ARCHAON
On Dorghar, Steed of the Apocalypse
Dorghar is Archaon's Daemonic mount, his massive winged
form swollen upon the souls of his vanquished foes. Such is
the fell sorcery coursing through Dorghar's blood that the
foes he consumes never truly die – instead, their souls are
trapped within his gut and their tormented faces mark his
hide.
During Archaon's long quest to become the Everchosen, each
of the Dark Gods sent a daemonic champion to slay him. As
Archaon crushed each challenger in turn, Dorghar drank the
soul from its shattered carcass. With each draught of malefic
power he underwent horrific transformations, sprouting
monstrous heads twisted into the likenesses of those he had
slain. Only Slaanesh, in his mysterious absence, failed to
send a champion.
Note: This is an alternative non-canon version of Archaon on
Dorghar, and as a result you may not include both at the
same time in your army.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Archaon 4 9 5 5 5 4 7 5 10
Dorghar 8 6 0 6 6 6 4 6 9
POINTS: 915.
TROOP TYPE: Monster (Special Character, Lord).
MAGIC: Archaon is a Level 2 Wizard who uses the
Lore of Tzeentch.
EQUIPMENT: Shield.
SPECIAL RULES: Daemonic (Dorghar only), Eye
of the Gods, Large Target (10), Fly (7), Strider.
Chosen of the Gods: Uniquely, Archaon counts as having all
Marks of Chaos for the purpose of using his Inspiring
Presence rule. This does not prevent Archaon from joining
any unit that has a Mark of Chaos, nor does it prevent any
other character that has a Mark of Chaos from joining
Archaon's unit. As the Chosen of Gods, Archaon has the
following bonuses: Immunity (Psychology), Immunity
(Poisoned Attacks), Magic Resistance (2), and he may re-roll
any channelling dice rolls of a 1. Re-roll any Eye of the Gods
rolls of 2 and 12.
Lord of the End Times: If you take Archaon, he must be
your army General. His Inspiring Presence has a range of
18". Any Battle Standard in his army is not allowed to have a
Mark of Chaos.
The Swords of Chaos: If your army includes Archaon, one
unit of Varanguard may be upgraded to be the Swords of
Chaos for +3 points per model. This unit has the Hatred and
Immunity (Psychology) special rules.
Triple-Headed Monstrosity: After resolving Dorghar's
normal Attacks, you may pick one of the following effects if
at least one model was slain by those attacks:
• Filth-spewer: Dorgar inflicts D3 Wounds which Ignores
Armour Saves on one enemy unit in base contact.
• Skull-gorger: If any of the slain models were Characters,
Dorghar's Khornate head devours their skulls and Archaon
heals D3 Wounds up to his starting value.
• Spell-eater: If any of the slain models were Wizards,
Dorghar's Tzeentchian head devours them, learning any
spells they knew and passing them on to Archaon.
MAGIC ITEMS:
The Slayer of Kings (Magic Weapon)
The Slayer of Kings has the Ignores Armour saves special
rule. In addition, Archaon may unleash the power of
U'zuhl in any Close Combat phase. If he does this, he
fights with double his normal number of Attacks (to a
maximum of 10) but any rolls To Hit of a 1 will strike
either himself or a friendly model in base contact
(controlling player's choice). Archaon may not re-roll To
Hit results of a 1 when unleashing U'zuhl. Once U'zuhl is
unleashed, Archaon must use this special ability in every
close combat he is subsequently involved in for the rest of
the battle.
The Armour of Morkar (Magic Armour)
Full plate armour. The Armour of Morkar gives
Archaon an additional +1 to his armour save. No attack
against Archaon may ever have a better chance To
Wound than a 3+, regardless of special rules.
The Eye of Sheerian (Talisman)
The Eye of Sheerian grants Archaon a Ward save (3+).
The Crown of Domination (Enchanted Item)
The Crown of Domination grants Archaon the Terror
special rule. In addition, any friendly unit within 12" may
re-roll failed Break tests.
1
 COUNT MORDREK
The Damned
Do any remember how Count Mordrek the Damned came to
his fate? Are there any amongst the wise of the Old World
who recall which god he served? If such men exist they keep
their own council.
It is commonly supposed that the gods rewarded Count
Mordrek with the gift of Living Damnation. He walks the
world at the whim of the Chaos gods, never dying, yet never
ascending to the Realm of Chaos. He has been slain many
times and each time he has been resurrected to serve his
masters again. He has endured many deaths and lived many
lifetimes of mortal men.
The curse that lies upon Count Mordrek the Damned is to
endure eternal change as well as eternal life. Within his
Chaos armour his form writhes with constant mutation. Only
the Chaos gods know why they have chosen such a fate for
their servant, and their reasons are not of mortals to
understand.
He slays in the name of the Dark Gods, hoping against hope
that one day he might be freed of his curse a ascend to the
peaceful rest of death. Those that die under his sword or turn
into grotesque Chaos Spawn he envies, for they gain the
oblivion he craves. Such is the curse of Count Mordrek the
Damned.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Mordrek 4 4 3 3 3 3 7 1 9
Chaos Steed 8 4 0 5 5 3 3 3 9
POINTS: 265.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Sword of Change (Magic Weapon)
The Sword of Change was wrought within the magical
balestorm of the northern Chaos Gate. It was fashioned by
the Daemon Warlord Amon'Chakai, whose fossilised eye is
still grasped in the weapon's pommel. The Sword of Change
is saturated with the mutating power of Chaos. Even the air
around the blade is in flux: at one moment, the blade is
wreathed with the scent of sweet perfumes, only to be
replaced a heartbeat later with the stench of rot and decay.
An eye-blink later and the air around the Sword of Change
shines with multi-coloured hues before being surrounded in a
haze of misted blood. This magical sword has the power to
reduce those whose flesh it pierces into mindless, flailing
mounds of flesh, warping their bodies into monstrosities
known as Chaos Spawn.
If an enemy character or monster is slain by the Sword of
Change in close combat, roll a D6. On the roll of a 4+, the
model is transformed into a Chaos Spawn under the control
of the owner of the Sword of Change, exactly as if the enemy
model were a Chaos Champion that had suffered a
Spawndom result on the Eye of the Gods table.
Chaos Runeshield (Magic Armour)
This shield was created by bitter Chaos Dwarf forgemasters
as a defence against the runeweapons of the sons of Grungni.
The Chaos Runeshield is covered with writhing runes that
have the power to destroy an enemy's magic.
Shield. The Runeshield negates the power of any magic
weapons carried by all models in base contact – treat them as
ordinary non-magical weapons of their type.

