Ba'kar Soulstealer and the Soul Hunters of Gorth

 The Empire men had broken before the sun had reached its zenith. Their dead lay scattered across the churned earth, their banners trampled into the mud, their courage spent beneath the axes and blades of the Dark Gods’ chosen. Yet some had fled, dragging their wounded comrades towards the distant tree line, foolishly believing that the forest might offer them salvation.

I smiled beneath my helm.

Let the warriors on foot claim the glory of the battle. Let the chieftains count their captives and the sorcerers gather their trophies. My brothers and I had been granted a finer privilege. We were the Soul Hunters, the chosen riders of Gorth the Great Obesity, and the souls of the fleeing were ours to harvest.

Once, there had been many of us. Once we had been called Dolgans. We had ridden beneath Thel, our chief, when he led us from the the great grass lands of the east, the land of our birth, into the embrace of our God. We had followed him willingly, believing that strength alone would carry us to glory. We had been naive then, knowing nothing of the true price of power.

Now I looked upon the warriors riding at my side and counted those who had not had the strength to follow our chosen path.

Some had turned away, their minds too weak to endure the truth of our new existence. They had clung to our old gods, their old honour, their old notions of right and wrong. They had mistaken weakness for virtue and paid for it with their lives. Others had sought the blessings of Gorth but lacked the strength to survive his favour. Their bones lay scattered across the many lands, or their bodies had been consumed by the very power they sought to serve.

The weak were food for the strong. The fearful were meat for the brave. And the souls of the fallen were the wine with which our master feasted.

I would not share their fate.

Ahead, one of the Empire soldiers stumbled over a fallen branch. His companion abandoned him without a second glance. I urged my daemon steed forward, feeling its powerful muscles bunch beneath me as we thundered between the trees. The man looked back. I saw the terror in his face, the desperate realisation that no prayer, no oath of loyalty, no last act of courage would save him.

His death scream was drowned out by my triumphant call to Gorth to witness the sacrifice I was sending to his feast hall.

There was a peculiar sweetness in that moment, when a man's hope dies before his body. I felt his fear as though it were my own strength, a dark warmth spreading through my limbs. His soul would soon join the countless others that had gone before him, stolen from the world of mortals and delivered to the insatiable appetite of Gorth.

My sword fell. His screaming ceased.

One more soul for the feast.

I turned towards the remaining fugitives. My brothers were already among them, their black armour glinting beneath the pale sky, their weapons falling and raising in rythmic slaughter . Above us fluttered the banner of our company, its caged soul forever reaching for freedom that would never come.

I knew that cage. I had seen its like in visions granted by our God. It was not merely a symbol of those we hunted, but a promise of what awaited those who failed him.

Yet I had no fear of the cage. Not anymore.

One day, I will be more than a warrior of chaos. More than a servant who gathers souls for my Gods pleasure. I will become Gorth's chosen, his greatest servant in the mortal world. Eventually I will rise beyond flesh and blood, beyond the petty struggles of mortal warriors, and claim the ultimate reward: ascension into daemonhood to sit at Gorth's side in his feast hall.

Let the weak flee. Let the faithless perish. Let the world tremble at the coming of the Soul Hunters.

I, Ba’kar Soulstealer, will prove myself worthy.

And Gorth will feast.

The Treasure of Kurgan Darksoul

Long before the coming of Sigmar, when the lands south of the Worlds Edge Mountains were little more than a wilderness of petty tribes, wandering warriors and isolated holds, there arose amongst the tribes of men a sorcerer king named Kurgan Darksoul.

An acolyte of the Dark Gods, Kurgan carved out a brutal empire with sword, sorcery and fear. His armies swept across the lands that would one day become known as the Border Princes, and those who opposed him were put to the sword. Those who submitted were taxed, enslaved and stripped of anything of value. Kurgan's treasure hoard grew with every victory, fed by the riches of conquered kingdoms, plundered tombs and the tribute of terrified subjects.

For many years Kurgan ruled without challenge.

Eventually, however, Dwarf and Man united against the tyrant. A great army marched against Kurgan and, after a bloody battle, the sorcerer king was finally defeated. Mortally wounded, he was carried from the battlefield by the last of his loyal followers. Knowing that their master was dying, they gathered his enormous treasure and carried both the king and his sizable treasure hoard to a secret place known only to them.

There, beneath an ancient hill, they constructed a great barrow. Kurgan Darksoul was laid amongst his treasure, and the entrance was sealed. The followers of Kurgan were slain or scattered soon afterwards, and the location of the barrow was lost.

Centuries passed.

Kingdoms rose and fell. Roads changed. Forests grew over ancient battlefields. The names of Kurgan and his enemies became little more than half-remembered tales told beside smoky tavern fires. Yet one part of the old stories never disappeared:

Kurgan possessed a treasure board beyond imagination.

And so, many centuries later, it came to pass that a small band of adventurers stumbled upon the lost barrow.

Inside they found the bones of the ancient king and a treasure hoard beyond their wildest dreams. Unfortunately, they could not carry it all. Reasonably enough, they took what they could and returned to civilization, intending to gather horses, wagons and enough trustworthy men to recover the rest.

They also swore a solemn oath that not a word would be spoken of their discovery.This might have worked but unfortunately, their party included a Halfling.

Bungo Blabfoot was a fellow of many talents. Unfortunately, keeping his mouth shut was not amongst them.

Several evenings later, having consumed considerably more ale than was good for him and attempting to impress a particularly attractive dwarven barmaid, Bungo let slip that he and his companions had discovered something rather interesting.

