz were currently around to speak against it, all apparently having gone off with other ships’ companies.

The horn had been blown an hour ago to call whichever captains with the honour of being members of the council - at least those who could be bothered - to gather at the fort, and eight had come. There they learned that the meeting had been called by Grijalva of the Bent Cutlass Inn, backed apparently by Captain Bartholomeus. Of course Grijalva was no council member, nor even one of their trusted crewmen, but considering that the council’s meetings nearly always involved a vote to shift the rest of the business from the fort to his inn and thus he, as their host, heard just about everything they said, no one objected to him calling them. Besides, they would object soon enough if they did not like what he had to say.

Unable to begin the meeting, Wilfred already wanted to move it to the inn, thwarted in his desire by the very reason for his frustration - his inability to get a word in. He stood at the head of the table dressed wholly in black, apart from a green waistcoat, his left hand resting upon the hilt of a peculiarly diminutive cutlass little more than a knife in length. Tucked into his belt was a pistol, the butt of which his other hand currently caressed as an idea flickered into his mind.

He happened to be the only captain there who had come alone - each of the others had one or two of their crew with them, often a quartermaster (who in many ways had as much authority as a captain, at least when it came to day to day ship affairs if not in the council) or one or two of their ‘sea artists’: their gunner, bosun, surgeon or some such. The Tilean Captain Claudio Sagrada was closest to Wilfred, slouched upon an old armchair so rotten and worm eaten it appeared to be fashioned from driftwood, whilst his brown booted feet rested upon the table itself. His huge, black, felt hat overshadowed his face leaving only the chin visible. It happened to be the most clean shaven of all the chins at the meeting, for Claudio was a vain fellow and still in the prime of his youth, with black locks of thickly curled hair flowing onto a buff leather waistcoat, whilst his shirt was of a copious quantity of white silk so that the generous sleeves hung down almost a foot from his arms. Noticing the chairman’s hand on his pistol he watched Wilfred with amusement, realising even before the idea was fully settled in Wilfred’s own mind what he was about to do.

The thunderous crack of the pistol’s discharge silenced every man in the room. When all eyes turned upon him, Wilfred spoke quickly and loudly, “As chairman I declare the meeting has begun. I now ask Grijalva what cause he has for calling it.” Every head swung about to look at the innkeeper, who immediately fished a gold coin out of his pocket and tossed it onto the long oaken table before them. As it clattered to a halt, it became clear to all that it was not a coin but some sort of heavy, circular ornament attached to a leather cord. Then the sun-image upon it’s obverse was seen.

There was silence for all of three seconds - a rarity indeed - as everyone stared at the golden artefact. Then Thodrin Hookhand, the white bearded Dwarfen Pirate spoke in his gruffer than gruff voice, employing as ever very few words, “Where d'you find that?”

In answer Grijalva ordered his thugs to bring Webbe forward. This they did, with Goncalo Po almost dangling the poor man off the ground by the scruff of his neck. Grijalva pointed at him. “He had it about his neck. Ask him.”

Webbe grimaced as his eyes darted about the room, attempting to take in all those he had been brought up before. He felt like he was on trial, and knew he must choose his words carefully. These men were unlikely to take kindly to the fact that he had been keeping such a secret from them. Claudio Sagrada dragged his boots from the table and leaned forward in his seat, “Speak man, and keep in mind it will go best for you if you do so both truthfully and immediately.”

“Erm, well you see, your honours, it were a long time ago and what with the passing of years and the drinking of hot liquors the details have become foggy in my mind, not that they were something I was over fond of recollecting in the first place…”

“Blathering fool,” interrupted Captain Erther Madric of the Earnest Trader, while one of his half-orcen crewmen growled throatily behind him and the little brown monkey upon his shoulder snarled to as if attempting to add to the menace. “You were asked where you found it, now get to answering and quick otherwise you shall find out how limited is my patience.”

“The jungle, it was, deep, d-deep in the dark jungle,” stammered Webbe, his words falling over each other. “In the great land to the east, a long way down the river, more swamp than river in places, farther than any northern man had ever gone afore. There was a city, the like o’ which I ain’t never seen since, great stones piled up into steps, making mountainous temples. It was a place of disease and death where men went mad just looking. That’s the place - I found it there.”

“You’ve never talked o’ this before,” said Grijalva. “Who did you serve? Which captain took you there?”

“It weren’t a pirate, no, but an Arabyan lord, brother to a caliph. They had me fettered to an oar upon one of their great baghlas, then took me an’ the other slaves into the jungle to make us carry for them. But I never ‘ad to carry, see, for I dreamt they all died an’ I crawled away on my belly an’ I never looked back to see what monstrous creature killed them. Then I found the gold, lying on the ground, and I thought to take it as recompense an’ for good luck, which it proved to be for I was the only one to escape.”

“If that is true,” asked Wilfred, “then how did you make your way back to coast? You said you were far inland.”

“I dreamt that too,” answered Webbe, inscrutably, “lying in one of the boats I was, floating downstream for more nights than I could count. Sometimes I paddled, sometimes despaired, but by and by I came to the sea.” He looked down at the golden disc, now speaking so quietly that all present leaned forward to hear him. “Lucky it is, see? And my escape was proof of it.”

“It is lucky, I’ll grant you that,” said Captain Sagrada. “And now we can share in that luck, eh?”

Webbe blanched, for he knew full well what these men would want to do - it was that certain knowledge that had spurred him to keep the precious disc secret for so long. “I ain’t never going back there, not never - it’s bad enough it’s in my dreams, but I ain’t going down that river again.”

“Is that so?” asked Captain Bartholomeus. “Then you shall at least take us to its mouth.”

Wilfred banged the butt of his pistol on the table to get Webbe’s attention. “Where is the river mouth?”

“I know where it is, but you won’t like what I have to say, for it’s close by ‘Urry By Island.”

Once again silence fell. Never before had the council had reason to be so quiet so often. None needed to speak to explain their momentary silence, for all knew they were each thinking the same thing. The three-peaked Hurry By Island was rumoured to be the base of the bloodsucking vampire pirate known as Grand Admiral Galdabash, and considering he had an entire fleet of the dead serving him, it was a place very aptly named. Every man in the room lusted for that city of gold, but every one now wondered whether the rewards would be worth the risk.

The council had a decision to make!

 

[Padre]

Off the Coast of the Southlands

All hands in the fleet had been awake when they passed to the east of Hurry By Island, scrutinising the forested slopes and white beaches, as well as the sea upon each side for signs of danger, yet none had come. By nightfall only a few of the naturally fearful assumed the worst - that any attack from the undead pirates would surely begin after dark. The vast majority were happy to agree that Grand Admiral Galdabash must have moved on from the island, no doubt upon some cruise of his own.

Only three days later the Tabrizian ships were anchored in 30 fathoms of water about a quarter of a league out from the mouth of a wide river. Every perspective glass, every lunette d’approche and every eye that was not purblind or permanently ruined by years of glaring sun was trained upon the hills flanking the entrance, and with good reason, for it was obvious that there was a settlement of some sort upon the northernmost one. Several ships’ boats approached closer to peruse the hill in question, and when they returned the news spread like wildfire throughout the fleet - there were defensive works upon the hill. Nothing too fancy, just some scattered palisades, banks and stormpoles, but at the very top there was a ramshackle bastion which sported a huge artillery piece, a forty or fifty pounder by the looks of it, perhaps more. It was the kind of cannon only the largest of galleons could hope to carry and it was aimed down at the river mouth.

Its purpose was obvious - to fire upon anyone foolish enough to attempt passage from the sea into the river. A shot from that piece could tear a huge ragged hole in any of the fleet’s ships, being as they were the light, fast, clean and weatherly sort of vessels that pirates most desired - sloops, brigantines and caravels. None were made to withstand that kind of heavy shot, they would be shivered and splintered for certain. And if the cannon was loaded with sangranel and swan shot, chain or double head, then it would without doubt tear masts, rigging and men to pieces, and pour horrible destruction down on any boats if the pirates attempted instead to take pinnaces and boats up the river. As for accuracy, it would surely have been carefully sighted and already tested so that it was trained exactly where it needed to be.

One solution was to attack the bastion and spike the gun, which considering the strength of the fleet might not be thought too difficult. The trouble was, however, that the crews of the boats’ reports had not ended there. After a silent prayer to whichever god they thought might listen, they had revealed that the hill was occupied by what must surely be part of Galdabash’s forces. His ensign, a death’s head flanked by a dagger and a heart, above a single bone, had been spotted flying upon the summit near the cannon, and the breeze had carried the sickly sweet stench of death from the shore. Little had been seen of the garrison, but their shambling gait and the accompanying clouds of fat flies were enough to prove they were undead.

If the decision made to embark upon this venture had been difficult, then now they faced a much more difficult one: who would go ashore to attack the gun? The captains gathered aboard the flagship, the Ocean Blight, for it was Captain Bartholomeus who had been elected admiral of the fleet. There the options were argued over: whether to draw straws or to use dice; whether to have each crew send half of its men, each to decide on the method of choosing. In the end a much more agreeable system was chosen. The captains would volunteer for the job (with their crews’ voted consent, as was always necessary for a change in agreed strategy), and every man who saw the job through to the end would receive a whole extra share when the booty from the city was divided.

This was enough and several crews volunteered. Captain Bartholomeus and his men were first to put themselves forwards, being able to vote before the other captains had even returned to their ships. Much to his consternation, Wilfred Mostert discovered his double vote (as captain, of course, his own vote counted as two) could not save him, and his crew, including the Arabyan swordsmen regiment sent by the Tabrizian agha Zazarri Marwan, voted to join the attack. The others included Thodrin Hookhand’s slayer dwarfs, the ‘other Bart’, Bartolomeo del Portes, and finally Captain Claudio Sagrada who volunteered to provide artillery pieces and their crews to support the attack. There was some grumbling that artillerymen could surely not expect a full share, but most accepted that just landing on the shore and arraying for battle against such a foe was deserving sufficient to earn the reward.

As the boats with the attacking force set off towards the shore, upon the bastion there was silence. The dead rarely speak. Four rotting men stood perfectly still ready to fire at their master’s command, while a fifth clung with one gangrenous hand to the palisade, his legs so mangled that he was barely able to stand.

 

[Padre]

Army lists for the upcoming battle report ....

The Pirates of Tabriz Fleet Vanguard Force
(Legal Composition) Empire Roster, 1999 Pts

LORD: Admiral Bartholomeus Pasterkamp
General; Pistol; Sword of Power; Jade Amulet

HERO: Captain Wilfred Mostert
Pistol; Sword of Battle; Talisman of Protection
HERO: Captain Bartolomeo del Portes
Hand Weapon; Sword of Striking; The White Cloak
HERO: Engineer/Captain Claudio Sagrada
Hand Weapon; Repeater Pistol

CORE: Pasterkamp's Crew - 25 Free Company, FC, Extra Hand Weapon
CORE: Mostert's Crew Crew - 25 Free Company, FC, Extra Hand Weapon
CORE: Zazarri Marwan's Regiment - 25 Swordsmen, FC + Det of 10 Crossbow

CORE: 10 Pasterkamp's Handgunners
CORE: 10 Mostert's Handgunners
CORE: 10 Bartolomeo's Handgunners

SPECIAL: Artillery - 3 Great Cannons & 1 Mortar

RARE: Hookhand's Slayers (as DoW Long Drong’s) - 21 Slayer Pirates + Thodrin
RARE: 10 Bartolomeo's Duellists (as DoW Duellists); Musician; Champion

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Galdabash's Zombie Pirates
Old White Dwarf Luthor Harkon Zombie Pirates Roster, 1877 pts


LORD: Grand Admiral Galdabash (as Luthor Harkon)
HERO: Vampire Fleet Captain - Brace of Pistols; Moonshine
HERO: Vampire Fleet Captain - Brace of Pistols; Bloody Norah!
HERO: Vampire Fleet Captain - Battle Standard; Dead Man’s Chest

CORE: 25 Zombie Pirates Deck Hands Mob; Mus
CORE: 25 Zombie Pirates Deck Hands Mob; Mus; Standard
CORE: 25 Zombie Pirates Deck Hands Mob; Mus; Standard
CORE: 10 Zombie Pirates Gunnery Mob
CORE: 2 Bloated Corpses
CORE: 14 Scurvy Dogs

SPECIAL: 5 Animated Hulks (undead ogres)
SPECIAL: 2 Carronades (small cannons)

RARE & SPECIAL: Queen Bess (250 points!)

Scenario notes

Objectives:
The Tabrizian Pirates are to try to disable/destroy the Queen Bess (a giant cannon) so that the fleet can pass by the river mouth.
The undead pirates want to stop them, so that they can deny access to the river (Galdabash has forces up river searching for a certain mythical city).