TROOP TYPE: Cavalry (Special Character, Lord).

EQUIPMENT: Full plate armour, barding.

SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Will of

Chaos.

Living Damnation: Beneath his Chaos armour the

physical form of Count Mordrek the Damned, changes
constantly, ravaged by the terrible mutations caused by
the changeling power of Chaos.

At the start of each of his turns, Mordrek must roll a

D6 for his Weapon Skill and Attacks characteristics, as
well a D3 for his Strength and Toughness and
characteristics, and add the result to his profile.

"I have no right to pray for White Sigmar

anymore, but from the Daemons guarding the
gateway to the Realm of Chaos, I ask for your
deliverance. Rest now, sleep for eternity. You are
now free of the withering clouds of war."
Count Mordrek the Damned,
to a dying Reiksguard Knight

2
 HARALD HAMMERSTORM
Harry the Hammer
In the tales of the Norse and the Kurgan, there is a legend that
concerns one of the greatest feats of arms ever seen in the
northlands. It tells of the great warrior Harald Hammerstorm,
known fondly to his followers as Harry the Hammer.
Harald was famed for killing the Daemon Mathrag
Brainmangler during the Battle of Khorsvold, having
smashed the Daemon Prince’s head from his body with a
single blow of his hammer. On a cold midwinter day, as he
led his warband across the Chaos Wastes, Harry came across
the outcrop of an old ruin jutting from beneath the snows.
Upon investigation, he located an ancient gateway leading
into a dark tunnel. Thinking that there might be treasure
within, Harald and his warriors descended into the crumbling
vaults.
Their intrusion awoke something long-dead in the darkness
beneath the snow. Ancient warriors sworn to protect the
secrets of the tomb-city were roused from their eternal
slumber; with rusted blades, bony fingers and eyes aglow
with witchfires, they fell upon the northmen.
Stumbling out of the depths, Harald and his men were
horrified to see the Skeletons pursuing them still. The
tumbledown ruins now glowed with power and the melting
snow revealed forbidding stones burning with magical
energy. The Chaos warband found themselves in the middle
of a great settlement from the dawn of time. Knowing that he
had to fight his way free, Harald turned and faced the
advancing legion.
The favour of the gods fuelled Harry as he fought; his
hammer rose and fell with monotonous destruction, smashing
skulls and ribcages to powder. Harald’s followers pressed in
behind their leader and Harry formed the point of a wedge
driving through the skeletal warriors. After a day and a night
of fighting, as dawn rose the next day, the Undead were all
but destroyed, piles of bones a storey high left in the wake of
the Chaos Warriors.
Since that day, Harald has held a special loathing for the
Undead. So efficient and determined is Harry at slaying the
Undead that even their mindless spirits regard him with
horror – he is an elemental force who hurls back the Undead
with his steely will. The dead do not rest easy in the Chaos
wastes, and Harald has no shortage of foes upon which to
vent his anger.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Harald Hammerstorm 4 8 3 5 5 3 8 5 9
POINTS: 300.
TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Lord).
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Hatred
(Undead), Will of Chaos.
Bane of the Dead: So strong is the aura of Chaos that
surrounds Harry, even the dead dread to face him!
Somewhere in the vestigial remains of their souls, a spark of
awareness flickers to life upon seeing Harry – a memory of
their deaths…
Harry causes Terror in models with the Undead special rule,
even though they have Immunity (Psychology). They must
take Break tests and can flee like ordinary troops. If they are
not forced to flee from combat, Undead units suffer from
Unstable as normal. Fleeing Undead units rally automatically
during their next turn.
MAGIC ITEMS:
The Hammer of Harry (Magic Weapon)
Harry’s hammer is blessed by the gods to banish the souls of
those he strikes, and is powerful enough to send back the
raised spirits of the Undead.
The Hammer of Harry has the Ignore Armour Saves and
Multiple Wounds (D6) special rules. In addition, against
models with the Undead or Vampiric special rules, Harry can
re-roll any failed rolls To Wound and has the Killing Blow
special rule.
Armour of Damnation (Magic Armour)
This ornate suit of Chaos armour shimmers with the eldritch
energies of the Chaos Wastes, distorting the wearer's outline
and clouding its foes' minds.
Full plate armour. Any model striking the wearer in close
combat must re-roll successful rolls To Hit.
Bane Shield (Magic Armour)
The Bane Shield discharges a magic blast every time it is
struck, rebounding the enemy’s blows back to him.
Shield. For each successful armour save or Parry save made
in close combat, the shield inflicts a Strength 4 hit on the
model who struck the blow.
3
 SAYL THE FAITHLESS
Twisted Seer of the Wastes
Sayl the Faithless, infamous arch-sorcerer of the
Dolgan tribe, is an utterly self-serving egotist and
practiced murderer. His powers have as their
cornerstone a mastery of betrayal and treachery
which has seen him rise supreme over rivals
whose arcane powers were greater and champions
who have enjoyed the favour of the Dark Gods.
Such is Sayl's paranoia and hubris that he has
never himself sworn allegiance to any single
Ruinous Power, but rather paid lip service to
many, and pursued pacts and bargains with
numerous petty Chaos godlings and daemons,
betraying each in turn when expedient, earning
him the epithet of 'the Faithless'.
Sayl's ascendancy within the Dolgan tribe began
with his swearing allegiance to the powerful
Shaman-sorcerer Schalkain the Vile as one of his
cabal of seven seer-apprentices, the covenant of
which used their prophetic powers to guide the
tribe in war and in propitiation of the Chaos gods.
From the beginning Sayl served no-one but
himself and worked on the inherent paranoia and
suspicion of the sorcerers, and with honeyed lies
turned them against each other and fanned the
flames of suspicion into murderous strife. He
goaded Schalkain into conducting a daemonic
ritual involving Sayl and his master's three other
remaining 'loyal' sorcerers, to gain vengeance on
the traitors. This ritual Sayl sabotaged, causing
Schalkain to be torn to pieces and the other
4
surviving apprentices to fuse together into the
horrific entity known as Nightmaw the Spawn.
Although victorious, Sayl was not untouched by