Something involving an ancient king.

Something involving a lost barrow.

And, most importantly...

A very large amount of gold.

By the following morning, Bungo had a terrible headache. By the following evening, half the taverns in the Border Princes were buzzing with rumours.

Within a week, the rumour had become a certainty.

The Lost Treasure of Kurgan Darksoul had been found!

Princes, warlords, mercenary captains, ambitious nobles and unscrupulous adventurers immediately began gathering their forces. Each intended to claim the treasure for themselves so, from every corner of the Border Princes, banners were raised and armies marched towards the forgotten barrow of Kurgan Darksoul.

Some seek wealth, some seek glory, Some seek the ancient relics said to lie amongst Kurgan's treasures

and perhaps, somewhere amongst them, there are even those who remember the old legends...

For the tales say that Kurgan Darksoul was not merely a king.He was a servant of the Dark Gods

and the last thing his loyal followers did before sealing his tomb was to swear that their master would one day rise again.

Whether that part of the story is true remains to be seen.

For now, however, there is treasure to be claimed.

Let the battle begin!

Victory points Common to All Generals

Objective	Victory Points
Kurgan's Barrow – Have one unit of your own troops occupying the Barrow at the end of the game.	+50 VP
A Share of the Treasure – Have a unit belonging to an allied player occupying the Barrow at the end of the game.	+25 VP
Loot the Barrow – Each successful looting of the Barrow.	+10 VP
Casualties – Each Rank & File model from your army killed.	–1 VP
Heroes & Wizards – Each Hero or Wizard from your army killed.	–2 VP
The General – Your General is killed.	–10 VP

Secret Objectives

Before the battle begins, each General secretly rolls 1D6. The result is known only to that General and must not be revealed until the end of the game.

1. You Hate That Guy!

There is one General amongst the enemy whom you particularly despise.

Randomly determine which opposing General is your hated foe.

+20 VP if that General is killed during the battle.

You don't necessarily have to kill him yourself. A dead General is a dead General.

---

2. What's the Point of All This Gold if I'm Dead?

Your General has decided that discretion is the better part of valour.

+20 VP if your General is still alive at the end of the battle.

There is no shame in running away. Especially when you're running away with your life and a fortune in gold

---

3. The Sword of My Forefathers

Your General believes that Kurgan's hoard contains the lost sword of his ancestors.

Each time one of your units successfully loots the Barrow, roll 1D6.

On a 5+, your warriors discover the ancient weapon.

+20 VP if the sword is recovered.

The sword counts as a basic magic weapon, with no additional attributes or special abilities.

Whether it really belonged to your ancestors is another matter entirely.

---

4. Keep Your Enemies Close...

You have little faith in your ally. In fact, you rather suspect that he would be considerably easier to deal with if he were dead.

Your ally's General must be killed during the battle.

+50 VP if your ally's General is killed.

You may not deliberately attack your ally's troops. However, there is nothing in the rules preventing you from giving your ally extremely questionable tactical advice.

“Of course you should send your General ahead. What could possibly go wrong?”

---

5. Kurgan Lives!

Your ancestors were followers of Kurgan Darksoul. You have no interest in mere gold.

You intend to restore Kurgan to life and return him to his rightful place as ruler of the Border Princes.

Instead of looting the Barrow, your General may attempt the Ancient Ritual.

Roll 1D6. On a 5+, the ritual succeeds.

Kurgan Darksoul rises from his tomb and joins your army as a Level 15 Liche, replacing your General as the army's commander.

+50 VP for successfully resurrecting Kurgan.

If the ritual fails, the Barrow remains unlooted and your General has wasted his time meddling with powers he clearly does not understand.

Whether a Liche is actually what Kurgan's followers had in mind is a question best left to the scholars.

6. Think of the Inflation!

Your General has considered the consequences of allowing Kurgan's enormous treasure hoard to suddenly enter circulation.

Such an influx of gold would surely have a disastrous effect upon the economy of his kingdom. Prices would rise, merchants would grow fat, and the value of honest coin would plummet.

Far better, therefore, that the treasure remain safely buried.

Your General has equipped himself with a quantity of magical explosives and/or black powder bombs for precisely this eventuality.

Instead of looting the Barrow, your General may attempt to destroy it. He must be personally present at the Barrow and spend one complete turn preparing the explosives. At the end of the turn, roll 1D6.

On a 5+, the explosives work.

KABOOM!

Kurgan's Barrow is blown to kingdom come, burying the treasure beneath tons of rubble and denying anyone the opportunity to enter it for the remainder of the game.

+30 VP for successfully destroying the Barrow.

The destruction of the Barrow may prevent other Generals from achieving their objectives.

The General must do this himself. His troops would never understand the economic necessity of the operation.

Thel Knight of Gorth the Great Obesity

 Across the frozen salt-flats of the Great Steppe, east of the jagged spires of the Mountains of Mourn, the wind  carried the faint, sickly scent of cooked flesh, smoke, and freshly spilled blood, the smell that always accompanied the host of Gorth, the Great Obesity.

At the head of the warband rode Thel knight of Gorth. Once a Chief of the Dolgans, one of the many nomadic human tribes that called the great steppe home, now Thel was Gorth’s chosen champion in the mortal realms.