Other considerations:
The Zombies have some defences - sharpened stakes called Stormpoles and some palisades, and so have slightly less points. There is also the fact that the 250 pt Queen Bess might easily blow up if fired (it requires two artillery dice to be rolled and is thus twice as likely as a normal cannon to blow up) and as that would be default win for the Tabrizians it could only be fired in desperation. Thus 250 points are tied up with a practically unuseable gun, which again balances the fact that the Zombies have terrain much favouring them.

The battle to last 7 turns (like the old 6th edition siege scenario).

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A Fearful Day
First part of the Battle of the Dunes

Nigh upon twenty packed boats of various sizes made their way towards the shore, the smaller ones riding the choppy waters and almost tossing their occupants overboard as they got close. Only the Arabyan Swordsmen wore armour and they were in one of the larger boats, so none were in too much danger. Besides, considering what faced them, high waves were the least of their concerns.

As the force splashed and waded through the surf the umpteen handgunners amongst them tried to keep their pieces high above the water. Being salty sea dogs of some considerable experience all had of course waxed their pans for protection and several were carrying glass jars with coils of matchcord inside so that it too would remain dry. Once upon the dry sand, while the handgunners poked the wax out of their pans, broke open the jars and fiddled with flints and steels to light their matches, the captains and mates immediately began ordering everyone into fighting bodies ready to advance up and over the scattered dunes. Ahead was the rising ground where, just before the thick tangle of the jungle, rose the fortified hill upon which the ghastly undead had placed their ‘Queen Bess’. Unexpectedly, the huge cannon was still aimed at the river, and stayed so while the undead mustered their own companies on the slopes in a grisly parody of the Tabrizian pirates’ deployment.

It occurred to many of the living seamen that if the great gun hadn’t shifted position then it might not be used against them in this battle. Perhaps Galdabash was more keen to ensure no boats used the battle as a diversion so that they might attempt to slip by? Though it was another, less tactical thought that was in the forefront of many a Tabrizian’s mind - it was entirely possible that amongst the undead foe stood some of their old accomplices and crewmates. This sent a shudder through all those who thought it, followed by a second shudder when the wondered whether by nightfall they too might join the undead ranks.

The field of battle was horribly empty of any form of cover. Between the dunes and the foot of the hill there stretched an open space, flanked on the right by the river mouth. On the expansive lower slopes of the hill were two thin lines of sharpened stakes, with a dangerously inviting gap in the middle that must surely have been left so that some form of counterattack could be launched. Unless, perhaps, Galdabash’s unliving slaves had simply not yet had time to complete their defences?

As the main battle line arrayed itself, the Estalian Captain Bartolomeo del Portes led his skirmishing company of Duellists up on the far right flank, across the rough ground along the bank of the river mouth. He had it in mind to steal the glory and sneak up to the Queen Bess while the rest of the army entertained the foe with their deaths. To his left Claudio Sagrada, acting as Engineer, emplaced a brace of cannons upon a dune, so that he could lend skilled help to whichever one took his fancy. Below him, towards the centre of the Tabrizian line, was the reluctant Captain Wilfred Mostert and his crew, standing sullenly while Mostert tried to look as if he was in a fighting mood that day.

The real centre of the Tabrizian line was made up of the three companies of Handgunners, provided by each of the captains present, as well as the fleet’s admiral Captain Bartholomeus Pasterkamp and his crew and the Slayer Dwarfs of Thodrin Hookhand. All in all, it was a solid enough looking centre. Out to the left was a mortar, occupying the same dune as an Arabyan detachment of crossbowmen. Beyond them marched the Black-clad Arabyan swordsmen, and finally out on the very left, a single cannon (the crew of which were fervently praying that they would seem insignificant to the foe and thus not draw their attention).

Grand Admiral Galdabash himself was present at the hill-fort, having returned from the interior partly to ensure his river mouth defences were still intact and partly upon some dark business that only he knew. Now that the Tabrizian fleet had arrived he was glad he was present, so that he could command his forces to fight rather more intelligently than they otherwise would. His shattered mind, however, was still unstable, and he knew that there might (as ever) be extended periods of the fight in which he barely knew what was happening himself. Not that he cared, being so filled with rage and hatred that any other thoughts faded into insignificance.

While his mind was in balance, he acted quickly and ordered his force for battle. His Handgunners he emplaced in the stockade at the hill’s summit, there to provide something in the way of gunfire but more importantly to act as a last defence should anything get close to the stockade and Queen Bess. A little further down the slope he placed his two small cannons, or ‘carronades’, where they might fire over the heads of the rest of his force arrayed even lower downhill. Then came his battle line, including three massed bodies of regimented zombies behind the storm-poles, with two bloated corpses shambling in their rear. His three captains were amongst them, though a pair of them shared command of one of the regiments (one carrying the army battle standard) thus leaving the rightmost regiment of undead pirates without an officer of any kind. He himself stood to the left of the centre, leading his company of massive zombified Ogres; while out on the far left moved his large pack of Scurvy Dogs, ready to be unleashed upon his command to move at speed against the foe.

The crews of the two carronades stood like statues, what remnants were left of their minds being entirely empty. Only the firing of their pieces could snap them out of their catatonic state, for then they would reload just as they had done in life so many times, going through the sequence of motions with barely any need for thought.

In the massed ranks and file of Zombies, however, there was a species of thought. Each individual could hardly be said to have had much ‘on their mind’ but as a body somehow they became more than the sum of their parts, from which was born a brooding anger ready to spur them on to hack, slash and kill for their master.

Galdabash himself glanced to his left, and raised his huge curved blade in the air ready to signal his dogs. The two cannons paired upon the enemy’s right had caught his eye, and he now knew exactly what he wanted his dogs to do.

Claudio Sagrada, meanwhile, had no idea just how fast those dogs could run. If he had known he would surely not have stood there quite as pleased with himself, idly imagining that the two cannons he commanded were like a pair of monstrous pistols that he could wield as if he were a giant. He even had a smile on his face as he entertained himself with his musings! That smile was not going to last.

..............

Meanwhile, I have to ask - is anyone really reading this one? Or has the fact that it is unfinished put you off? I can assure you it is a very substantial campaign as it stands with lots of bat reps to come. But maybe this is one campaign thread too many?

 

[Orjetax]

This one's about PIRATES, Padre, PIRATES. 'Course we're reading about PIRATES.

By the way, once you told us the campaign name change was due to reasons too convoluted to explain, I'm now intensely curious about it.

 

[Padre]

Oh yeah, pirates. This one has both kinds - living and undead. Re: the change of title, I may have made it sound more intriguing than it deserves, and in truth it's not complicated. So much so, that I am too embarrassed to explain it now

Still, good to know you're reading. Thanks for the message Orjetax.

..............................................................................................

A Fearful Day
Second part of the Battle of the Dunes

Captain Bart, admiral of the fleet and commander of the landing force, stood with his own crewmen. His first mate Lisbeth Boone, one of a number of very tough women amongst the fighting pirates of Tabriz, stood to one side of him pointing out which enemy regiment she reckoned was the strongest; while one of the ship’s younkers, the youngest of the foremast men, blew rather annoyingly upon a horn to the other side. The captain’s standard was carried by an old hand in the front rank, with ostrich feathers added to denote that his was the first company, the general’s regiment, for that was what he effectively was now that he had landed and led an army upon dry land.

Suddenly there was an eerie sound, a sort of growling or gurgling, that lolled across the field from the direction of the foe. It sent a chill down the spine of every living man arrayed there, a chill turned into a shiver by the sight of movement from the foe. Galdabash’s magically animated force of walking corpses had as one began their advance. The fastest of all the undead were the Scurvy Dogs who fair-leapt across the field in a very good mockery of living hounds. It was obvious they would reach Claudio Sagrada’s dune-top battery, and that only Wilfred Mostert’s company were close enough to attempt to get in their way. Mostert himself desperately glanced about to see if there was anything else he could do, or anyone who might be able to step in and do what was needed instead of him. When he saw that the hideous form of the vampire Lord Galdabash himself, leading his fearful undead Ogres was heading in his direction too, it suddenly did not seem such a bad thing that he and his men might have to fight the snarling dogs. They had to be an easier opponent than the towering monsters and a vampire infamous throughout the southern hemisphere.

Upon the hill, the three large bodies of zombies also moved forwards, shambling through the protective screen of sharpened stakes towards the cowering foe in the distance. Not one of them cared what bullets or balls might plough through their ranks, nor even if a grenado from the foe’s ‘murdering piece’ would tear them apart. Maybe when you cannot even recall your own name it is hard to care about what happens to you?

Although the zombie rank and file might not have been thinking about enemy’s shot, the firing of their own artillery pieces - the two carronades on the slope above the regiments of zombies - had a rather mixed effect. While one tore through Captain Thodrin’s Slayer Dwarfs to kill three of them in one moment, the other blew itself up. Apparently gun maintenance in Galdabash’s rotting army was not a priority. The gun in question scattered rusty shards of iron from its barrel for many yards around the smoking remains of its now smoking, worm eaten carriage.

Captain Mostert had no real choice, for he could not stand and watch while the cannons were destroyed – not when the battle in many ways depended on the effectiveness of those same cannons. With this in mind he and his men charged at the festering dogs, just managing to intercept them at the foot of the dune.

As Mostert reluctantly led the desperate charge, the rest of the army made its opening moves. On the far left flank the Arabyan Swordsmen marched around the stony ground before them, while in the centre Thodrin’s dwarfs took a more direct route towards the hill. Captain del Portes and his own men, experts in swordplay all, picked their way along the bank of the river slipping on the wet stones.

Four booming blasts burst over the battlefield as the pirates three light cannons (Note: as DoW or Dwarf cannons) and mortar opened fire. A dramatic moment indeed, ruined only by the fact that not one of them hit their targets – doing little more than scattering dirt up into the air. Sadly, the handgunners (aiming like the cannons at the hulking undead ogres) failed also to do any damage. The result was that Galdabash failed even to notice that the enemy had just targeted his unit. His attention, like the gunners’ aim, was elsewhere.

Mostert and his lads did not do so badly against the scurvy dogs, hacking enough of them down to weaken the very magic binding them together in undeath and so another two, otherwise untouched by sword or axe, succumbed to the forces of nature and became simply dead once more. Mostert even started to think perhaps this day would not be so bad after all. He was wrong, about as wrong as a man could get, because the very moment he began to enjoy the hack and slash, Galdabash decided he and his ogres would smash into Mostert’s flank.

Annoyingly for Galdabash, due to the sheer size of the monstrous zombies he was leading, he found himself stranded out beyond the combat. Still, he reckoned he would have plenty of opportunity to kill before the day was out. Out in the centre of the field his three regiments of Zombies seemed to share his enthusiasm to get to grips with the foe, and they raced downhill. (Game Note: we forgot in turn two that none of these zombies could march, as per the rules of undeath, but by turn three when we realised it was too late to go back. Ah well, honest mistake! You could just assume we had a very cleverr house rule about zombies going quicker when moving down hill.)

Of course poor Mostert and his crew did not stand a chance against the vicious and powerful foes in their flank. As they began to fall in droves those still alive thought better of waiting their turn. Within moments the entire regiment, Mostert amongst them, turned and fled pell mell towards the river. This was an unfortunate choice of direction for they poured through Bartolomeo’s Duellists, who where so overwhelmed by the sense of panic that they joined them in flight. Galdabash himself, however, ran forwards in pursuit and suddenly encountered one of Claudio’s cannons. The Tilean and his gunners, watching the streaming flight of men at the bottom of the dune and then faced with the horrendous visage of the Vampire Lord bearing down upon them, also chose to take to their heels – along with Claudio! No-one knows why, but the second crew chose instead to stand and fight. Perhaps they saw the first of the Duellists and Mostert’s crew splashing into the waters of the tidal river mouth and decided they would rather perish to Galdabash’s blade than drown slowly?

Thus it was that the Tabrizian right flank was utterly destroyed and dispersed. The sight of it would surely be thought to make all the rest despair, but instead it made them desperate to achieve what they came here for before the Vampire could turn his attention upon them. The entire line surged forwards as fast as they could march, aiming for the hill where Queen Bess sat. The zombies where in their way, but the pirates thought ‘damn them’ (ironic when one considers the zombies were indeed damned) and rushed on regardless. They outnumbered the foe in regiments and companies, and so thought that even if some Tabrizians were stopped by the foe, the others might still break through.

 

[Padre]

Third part of the Battle of the Dunes

As the Tabrizian seamen began their desperate dash, their mortar launched another grenado aiming for the huge cannon in the hill-top stockade. The crew hoped that by knocking out said beast early they could hastily leave this forsaken beach and return to the safety of the fleet. This time their aim was good, and although the grenado failed to harm the Queen Bess it did tear apart four of her five crew. Another shot like that and Galdabash could find himself without servants able to crew it (though there were still three zombies on the little carronade who might have skill enough left over from their past life to load and fire her). The last ‘surviving’ zombie gunner did not even flinch, instead merely leaning down to pick up the smouldering matchcord clutched in a dismembered hand at his feet. The Queen Bess was still loaded, and the only thought he had in the fragment of a mind left to him was to fire her when his master willed it.