his treachery in the ritual, his flesh mutating and
his mortal sight lost to be replaced with hellish
and maddening senses of the Daemon realm.
Hated and feared by his own people, Sayl the
Faithless was nevertheless a strong war-leader
whose mastery over the unholy storms of the
northern Chaos Wastes and prophetic seer-craft
made the Dolgan tribes under his sway greatly
feared. However, as his reign stretched into scores
of years, the list of Sayl's enemies, both mortal
and daemon grew long, and Sayl's throne was ever
threatened. When Tamurkhan's burgeoning horde
crashed through the Dolgan's lands, Sayl shrewdly
turned impending calamity to his advantage and
allied his forces with those of the Maggot Lord.
That is, for as long as it suited his purposes.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Sayl the Faithless 4 6 3 4 4 3 6 3 9
Nightmaw * 3 0 4 5 3 2 * 10
POINTS: 370.
TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character,
Lord).
Nightmaw: Monstrous Beast.
MAGIC: Sayl is a Level 3 Wizard uses spells
from the Lore of the Heavens or Lore of Shadow.
In addition, he always knows the spell Traitors
Mist.
Traitor's Mist Cast on a 6+
With this spell, Sayl can both evade his enemies
and sow death in his wake.
Traitor's Mist is an augment spell that Sayl can
cast upon himself. Sayl may immediately make a
move using the Fly special rule as if it were the
Remaining Moves sub-phase. In addition any
model (friend or foe) in base contact at the start of
the move suffers an automatic Strength 3 hit
which Ignores Armour saves.
SPECIAL RULES (Sayl): Eye of the Gods, Will
of Chaos.
Mutant Sight: Sayl's particular mutation has
turned his head into a lumpen inhuman mass of
boiling flesh, opening in a single baleful eye
which stares through the mortal realm into the
spheres beyond time and matter.
This preternatural vision and precognition means
that any Characteristic test Sayl fails can be re-
rolled and he channels Power dice on a 3+.
SPECIAL RULES (Nightmaw): Random
Attacks (D6+1), Random Movement (3D6),
Unbreakable.
Shadow-kin: Nightmaw is accompanied by a
shifting veil of darkness and shadows, which blur
and distort his outline, and only at close range is
the true horror of the creature's form apparent.
Enemy missile attacks suffer a -1 To Hit penalty
against Nightmaw. In addition, Nightmaw must
deployed within 3" of Sayl, but may otherwise
move like an independent unit. Nightmaw does
not award any Victory Points if killed.
MAGIC ITEMS:
The Viperous Staff (Magic Weapon)
A foul heirloom of the Dolgan tribe, this dark-iron
staff is entwined with serpents which come alive at
the wielder's command, glowing venom dripping
from their fangs as they strike with formidable
speed and power to defend their master and slay
his enemies.
All attacks with the Viperous Staff have the
Killing Blow special rule. In addition, it grants the
wielder the Ward save (5+) special rule.
Schalkain's Teeth (Arcane Item)
This corpse-skin bag contains numerous sigil-
etched teeth and fangs Sayl has torn from the
skulls of the various wizards and magical beasts
he has deflated in his unholy career, not least of
all those of his first master, Schalkain. Should his
magic go awry, Sayl may hurl a handful of the
teeth as part of a treacherous curse against an
ally to divert the wrath of the winds of magic.
One use only. If Sayl incurs a Miscast he may
choose to inflict its effects on a single friendly
model within 12" instead of himself. This must be
decided before the effects of the miscast have
been rolled. If the subject of the miscast is not a
Wizard and Power Drain is rolled, then the effect
is voided.
5
 BARON UNGORR THE
MERCILESS
Like many of the followers of Chaos, Ungorr the
Merciless is a traitor to the Empire. The Baron
began his military career in the Reiksguard Foot
Knights. He fell to Chaos during the Great War of
2301, when Magnus, who was later called the
Pious, broke the siege of Kislev, dispersing the
dark hordes and pushing them back to the icy
desolations. Ungorr, then Captain of the
Reiksguard, was bitter at the time because he
believed that his superiors poorly awarded his
military genius and his revolutionary strategic
methods. As a result, he felt neglected and strong
resentment.
During the pursuit of the remains of the Chaos
forces, Ungorr was isolated from the rest of his
unit and, as he attempted to rejoin them, came
across a dying Champion of Chaos. Abandoned
by his master who did not tolerate the failure of
his servant, the warrior, totally at the mercy of the
Imperial officer, still managed to interfere in his
thoughts and quickly detected the flaw in his
loyalty towards the Empire and its allies. The
Chaos Warrior tried to exploit the last chance of
survival he had and spoke to him of power and
recognition, reminding him of everything that the
Empire had always kept from him and what Chaos
could give him. Before he was finished, Ungorr
interrupted the speech of the telepathic mutant
with a blow from his sword. However, he had
been seduced by the images of glory that this
creature had instilled in him. He picked up the
superb axe that was lying next to the corpse and
resolutely headed north to join the remains of the
Chaos armies who were falling back. The Dark
Gods finally noticed Ungorr's military skills and
turned him into one of their champions. Ungorr is
now often seen leading the regiments of the Gods
of Chaos in devastating assaults, never taking any
prisoners, which has earned him the nickname,
"the Merciless Baron".
Impetuous: Ungorr has become a bloodthirsty
warrior, always eager to fight and prove his
worth in the eyes of the Dark Gods, and he could
quickly become a brilliant general if their
benevolence protects him long enough.
Ungorr, and any unit he joins, gains the Vanguard
special rule.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Vampiric Axe (Magic Weapon)
Ungorr picked up this axe near the body of the
champion who convinced him to join the black
hordes. It is a weapon of huge size that draws life
energy from its victims and transmits it to its
owner.
Great weapon. The Vampiric axe gives Ungorr +1
Strength. In addition, for each unsaved Wound he
inflicts with it, he gains +1 Wound up to his
starting value.
Star of Chaos (Talisman)
The star was given to Ungorr by the Dark Gods as
a sign of belonging to them. The Star allows the
Gods to always spot Ungorr even in the heart of
the fighting and to watch over him (or to just
watch him).
Ungorr may re-roll one failed To Hit, To Wound,
Armour or Ward Save roll in each phase.