 To look upon him was to gaze upon a lie frozen in time. Though he had sworn his tribe’s soul to Gorth centuries ago, no rot or bloated decay touched his flesh. He appeared as a warrior-lord in his absolute prime: a thick black beard and lavish, flowing hair, both spilling beneath an open-faced helm crowned with a snarling  daemon face. His plate armor, forged in midnight-black iron and heavy brass, bore the deep patina of endless battles, paired with a midnight shield that seemed to writhe with leering skull motifs. In his right gauntlet, he balanced a monstrous, barbed hunting spear. A weapon forged not just to kill, but to inflict the utmost pain as it did so, a weapon that could still the very life energy of Thel's enemies.

Beside him, the earth groaned.

Theograx shifted her immense weight, her scaly emerald hide glistening under the pale northern sun. She was an anomaly, a relic of an era before mortal reckoning. She had watched the skies when the Old Ones first arrived, and she had drunk deep of the raw stuff of chaos when their polar gates collapsed, warping her ancient blood with the curse of Chaos. After a millennia of slumber deep within the earth, it was Thel’s call that had pierced her dreams. For reasons the ancient creature could not comprehend—a binding tether woven by Gorth or pure cosmic caprice—she felt an inescapable obligation to serve him.

A low, subterranean rumble rolled from her chest as an inattentive Black armoured warrior rode too close. In a heartbeat, her dark-red dorsal plates flared, her slit-pupil eyes snapped wide with sudden, unhinged madness, and a plume of black smoke escaped from her nostrils. With an unearthly shriek, her neck snapped forward, sending an open mouth full of dagger-like teeth towards the unfortunate rider.

"Down, Old One," Thel commanded, his voice deep and smooth, carrying the weight of absolute authority. He did not raise his voice, nor did he flinch as her massive frame, supporting the red-and-black leather saddle—its high back shaped into a brass-trimmed, sneering daemon face—snapped back into obedience.

Instantly, the ancient dragon’s frenzy dissolved. The violent madness in her gold-flecked eyes melted into a look of bizarre, dog-like devotion. She pressed her massive snout into the dirt near purring with a sound like grinding millstones, crushing a dozen skulls under her talons in the process.

Thel stroked her dark red back crest, his barbed spear slung easily over his shoulder. The Old World to the west was ripe, bloated with weak men who mistook comfort for strength. Gorth was hungry, and Thel had found the ultimate hunter to ride into the feast.

Mercenaries of the Border Princes

 

A Compendium of Free Companies and Mercenary Regiments

​Operating within the Desolate Marches of the Border Princes in Recent Years

​As compiled by H. Kleinknecht, Itinerant Chronicler and Scribe of Altdorf

For the Eyes of the High Authorities of the Empire and Worthy Captains of Fortune

​I. Von Kroger’s Sovereign Lancers

​Classification: Heavy Cavalry (Shock)

Origin: The Riding, The Empire of Man

Commander: Captain Kroger von Kleist

​Origin and History

​There is no greater tragedy in our Sigmar-blessed Empire than a noble house brought to ruin, yet from the ashes of such destitution was born one of the most formidable heavy lances currently selling their services in the Border Princes. The Sovereign Lancers are comprised entirely of dispossessed and pauper nobles. These are men of high birth who, through the vices of the gaming table, the curse of debt, or the cruel fortunes of war, lost their ancestral estates. Having naught left but their titles, their armor, and their breeding, they took up the mercenary’s trade to survive.

​The regiment owes its inception to Kroger von Kleist. Born to a noble lineage in the region known as the Riding, Kroger’s inheritance was squandered before he ever received it. His father, a man of ruinous extravagance, secured a loan from a notorious moneylender named Smee. Failing to scrutinize the predatory terms of the contract, the elder Von Kleist defaulted, subsequently dying of sheer shame. Stripped of his lands, young Kroger departed his homeland with nothing but his personal effects and his warhorse.

​Kroger found employment in the Trodheim War—a bitter, localized feud between the noble houses of Von Speke and Kleinburg. Fighting for the Von Spekes, Kroger quickly rallied a band of similar high-born sell-swords who had fallen into poverty. It was during this minor war that the regiment forged its distinct reputation. Though destitute, they remained aristocrats. Unlike the base, low-born mercenaries common to such conflicts, Von Kroger’s men treated captives with utmost chivalry, protected non-combatants, and steadfastly refused to pillage noble estates. Most remarkably, they adhered to a strict code of honor, flatly denying the repeated, extravagant bribes offered by the Kleinburgs to switch allegiances.

​While the Trodheim feud established their honor, it was the expedition of Dwarf King Storri Goldenbeard into the blighted Dark Lands that secured their fortune. Desperate to purge the teeming Goblin hordes but fiercely protective of Dwarf lives, King Storri loosened his notoriously tight purse strings to hire human auxiliaries: Halfling scouts, Ogre shock troops, and Von Kroger’s heavy horse. Following a bloody but triumphant campaign, the regiment returned laden with Dwarf gold.

​With this wealth, they purchased The Golden Sovereign, a massive, well-appointed inn and livery in the city of Nuln. This serves as their grand headquarters—a sanctuary stocked with every luxury a young noble requires, from attentive butlers and stable hands to fine wines and a grand refectory.

​Battlefield Doctrine and Equipment

​The Sovereign Lancers fight in the traditional manner of the Empire's grand chivalry. They take the field as ironclad heavy cavalry, mounted upon barded warhorses. They are equipped with fine full-plate armor, heavy lances, and well-tempered broadswords. Because the maintenance of such heavy shock cavalry is astronomically high, their fees are steep; nonetheless, they have no shortage of desperate employers willing to pay for the devastating power of their charge.