The Zombie regiments in the centre were now close enough to launch their charges and all three of them did just that. The effect was overwhelming for the Tabrizian forces, for the undead just had weight of numbers on their side and the mere sight of them shambling onwards (and so close) frightened two of the pirate regiments so much that they first stumbled and then ran away. Captain Bart’s crew and his handgunners both streamed off towards the surf, leaving Thodrin’s dwarfs and Mostert’s handgunners in the centre, the Arabyan swordsmen to the left and the Estalian handgunners bravely attempting to make a stand on the right flank fighting off a regiment of undead that outnumbered them more than two to one.

A moment later the two foulest, most noisome undead creatures upon the field of battle, walking corpses bloated almost to the point of bursting by foetid gases and held in one piece only by rotting shrouds, moved up to stand right on front of the swordsmen and the dwarfs. Although the living pirates were wholly aware of the awful stench given off by these horrors, they had no idea just how dangerous it could be to stab at them and thus release the rest of the stinking vapours contained within.

Out on the undead left flank, having seen off both cannon crews, Captains Sagrada and del Portes, the pirates and the duellists, Grand Admiral Galdabash now succumbed to one of his fits, his mind becoming so confused that it was all he could do to stagger forwards. His hulking zombified ogres simply matched his step, entirely unaware that their master had lost his wits. Behind him the zombies fighting the Estalian handgunners inflicted terrible losses, their fleet captain alone lashing with a magically imbued cat o’nine tails to lay five Tabrizians low. Such a mauling, delivered by such a frightening enemy, was too much for the seamen who ran screaming away, chasing after those who had already fled. The zombies poured after them, dragging several screaming to the ground, and approaching very close to the already fleeing band of Captain Bart and his crew.

Having not much choice in the matter, what with the bloated corpses standing immediately in their path, the Arabyan swordsmen and Dwarfen slayers both charged.

Maybe their spirit of defiance was contagious, for somehow Captain Bart rallied his men and turned them to face the zombies now to his right. Or was it that he had glimpsed Galdabash disappearing over the dune away from the battle, and so thought perhaps he and his men could destroy the cannon and live after all?

The pirates’ mortar and cannon between them failed to harm anyone, and the handgunners made more noise than real hindrance for the enemy, but the Arabyan crossbowmen at least felled one of the last carronade’s crewmen. In the more up close and personal fights, the two bloated corpses had no chance at all against the massed ranks of those facing them and they were quickly slain, the resulting explosive cloud of caustic vapours fatally choking two swordsmen and a dwarf. Yet the swordsmen, a little more nimble on their feet than the dwarfs, turned this minor loss into good fortune, and leapt over the steaming remains of the walking corpse to begin their run for the hill top. Between them and their objective, the Queen Bess, there stood a single carronade, then a palisade defended by zombies with handguns, so that unless something came over from the far side of the field to catch them in time, they realised they had every chance of reaching and spiking the Queen Bess.

When one of the zombie regiments chose to charge at Pasterkamp’s handgunners the mate leading them ordered them to flee. Not so Captain Bart Pasterkamp’s main regiment, however, for although they had only just rallied, they made a nervous stand against the charge that came against them.

Now that they were locked in combat they could not see that Galdabash had come out of his stupor and had turned his regimented hulks around to begin a march back to the battle, nor that nearby the Scurvy Dogs had extricated themselves from the stony ground on the river bank. Instead of bolting off towards the nearest foe, the dogs began a long dash across the foot of the hill to see if they could intercept the black swordsmen making for the great gun.

The Zombie handgunners stationed on the hill tried their own kind of resistance and fired a volley at the swordsmen, bringing down two - a success that might have surprised them if they had been capable of conscious thought.

Captain Bart Pasterkamp’s belated attempt to stand against the foe proved rather short-lived. He himself was wounded by the vicious magical whip wielded by the vampire fleet captain, while elsewhere in the fighting ranks very little harm was done: the men too frightened to get quite close enough to deliver fatal blows; the zombies too slow witted to get past the fighting seamens’ parries. But with their captain bleeding and the very denizens of hell crowding forwards the Tabrizians could not hold on to their courage and once more turned tail and fled (Game note: Undead US outnumbered theirs by 1, after a loss by 1!) into the sea. The recently elected admiral of the Tabrizian fleet now found himself splashing and scrabbling about, along with his panicked men, trying desperately to climb into one of the boats and push away from this land of death. His wig floated away with a wave, and though for the tiniest moment he almost turned to retrieve it, he remembered he had a spare in his sea chest and decided it would be foolish to risk one’s life for vanity. One wig would have to do (for the rest of this campaign at least).

Off to the side his handgunners were also in the surf, scrambling over one beached boat in an attempt to find one a little further out that would put them to sea a lot quicker than if they had to haul it out.

The Dwarf Slayers had a rather different attitude to the fight compared to their human allies. They simply did not see the foe as something to fear, but as something to be killed, a challenge to be overcome so that they could boast of it and drink to victory afterwards as they always did. Having waded through the sticky mess that was the remains of the walking corpse, they had overrun into the flank of the central regiment of zombies and now began the bloody business of slaughter they had landed on this shore to do. Of the zombies’ two captains only one could fight, but against the torrent of blows that the pistol festooned slayers could rain upon them, the zombies did not really stand much of a chance. Six zombies fell to bullet and blade, then ten more collapsed simply because the magic binding them in un-life weakened as the dwarfs pushed on into them.

 

[Padre]

Fourth and final part of the Battle of the Dunes

The Arabyan Crossbowmen had not the courage to charge the Zombies crossing in front of them, and so allowed the enemy to approach dangerously close to the mortar. The Agha’s Sworsdmen, however, proved less timorous than their detachment of crossbowmen, and continued their advance on the hilltop in the face of a cannon muzzle and its undead crew.

Perhaps a little unnerved by what was surely about to happen, the mortar crew failed to hit the Queen Bess a second time, and instead landed their grenado on the tower upon the other side of the stockade. Thodrin and his Dwarf Slayers could not believe how simple it was to hack the Grand Admiral Galdabash’s servants down, and before they had really begun to break a sweat the last of the zombies before them succumbed to their blades and pistols, as well as the ever weakening magic holding them together in undeath. Just as the dwarfs were thinking how easy the fighting was, the brave crew of the mortar found themselves facing a threat that they could surely not withstand - the three of them, one a boy armed with only a bucket and another a crippled man with a crutch in his left hand, were now charged by an entire regiment of shambling zombies. Other much larger bodies of men had fled from just such a foe, and yet here these three found the courage to stand and fight! (I could not tell you why.)

The rest of Gladabash’s forces attempted to close with the few enemies remaining on the field of battle: the hulks made their way towards the centre of the field; the dogs continued their rush to reach the Arabyan swordsmen (though their pace had now slackened somewhat because Gladabash had moved away from them and his power to urge them on had diminished due to the distance). The Vampire Lord had in fact moved away from his undead Ogres to make his own way across the field, so filled with rage he no longer sought the safety of numbers and desired only to close with the enemy quickly and personally, to sate the blood-lust that all his kind shared.

The carronade upon the hill fired directly into the swordsmen advancing straight towards it and brought two down, but the zombie handgunners behind and above them failed in their own attempts so dramatically that one of the misfiring handguns felled the zombie carrying it.

Two of the mortar crew were torn apart by the zombies, and the last (the boy who due to his short stature had been overlooked by the dim witted unliving seamen) fled screaming away from them to drown in the sea. This left only one artillery piece on the field - the cannon on the Tabrizians’ far left, whose crew gave thanks to Manaan that they had been spared so far and now offered the promise of sacrifices and prayers if he would continue his protection.

The Arabyan Swordsmen, unwilling to receive another carronade shot, now launched their charge at the little gun and its crew, even though their attack took them uphill and over quite a distance and thus might prove a dangerously long run. Their luck held, however, and they reached the little artillery piece before it could be reloaded.

The two zombies crewing it unsurprisingly proved little challenge for the corsairs’ deadly scimitars and they soon leapt over their now dead (rather than undead!) corpses to begin their dash for the hilltop. Once again whatever desert gods they looked to for good fortune smiled upon them and they managed to get right up to the stockade and charge into the zombie handgunners defending it.

Thodrin’s Dwarfs turned to face the hulking ogres shambling near them, and one or two looked up to watch the flight of the last cannon’s ball as it curled through air towards the Queen Bess. The crew’s prayers had been very well received, apparently, for Manaan himself must surely have carried the ball to its target. It scored a direct hit on the great cannon and damaged it badly. (Game note: 2 wounds out of 5, the ball being D3 wounds light cannon ball.) The Arabyan crossbow and last unit of handgunners hoped to make their own contribution count also and shot every quarrel they had loaded into the Scurvy Dogs (Game note: being lower down all their ranks could shoot). It appeared that Manaan was too busy with the cannon ball for not one bullet or bolt pierced a single dog. Nothing could stop the dogs from reaching the swordsmen now.

Galdabash and one of his regiments of zombies now chased away the last of the Tabizian handgunners (which was all they could reach), while the Scurvy Dogs hurtled up the hill to do what they had been trying to do for some time now - attack the Swordsmen.

The ensuing fight was bloody, scimitar against tooth, claw and musket butt, yet neither side could gain the advantage and the struggle went on. If they could not defeat the undead soon, the swordsmen feared that the daylight would fail and no doubt bring all sorts of new terrors to the field. Such fear was not helped by the fact that they were already tiring, nor the way they were terribly isolated up there on the summit. Down below Thodrin attempted to lead his Dwarfs in a charge against the Ogres, perhaps thinking he might at least keep their attention away from the hill, but his little legs proved too … well … little, and the charge failed to reach the foe before it petered out. All he could do was begin to re-order his warriors ready to try again!

The cannon misfired, but the crew boldly set about reloading with the intent of shooting one last time before fleeing for the safety of the fleet. On the hilltop the fight went on: dogs rolling down the hill as they were hacked apart and zombies falling where they stood when the curved Arabyan blades cut deep enough. Yet the Arabyans were dismayed to find that the foe’s lack of fear, nor care for their own (un)lives, meant that they fought on regardless and relentless.

It was beginning to look like the Tabrizians would not get to the Queen Bess, and that many men had died and were yet to die pointlessly that day. But then came the cannon’s last ball, an iron roundshot following exactly the same path as the previously successful one, and thus striking the Queen Bess square on. The huge but ancient and rusty warmachine could not withstand such a blow, so that it was shattered by the impact - it’s very barrel cracking open as the carriage collapsed. After countless years of service, both for the living and the undead, her majesty had finally died. Her last surviving crewman simply stood as he had before, yet to realise that his ward was destroyed. Strangely, he was joined in his lack of motion by the three Tabrizian crewmen on the dune, though their gormless stance was due not to ignorance but rather genuine surprise at what they had done.

It was almost a full minute before they snapped out of the shock induced by their success, then the gunner turned to his two matrosses and said simply, “That’ll do for today, eh?” They nodded in response, and leaving their own piece on the dune they slid hastily down the sand and bolted for the nearest boat. They were not the only ones to make this decision. Thodrin’s dwarfs saw no use in fighting on when the Queen Bess was destroyed and they too made dash for the beach. Theirs was a more orderly affair than the other Tabrizians around them, almost as if daring the foe to try to follow them. The Arabyan Swordsmen on the hill also knew that to linger was not only dangerous but utterly futile, and they began their own pell mell run all the way to the surf, dropping shields and casting off helmets that they might run that little bit quicker.

Not one undead pirate pursued them, for their master did not will them to do so. He cared not which man or dwarf escaped this beach, for his mind was filled with another concern: If the Queen Bess was destroyed, how could he prevent the Tabrizian fleet from ascending the river? His own ships had mostly been destroyed in a recent storm, though this had not troubled him particularly - a mere distraction while his servants searched for the city of gold. His boats and wherries had been safe upriver during the storm, but were now much farther upriver searching. So he had nothing here at the river mouth to prevent the Tabrizians' ascent of the river. What now?

A shimmer of heat haze obscured his blue-skinned body, yet every man, orc and dwarf aboard the Tabrizian ships somehow knew he was there and that his attention was upon them. The fury in his glare, the intensity of his anger not only stirred up the haze about him but poured out across the water to wash up against the ships - a palpable force of wicked intent which sent a chill up every spine. And the thought that crossed every one of their minds? Grand Admiral Galdabash had not finished with them yet.