M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Baron Ungorr 4 7 3 5 4 2 6 4 8

POINTS: 180.

TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Hero).

EQUIPMENT: Full plate armour.

SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Will of

Chaos.

6
 LOKJAR BJOERGIR
The snow on the frozen peaks of Norsca had sparkled with
a crystals red as dusk announcing the arrival of a new day.
An eerie silence laid upon the village of the Norse, for the
Hordes of Chaos have been sighted a few days ago and
the scouts reported that this army was marching directly
towards their village. The sight of the Chaos hordes was
well known for the men of the north, but this time it was
an unusually large army they would face.
The clan chief Tjodalf Smödir called his men together to
discuss the situation. Facing such a huge army, even the
brave men of Norsca felt a little nervous. The clan could
not agree upon a solution to deal with this threat. The
group around clan chief Smödir suggested a fight in
difficult terrain, where they could surprise the Chaos
hordes. The other's group voice was Lokjar Bjoergir, who
suggested resettling the entire village somewhere else and
thus evading the total annihilation of the clan by the forces
of Chaos. Smödir listened to this option, however he
ignored it. The clan should prepare and leave for battle the
next day.
Mortified by Smödir's ignorance, Bjoergir decided to save
the clan his way. By night he rode to the enemies' camp
and sneaked into the Chaos Lord's tent. He offered the
Lord to reveal the position of the clan warriors and in
return he asked for his people to be spared. Thus
Bjoergir's followers would survive and the clan would
continue to exist. The Lord accepted the offer and in order
to seal the pact, he let Bjoergir have a glass of his blood.
Thus the pact was sealed.
Inner Rage: Once Lokjar suffers his first unsaved
Wound, he will be subject to Frenzy for the rest of the
battle.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Skull Gorger (Magic Weapon)
This magical weapon was crafted out of the skull of a
White Dragon, who was known for preferring killing his
victims with one mighty bite of his enormous jaws.
Skull Gorger gives Lokjar the Killing Blow special rule.
Clan Shield (Magic Armour)
Once in the possession of Smödir, this magical shield is
now property of Bjoergir, from the day when he slayed the
old chief. The immemorial symbols of Order engraved on
the shield have since been defiled by Bjoergir.
Shield. All enemy characters belonging to the Forces of
Order in base contact with Lokjar must always issue and
accept challenges against him.
Snow Troll Amulet (Talisman)
This amulet has the spirit of a Snow Troll bound within it.
Those who wear it are said to begin taking on the traits of
the Troll themselves.
This amulet gives Lokjar the Regeneration (4+) special
rule. At the end of each close combat phase, Bjoergir
automatically regenerates 1 Wound lost earlier.

The following battle the next day was short and full of
bloodshed. Pressed by the Chaos hordes and with a traitor
in their own ranks, the death of Smödir's men was short
and gruesome. Smödir realized the betrayal and set off to
find and kill Bjoergir, who had worked himself into a
battle frenzy during the fight, and decapitated his chief
with only a single mighty strike. As an act to demonstrate
his new rule over the clan, Bjoergir took the axe Skull
Gorger from Smödir's cold and lifeless hands the symbol
of reign for the clan.

Bjoergir had saved his clan from obliteration, but now his
consciousness started to change. The blood of the Chaos
Lord and the pact with the forces of Chaos made him and
the remains of his clan into a part of Chaos. Influenced by
Chaos and possessing the Skull Gorger, he waged wars
which got more devastating with each one, always driven
by a thirst for blood that would never come to an end.

M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Lokjar Bjoergir 4 6 3 4 4 2 6 3 8

POINTS: 135.

TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Hero).

EQUIPMENT: Light armour.

SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Will of

Chaos.