​II. The Freemen of Rouen

​Classification: Light Infantry (Skirmishers & Raiders)

Origin: The Dukedom of Rouen, Kingdom of Bretonnia

Commander: Pierre, called Homme Libre

​Origin and History

​In stark contrast to the high-born Lancers of Von Kroger, the Freemen of Rouen represent the very bottom of the feudal order: a Bretonnian regiment born from fire, famine, and peasant rebellion.

​In the fertile but ruthlessly taxed fiefdom of Rouen, the local Baron was infamous for his tyranny. When the Great Famine struck the land, the Baron answered the cries of his starving populace not with grain, but with the lash. Pushed past the brink of endurance, the peasantry rose in a bloody, desperate insurrection, rallied by a charismatic young field laborer known only as Pierre.

​The Baron’s retribution was swift. At the head of his glittering, armored knights and brutal men-at-arms, he rode out to put the rebellious villages to the torch. However, Pierre possessed an innate, cunning tactical mind. He feigned a panicked retreat, luring the arrogant, top-heavy Bretonnian cavalry deep into the treacherous, sucking mires of the Rouen wetlands.

​In the deep mud, the knights’ heavy armor became their sarcophagus. Light on their feet and consumed by righteous fury, the peasants swarmed the floundering nobles. It was Pierre himself who dragged the screaming Baron from his bogged destrier, executing the tyrant in the morass with the noble's own ceremonial blade.

​Knowing that the King of Couronne and his Dukes would never tolerate a successful peasant revolt, the rebels abandoned their homeland. Fleeing across the mountains, they took up the mantle of wandering mercenaries, naming themselves the Freemen of Rouen.

​The Captain: Pierre Homme Libre

​Pierre remains a profound anomaly among mercenary captains—a man genuinely guided by an unyielding sense of honor and an empathy for the destitute. He has never forgotten the hunger of his youth. Though he rules his regiment with iron discipline, he fiercely refuses to sell his blades to tyrants or merchant princes, frequently turning down lucrative contracts if the work involves oppressing the weak. Conversely, his regiment has been known to march to the aid of besieged underdogs for nothing more than a hot meal and a warm barn to sleep in. Their battle cry is a roaring defiance: "For the Oppressed!"

​Battlefield Doctrine and Equipment

​The Freemen operate as exceptionally proficient light infantry. Having spent their youths tilling land and navigating the dense wetlands of Rouen, they are masters of difficult terrain. They specialize in ambushes, rapid skirmishing, forest warfare, and aggressive raiding. They are also notoriously thorough looters, stripping a battlefield clean in minutes.

• ​Equipment: A mismatched assortment of salvaged battlefield armor, dented shields, and a motley array of swords, maces, war hammers, spears, and woodcutter's axes. Pierre himself goes to war wielding the Baron’s personalized, gold-inlaid bastard sword.
• ​The Regimental Standard: A crude, defiant banner fashioned from a coarse sheet of homespun burlap. Painted upon it in dark crimson is the stark emblem of a crossed scythe and pitchfork. To the Freemen, it is a holy reminder of their defiance; to the tyrannical lords of the Old World, it is a chilling portent of a peasantry that refused to kneel.

​III. The Black-Hawk Brigade

​Classification: Missile Infantry (Crossbowmen)

Origin: Middenheim / The Drakenwald Forest

Commander: Albrecht, "The Black Hawk"

​Origin and History

​The origins of this deadly marksman corps are steeped in tragedy, irony, and the horrors of the Darkwald. Their captain, Albrecht, was once a celebrated sharpshooter from the City of the White Wolf, Middenheim. He earned a handsome living performing extravagant trick shots for the amusement of the nobility, who paid handsomely for such novelty.

​This comfortable life came to a catastrophic end during a private gala. Having imbibed heavily the night before, a complacent Albrecht attempted what should have been a routine display: shooting an apple off the head of a prominent noble’s daughter. His hand faltered; the bolt strayed, skewering the young maiden through the eye.

​Albrecht was instantly cast into the castle's deepest dungeon, where the grieving, vengeful noble devised prolonged tortures for the marksman. However, salvation arrived in a hideous guise. The castle, situated on the perilous fringes of the Drakenwald, became the target of a massive, coordinated assault by a Warherd of Beastmen.

​As the chaotic horde breached the outer walls, desperation gripped the defenders. The noble ordered every cell opened and every hand armed. Now sobered by confinement and the imminent threat of death, Albrecht took up a crossbow. Over weeks of a grueling siege, his lethal accuracy proved invaluable. As the noble officers panicked, the common garrison and servants increasingly looked to Albrecht for leadership.

​Inevitably, the castle fell during a horrific night of fire and blood. Amidst the slaughter, Albrecht rallied a small, disciplined band of surviving soldiers and servants, guiding them through a harrowing retreat through the Beastmen-infested woods to safety. Jobless, exiled, and destitute, Albrecht trained these survivors in the strict discipline of the arbalest, forming the Black-Hawk Brigade. Now operating out of Nuln, their lethal efficiency has earned them a reputation as premier defensive and siege specialists.

​Battlefield Doctrine and Equipment

​The Brigade functions as expert missile infantry. They do not possess a formal uniform; every brother and sister of the cloth is permitted to dress as they see fit, resulting in a rugged, veteran appearance. However, the regiment enforces two absolute requirements: every member must carry a well-maintained sword and a high-tension crossbow.

​In battle, they are known for their sudden, devastating volleys. Their tactical doctrine relies on disciplined, concentrated fire that can break a cavalry charge or clear a rampart in seconds.