 

[Padre]

The City of Amon
Northern coast of the Gulf of Medes

After his disastrous expedition to Marienburg, the Prince Sadrin al Marwan (nephew of the grand Sultan of Amon) had returned home with little to show for his efforts. He still had a good half of the men he set out with, as well as nearly all the ships, but nothing in the way of profit. There was one thing, though, he had achieved - proof that Amon was willing to assist the city’s merchant houses as an ally and close business partner, earning the city a reputation that would lead to some very favourable trade deals with the Marienburgers for years to come. The Prince, now well past a score years in age and widely expected to be thinking about settling down to take up some of his political responsibilities, nevertheless remained restless, gripped by a yearning for one more adventure: something that would make his name and enrich him at one and the same time; something that might earn his uncle’s everlasting favour and thus ensure his inheritance of the rulership of the great city of Amon. He was tired with merely seeing the wide world, and now hoped to see things that other men had not looked upon, to be so blessed with such sights and experiences that he would emerge as a ruler of truly mythical status. Yet these ambitions seemed to be nothing more than fancy … until this particular day.

It was midday and he was sitting in his presence chamber, consulting with his officers concerning the continued existence of the army, their re-equipping, training, pay and such like, even though he had little interest in such affairs while the army served no purpose. His most senior adviser, the wizard Zadra ibn Borhasa, stood to one side, apparently quite bored of such conversation, but it pleased the Prince to have the man attend even if the business was not to his liking! Then came one of his most trusted sheikhs, clad in the white robes of a warrior of the desert, who craved an audience. This was granted. The Prince was intrigued to see that the sheikh had with him a scholar of some repute in Amon, a wise man who had once taught the Prince himself concerning foreign tongues.

Bowing low, then indicating the man with an exaggerated gesture of his arm, the sheikh explained his presence, “Great prince, I have brought this teacher to speak with you of his scholarly findings. I believe what he has to say might be of interest to you.”

The Prince studied the scholar, noting how age had taken its toll since he last saw the man, and how he wore stained travelling clothes as if he had just returned from a journey through the desert. “I remember you, teacher. I have no need of more lessons, so tell me, why are you here?”

“Good master, great Prince, you were always a good student, and you did indeed learn all that I could teach you. Since those days however I have studied for many years to learn of the lands to the south - the vast green jungles and swamps where lizards walk upon their two hind legs, the high mountains and their forgotten dwarven fastnesses, the long and broad rivers wending their way for many hundreds of leagues before emptying into the ocean.”

The Prince rolled his eyes to the ceiling, “What care I of swamps and rivers? Of mountain dwarfs? I have no wish to have a lesson in geography from you.”

“Forgive me mighty prince,” the scholar answered calmly, as if he had no idea it could prove dangerous to displease the Prince. “These things were not the true goal of my studies. That, my prince, was the whereabouts of several ancient jungle cities, told of in myth and legend but unknown to any man alive.”

Now this very much intrigued the Prince, who put down the golden goblet that up ‘til now had been clutched in his left hand whilst re-filled regularly by a servant. Ancient legendary cities, he thought, would suit his plans perfectly. The scholar continued. “They have of course been given many names over the centuries, very often - as far as I can ascertain - being renamed by whomsoever found them for want of any knowledge of their true names. Some of the stories one can dismiss as lies, mistranslations of similar or even the exact same texts, or derivative works of fiction. But some, my prince, are worthy reports, and through hard work, good fortune and what skill and attention to details I could bring to the task, I have correlated and combined facts to ascertain verifiable truths which I am certain are …”

“Stop!” said the Prince, bringing a sudden end to the monologue. “Cut to the quick - have you found one of the cities of gold?”

The scholar nodded, “I have, my prince. Gold in such great quantities that it forms the roofs of temples, being fashioned into spires, canopies, balustraded balconies, and even - if I may be so bold as to suggest - the very paving of the streets. Furthermore, and may this please your excellence, the one such city I have identified is perhaps the largest of a chain of such cities belonging to an ancient and long since extinct civilisation of jungle creatures.”

“Jungle creatures?” asked the wizard Zadra.

“Yes, master - snake-like creatures with thorny excrescences running the length of their limbless bodies, as well as brightly feathered birds of gigantic stature and, I have every reason to believe, purple hued beetles of quite enormous proportions, indeed of a size that would rival the largest of goats, that spurt a glutinous poison from their eyes but which are terrified of iron, rather in the way that they say forest spirits in the north are so frightened of the same black metal.”

The Prince looked at Zadra, then when he saw a smile playing on the wizard’s lips, he laughed. “Ha! Jungle monsters. I am sure bullet and bolt can lay low any such beetle, and bring down any bird whatever it’s shade, and my war elephants could crush a snake without knowing what they had done.”

“I am sure they could, great prince,” stammered the scholar.

The Wizard Zadra was the first in the chamber to recognise the implication of the Prince’s words. “Do you intend to find the city, great prince?”

“Perhaps, if it is possible to take an army there. I am no fool and I know such a place could never be reached and then successfully returned from without great force to drive off not only any jealous guardians but all those enemies that would bar the way.” He then looked at the wizard and asked, “What think you, Zadra?”

Zadra stroked his chin in thought, then (as if this action was not enough to gain full insight) pushed his tall, yellow and black striped hat back a little from his forehead to rub at his temples. Suddenly his fidgeting stopped, and he addressed the scholar. “Tell me, can you provide the maps and charts that might take us there? Do you know exactly which river to ascend - what latitude. And then how far to travel. And can you tell us how we might avoid the plague of pirates that are meant to swarm upon those shores?”

“Ah, I cannot, for the map I have fashioned from the accounts of ancient travelers and more recent slavers, shows not the western coast and river mouths, but the mountainous spine of the continent.”

“You would have my army travel so far over land?” asked the Prince, bemused. “I know my desert warriors and their mounts are renowned for their stamina, but I could not expect them to cut their way through swamp and forest for months on end. I am a commander of some experience, having knowledge garnered from campaigns in the real world and not mere forays into dusty tomes and crumbling scrolls. There is more disease prevalent in such jungles and swamp than in the slums in plague time, and much of the no doubt bountiful fruit and berries are surely poisonous. I will not embark upon a fools errand.”

“My prince, if you would forgive me my boldness, I have discovered that there is a way - a route down the western side of the mountains. I admit, it is most surely now broken in places and in others overgrown, perhaps little more than a path for many leagues, but it is above the jungle, upon the foothills and slopes of the mountains and no more difficult I am sure than the paths through the desert hills to the east and north of us.”

Now it was the wizard Zadra’s turn to laugh. He was one of the few that could dare to do so in the presence of the Prince; one of those who had grown up with the Prince and shared a familiarity with him that had even included drinking in his company in the taverns and alehouses of a variety of ports in the Old World. “And why would there be such a convenient road laid out for us, one which would take us in such an easy manner to a fabled city that no-one else has found? This is more preposterous than your tales of poison eyed, purple beetles!”

“I beg your pardon, great Prince,” said the scholar, sounding suitably contrite, “but the road in question is not easily found, for it’s northern stretch was deliberately destroyed. It was once, in long past times, a dwarfen road, leading to their hold of Karak Zorn. I do not claim that the road will be easy - there may well be parts which delve underground and are surely now collapsed; but these could be circumvented, meaning your army would only have to traverse the jungle in short stretches. The road in many places is little more than a marked route, once thought sufficient to serve as a road. Once you are west of the city, and have found the streams leading to a particular river, then the course of the great river so formed will take you to the golden realm. That part of the journey will surely not be easy, but may be made somewhat more feasible if rafts and such like are fashioned to carry your army. They will surely be needed to bring your army and the gold back.”

The Prince seemed completely lost in thought, but suddenly snapped out of his reverie and spoke to his adviser. “Zadra, you will go with this man and look at his maps and all the evidence he has to make such bold claims. Good sheikh, you shall go too and take your soldiers with you, for I would not have this man harmed by my enemies nor would have him reveal what he has said here to anyone else.”

The two men bowed, and then escorted the scholar from the chamber. Prince Sadrin al Marwan picked up his goblet again, drank a deep draught of wine, then let his head fall slowly backwards as he considered all that he might do to better his chances of success. If this city could be found, it would surely sate his need for adventure, and without a scintilla of doubt it would enrich him beyond all the rulers in the known world.

 

[Padre]

The Bent Cutlass Inn
[Port of Tabriz Pirates’ Commonwealth

For several weeks Grijalva had been in a good mood, so much so that his customers now had longer tabs than ever before and none had been threatened into settling their accounts. He spent most days singing and occasionally (to everyone’s surprise) breaking into impromptu jigs, and most nights dreaming of the wealth that would soon be his when the fleet returned. Although he had not sailed with the fleet, he was still due his share, in fact a double share - for with Captain Bartholomeus’ encouragement the Council had unanimously agreed that he should be well rewarded. After all, it was he who had found the golden token around Webbe’s neck, it was he who had recognised it for what it was, and most worthy of all, he had chosen not to keep its existence a secret but had told the council of it immediately.

Even more, Grijalva looked forward to the rewards his true master would surely gift him for having been instrumental in the birth of this enterprise. There was in his mind little doubt that there would be magical artefacts by the chest-full in such an ancient and golden city. Once his master Scholten and the god he served were truly ascendant, then he and the others of the Trusted Six would surely rule Tabriz, and go on to rule much, much more. The world would be his oyster, and he would be so wealthy that even the riches of a fabled city would seem paltry to him. In the meantime, however, he liked the sound of a double share.

Now he sat in his chair in his withdrawing room at the back of the inn, and looked once more at his copy of Webbe’s scribbled map, idly pricking at the supposed location of the city with a pin as if by doing so he might somehow urge the fleet on to that same location. His musings, however, were brought to an abrupt end when his servant Goncalo Po came bursting into the room.

“You’d better get yourself out here, master, and quick,” Goncalo said. Grijalva simply frowned at the man. He had heard no racket, no tumult, no shouting, no gunshots, not even the clash of steel. So how could there be trouble? Goncalo Po recognised Grijalva’s frown for what it was. “It’s Bertrand Le Bourreur - he’s back. He’s heard about the golden city and he demands you speak with him.”

The innkeeper now understood. Captain Bertrand was a member of the Pirate Council and had been admiral of several Tabrizian fleets in the past. He was successful, powerful, lucky - not a man to be kept waiting. And if he had heard of the city of gold, he would be (as any pirate) somewhat miffed that he should miss out on such a rich haul. Grijalva cursed, for such as Captain Bertrand had low cunning enough to turn mere knowledge of the expedition somehow to his own profit and damn all the rest. Worse, he was not one of the six, and with his reputation in the past of fighting as a privateer for the more civilised realms of the north such as Marienburg, it was highly unlikely that he could ever be tempted to join them. Considering these things, Bertrand was a danger, so Grijalva hid the map in his shirt and headed towards the door, a plan already forming in his mind.

He stepped into the tap-room to discover that unsurprisingly Bertrand was not alone. He had with him his old bo’s’un Nicolas Bruggeman, carrying the multiple barrelled musket known throughout Tabriz to be deadly ( though many an argument had raged over whether it was more deadly to its target or its wielder). Behind him stood one of his younkers who must have been a new recruit - yet even he, clad in but a shirt and breeches, without even stockings or shoes, had an air of threat about him - helped by the fact he was clutching a pistol. The famous Captain Bertrand was dressed as always in a scarlet shirt, his short buff-leather waistcoat and a wide brimmed hat in the fashion of a Bretonnian sea-farer, matched by his neatly trimmed Bretonnian style moustache and beard. His cutlass was unsheathed, the blade well sharpened and oiled so that it glinted in the light coming from the high windows. To unsheath it was a breach of all normal alehouse etiquette, but Captain Bertrand was not the kind of man to care about rules when he wanted to make a point, and the naked blade was very persuasive.

Considering those he could call on to back him up, Grijalva was not exactly reassured by the odds. Goncalo Po was still in his office, no doubt preparing the blunderbuss so that he would be ready to lend aid should Grijalva call. Apart from this one ‘heavy’, the only other person Grijalva could possibly expect help from was Corine Lagerwerf. She stood over by the large casks of beer, dressed in her yellow bodice, as sultry and confident as ever, hands on hips whilst grinning suggestively at Captain Bertrand. Grijalva knew full well just how dangerous she could be: how often she had ‘disarmed’ enemies of the Six and so allowed them to be dispatched with ease; and how she had used her reputation as a cunning woman to steal away so many supposedly still-born babes from their ignorant mothers in the service of Scholten’s god. But hers was a particular kind of ‘dangerous’, one that did not exactly lend itself to being able to deal with three well-armed and purposeful men. In their current mood they were very unlikely to succumb to her charms.

“Good Captain Bertrand!” began Grijalva. “It’s been so long since you graced my humble inn, nay the entire town, with your presence. I hope fortune has smiled on thee many times since we met last.”

“Not as much as fortune seems to have smiled upon those who were here when Webbe’s gold was found,” said Bertrand.

“Ah, such news carries fast. Aye indeed, but my friend all Tabrizians shall share in the profits - even those here will have their chance at dice and cards to make a tidy sum when the fleet returns.”