7
 ARBAAL THE UNDEFEATED
Destroyer of Khorne
From the desolate Northern wastes the armies of
the Blood God march upon the world. Proud cities
are razed to the ground and whole populations
slaughtered – a sacrificial offering to the Dark
Gods who seek to overthrow the Old World.
Among this foul host lurk all manner of terrifying
daemons and twisted Beastmen, but it is from the
ranks of bloodthirsty Chaos Warriors that the
most fabled of these dark foes comes.
Of all the four Chaos powers, only Khorne scorns
the use of magic. No wizards lurk within the ranks
of his followers, instead his servants are chosen
from the among the mightiest warriors in the
world. Clad in skull-encrusted Chaos Armour of
black and burnished brass, Khorne's greatest
champion – Arbaal the Undefeated, sits high
above the mass of lesser warriors on the back of a
huge daemonic mount.
Of all the warrior heroes of Khorne there are few
so utterly devoted to their bloodthirsty master as
Arbaal the Undefeated. Thousands of his foes
have fallen beneath the crimson arc of his axe and
now their bleached-white skulls lie at the feet of
8
the Blood God. At the city of Praag in the
northlands, Arbaal led one hundred Daemons in
the assault on its boundaries. It was Arbaal who
finally breached the gates of the city and ended
the siege. Legends claim that Arbaal slew a
thousand warriors that day.
Arbaal is the favourite of his master and his most
devoted servant. Khorne has gifted him with the
power of the Destroyer in recognition of his
devotion, a reward that belongs to Khorne’s most
favoured Champion alone. Only one warrior may
bear the gift of the Destroyer of Khorne. This
unique boon enables him to cut down all who dare
to challenge his might. Should his Champion be
defeated Khorne’s wrathful eye will turn Arbaal
to a foul Chaos Spawn, for only the victorious are
worthy enough to serve Khorne.
As the Chaos host sights their foe they begin to
chant, working themselves into a frenzy of hate
and bloodlust. Their cries grow louder and more
insistent as they strain forwards, eager for battle.
Finally, with a rush, they surge towards their
enemy, screaming their terrifying battle cry:
"Blood for the Blood God!".
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Arbaal 4 8 3 5 5 3 8 5 9
Hound of Khorne 7 5 0 5 5 3 3 4 8
POINTS: 300.
TROOP TYPE: Monstrous Cavalry (Special
Character, Lord).
EQUIPMENT: Full plate armour.
"Fill the moat with the corpses of your comrades.
Trample on their broken carcases to reach the
ramparts. Bring down the walls with the weight of
the dead."
Arbaal the Undefeated to the Warriors of Chaos
during the Siege of Praag
SPECIAL RULES: Daemonic (Hound of Khorne
only), Daemon of Khorne (Hound of Khorne
only), Eye of the Gods, Mark of Khorne,
Natural Armour (6+), Will of Chaos.

Wrath of Khorne: Arbaal is the most favoured of

Khorne's many Champions. He is constantly
under Khorne's scrutiny and should he fail in his
duty then the Blood God's anger will descend
upon him.

Arbaal must always issue and accept challenges.

In addition, if Arbaal flees for any reason, he will
be turned into Chaos Spawn of Khorne. Make the
flee move with Arbaal as normal, and then replace
the model with a Chaos Spawn of Khorne
following the rules for Damned by Chaos on the
Eye of the Gods table.

The Hound of Khorne: The Hound of Khorne is

the Blood God’s own Flesh Hound, a Daemon of
huge proportions combining the attributes of a
Flesh Hound with massive size and power. Only
Khorne’s chosen Champion is rewarded with the
Hound of Khorne, which the Champion rides in
the fashion of a monstrous beast. The Hound is an
insatiable hunter, which benefits from the MAGIC ITEMS:
protection of its magic-hating god, embodied by Destroyer of Khorne (Magic Weapon)
the heavy collar around its neck. The Destroyer of Khorne is the gift Khorne, the
god of war, gives to his most favoured of
The Hound of Khorne has the Frenzy and Magic Champions. It turns Arbaal into a tireless
Resistance (2) special rules. warrior; a hurricane of fury and destruction upon
the battlefield.

The Destroyer of Khorne allows Arbaal to make

D3+1 additional attacks in close combat.

"I have slaughtered armies of Elves! I have

broken the backs of Dragons, and eaten the
hearts of sea-leviathans!"
Arbaal the Undefeated, on his many great
victories.

9
 SKARR BLOODWRATH
Daemonic Lord of Khorne
Skarr Bloodwrath began killing in Khorne's name from
the moment he was strong enough to heft an axe,
swiftly garnering a reputation as a bloodthirsty butcher
of the worst kind. While still a mere whelp in the eyes
of his fellow Skaramor, he slew their tribe's chieftain in
a brutal display of violence. Though this was far from
the first skull that Skarr had claimed for Khorne, it was
the one that drew the vast and terrible eye of the Blood
God. Stood over the corpse of a rival twice his size,
Skarr roared in agony as the rune of Khorne branded
itself upon his beating heart.
Though the tribes of the Skaramor did not deign to
challenge the weak peoples of the south, Skarr found
no shortage of foes to battle in Khorne's honour. The
Chaos Wastes rang to the sound of Skarr's war cries,
and as the years passed so his legend grew. Skarr cut
down Lingolor of the Tahmaks with insulting ease. He
10
hacked the heads from the Greatspawn Wythlych,
before hurling the abomination from atop Bloodfire
Falls. It was Skarr who fought for twenty years amid
the daemon-thick morass of the Blood Marshes, and he
who felled the Keeper of Secrets T'shy'thnis below the
Infinite Arch.
Unstoppable though Skarr was, none could fight with
such raging abandon without eventually being slain.
Yet death proved not to be the end for this champion of
Khorne.
Skarr met his first death in the lair of the sorcerer
Vydas the Liar. Skarr slew every one of the
Tzeentchian magus' nine hundred and ninety nine
worshippers, only to be sliced in half by Vydas' crystal
blade. Yet Khorne judged the blow a cowardly one,
struck from behind a veil of sorcerous illusion. Thus,
the Blood God breathed fresh life into his champion
that day.
Skarr's mortal form burned away to nothing, only to be
reborn from the pooled blood of Vydas' followers.
Skarr surged up from the bloody lake, huge daemon
axes on brazen chains clutched in his white-knuckled
fists. Hurling his new weapons across the shadowed
chamber, Skarr sunk both blades deep into Vydas'
unnatural flesh. Dragged with horrible inevitability into
Skarr's embrace, Vydas the Liar pleaded and squirmed.
By way of a response, Skarr tore his foe's throat out
with his teeth. Glittering blood sprayed in a wide arc,
before Khorne's champion ripped one axe free and
lopped the sorcerer's head from his shoulders.
Skarr Bloodwrath has died many times since that day,
but always Khorne has brought his champion back to
life through the spilled blood of his foes. In return,
Skarr reaps such a tally of skulls that none can keep
count. Skarr is one of Khorne's most favoured, savage
to the point of madness, devoted to nothing but
slaughter in the name of his merciless deity. In battle,
his chain-linked daemon axes whirl about him in a
hurricane of blood and death. Those who follow him
must keep pace with his murderlust, or else fall by the
wayside, their skulls in turn offered up for the glory of
Khorne. One by one, they are all cut down. Eventually
only the gore-soaked Skarr remains, to gather new
followers and lead them to war once more.
Incessant resurrection has its price, however. With each
bloody rebirth, Skarr has lost a little more of himself,
his grasp upon reality slipping with each step upon the
road to daemonhood. These days, Skarr needs no
sustenance save combat. He does not sleep, and the fire
in his veins is such that he could never rest even should
he wish to. His fury is endless, his hunger for battle a
constant clamour that drowns out all consideration of
strategy or caution.
So lost to Khorne's rage has Skarr become that none
save Archaon Everchosen can command him. Even
then he bends the knee only at Khorne's behest, his
form trembling every moment with the barely
suppressed need to kill. To Archaon, Skarr is nothing
but a blunt instrument, a living weapon to be wielded
unto destruction. Skarr, lost amid a red haze of
bloodlust, could not care less. Khorne demands a
slaughter like never before, and Skarr Bloodwrath will
deliver it gladly.