• ​Battle Cry: The captain or sergeants will bellow "The Black Hawk!", which is invariably followed seconds later by the deadly, synchronized thrum of a hundred crossbow strings.
• ​The Regimental Standard: A vibrant yellow banner depicting a fierce black hawk in flight, its talons clutching a massive, armor-piercing crossbow bolt.

The Battle of Blackwater Scenario

 

​Background

​Following the Battle of Braghafen, the newly elected Mayor of Braghafen, Kurt Grunchild, is desperate to avenge his father’s death at the hands of the Orcs. Young and impetuous, Kurt wanted to give immediate chase with the Braghafen militia until the wiser heads of Captain Gunther (the militia Captain) and Adhumla Brightsoul (a wandering wizard) convinced him that a blind pursuit would be a disaster.

​Not to be deterred, Kurt used Braghafen’s immense wealth to hire an army of mercenaries to punish the greenskins. The army is now several days out from Braghafen, and local scouts have identified the location of the Orc camp—though it is still several days of hard marching ahead. Burning for revenge, Kurt is pushing his army to march at a blistering, exhausting pace.

​Meanwhile, the leader of the Orcs, Timinus Blacksoul—an evil wizard and Adhumla's twin brother—is incensed by his recent defeat at Braghafen. He has decided to strengthen his forces by employing a nomadic Goblin tribe known as the Bloody Fang, who boast large numbers of chariots and wolf riders. Timinus directs the Goblin chief, Sourgut, to attack Braghafen’s mercenary army, destroy it, and bring back his twin brother's head.

​Not trusting the wily Goblin, Timinus ordered his own Orc captain, Borgun, to accompany them with the Orc cavalry and scouts. The two greenskin leaders hate each other, and the troops under their command have used every available excuse to brawl. Despite their differences, they have managed to concoct a workable plan: knowing the army of Braghafen must cross the River Blackwater, the two leaders have split their forces. The Orcs will act as bait, and when the army of Braghafen is halfway across the river, the Goblins will spring an ambush from the rear.

​As the army of Braghafen reaches the Blackwater, scouts report an Orc patrol across the river. Kurt rashly mounts his horse and directs the army's heavy cavalry regiment and bow-armed scouts to follow him. He plunges through the river ford and onto the opposite bank, desperate to spill Orcish blood. Captain Gunther quickly tries to organize the army's infantry to support the rash young mayor when shouts of alarm from the rear column alert him to the sudden arrival of Goblin cavalry and chariots. Looking across the river, he can see the silhouettes of more Orcs appearing on the horizon. He quickly realizes they have fallen into a cunning trap.

​Terrain

​The River Blackwater: The fast-flowing, slippery, mud-banked river counts as very difficult terrain (1/4 movement), except at the shallow ford where it counts as good going (normal movement).

​The Ruined Monastery: Counts as difficult terrain for movement. Any troops positioned inside the ruins count as being in hard cover.

​The Old Stone Circle Mound: Counts as difficult terrain and provides a higher elevation advantage relative to the surrounding flat ground.

​The Rocky Bluffs: The bluffs along the riverbanks are completely impassable.

​Set Up and Starting the Game

​The Army of Braghafen: Starts the game split into two forces. Mayor Grunchild, Von Kroger's Sovereign Lancers, and the Braghafen scouts start on the west side of the river in Deployment Zone A. The rest of the Braghafen army, along with Captain Gunther and Adhumla Brightsoul, deploy in Deployment Zone B on the east side of the river.

​The Bloody Fang Goblins: May deploy anywhere along the eastern table edge.

​The Orcs: May deploy anywhere west of the river, but must be placed at least 12” away from Deployment Zone A.

​First Turn: The Orcs and Goblins take the first turn as the attackers.

​Special Rules

​1. Hatred

​Kurt Grunchild and the Braghafen militia regiment are subject to the rules for Hatred against all Orcs for the duration of this battle.

​2. The Awakening of Kurgan

​The old stone circle mound is, in fact, the barrow of an ancient warlord known as Kurgan. Kurgan does not sleep easily in his tomb, compelled to protect his grave goods even after death.

​If any unit comes within 6” of the mound, it may trigger Kurgan to awaken. Roll a D6 at the beginning of each player's turn if a unit or character is within 6”. On a roll of a 6, Kurgan the Wight will emerge from his tomb and immediately attack that unit.

​If there are multiple eligible targets within 6”, randomize which unit Kurgan attacks.

​Kurgan does not suffer from instability, as his magical connection to the tomb keeps him firmly tethered to the land of the living.

​Kurgan cannot move further than 6” away from his tomb, and he will not follow up or pursue a routed enemy beyond this 6” radius.

​If there are no longer any units within 6”, Kurgan will return to his tomb, but he can be triggered to emerge again later in the game if new units move into range.

​3. Greenskin Animosity

​The Orcs and Goblins particularly dislike each other. During this battle, if a failed Animosity test results in a unit having to attack another unit, the target must always be a unit of the opposite race rather than the closest unit.

​Example: If an Orc unit fails its test, and there is a friendly Orc unit 4” away and a friendly Goblin unit 6” away, they will ignore the closer Orc unit and charge the Goblins instead.

​4. The Supply Wagon

​The Braghafen army has a supply wagon that is treated mechanically as a chariot drawn by a single horse. It counts as having one crewman with basic human profiles and a hand weapon. The supply wagon represents valuable victory points for both sides:

​Any Orc or Goblin unit that kills the wagon's driver in close combat immediately loots the wagon.

​If the driver is killed by missile fire or magic, any enemy unit that remains in base-to-base contact with the wagon for one full combat round successfully loots it.