Bertrand was smiling, but there was little friendliness in the expression. “I do not intend to wait for them to return. I shall follow them, and have my share at the source.”

“Of course, good captain,” said Grijalva, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “I should’ve known that a noble Tabrizian such as thee would see it as thy duty to go to the assistance of thy friends.”

The Bretonnian captain’s smile widened. “I knew you would understand. Of course, there is the matter of learning where exactly they have gone. And as you yourself were the first to learn of the secret, then I can safely presume that you have the most perfect knowledge.”

“I ain’t so sure, good captain, that I understand.”

“You are the wellspring through which the secret sprang,” explained Bertrand, somewhat poetically.

Grijlava shook his head. “Nay, you have it wrong. Webbe was closest to the secret, I only discovered he was hiding it.”

“Do not be so modest, master innkeeper. You were there from the start. You heard every word that Webbe spoke. I know you were present at the council when his secret was revealed, and at the meetings afterwards. And he was lodged here with you until they took him aboard ship and set sail. You must know where the city is.” He paused a moment and began to study his blade as if searching for imperfections, then continued. “Aye, you must know. I’d bet your life upon it.”

Grijalva realised the threat was coming before it had even been delivered and had already prepared his reply. “I shall not shirk from helping a bold captain such as thee. I will do my best and shall ask only a modest recompense of thee for my service.” This last touch was a gamble by Grizalva, an attempt to make his words sound sincere by giving the impression he expected payment for the information. Apparently, however, Bertrand had not really heard that part, for it was something else which irked him.

“Your best? Have you not a map you can give me?”

Grijalva tried to look as if the thought had not occurred to him. “A map? No, not I. I saw the chart drawn up by Webbe, and heard him tell of the sights to be seen on the way - capes and river mouths and rocks and such like. But I myself have no map.”

“Where is it, then?”

“With the fleet o’ course, as is Webbe.” He put his finger to his mouth as if pondering something. “I s'pose I could draw what I remember for thee.”

“Good enough,” said Bertrand. “Be about the business immediately, I have little patience.”

“O’ course, you’d not want to be considered tardy by the fleet. Come, friend, I have paper and ink in my room. I shall fashion thee up a map you can be proud of.” Grijalva led the way, making sure he called loudly for Goncalo Po even before reaching the threshold saying, “Goncalo, the good captain and I are to come in. Be so kind as to find us out some paper.” This was his way of forewarning his servant to put away the blunderbuss. Bruggeman halted outside the door, like a guard keen to ensure those within were not disturbed, but Bertrand and the boy followed Grijalva inside. The innkeeper was soon busy scratching out a fictional piece of coastline upon a sheet of paper, waxing lyrical about the features that might be seen there and how to spot the right river mouth.

Suddenly Captain Bertrand spoke, addressing the young seaman by his side. “It occurs to me lad that having never been to Tabriz you would not know Goncalo here. Let me introduce him to you, Goncalo is one of our host’s guards - without the likes of him poor Grijalva would be at a considerable disadvantage in this town. His customers, being fellows of a rough disposition, would no doubt take liberties. I intend to take just such a liberty, so please, lad, if you would be so kind.”

Grijalva had ceased both drawing and babbling, his mild confusion turning suddenly into fear. Goncalo on the other hand never got to feel fear. He had not got past confusion when the younker’s pistol ball smashed through his forehead and out the other side, taking much of his brains with it to create a grisly decoration upon the wall surrounding the spot the ball had finally buried itself.

Very calmly, Bertrand went on, only just loud enough to be heard over the ringing in Grijalva’s ears. “That’s a pretty map indeed, though I think it not just fancy but fanciful. I know the western coast of the Southlands, and there is no such stretch as you have committed there to paper. Now, you see from poor Goncalo just how strongly we feel about obtaining the real map. I know you have a copy, for who but a fool would watch a fleet set sail to its potential doom and allow the map to be lost with them. I suggest you show me the map now, otherwise I might have to see if mine own pistol is as reliable as Adriaan’s, then have a look around this room myself.”

All thoughts of trying to trick Bertrand had fled Grijalva’s mind. All that was left was a rather large thought concerning how to stay alive. The first part of the answer was obvious - he would have to part with the map. He put his hand down the front of his shirt and pulled it out. “Wouldst thou believe it?” he said, his pretence at humour failing due to the tremor in his voice. “Here it is. How foolish I must appear ... to ... to have thought to outwit thee. B-believe me when I say I have learned my lesson well here today, and will from this day hence speak always honest with thee captain. Of course, I expect no share of thine own profit from the city of gold, for I am ashamed to admit I have no right at all to ask it of thee.”

Captain Bertrand thought this suitably contrite, and could think of no reason to kill the innkeeper now. Grijalva had been caught out in a lie to a captain of the council, and his man had suffered for it. Apart from that he had done no wrong. Bertand took the map, bowed a little and left. His lad lingered a moment, looking at the bloody stain on the wall, then he too left. Finally, Bruggeman’s face appeared in the doorway, peeking in. He looked at Goncalo and the wall above him and said, “All that mess and with just one little bullet. Makes you wonder what would have happened if I had entered with the captain.”

With that he hefted his terrifying piece of personal artillery onto his shoulder, and marched away to join the others. Grijalva sat at his desk, trembling. He did not really notice when Corine entered, nor how she crouched beside Goncalo to stare at what had once been his face. Slowly but surely a thought pushed its way to dominate his consciousness - revenge. One day, when Scholten and the Six and the god they served had finally wrested control of Tabriz, he would start his own rule of terror by seeking out Bertrand and making him as afraid as he had been just now. Then it would be Bertrand Le Bourreur's turn to struggle for excuses to save his life.

 

[Captain Crooks]

My favourite part so far is when the admiral lost his wig! it's the little details, hehe!

 

[Padre]

The Captain’s Cabin
Aboard Captain Bertrand Le Bourreur’s Ship ‘Sea Drake’
In the Bay of Tabriz

Here is the captain’s table just after he cleared a space to lay down the map and peruse it.

I know what you are thinking: you want a better look at that map. I can hardly blame you for that - but should I show it to you?

The map was drawn by a pilot in Tabriz with some skill in cartography. He took Webbe Nijman’s description of his river journey and the coast near the river mouth, as well as his account of where exactly the river mouth lay in relation to Hurry By Island, and then combined it with an existing chart of the region to fashion this particular map.

Can you keep a secret?

Oh, go on then - you’ve twisted my arm. Here it is …

 

[Padre]

The Grand Palace
Inner Quarter, The City of Amon

“What say you, then?” asked the Prince Sadrin al Marwan as soon as the wizard Zadra returned to his presence. “Are the man’s claims true?”

Zadra nodded. “He appears to be not only truthful but correct in his findings.”

“How is it that no-one else has discovered what he has found?”

The wizard smiled, “Oh, they have, your highness. There is every indication that the great Sultan of Lashiek once learned of its existence, not more than a score of years ago, and that he went so far as to send a fleet secretly to find it by the sea route and upriver. No ships returned, and not one man. The whole affair was considered an embarrassment, and it was claimed the fleet, nothing more than a slaving expedition destined for the coast south of the Gulf of Medes, was lost in a terrible storm. The Sultan seems also to have had the records of the city destroyed, or hidden, for he jealously wanted no one else to learn of it and perhaps profit by what he could not obtain.”

“But not all records concerning it were destroyed, eh?” suggested the prince.

“You are wise as ever, your highness. Our scholar found works that mentioned the city that even the Sultan did not know of. He also studied all that he could find concerning the Dwarven realm of Karak Zorn, and indeed has evidence that in years gone by it conducted trade with the southern desert tribes. Once and only once, a sheikh was permitted to take a great train of camels and mules south along the dwarfen road, and lucky for us he wrote of his journey. From his words, and those of slavers who have made efforts to learn of the tribes and geography of the eastern jungles closest to the mountains, our scholar has ascertained his route, and from the written words of one very ancient traveller, he has cleverly discovered the location of the golden city in relation to this route.”

“You believe him them?” asked the prince. “You would stake you life on it?”

Zadra grinned, for between the prince and he this was no threat but an old joke. Then he looked more serious. “I believe him, my prince. I cannot say that the route is passable, nor that the dangers upon the way are surmountable. But I believe that the city is there where he claims.”

Prince Sadrin laughed. “Let me concern over how we might get there. If it exists upon this world, then it can be reached. Consider this, how could a city be made that could not be reached by those who made it? We can cut through jungle vines, or burn down forests. We can make rafts for swamps and boats for rivers. And we can fight as only the warriors of Amon can fight against all that would stand in our way.”

For the next hour the wizard Zadra had little to do, for the prince busied himself with ordering his commanders and clerks to prepare the army and supplies that would be needed.

Prince Sadrin’s Army of Amon (An Empire Army roster - 7th ed rules)

Characters
General: Prince Sadrin al Marwan
Camel (as warhorse), Sword of Justice, Dawn Armor, Holy Relic
Captain: Agha Qilij ad-Din an-Nasawa (Standard Bearer)
Heavy Armour; Battle Standard = Griffon Standard
Battle Wizard: Zadra ibn Borhasa
Level 2; Rod of Power; Sigil of Sigmar
Battle Wizard: Mukri al-Hajib
Level 2; Talisman of Protection, The Silver Horn

State Troops
25 Spears of the Desert (Full Command) with 10 [Det] Crossbowmen
25 Spears of the Middle Palace (Full Command) with 10 [Det] Crossbowmen
25 Royal Guard Swordsmen (Full Command)
10 Handgunners with Musician & Marksman

Militia Troops
20 Northern Tribe Archers with Marksman

Tribal Warriors (as DoW ‘Vespero's Vendetta’ Special Choice):
10 Tribal Warriors

Cavalry both as rare choices
10 Camel Cavalry (as DoW Heavy Cavalry): (Full Command), War Banner
10 Desert Riders (as DoW Light Cavalry): (Full Command)

War Engines:
2 Great Cannons & 1 Mortar

Subtotal = 2462 points

Plus (this is not army list legal like all of the above, but rather is ‘flufftastic’)
War Elephant (as Stegadon without giant bow)

Total = 2697 points
......................................................................................................................

Scenario rules for Nomadic Greenskin attack on the arab column

The Arabs have 2739 pts compared with the Greenskins 2041 pts, thus there is an approx. 700 point advantage to the Arabs. For fairness a scenario is needed. Well, the Greenskins are raiders and robbers by 'trade' thus I've come up with ...

Scenario “Get them supplies!”

Duration 6 turns

Terrain Hills, a valley

Deployment
Arabs deploy as a column (see rules below) perpendicular to enemy. Can put 1/2 to 2/3 of units onto table, remainder count as off table (i.e. to one side). Remainder deploy second turn, arriving on the near half of whichever table side the column rules (below) dictate. Characters deploy at same time as baggage though some can stay off field if the are with the units that arrive on turn 2.

Column rules

* Artillery are limbered and take one turn to unlimber and deploy. If remain limbered then move like 4” moving chariot (slightly faster than normal), but no charges.
* Baggage has to be deployed on the table, and must be either in the middle or at the rear of the column (baggage is never at the front of an advancing army). Thus if baggage is at the front of the part of the column on the table, then the unplaced units are off the table to the front; if the column is in the middle or at the rear then of the part of the column on the field, then the unplaced units are off table to either side, player deciding at the point he puts the baggage down.
* The arab column deploys in their deployment zone, straight across or diagonal, and must look like an army on the march along a route, the units being arranged in a single file line (not the men, the units.)

Victory Points
Looting - Any individual Greenskin unit that (a) contacts the arabs' baggage and (b) has any members alive (even fleeing) at the end of the game gets 150 VP. They are carrying loot! If the arabs destroy the greenskins’ baggage, they gain 100 VP. The greenskins’ current loot is rubbish.
Greenskin flight - Greenskin units that flee or move off the table do not count towards the arabs’ VP total. They are in their own realm and can easily escape to reform somewhere else. They always intended to rob then flee so they are doing what they expected to do.
Arab VP - As normal (apart from not gaining VP from enemy who moved off the table for any reason or are fleeing at the end of the game). They need to kill as many greenskins as possible so that they are not harassed during the rest of their journey through this realm.

.................... .................................................................................................................................
The enemy list:

Bonemawler's Greenskin Nomad Army (2041 pts)

Warboss BoneMawler (General) on Wyvern
Porko's Pigstikka, Enchanted Shield, Horn of Urgok
Big Boss Erbad (Army Standard Bearer) in Orc Boar Chariot
Gork's Waaagh! Banner
Big Boss Dufdig in Orc Boar Chariot
Ulags Akk'rit Axe, Nibbla's 'Itty Ring
Big Boss Clubcra in Orc Boar Chariot
Shaga's Screamin' Sword

7 Goblin Wolf Riders (Full Command) with Bows
6 Goblin Wolf Riders (Full Command) with Bows
7 Goblin Wolf Riders (Full Command) with Spears & Shields

9 Boar Boyz Mob (Full Command) with Nogg's Banner of Butchery
8 Boar Boyz Mob (Full Command)

1 Goblin Wolf Chariot
1 Goblin Wolf Chariot

Baggage

......................................................................................................................