M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Skarr Bloodwrath 5 8 3 5 5 4 7 5 8

POINTS: 260.

TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Lord).

EQUIPMENT: Medium armour.

SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Immunity

(Psychology), Magic Resistance (1), Mark of
Khorne.

Bloodborn: Keep a count of the number of times Skarr

Bloodwrath kills an opponent in a challenge or kills a
monster – this is referred to as the Blood Tally. If he is
removed as a casualty as a result of anything other than
Spawndom or Dark Apotheosis, mark his position with
a counter (a small coin is ideal). At the end of the turn,
roll a D6 and add the current total of the Blood Tally. If
the result is 1-3, remove the counter from play – this
rule has no further effect. If the result is 4+, Skarr is
reborn: place Skarr anywhere within 6” of the centre of
the counter and at least 1" away from any unit and
impassable terrain, then reset the Blood Tally to 0. If it
is not possible to place Skarr, remove the counter
instead, and Skarr is not reborn. Skarr returns to play
with D3 Wounds, and suffers no bonuses or penalties
incurred from his former existence. For example, if
Skarr was fleeing or affected by an augment or hex
spell at the time of his death, the reborn model will not
be. However, any bonuses or penalties conferred as a
result of Skarr rolling on the Eye of the Gods table do
remain in effect.

MAGIC ITEMS:
Bloodstorm Blades (Magic weapon)
In each hand Skarr wields a Bloodstorm Blade, a pair
of Daemon weapons gifted to him by Khorne and
imbued with the essence of Daemons. These axes are
so huge that a man would struggle to lift just one of
them. The head of each axe features the screaming face
of the Daemon bound within it, their unholy energy
fuelling Skarr’s already prodigious strength. Attached
to the haft of each blade is a lengthy chain-flail capped
with a skull of a defeated champion of Chaos. In battle,
Skarr swings these flails about him, bludgeoning his
foes to death with the weighted ends or dragging them
close and garotting them with the razor-edged chains.

Two hand weapons. Attacks made with the Bloodstorm

Blades have the Strength Bonus (2) and Impact Hits
(D3) special rules.

11
 HROTHGAR DAEMON-AXE
In the cold north of the world lies the realm of hundred and twenty years Hrothgar is said to have
Norsca, peopled by ferocious tribesmen who walked the world, fifty champions fell beneath his
worship the dark gods of Chaos. Of these fierce axe in single combat. Hrothgar eventually went
warriors, the Vargs are counted amongst the most north and disappeared into the Realm of Chaos.
bloodthirst and devout, their ancestors originally Some say he was destroyed, others claim that he
hailing from far to the east. They were fearsome lives on as a Daemon Prince who goes by the
warriors worshipped Akhar, known to others as name of Akhara Varg. The truth will probably
the war god Khorne. never be known, but Hrothgar is now worshipped
as a demigod by the Vargs and many of their
The fighter most renowned in the legends of the neighbouring tribes.
Vargs is Hrothgar of the Daemonaxe. It was
Hrothgar, the Varg's bards claim, who first led
their ancestors on their great migration from
across the World's Edge Mountains. None know
what drive them forth from their ancestral
grounds, but under the leadership of Hrothgar, the
tribe moved westwards, enslaving many other
tribes on their long journey. Hrothgar himself
carried a mighty heirloom, an ornate battle-axe,
which was said to contain the essence of a
Bloodthirster. In battle he was unstoppable,
hewing through his enemies with his daemonaxe
whilst shouting the praise of Akhar.

As the Vargs movies further to the west and

conquered or scattered more people, they learnt of M WS BS S T W I A Ld
the other gods of Chaos, and began to worship Hrothgar 4 8 3 5 5 3 8 5 9
them along Akhar, eventually dedicating
themselves equally to all the gods. Hrothgar POINTS: 245.
became one of the most feared warlords in the
Chaos Wastes, and also the one who Champions TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character,
of the gods sought out to do battle with, in order Lord).
to prove their own dedication and might. In the
EQUIPMENT: Heavy armour.

SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Mark of

Khorne, Will of Chaos.

MAGIC ITEMS:
Daemon-Axe (Magic Weapon)
This most deadly of all blades contains a bound
Daemon trapped within its form. Although
powerful, any daemonic weapon is treacherous
and, if not guarded against, it will betray its
wielder. Hrothgar carried such a possessed axe
which, constrained in its shape, is the most feared
of Daemons; a mighty Bloodthirster.