​If the driver is killed but the wagon has not yet been looted, it can be re-crewed by any human model from a unit that moves into base-to-base contact with it, or by any human hero.

​Victory Points

​Braghafen

​1 VP: For each Orc or Goblin model slain.

​2 VP: For each Orc or Goblin chariot destroyed.

​3 VP: If Orc Captain Borgun is killed.

​5 VP: If Orc Captain Borgun is killed specifically by Kurt Grunchild.

​3 VP: If Goblin Chief Sourgut is killed.

​3 VP: If Goblin Shaman Butscuttle is killed.

​5 VP: If the supply wagon remains unlooted by the end of the game.

​3 VP: If Kurgan the Wight is destroyed by a human model.

​1 VP: For each enemy standard captured.

​Orcs and Goblins

​1 VP: For each Human model slain.

​1 VP: For each human standard captured.

​3 VP: If Captain Gunther is killed.

​3 VP: If Mayor Kurt Grunchild is killed.

​5 VP: If the supply wagon is successfully looted.

​10 VP: If Adhumla Brightsoul is killed (a massive prize for his twin brother!).

​3 VP: If Kurgan the Wight is destroyed by an Orc or Goblin model.

A Topographical and Historical Survey of Blackwater Ford

As compiled by H. Kleinknecht, Itinerant Chronicler and Scribe of Altdorf

 Geographical Significance and Logistics

As detailed in the cartographic rendering, Blackwater Ford represents a vital strategic juncture within the region known as the Border Princes. The locale is defined by an essential east-west trade road that cuts across a rare expanse of flat ground, winding precariously through the otherwise treacherous High Hills.

This thoroughfare serves as the primary economic artery linking eastern and western settlements:

The East: The road originates in the Black Wolf Barony, establishing a direct supply line from its seat of power at Castle Crag and the bustling major town of Crags Bottom.

The West: The road traverses the ford before terminating at the sheep-herding village of Braghafen, from whence the path turns sharply northward, plunging deep into the heart of the Empire.

The ford itself provides a crucial, relatively shallow wading point across the river, making it a favored target for merchants, passing Human armies, and, regrettably, the less savory elements of the wilderness such as Goblins.

The Legend of the River Blackwater

Local folklore provides a macabre etymology for the river's naming. According to regional historians and tavern balladeers alike, these waters were not always so dark. Legend dictates that centuries past, a massive host of Orcs led by the infamous warlord Borg Skinflayer attempted to overrun the early human settlements of the area.

They were met at this very crossing by a desperate defense led by the heroic human settler, Prince Olland—known posthumously to all faithful  local citizens of the area as "Orc Smasher." The resulting clash was so fiercely contested and thoroughly bloody that the sheer volume of black Orc blood spilled into the current permanently stained the waters, giving the river its modern moniker.

The Barrow Mound and the Ancient Stones

To the northeast of the crossing, visible upon the flat plain in, sits a prominent, artificial earthen mound topped by an ancient stone circle.

The origins of these monoliths remain entirely obscured by the mists of time; neither Imperial scholars nor local elders can attribute their construction to any known human or Elven civilization. While ostensibly dormant by day, the site is a source of profound unease for travelers. Iterative reports from nocturnal wayfarers describe:

Unexplained, shifting lights emanating from the center of the mound.

Low, rhythmic auditory phenomena resembling human chanting echoing across the hills when the moons are full.

Prudent merchants are strictly advised to conclude their crossings before nightfall to avoid the vicinity of the mound.

The Folly of Deacon Otto: The Monastery of Holy Law

Situated to the southwest of the ford, connected to the main thoroughfare by a well-worn dirt track, lie the crumbling remnants of a stone structure. This is all that remains of the Monastery of Holy Law.

The site was established by a zealous priest of a minor deity of law, Deacon Otto—frequently referred to in contemporary Altdorf treatises as "Otto the Mad." Driven by a misguided, albeit stubborn, devotion to order, Deacon Otto established his monastic order in this volatile borderland with the explicit, doomed objective of converting the local Goblin tribes of the High Hills to the virtues of legalism and piety.

The ruined, roofless shell of the monastery stands as a stark, tragic testament to his utter folly; the Goblins, predictably, preferred slaughter to salvation. However, the site remains a point of interest for treasure-hunters and sellswords, as persistent rumors endure regarding vast, hidden wealth buried deep within the sealed crypts beneath the ruins.

Chronicle Note: Travelers utilizing this route are urged to carry adequate arms, maintain a swift pace, and under no circumstances attempt to parley with the local greenskins, regardless of any historical "theological progress" claimed by the late Deacon Otto.

The Battle of Blackwater: Prelude

 In Braghafen 

Rain drummed against the warped shutters of the Golden Goblin inn, and the smell of wet wool and spilled ale filled the common room. Once, the mayor of Braghafen had ruled from a tall stone tower overlooking the village square. Now that tower was a blackened ruin, burned down during the recent orc assault.

At a corner table beneath a crooked lantern sat the new mayor, Kurt Grunchild. He looked too young for the office, and at twenty years old, he was. His father had died defending Braghafen, cut down by a giant armoured orc with one eye. A few days later the villagers, grieving and desperate for leadership, had elected Kurt mayor. No one had wished to oppose the son of a fallen hero.

Kurt’s fist rested on the table, his knuckles white.

“Enough about sheep,” he snapped.

Across from him, Hans Kline adjusted his spectacles and sighed the sigh of a man who had spent decades trying to keep mayors practical.