Battle of the Southern Valley Before the Fighting Starts

Note: See army lists and scenario rules above

Prince Sadrin’s Army of Amon had been marching now for just over three weeks. Consisting mostly of desert raised arabs and the rest of hardened veteran soldiers of the standing army, this meant they had covered a considerable distance and had already moved from the rocky deserts into the slightly greener foothills of the World’s Edge Mountains. Each day the column would inevitably become more stretched out then when it set off at dawn, but the Prince compensated by making sure that the crucial baggage train, carrying the victuals of the army without which it could not possibly be expected to fight, was not at the rear and that the regiments behind it were ordered not to move ahead of it. Nor were the artillery pieces allowed to tarry at the rear. This way the slowest elements of the column - heavily laden camels and slaves, and horse teams lugging huge guns - could not become stranded and vulnerable to raiders.

Nevertheless whatever orders were given regarding positions in the column, the events of a day’s march and the varying nature of the troops did mean that during daylight hours the army’s formation could alter. Not that the Prince worried about this, for why concern oneself with things that were impossible to change? Always pragmatic, he simply made sure that he himself rode with his lance armed camel cavalry in the rearguard, thus ensuring he could not miss any troubles that the units in front suffered. Behind him there was only the Elephant and the recently raised handgunners, the latter armed in a fashion that made them perfect for signalling (loudly) if any threat presented from the rear.

There had been reports of wolf-riding goblins for the last four days, and although some scaremongers built such sightings up into tales of armies lying in wait in the hills, most of the warriors of Amon thought they were merely members of the scattered and weak bands of marauders who preyed on caravans throughout the region but would surely not be strong enough to attempt an attack upon an army such as theirs. That said, there was still a distinct air of caution as the army marched, and several small companies of light horse had been ordered to act as outriders, to scour the land upon all sides of the column and race back with reports of any potential danger.

The column was approaching a wide valley, where the going would surely be easier for a little while. What the Prince did not know was that he would be fighting a full scale battle within the hour. The hills upon either side where rocky in places, and patches of soggy mire sat between some of them, but the ground along the middle of the valley was dry enough - whatever river had carved the valley out (if that’s what it was) was long gone. Little water reached the desert from these hills.

Unusually, the limbered mortar led the column, it’s crew having set off with the Swordsmen first that morning. Perhaps they had thought that this way, as the army overtook them later, they would still be somewhere in the middle of the coloumn by the end of the day? The Palace Guard Spear regiment and its crossbow detachment came next, followed by the large body of slave archers. Both cannons were being hauled together behind those archers, followed by the only unit of Light Horse remaining with the column and not out attempting to scout. A third large Foot regiment, the Desert Spears, marched next, ahead of the baggage, then came Gamouzo’s skirmishing tribal warriors.

Behind all of this, yet even to enter the valley, rode Prince Sadrin and his camel cavalry, followed by the war elephant and the handgunners. The mortar was crewed by city soldiers, men who had recently returned from Marienburg with the Prince, having acquired their artillery piece from that northern realm.

The slave archers in the centre of the column might be thought to be poor soldiers - but not so. Each knew that if they did good service upon this campaign then they would be granted full freedom, and even a chance then to enlist in the Prince’s standing army. In the meantime, they had the same rations as all the other foot soldiers, and they knew that their native skill in archery was sufficient to see them through a battle.

The two cannons were mighty pieces indeed, both also from the northern old world, one with a bronze barrel and the other cast iron. Desert warriors formed the crew of these, having been hastily trained in the art of gunnery before this expedition by the master gunner from one of Amon’s warships.

The baggage train was large, not just because the army was large too, but also because of the long distance the Prince intended to travel. Even so, Prince Sadrin knew full well that his men would have to forage and plunder once they reached the jungles. This did not over-concern him, however, because he knew the lush jungle to be fruitful as well as abundant in flesh, fish and fowl. The Wizard Zadra, travelling with Gamouzo looked down upon the baggage in front of him and took its measure. Not that he cared what it was carrying now, rather it was what it could carry back from the city of gold than interested him.

 

[Padre]

The Battle, Part One (Turn 1)
(NB: Not much time tonight, will try to convert a bigger post tomorrow.)

Suddenly a force of Greenskin raiders, much larger than any had thought could possibly muster under one leader in such a barren and sparsely populated place, almost a full Waagh!, came thundering over the hills upon the other side of the valley - threatening the left flank of almost the entire column.

On the Greenskins’ far right flank was a huge and monstrous creature, a wyvern, upon which the leader of the raiding force was mounted, Warboss BoneMawler. By his left side was the first of three wolfrider companies, and then came his three lieutenants (or Big Bosses as the greenskins liked to call them): Dufdig, Erbad and Clubcra. All three were mounted in huge Boar chariots which made a sound like thunder as the trundled along. Two companies of Boar Riders came next in the line, the second being the biggest, meanest orcs in the army. These Big Uns were preceded by the second of the wolfrider companies, and flanked to their left by two wolf-drawn chariots, much lighter than the Big Bosses’ boar chariots. Last (and indeed least) came the third company of Wolfriders, out on the far left flank of the army.

They took the army of Amon entirely by surprise. Without doubt, they must have overwhelmed and destroyed any scouts who had come close to them, for no report of their presence in the vicinity of the column had been brought to the Prince. They probably chose the spot carefully, knowing the land well for it was their land, and thus it was they had managed to get so close and appear ‘out of the blue’ (quite literally) on the horizon of the valley side. Yet some of their surprise was lost by the need to descend down the hill and into the valley, and the arabs of Amon used that time well. (Game note: the arabs got first turn, and so could manoeuvre their column into better positions before the Greenskins were on them! )

The Army of Amon now sounded drum and trumpet not in alarm but in order to transmit all the signals needed to wheel and reform and create some sort of battle line to meet the enemy. Gamouzo brought his warriors down from the hill to bring them towards the baggage train, hoping to provide some defence for the vital supplies. The train itself reformed and slunk back into the dip between two hills, trying to present as small a front as possible to the advancing Greenskins. The Desert Spears and their crossbow detachment turned to face the foe, one reforming, the other wheeling so as to bring their numbers to bear. Within the ranks of the Desert spear stood the second arab wizard, Mukri al-Hajib, as well as the Agha Qilij ad-Din an-Nasawa, who was the army standard bearer.

The two cannons in the centre hurriedly unlimbered and prepare themselves to fire …

… while the skirmishing archers turned to move towards the enemy, but not so far that they could not employ their bows also. The Palace Spearmen ended up in front of their detachment of Crossbows, due to their haste to get to the foe. Off even further out than them, the Swordsmen wheeled about and the mortar also unlimbered like the other artillery pieces.

The Light Horse, being the fastest and most flexible troops in the line, moved right out towards the enemy, hoping that by doing so they could intercept or at least slow the foe’s advance down. The rest of the army watched in a spirit of awe as these brave riders galloped out far ahead ready to make a lonely stand just to buy the rest of the army time.

But the riders had not gone so far that they could not attempt to shoot with their bows. When they did so they caused the first casualties of the day, bringing down two goblin wolfriders. On many occasions this would have been enough to send such cowardly warriors scarpering off in flight, but these goblins thought differently. Perhaps they had spotted the rich prize and that emboldened them to stay a little bit longer even in a place where their comrades had just died? Apart from these two deaths, the arabs with their magic and shooting could do no further harm to the Greenskins in this opening phase of the battle.

Apart from the goblin wolf riders on the far right, none of other Greenskins fell to squabbling just yet and all made their way forwards. BoneMawler cursed to himself, however, for he knew that there were more arab soldiers off to the right and he had intended to use the squabbling goblins as a distraction to slow them down. Nevertheless, he himself landed his wyvern in the far right - if the goblins could not counter the enemy's inevitable flanking move, then he and his monstrous mount would have to try.

The wolf, boar and chariot mounted warriors moved up, each unit starting to wheel so that they aimed straight at the baggage. Every Greenskin there wanted that loot, and they could think of little else!

The Greenskins could do nothing with arrows or magic (they had no shamans with them, just a magical item or two), but this did not worry them. Like I said, they had loot on their mind and being creatures of little wit, that greedy thought filled what mind they had almost entirely.

 

[Padre]

(Turn 2)

The three Big Bosses in their hulking chariots trundled forwards, their drivers’ long whips cracking at the tough hides of the boars. The lashes did not cause much pain to the boars, but registered enough to at least steer them, and the line of the three chariots was unusually neat (and, like the rest of the army, headed directly for the pack camels and mules).

With a huge roar accompanied by the fast beating of kettledrums, the rear of the Arabyan column entered the field of battle.

The handgunners scrambled up the hill and formed into a double line so that they could fire salvos employing every piece down at the foe. The war elephant, closest to the huge wvyern but entirely unafraid of it, perhaps helped by the fact that it towered over the winged serpent, turned to block the War Boss’s path. The crew had not thought what they would do if the wyvern simply flew over them, as it so obviously intended to do! Prince Sadrin and his elite regiment of camel riders took up position on the elephant’s right flank, planning to charge at any foe approaching Gamouzo and his tribal warriors who had now bravely moved in front of the baggage.

The light horse in the very centre of the battlefield speedily reformed so that they could launch a cloud of arrows at the wolf riders attempting to run right by them. These arrows were joined by twenty more coming from the slave archers, which all added up to kill all but two of the goblins. This last pair fled away, and much to the Big Un’s annoyance, their flight put them right in the way of the boar riders’ intended charge into the exposed flank of the light horse. (Game Note: There ought to be a army book rule about this sort of thing - would these orcs have halted a charge because a couple of gobbo’s might have been hurt? I mean really? Then again, as you’ll see soon, they didn’t get in the way in the end!! )

Out on the far right of the newly formed Arabyan line the swords and spears did what they could to approach the side of the field where the fighting was to happen. The two wizards now attempted to employ what magic they could, but although they managed first to gift Gamouzo with the strength and ferocity of a lion (Note: Bear’s Anger) Zadra then fumbled over the words of his next spell and the resultant wild magic struck him bloodily and collapsed the spell on Gamouzo!

The artillery proved a lot more effective than the wizards. Not the mortar, for it misfired (its crew having been over hasty in unlimbering and preparing to fire and somehow botching the procedure). It was the cannons who came good. Both sent their iron balls right into the wyvern and in that one dual blast tore through its chest and passed through its heart (amongst other major organs). War Boss BoneMawler now found himself lying on the ground beside his dead mount. As he got to his feet he silently cursed, and vowed vengeance on the Arabs for what they had done.

As ever with Greenskins, even in the midst of battle, arguments have a tendency of breaking out, as one goblin annoys another or one orc takes offence at another’s face. Thus it was now, even in sight of the foe and the rich haul of baggage, that the lesser of the two boar riders’ units, and the wolf riders out on the farthest left, chsoe to squabble amongst themselves instead of advancing. If the wolf riders had not been so distracted, they might have driven the skirmishing archers away, and the board riders may even have reached Gamouzo. One unit, however, the Big Uns, chose this moment to close on their foe with renewed vigour, and pushed right through the pair of fleeing goblins before them to close right up to the horse. (Game note: We decided that in a compulsory move like this, two goblins would not force a big unit of Big Un’s to go around them and so we just pushed the two goblins out to the side)

When the Big Un’s launched their inevitable charge the light horse chose to flee but they could not outrun the enraged boars and were slaughtered in flight to a man. The Big Un boar riders trampled bloodily over their broken bodies, their momentum barely lessened, and smashed right into the huge block of Desert Spears.

Already the Greenskins were reaching the foe. Perhaps even with a wyvern lying dead on the field they could salvage success from this? BoneMawler moved himself over to to the elephant’s flank, not wanting to face a charge from such a monster, while the three Big Boss Chariots advanced once more. The wolf riders on the right flank advanced, perhaps thinking about attempting to aid their War Boss (but being goblins, probably having no such loyal action on their mind.)

The Big Un’s on boars hit the Desert Spears very hard, their Boss challenging and fighting the wizard, the rest slaying the Amon army standard bearer Agha Qilij (Game note: That Griffon Standard, if still there, would have saved them from running!) and killing the entire front rank. Although the Arabyan second rank thrust their spears forwards at the orcs, they could not harm them. This was a brutal blow the men of the desert could not withstand, and they broke and fled and were cut down just like the horsemen.

(Turns 3 & 4)

With a roar that could be heard by the swordsmen upon the far side of the field, the war elephant now charged towards Big Boss Erbad’s chariot, a sight so terrifying that Erbad immediately turned and ran. War Boss Bonemawler thanked the orcen gods Gork and Mork that the beast and its crew had ignored him - his own legs would not have carried him to safety like the boars pulling the chariot had done for Erbad!