The Daemon-axe gives Hrothgar +D3 to his

Strength and +D3 Attacks, to a maximum of 10
(roll separately for these values at the start of each
round). However, every To Hit roll of a 1 made by
this character in close combat is resolved against
himself; the character can never re-roll a To Hit
roll of a 1.

12
 HAARGROTH THE BLOODED ONE
Champion of Khorne
In the shadowlands of the Realm of Chaos, to the north
of the Old World, lies the land of Norsca. Here it is the
law of nature that rules, where only the strong survive.
So it was when Haargroth's parents were killed in a
savage raid by a rival tribe, he was expected to perish.
With no one to teach him the skills needed to survive
as a warrior and hunt with the tribe, he found he was
forced to scrape a living eating scraps left by the dogs.
Each summer the warriors of the tribe would take to
their massive longships and set off on raids to the rich
southern lands. There they plundered and pillaged,
returning with provisions enough to see the tribe
through the bitter winter. Those too young to join these
voyages would remain, hunting meat for the tribe and
honing their combat skills. During these months, the
beatings Haargroth usually received from the other
youngbloods abated in favour of these worthwhile
activities. The tribe saw fit to let him tend to the goats
and Haargroth would sit in the fields, hunger gnawing
at his stomach. When one of his herd disappeared into
a nearby forest, Haargroth could not foresee the events
that would soon change his life forever.
Haargroth raced after the beast but, upon entering the
forest, he found the bloodied remains of the goat and a
trail of blood. Anger welled inside him and he set off to
track down the culprit and soon found himself in the
darkest glades. Before him a Beastman rested on the
forest floor, its mouth stained red with the blood of the
dead goat. Haargroth noticed the creature had left its
crude axe by its side as it slept and a voice stirred in the
mind of the boy, telling him to slay the creature.
Picking up the axe, he could hear the whispering grow
louder as though the axe itself spoke to him. Suddenly
the creature awoke and with a guttural bray forming on
its lips, launched itself at Haargroth. Instinctively the
youth brought down the axe cleaving the beast apart
from shoulder to chest. As the blood sprayed onto his
clothing Haargroth unleashed his anger upon the fallen
beast, the humiliation of every beating he had sustained
came out in a frenzy of hatred. Repeatedly, he hacked
at the body until only a bloody carpet of broken bone
and flesh remained on the forest floor. In those
moments, something had stirred within the oppressed
soul of the simple goatherd. He had experienced a
sensation that he had never dreamt of, and so began his
path to damnation and glory.
Haargroth stood motionless, the bloodied weapon held
tight in his hand. He watches with fascination as the
blood on the axe vanished, absorbed by the blade. To
his astonishment, the crude wooden handle began to
smooth, developing a silvery sheen, whilst a strange
rune on the blade glowed bright for just a brief
moment. Emerging from the forest, Haargroth made his
way back to the village. As he reached the gates, the
guards rushed out to question the blood-stained youth
but, as they approached, Haargroth swung out with his
axe killing both guards with one blow.
Gone was the cowering, skulking weakling. Now
Haargroth walked proudly into the village, adorned in
the bloody pelt of the beastman. The young hunters of
the village fled before him and he strode into the great
hall. Having killed the guards, no one dared challenge
Haargroth and so he took his place at the head of the
great table, helping himself to the food and drink. All
summer he took whatever he desired from the villagers
and no one found the courage to prevent his reign of
terror.
As the first leaves fell from the forest trees, the return
of the longboats was a welcome sight to the tribe. The
warriors were greeted with loud cheers and the
womenfolk rushed to the shores to meet them. The
raids had proved successful, their ships were laden with
treasures, slaves and all manner of exotic provisions.
The Norscan warriors sang of their glorious victories as
they marched to the great hall to begin their
celebrations. Upon entering, the songs stopped abruptly
and a deathly silence ensued. As was traditional, the
chieftain was the last to enter the hall, and with no
rousing cheer to greet his arrival, he knew something
was amiss. The crowd parted and he was shocked to
see a stranger sat in his throne. Anger began to well
inside him as it slowly dawned that the impostor to his
throne was none other than the orphaned goatherd.
The youth had grown at an astonishing rate since the
chief had last set eyes upon him. With a raging bellow
he drew his axe, leapt towards the outcast, and brought
down his great axe in a mighty arc, fully intent on
killing the youth for his impudence. The whole hall
gasped in amazement as Haargroth simply raised his
own weapon, casually deflecting the blow onto the
table. Whilst the chief tried desperately to free his axe
13
 from the solid timbers, Haargroth mercilessly felled the
Norscan leader. He stared deeply into the eyes of every
one of the warriors who had returned, daring any to
challenge him, but all bowed their heads. Haargroth
commanded that the warriors feast, but what should
have been an occasion of great celebration was
undertaken in silence.
The following months were a difficult time for the
tribe, the unity and brotherhood that the chieftain had
once provided was gone. Whilst all acknowledged
Haargroth as their new leader, none rallied to his side.
For those tribes whose summer raids fared poorly,
winter was a desperate time. As the provisions ran low
these tribes were forced to go to war against
neighbouring tribes in order to survive. With the first
onset of snow came one such invasion. The peaceful
silence of the morning was broken by the battle cries of
a rival tribe.
The warriors gathered their weapons and prepared to
defend the village. Haargroth marched out to the open
ground outside the village, and for the first time ever
the warrior united under their new chieftain. As the
enemy warriors charged, Haargroth stood in front of
his tribe. His axe rose and fell with such speed and
strength that soon a pile of bloody corpses surrounded
him. His warriors were inspired by his ferocity and
they met the enemy with deadly savagery. Soon every
single invader lay dead for no loss to the tribe. Only
now did the warriors welcome Haargroth as their
leader, and returned to the village holding him aloft.
Saturated with the blood of slain foes, the once crude
axe had now transformed into a mighty and ornate
weapon, but that was not the only change. The God of
War, Khorne, pleased with the slaughter that this
mortal wrought, blessed Haargroth. In just a matter of
days his body transformed, muscles bulged out from
beneath his armour and his form now resembled that of
a mighty beast. That winter, Haargroth led his warriors
on many raids against neighbouring tribes and with
each battle, the tribe conquered their foes, spilling
rivers of blood in the snow-covered valleys. Soon the
enemy tribes gladly surrendered at the sight of
Haargroth's warriors, but he would give them no
respite, killing in a frenzy of bloodshed until only the
strongest amongst his foes survived. These warriors
would be offered the choice to either join his band or
die. This merciless reputation quickly led to the
warband's the Slaughterers, and all feared their coming.
Over the next few years. Haargroth led his warriors on
daring raids across the world, sailing his fleet of
longships as far as Naggaroth and even into the thick
jungles of Lustria. With each victory, he would grant
the spoils of war to his worthiest warriors. Those who
had proven themselves were given fine suits of armour
blessed by the gods, enchanted weapons and huge dark
steeds to ride into battle upon. During these raids
Haargroth marched at the front of his force, fighting in
the thickest combats, cutting a bloody swathe through
the enemy ranks.
14
In the winters, he would return with his warriors and
continue to wage war against the tribes of Norsca. His
pursuit of slaughter was ceaseless, leading his band to
the far north of Norsca towards the Chaos Wastes. Still
the tribes fell before him, but Haargroth relished this
combat closer to the Chaos Wastes. The tribes here
were stronger and more brutal, something in the
atmosphere also invigorated him with a fierce
savagery. Finally, when even Haargroth himself
thought that nobody could withstand the might of his
warband, he called to his god Khorne to bring him an
opponent worthy of his skill.
Instantly a great storm broke in the skies and the mists
of the Chaos Wastes enveloped his warriors. Mighty
Daemons wielding great axes charged from the thick
blanket of fog, cutting down many of his finest
warriors. In the confusion Haargroth found himself
separated from his own force, lost in the unearthly
mist. Then, from the shadows, he heard the sound of
heavy hooves and the deep snorting of some terrible
beast. As though appearing from thin air, a great steed
reared before him. Its eyes burned with unholy fire and
on its back was mounted a huge knight clad in dark
armour that mirrored the night sky. Amongst numerous
strange runes embossed upon the behemoth's armour,
he recognised the mark of Khorne. In the warrior's
hand a fiery blade was held aloft, and to his side he
bore a mighty shield.
The gods had answered his challenge! Haargroth let
out a tremendous battlecry, charging headlong at the
mounted warrior. With all his might he brought down
his axe only to find it blocked by the massive shield.
Such was the force of the attack that Haargroth felt the
bones in his arm jar at the impact. To his dismay not
even a dent marked the shield and now the knight
brought round his sword in a wide arc, the flaming
edges of the blade ripping into the chest of the
Champion of Khorne. He flew backwards with the
force of the blow, landing roughly in a crumpled heap
and pain coursed through his chest as visions of terror
filled his mind.
For the first time since his downtrodden youth, he felt
the humiliation of defeat. The steed walked over to
where he lay and the mighty warrior dismounted. He
reached down, grasping Haargroth by his throat and
picked him up so that his feet dangled above the
ground. The knight pronounced himself to be Archaon,
the Lord of the End Times. He commanded that
Haargroth and his warriors bow down before him and
join his force. Archaon bade that Haargroth's men
would fight together with his own warriors, leading the
army into the thick of battle where the fighting would
be the bloodiest. Having finally met a warrior who
could best him, Haargroth accepted and now his
warbands march at the front of Archaon's army, joined
by hordes of fearsome Bloodletters and fierce
Daemonic hounds. However Haargroth still longs to
build up his strength, sacrificing the skulls of his
enemies slain in battle to the throne of his god. Then he
will once again challenge the Everchosen, for such is
the way of Khorne.
 M WS BS S T W I A Ld Spelleater Shield (Magic Armour)
Haargroth 5 8 3 5 5 3 7 5 9 The Spelleater Shield is made from daemonhide
stretched across a framework made from the bones of a
POINTS: 285. Liche, its surface heavily adorned with symbols of
power. When spells are cast against the bearer, it
TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Lord). drains away their power.