“My lord mayor, with respect, the sheep are important. Two hundred head are still unaccounted for, the east granary roof is collapsing, and there are dead orcs clogging the river bend. If we do not remove them, the water will foul.”

“Then hire labourers,” Kurt said dismissively. “I did not summon this meeting to discuss carcasses in a stream.”

His eyes turned instead to Captain Gunther, the broad-shouldered leader of the Braghafen militia. Gunther’s grey-streaked hair and scarred face spoke of his long years as a mercenary before he had settled in the village.

“Captain, how soon can we march?”

Gunther folded his arms. “March where?”

“To find the orcs and destroy them.”

The captain’s expression did not change. “The militia is in no fit state for such a campaign. We lost men on the walls, many others are wounded, and half our armour is patched with cooking pots and scrap iron. The lads signed up to defend Braghafen, not to wander the Border Princes hunting greenskins in the wilds.”

Beside Gunther sat Adhumla Brightsoul, a travelling wizard wrapped in a blue cloak damp from the rain. He had arrived in Braghafen only the night before the orc attack, and though he had helped defend the village with his magic and crackling spells, there was something guarded in his pale eyes.

Kurt turned to him. “Surely you understand. Those monsters killed my father.”

Adhumla inclined his head slowly. “I understand vengeance better than most, Mayor Grunchild. But Captain Gunther is right. A village militia alone cannot hope to defeat a roaming orc horde.” He paused, then added with a dry smile, “A pity Braghafen is not wealthy enough to hire mercenaries.”

The room fell silent. Kurt straightened. “Mercenaries?”

Hans looked up sharply. “My lord, surely—”

Kurt cut him off. “What is the state of our finances, Hans?”

The treasurer hesitated, clearly wishing he had remained silent. “Your father was... prudent. Taxes were collected, and this year’s wool trade was exceptionally profitable. The coffers are healthy.”

“How healthy?”

Hans named a figure. Even Gunther’s eyebrows rose.

“That money is for rebuilding,” Hans insisted quickly. “The walls need repair, the tower—”

“And none of it matters,” Kurt said, “if the orcs return and finish what they started.”

Gunther rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “Mercenaries from Nuln would not come cheap. But disciplined spearmen and heavy cavalry could do what our militia cannot.”

Hans groaned softly into his hands.

Adhumla’s gaze drifted toward the rain-streaked window. Somewhere beyond the dark hills, his twin brother Timinus Blacksoul was directing the orcs like pieces on a game board. Adhumla had spent years searching for him, ever since Timinus had murdered their father and embraced the dark magic of the Daemonicum. He wanted the orcs destroyed as fiercely as Kurt did.

“Very well,” the wizard said quietly. “If this is the path you choose, then choose it wisely.”

Kurt leaned forward, fire returning to his eyes for the first time since the battle. “Captain, send word to your contacts in Nuln. Hire whoever we can afford. Braghafen will not hide behind its walls while the killers of my father roam free.”

Gunther nodded once. “I’ll send the message at dawn.”

Hans muttered something about “ruinous expenditures” and began making notes anyway.

A month later, the fields outside Braghafen were alive with movement. Rows of mercenary spearmen drilled in tight formation, their polished pikes glittering beneath the morning sun. Beyond them waited heavily armoured cavalry, warhorses stamping impatiently in the grass.

Kurt Grunchild stood on a small rise overlooking the camp. The wind tugged at his cloak, carrying the smell of steel, horse sweat, and campfire smoke. Behind him, Braghafen still bore the scars of war: patched roofs, scorched timber, and hastily rebuilt barricades. But before him stood an army.

Captain Gunther rode among the mercenaries barking orders with practiced authority. Hans Kline hovered nearby with ledgers and a permanently pained expression every time another wagon of supplies arrived. Adhumla Brightsoul stood apart from the bustle, his walking stick planted in the earth, eyes fixed on the distant hills as though he could sense dark magic stirring there.

Kurt barely noticed any of them.

In his mind he saw only the towering orc who had killed his father in the battle of Braghafen—armour slick with blood, his one good eye leering, tusked mouth roaring in triumph.

Soon, Kurt promised himself. Soon I will find you.

He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as the mercenary banners snapped in the wind and the army prepared to march into the wild and lawless Border Princes.

Meanwhile in the Orc camp 

Deep in the lands known to men as the Border Princes, the low hills rose from the scrubland like broken teeth. At their centre stood a larger hill riddled with caves, its slopes dotted with crude huts and tents. Orc banners snapped in the dry wind, daubed with crude symbols.

General Slabgut stood outside the largest cave entrance, his thick arms folded across his chest. The one-eyed Orc scowled beneath his battered iron helm. The eyepatch covering his ruined eye seemed to itch whenever he was angry—which was often these days.

Especially after Braghafen.

He had nearly won. The village palisade had been breached; his Orcs had entered the village and hummies had died screaming. Slabgut himself had killed the hummie general in single combat before the villagers dragged the corpse away. Yet somehow, the battle had turned.

The blue-robed wizard.

That cursed human wizard had confronted Slabgut and challenged him, pitting his spells against Slabgut’s sword. The villagers had rallied. The attack had collapsed.

Then came the punishment.

Slabgut's good eye twitched as he remembered Timinus Blacksoul raising a hand and sending agony through every nerve in his body. The pain had been so terrible that the mighty Orc general had fallen to his knees, vomiting onto the cave floor while the wizard watched calmly.

The memory filled him with rage.

One day, Slabgut promised himself, he would rip the human's head from his shoulders.

A horn blast interrupted his thoughts.

Dust rose on the horizon.