Frustratingly for Prince Sadrin, he and his heavy camel cavalry could not get through the gap ahead of them, so they could not join in the elephant’s charge. Elsewhere, however, other Arabyans did manage a charge - the Palace Spearmen chasing off a unit of wolfriders. Neither of these Arabyan charges reached the foe. These Greenskins were proving top be not only mobile but slippery too!

As the Arabyan wizards’ magic fizzled and failed, a variety of artillery pieces gave fire. The mortar proved very effective now that it did not misfire, killing three of the orc boar riders who had been squabbling - a turn of events which first snapped them out of their quarrel and then dismayed them so much that they turned and fled! At the same time, one of the canons misfired, but the other tore one of the boar chariots apart, leaving Big Boss Dufdig to continue the battle on foot, just like his master Bonemawler. Dufdig hefted his magical axe and eyed the elephant off to his right. He needed time to work out exactly what he might do next, not that he was dazed by the sudden destruction of his chariot, rather that his orcen brain was not exactly built for speedy thinking!

The goblin wolfriders on the far right realised that they could hit the elephant in its flank. Steeling themselves to overcome their fear of its huge size, and experiencing a rare surge of boldness they began to move towards it. Then, holding their spears tips high to aim at the beasts heavy cloth covered flank, they charged.

The unusually brave goblins did manage to drag one crewman out of the howdah and pierce him with spears as he lay on the ground, but while they did so three of their own number were trampled to death. Belatedly realising the utter foolishness of attempting to attack such a massive monster, the survivors now did what goblins do best and ran away.

Their bravery in charging in the first place had not gone unnoticed. Not wanting to be outdone by a bunch of pathetic goblins several orcs also charged the foe. Bonemawler, still a little unbalanced by the death of his wyvern, threw himself alone into the camel riders and challenged the prince himself to fight. Big Boss Clubcra, having decided that although there was something frightening about Gamouzo he would not let it stop him, charged headlong into the tribal warriors blocking the way to the baggage.

This proved utterly overhwelming for the southlander skirmishers: the heavy chariot tore four of them down from the impact alone, and more still were gored by the boars. Clubcra smashed Gamouzo’s head in with his Screamin’ Sword, then hacked it completely off for good measure. The last surviving tribal warriors fled along with Zadra the wizard, and were ridden down brutally by the chariot. (Zadra lay unconscious but not quite dead amongst their broken bodies.) Clubcra thus found himself in amongst the baggage he and the rest of BoneMawler’s raiders had lusted after for days. His sword was bloody, his boars enraged and he was surrounded by loot. He was in Greenskin heaven!

Still more charges were being delivered, not least the two goblin chariots who now launched themselves at the Arabyans’ cannons. They might not be as heavy as the orc boar chariots, but this had proved a boon so far, for the foe had failed to notice them and thus had not put a stop to them. One was studded with arrows, yes, but it still had momentum enough to crash into the cannon crew. Between them, these two chariots killed every gunner and crewman there. The Arabyans would not be using their guns any more this battle.

To the rear of the Greenskin’s line Big Boss Erbad figured it was safe to stop running and turn about to see what was happening. One of the goblin wolf rider units did the same. The orc boar riders and the pair of wolfriders in the very centre of the field, however, decided that they would go a little further before turning back around, just to make sure no one could reach them.

The Big Un boar riders busied themselves reforming on the rocky ground were they had dispersed the Desert Spears, to face towards the hill that was between them and their real goal - the baggage. Off on the other side of that baggage BoneMawler and the Prince of Amon were locked in combat, both drawing blood, but Bonemawler’s rage held and he fought on. The two of them now began a drawn-out combat that would see them busy thrusting, hacking and parrying for some time.

The skirmishing slave archers chose this moment to see if they could chase off the wolf chariots, as they had previously failed to finish them off with their bows. Both chariots fled (the archers charge would have allowed them to reach both), and both were actually happy about this, for their voluntary flight took them towards the Arabyan baggage! The crossbows on the hill managed to rally and reform to face the slowly advancing boar riders, though in truth their hearts were not really set upon facing a charge by a unit of Big Uns that had just chased down an entire regiment of twenty five and two of their nobles.

As the war elephant wheeled to try and get itself to a position where it might launch a telling charge, the handgunners on the hill took pot shots at Dufdig (who was running around below them on his own). The Greenskin gods must have favoured him, for all the bullets all missed. While Dufdig pranced about his fellow Big Boss, Clubcra, easily dispatched the few arab slaves willing to try and defend the baggage, and thus rolled his chariot right into the heart of the loot. (Game note: The baggage was counted as a kind of mobile terrain feature, with four models who could be used like a cannon crew to defend it. Now that Clubcra had properly contacted it, then as long as he was alive at the end of the game then he would get the +150 VP bonus for having grabbed some loot.)

For some reason known only to themselves, the spear armed wolf riders now decided they would move towards the Palace Spearmen, as if to threaten them (Animosity @ 6), but then they came to their senses and moved directly away again as far as they could - it was far enough that the Spearmen could not possibly reach them in a charge.

(This pic is from just before the wolfriders’ bizarrely bold turn toward the foe. )

Big Boss Erbad, however, felt a little more reckless and attempted to charge the elephant’s exposed flank with his chariot. He failed, as the beast was just too far away for his lumbering war machine to reach it. The Big Un boar riders at the bottom of the hill looked up at the crossbowmen above them …

… and decided to stop faffing about trying to reform and get on with the business of battle. They charged them, slowed a little by the rocky ground, admittedly, they would still have been able to reach them if the arabs had not chosen to flee away (which they did). Still, the board riders could now see the baggage down below them and some of them were literally salivating at the thought of what they could take.

Behind them one of the wolf chariots slowed its flight as the crew chose to stick around. The other one turned to its left to get away as quickly as possible from the archers behind. This proved a very bad decision for it passed over the rear of the rocky ground just vacated by the boar riders and jolted itself to pieces, tossing it's crew down to dash them against the rocks. Far away, next to the Greenskin’s own baggage which was behind a hill on the far side of the valley, the other boar riders finally stopped their running and turned to see if anyone was following them. As they stood there, with their own baggage closer to the foe than themselves, they wondered what BoneMawler might have to say to them later about their lack of contribution to the fighting. What they didn’t know was that BoneMawler was trying to fight an entire regiment of heavy cavalry and a heroic Arabyan prince to boot - a state of affairs that made it rather unlikely they would have to listen to his complaints that evening.

Not that BoneMawler was dead yet - he remained locked in combat with the Prince and once again drew royal blood! His fury held a bit longer and he fought on, refusing to accept that against so many his fight must surely prove ultimately futile.

While he fought, Clubcra was rolling his loot-laden chariot through the baggage, and Dufdig was still trying to get away from the war elephant. All in all the Greenskins were not having too bad a day!

(Turns 5 & 6)

The War Elephant tried its best to run down Big Boss Dufdig, but the orc was nimble on his feet and ran out of its reach. The Crossbowmen on the hill who had just run from the Boar Riders rallied, reformed their ranks and re-spanned their bows. Maybe they could make a stand after all? The northern tribe archers, on the other hand, simply got on with the business of shooting and managed to stick an arrow or two into the goblin wolf chariot. They only really scratched it a bit. The handgunners up on the hill thought they might at least stop Big Boss Clubcra trundling away with his burden of loot, and shot a volley down at him. Once again, their skill (or perhaps the quality of their powder) proved deficient, for they could not harm him.

(Game Notes: Various other units, the swordsmen and the other crossbow detachment now slowed their attempts to cross the field. They couldn’t move quick enough to contribute to the fighting, and so the player got to thinking about table quarter VPs!)

Even though the mortar landed a grenado right on top of the Big Un boar riders it seemed the orcs and their ‘sangliers’ (as the Bretonni would say) were made of tough stuff. Not one was felled by the thunderous blast. War Boss BoneMawler was not so lucky as his Big Uns, nor as fast as his Big Boss. In fact all his luck ran out as he ran away. Finally realising that he could expect only death at the hands of an entire regiment of heavy camel cavalry and their prince, he turned to flee and was trampled to death by the enemy’s pursuit.

The crew of the last surviving wolf chariot now whooped with glee as their war machine rolled into the midst of the Arabyan baggage. They couldn’t stuff loot into their chariot quick enough!

The Big Un boar riders, finally fully extricated from the rough ground, now tried a second charge at the recently rallied crossbowmen and this time smashed right into them. Nine Arabyans out of the ten died in the next moment, and the boars’ momentum carried them onwards and straight down into the baggage. More whoops of joy sounded, though these a little deeper in tone than the previous squeaky shouts of the goblins, and the while the boars began goring and feasting on camels, the Big Uns grabbed everything of value they could find.

Various other Greenskins were backing off now - knowing that their tribe had done what they had come here to do. Clubcra left in his chariot, while the wolf riders and Dufdig kept moving ahead of the foe. The crew of the war elephant were desperately trying to turn their beast to charge at the plundering wolf chariot, but they could not manage (Out of charge arc!). Instead they thought they might at least prevent Big Boss Erbad in his chariot reaching the baggage and swung the creature around to block him. Big Boss Dufdig was slowing down, chuffed to see that the elephant was no longer chasing him. He was out of breath, and stopped for a moment to work out what he could do next. He never did decide, because twenty archers sent a cloud of arrows his way to pierce him from head to toe. He was dead (from one that went into his eye) before he even hit the ground.

Erbad was not going to let an elephant get in the way of his chance to get some loot. Not that he charged the elephant (he was not that daft) instead he just squeezed by it and trundled off into the baggage. (Game Notes: This was the fourth and final Greenskin unit to gain the scenario baggage VP - that’s 600 VP altogether.)

All the remaining arabs could do, scattered as they were across the valley, was watch in despair as greedy green hands robbed their baggage and disappeared off into the evening’s gloom.

The Army of Amon’s march south was going to prove a hungry one!

Result: 1060 VP to Greenskins. Solid Victory.

---------------------------------------------------------
Game Commentary

I played the Greenskins, though I did describe the army lists and scenario to my opponent and gave him the choice of which side to play. He picked the arabs. (Thanks Tom, btw, for an excellent game.)

You probably thought that the Arab deployment was odd, but Tom was trying to make me struggle to deploy appropriately by leaving his baggage placement until last, and several big gaps it could possibly fit in so I couldn’t guess. This way I was placing my units without knowing where their goal would be! The trouble is he was then left with those big gaps in his line, and units like the Black Swordsmen and Palace Spears were stuck right out on his right flank and unable to get into the battle. Also, I left my Orc units ‘til last so that they at least would be close to the baggage.

Oh, and you may have noticed I forget to do Waagh in nearly every game when I play Greenskins! It could have helped. Then again it was a win, so I shouldn’t really complain.

 

[Captain Crooks]

I'd hate to be the general that had to contend with a hungry war elephant post-battle...

 

[Padre]

Aboard the Terrible Corsair
Nine miles upriver

Herman Gouma was getting annoyed. “I’ll have you know I’ve been seeing ‘em all morning,” he insisted, “and I won’t stand for you calling me a liar.”

Stefanus wanted him to be wrong, and was now beginning to realise it was this urge that was making him disbelieve his friend. “I ain’t saying you’re not seeing something, just that it’s most likely some monkeys or lizards or some such creature.”

“I know the walking dead when I see them. Besides, I recognised one of ‘em.”

Stefanus fell silent. Now he really wanted Herman to be wrong. “It just doesn’t make sense. I know we’re fighting the current and the tide, and I know the wind is against us and them that are on the oars are tired, but how could anything move through that tangle of green fast enough to keep up with us?”

Herman rolled his eyes. “How can they move at all? They’re dead! But they do, so what’s a bit of jungle to them when they shouldn’t be walking at all?”

“Give me the glass,” demanded Stefanus. “I’ll look for myself.” He rubbed the end with his shirt sleeve then placed the instrument up to his eye. First he saw just the river water, then the dense greenery came into view. Nothing. “There’s nothing I can see, not even monkeys. How many did …Wait! Wait a moment. Ho! I see something!”

“Told you so,” muttered Herman.

There was movement in amongst the leaves and vines, then suddenly a man stepped out almost into full view. His putrid flesh was an awful shade of green and his eyes stared blankly out while his mouth hung open. He wore a jerkin of leather over a torn shirt of linen. In his hand he clutched a pistol, which he suddenly lifted up to aim out at the Tabrizian fleet of smaller ships and boats making their way upriver. Then he stood, the pistol swaying about as if he was drunk, and gave every appearance of watching.

“I see one, and I think another behind him.”

“Is it Kurt?” asked Herman.

Stefanus took the glass from his eye. “It was Kurt you saw?”

“Aye, and he didn’t look too well.”

Replacing the glass, Stefanus now began to move it along the river’s edge. More undead appeared, a whole bunch of them: one pointing a rusted blunderbuss, another with an arrow stuck right through his belly!

“Manaan save us! They’re there alright, and umpteen of ‘em. I reckon the whole army is following us.” Then he saw another three, the two at the front just as green as the first he saw, but behind them, still wearing his blue head scarf, still clutching the huge bone he used as a club in fights and almost the same colour he had been when alive, was Kurt. They’d left him on the dunes with a cutlass thrust into his back and zombies scrambling over him. Now here he was following them.

"I can see him now."

“Do you think he’s changed sides, then?” said Herman.

Stefanus was not in the mood for jests and asked, “D’you think we’ll end up like that?”

“It’s not what I’ve got planned. I wants a proper share of the gold, then a fine time turning it into hot liquors while I play with the wenches in Tabriz, and in the end to be put in the ground, all nice and restful.”

Stefanus listened absently to Herman’s words whilst scanning further along with the glass. Suddenly he gasped, a fearful chill coursing right through him as he saw the monstrous face of Grand Admiral Galdabash himself looking right at him!

“Manaan and all the gods protect me!” he prayed as he whipped the glass from his eye. After gulping and steadying himself on the gunwhale, he handed the glass back. “Here, Herman, you keep at if you want. I’m done with looking at the jungle.”

 

[Padre]

Temple of the Living God Bo-Tana-Oon

The birds and monkeys had been behaving unusually for two days. Something in the air had disturbed them, some smell or sound that only they could sense. They were quiet, still and watchful. This odd behaviour in turn had affected the pygmies - though their particular response was to become fearful, then agitated, and then to pray to their gods. One of their gods, the living god Bo-Tana-Oon, pondered upon what all this might mean. Unlike the older generations of Slann, he did not ponder long - a minute or so was long enough for him. Being a larval Slann*, sparkling thoughts danced about his young brain rather more quickly than an adult, perhaps because they were of a less deep and complicated nature. Not that he was infantile compared to the lesser races’ adult forms: he had some mastery of magic and considerable knowledge of many arts. It was more that what cleverness he had was nimble and immediate in form, not lumbered by a great weight of knowledge garnered over centuries. Bontanoan (the name he himself used) possessed a much more instinctive intelligence than his ancient father. He was more in tune with the song of the jungle.

At the close of his brief contemplation he decided there must be something new in the jungle, something the birds and monkeys found disturbing, so he called for his two spawn brothers. His shrill, piercing cry could be heard for more than two miles and made the fauna even more nervous. He then waited, standing upon the huge stone dais that served as his temple, his only companions a handful of pygmy servants and guards.

The pygmy chief Atta-oeyga had to steel himself not to cover his ears as the living god Bo-Tana-Oon gave a cry like the brightly feathered Jallo birds, though much more powerful (of course). No magic was used in making the call, at least not that Atta-oeyga could sense, nor was any animal horn or shell employed. His totem bearer flinched by his side, no doubt making the dried-bean filled skulls on the totem rattle - not that any of the pygmies could hear the sound over the heavenly screeching. The cry ended abruptly, not so the echo, but eventually there was silence. For some time afterwards, not one beast, fowl nor even an insect sullied its god-given potency. Then, there was a new sound and Chief Atta-oeyga felt a surge of anger at what he thought was irreverence, sacrilege even - until he realised it was made by the brother gods Ta-Dino-Po and Go-Akill-An. Of course they, and only they, had the right to impose themselves on Bo-Tana-Oon in such a manner. The two leapt lithely onto the dais, then halted suddenly, adopting a stance so still that they appeared to have transformed in a flash from flesh to statues. This heavenly talent to instantly remove themselves from the world of motion, to enter a state in which time itself seemed to have no dominion over them, had always impressed Atta-oeyga. It was considered a sacred trait, so much so that in the last season three children had been fed to the Salamanders as punishment for playing a game in which they mocked this holy practise.

Bontanoan greeted his two siblings with a blink of both eyes. Like them, he was garbed in ornate armour which to warm-bloods’ eyes looked to be fashioned of silver, but it was not so. Rather it was made of a beaten core of gold upon which a sheen of quicksilver perpetually shimmered and flowed magically. In this way it looked as damp as the flesh of the larval Slann, and although it had nothing like the strength of steel armour (nor its magically distracting properties) it at least protected the thin and delicate larval skin from thorns and barbs, and on occasion the fluid surface could deflect an enemy’s blade, making it slide over the surface harmlessly. He carried ceremonial daggers of obsidian, and a mace of gold mercurially silvered just like his armour. His sibling Tadinopo carried a staff topped with a sharp blade taken from a warm-blood (Tadinopo had always been fascinated in the warm bloods); while Goakitlan carried a mace that had once been born by a mighty lizard warrior in the age when Saurus and Skinks had dwelt in the jungle outside of his father’s city.

“Something is close. Something the jungle fears,” announced Bontanoan.

Tadinopo blinked his acknowledgement, while Goakitlan waited for more to be said. Bontanoan had known this was exactly how his siblings would respond.

“I do not know what,” he continued, “but it is large or numerous enough to have a wide effect. And it is near the great river. We must learn its true nature before it comes any closer to our father’s city.”

Again the blink, this time from both siblings.

“It is agreed, then. I shall go, and I will take the warriors of the Atta tribe with me. I will discover what approaches.”

Goakitlan beat his mace on his shield. “I will go with you, brother Bontanoan,” he announced.

Tadinopo beat his staff on the stone ground, saying,

“Take the Olobol tribe also, so you have sufficient force to attack whatever it is, even if only to test its strength. It might be discouraged from coming closer. I will warn our father and will summon the warriors of the more distant tribes. If you fail, then whatever approaches will face yet another army as it draws closer, and a third if they dare to enter our father’s city.”

* Note: My ‘larval-stage’ Slann are 1980’s Slann models and count as skink priests – with exactly the same stats, points and abilities. Bontanoan and his two brothers, being recently spawned Slann, are an incredible rarity. Their ‘father’ was forced by necessity to create them because he was the last surviving Slann for thousands of miles. He takes his role as guardian of the ancient city and its secrets very seriously - enough to do what was not only distasteful to him but something that is considered highly dubious behaviour by most Slann.

 

[Padre]

Down the River
Upon the ship Ocean Blight

Herman and Stefan stood upon the deck amidship with the rest of the foremast men. Like everyone else they were staring up at the poop deck where Captain Bart was clutching the mizzenmast and looking back down at them. A few moments of quiet passed – not complete silence, for the ship creaked and there were sounds from the other ships and boats nearby, but it was a soundlesness that was rare upon the Ocean Blight.

Eventually, the Captain spoke. Before the Battle of the Dunes he would have shouted, but now, bearing a whip-lash scar from that fight down the left hand side of his face, his eyes always wide and his complexion not what anyone would call healthy, he addressed them quietly. They all leaned forwards, straining to hear.

“The ship ain’t goin’ much further up this river, and she certainly ain’t going through the swamp ahead. I say we leave her here, with a skelet …”

Here the captain suddenly stopped, and frowned. It took a while for the slower crewmen to work out why, but when they heard the mutters of “Manaan protect us” and such like, and the general murmurs about cursing the ship, they eventually realised. No one wanted a ‘skeleton crew’ on board!

The Captain stroked the scar on his cheek, then went on,

“I mean to say some guards. We’ll put a guard crew on her, while the rest of us take the boats. We’ll put the pinnace together for one, and the towed boat too. What say you?”

“I ain’t going ashore to build no pinnace,” shouted one of those at the front of the crowd.

Loud murmurs of agreement spread through the rest, as several of them could not help but glance once more at the shifting mangroves at the river’s edge to see once more the creeping presence of the undead – here a hat and a torn shirt, there a bloody face and a deathly grimace, and elsewhere clouds of buzzing flies or the rusty muzzle of an ill-kept handgun. The Bosun Jan Mostert stepped up by the side of the captain, his bald pate shining in the sun, golden earrings glinting and his massive, flared muzzle pistol couched on his hip. He wore no shirt, not having done so since the Battle of the Dunes, when he had stumbled and put his arm elbow deep into the swollen, foetid belly of a zombie, so fouling his shirt that he had torn it off and thrown it into the sea on his way back to the fleet.

“There’s no need to go ashore,” Mostert told them all, grinning, in a voice much more certain than the captain’s. “We can fit her together on the deck.”

“That’s alright then, ain’t it?” said the fellow who had spoken up before.

There were several ‘ayes’ amongst the crew, but all on the poop deck could tell that their usual boisterousness was absent. Stefanus cleared his throat nervously and raised a hand.

“I want to speak.”

The Quartermaster, Lisbeth Boone, furrowed her brow. “You do?” she asked, sounding surprised.

There was no answer, but everyone knew it was her place to run proceedings should council be called for.

“Then speak on, man,” she conceded, “for all have their proper say on this ship.”

Stefanus glanced at Herman, who gestured with a nod to encourage him.

“The Captain ain’t well,” he said. “We all see that.”

Nods and ayes of agreement rippled through the gathered crew.

“So, that in mind, I say we ought to decide upon another captain, temporary like, until he’s well enough to lead us again.”

All waited for the captain to speak, but he said nothing. Instead it was the Bosun who glared at Stefanus and shouted.

“S’pose you’ve someone in mind?”

“Don’t you go getting me wrong. This ain’t a mutiny,” said Stefanus quickly. “You know that. Just a call for a vote, to know the crew’s mind concernin’ that which plainly needs deciding.”

Lisbeth drew her cutlass from its scabbard and pointed it at the men.

“I say when there’s to be a vote, and only when enough of you demand it.”

Herman was the first to respond.

“We do demand it.” And all those around him gave a loud ‘aye’.

The captain took this opportunity, as if relieved that a decision was being made and all by the proper procedure, to sit himself down on a crate by the gunwhale.

“Then as per the articles we’ll have a vote,” said Lisbeth. “Are all present?”

“Aye” came the cry from everyone on the main deck. Then a moment later came a cry of “Nay” from behind Lisbeth. It was the ship’s boy, little Adolfus Korpel.

“Who’s missing?” she asked.

“Martin,” said the boy. “He’s below deck in his hammock. He ain’t yet recovered from his wound.”

Lisbeth looked confused. “I thought he was dead.”

“Not dead, no. He’s just badly. I spoke to him this morning.”

Spinning back round to face the crew, Lisbeth pointed her blade at Stefanus. “You want a vote, then you fetch him. Take Herman with you the better to help him up here.”

The two of them stepped over to the hatch, then disappeared down the ladder into the darkness below.

“Martin?” called Stefanus. “Where are you?”

There was no answer.

“You asleep?” ventured Herman, in whispered voice.

Stefanus glanced at him as if he were mad.

“What?” asked Herman. “I didn’t want to disturb him.”

Then realisation dawned on him. He chuckled and shrugged his shoulders. “You check starboard and I’ll go larboard.”

It was Herman who found him first, and he called his mate over. The two of them then stood a while, looking at the hammock. Martin was covered by a blanket, only the back of his head showing because he faced the hull.

“Shake a leg, Martin” ordered Herman. “We’re voting on a Captain.”

There was no movement in response. Apart from the slow swaying of the hammock from side to side, rocked by the gentle motion of the ship, there was no sign of any life at all under the blanket. Not even breathing.

“I think,” began Herman, “… well, you know … it was bad wound. You can smell how it festered. I reckon he’s …”

He stopped suddenly, blanched, then stepped back. Stefanus did the same. Herman drew his gully knife, while Stefanus swept his cutlass from out from the sash at his waist.

“You think maybe he’ll …?” began Herman.

“O’ course he will,” interrupted Stefanus before Herman could finish. “It’s happened to all the others who died. This river’s cursed. It’s Galdabash’s doing, and it won’t stop ‘til he goes away.”

“So do we …?” Once more Herman failed to complete his words, and instead gestured with his knife at his neck.

“We do.”

That very moment, the bloodstained blanket twitched. Martin began to roll over onto his back, one arm pulling at the edge of the hammock. When his face appeared they could see his eyes had rolled back in the sockets so that only the whites, or more accurately the yellows, were visible.

A moment later and Martin was in two pieces, divided neatly at the belly by the vicious swipe of Stefanus’ razor sharp cutlass, the halves of the neatly sliced hammock hanging down either side. Neither half of him was moving any more.

A minute later and Stefanus’ head reappeared at the hatch. Everyone on the deck turned to look.

“Martin won’t be voting,” he said as he tossed his bloodied blade out onto the deck and clambered out.

He helped Herman up too, then turned to face the others. Several made holy signs, others frowned, and one cursed, “Gods be damned.”

Stefanus sniffed, then declared, “What’s done is done. Let’s get on with it.”

 

[Orjetax]

This is my favorite of the campaigns you've shared thus far, displaying the campaign where you played the skaven.