"They's 'ere," grunted a nearby guard.

Slabgut watched as a column of Goblin riders emerged from the haze.

At their head rolled a chariot pulled by an enormous black boar. The beast's tusks were longer than a man's arm, and its small eyes burned with perpetual fury.

Upon the chariot stood Chief Sourgut of the Bloody Fang tribe.

The Goblin was hideous even by Goblin standards. His bow legs made him sway oddly, while his rusty chainmail rattled with every movement. A horned helmet sat crooked upon his oversized head, and a morning star hung at his side.

The chariot screeched to a halt.

Sourgut looked down at Slabgut with a sneer.

"Oi, One-Eye! I heard yer lost a battle to a bunch o' farmers."

Several Goblins snickered.

Slabgut's knuckles cracked.

"I heard yer tribe got chased off by the pointy-ears last winter."

The Goblins stopped laughing.

Sourgut's grin faded.

"They wouldn't come out of the zoggin' trees and fight fair," Sourgut grumbled.

"Stupid Goblins. Even an Orc pup knows you burn the pointy-ears' trees," retorted Slabgut.

The two glared at one another.

Finally, Sourgut spat into the dust.

"Take me ter see da wizard."

Slabgut grunted.

"Follow me."

The cave complex stretched deep into the hill.

Torchlight flickered against damp stone walls. Orc guards stood watch at every junction.

Eventually, they reached a vast chamber.

At its centre stood a crude throne assembled from looted furniture, skulls, and black iron.

Upon it sat Timinus Blacksoul.

The human wizard appeared middle-aged, though his eyes seemed far older. Crimson robes flowed around him. A neatly trimmed goatee framed his face, and a headdress of ram's horns crowned his head.

Resting upon a stone pedestal beside the throne was a black metal chest covered in impossible runes.

The Daemonicum.

Few present knew its true nature.

Fewer still would have dared approach it.

Timinus smiled thinly as Sourgut approached.

"Chief Sourgut."

"Wizard."

The Goblin gave a shallow bow.

"I hears yer need fighters."

"I require capable cavalry."

Sourgut puffed out his chest.

"Da Bloody Fangs is da finest riders in da Border Princes."

Several Goblins nodded enthusiastically.

Timinus folded his hands.

"Then perhaps we can help one another."

For nearly an hour, the negotiations continued.

Sourgut demanded gold.

Timinus offered gold.

Sourgut demanded weapons.

Timinus offered weapons.

Sourgut demanded extra gold.

Timinus agreed with surprising ease.

Eventually, the Goblin chief grinned.

"We got a deal."

"Excellent."

Timinus rose from his throne.

"There is an army of men moving through the southern valleys."

Sourgut scratched his chin.

"Lots o' men?"

"Enough."

The wizard's eyes narrowed.

"They are led by a wizard dressed in blue."

At the mention of blue, a flicker of hatred crossed Timinus's face.

Neither Goblin nor Orc noticed.

"I want that army destroyed."

Sourgut grinned.

"Dat sounds easy."

"I also want the head of the blue wizard brought to me."

"Just da head?"

"The head will suffice."

Sourgut laughed.

"Done."

Timinus smiled.

The expression never reached his eyes.

Later, after the Goblin chief had departed to prepare his warriors, Slabgut remained in the audience chamber.

The Orc watched the wizard silently for a moment.

Then he finally spoke.

"Why do we need gobbos?"

Timinus glanced up from an ancient scroll.

"Our army lacks sufficient cavalry."

Slabgut frowned.

"We got da Snortas."

"Yes."

"We got da Crushers."

"Yes."

"Dat's cavalry."

Timinus sighed.

"Not enough cavalry."

The Orc scratched his head.

That answer clearly dissatisfied him.

After a moment, he tried again.

"Do yer trust dat gobbo?"

For the first time, the wizard laughed.

It was a cold sound.

"Trust him?"

The wizard shook his head.

"I trust no one."

His gaze settled upon Slabgut.

The meaning was unmistakable.

The Orc shifted uncomfortably.

Then Timinus continued.

"Which is why Chief Sourgut will not be travelling alone."

A voice emerged from the shadows.

"Dat's right."

Captain Borgun stepped into the torchlight.

Slabgut gave an involuntary growl and bared his tusks. Borgun grinned back. Slabgut noted, with disgust, that Borgun still had all his teeth. That meant he was still young and that he was likely a good fighter. Few Orcs made it to adulthood without losing some teeth in a brawl.

The young Orc captain wore armour scavenged from a dead hummie knight and carried himself with unusual confidence.

A dangerous confidence.

"The Snortas ride with da goblins," Borgun said.

"And da Crushers," Borgun added, to show he was now in charge of two regiments even though he was only a captain.

Slabgut's good eye narrowed.

Borgun's grin widened further.

The young captain had ambition, and that made Slabgut nervous. Need to watch this one, Slabgut thought to himself.

Timinus clasped his hands behind his back.

"Captain Borgun will accompany the Bloody Fang tribe."

"To help 'em?" asked Slabgut.

The wizard smiled.

"To watch them."

Borgun chuckled.

"And if da goblin gets any funny ideas..."

He tapped the axe hanging at his belt.

He turned and looked at Timinus. "Don't worry, boss. I'll make sure that blue hummie's head is yours."

The chamber fell silent.

Beyond the cave walls, drums began to beat as Orcs and Goblins prepared for war.

Far to the south, a blue-robed wizard marched with an army of men.

And somewhere deep within his heart, Timinus Blacksoul already imagined the moment his twin brother's severed head would be laid at his feet.