EQUIPMENT: Heavy armour.
MUTATIONS: Blood Fever.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Mark of
Khorne, Will of Chaos.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Axe of Khorne (Magic Weapon)
This blood-forged axe is a sign of Khorne's favour, and
unerringly severs heads with bloody sweeps so that yet
more skulls might be laid at Khorne's feet.
This axe confers +1 Strength and the Killing Blow
special rule upon the bearer.
Shield. The Spelleater Shield gives the bearer Magic
Resistance (2). In addition, roll a D6 each time a spell
is cast at the bearer of the Spelleater Shield and is
dispelled. On the roll of a 4+, the spell is destroyed and
the enemy Wizard may not cast it for the rest of the
battle.
Bloodskull Pendant (Talisman)
The bearer wears around his neck a tiny brass skull
filled with the blood of a Daemon Prince of Khorne.
When the Bloodskull's contents are tasted, the bearer
becomes a maelstrom of violence.
Instead of making his normal attacks for that round, the
bearer of the Bloodskull Pendant may choose to inflict
an automatic Strength 8 Hit with the Killing Blow
special rule on every enemy model in base contact.

15
 KHORGOS KHUL
Lord of the Goretide
Amongst the greatest of Khorne's mortal champions, Korghos
Khul has made the subjugation of all other tribes his personal
crusade. He is a mighty warrior and a fearsome leader both,
his daemon hound Grizzlemaw snarling at his side as his
monstrous axe tears holes in reality itself.
The lands tremble before the tread of Korghos Khul. He is a
darkly glorious warrior-king, the master of a nation of blood-
mad killers. However, as spectacularly successful, as
Korghos Khul is, he still desires more. Such is Khul's power
that he has raised up a pyramid of skulls as high as a building
in praise of Khorne, hoping by this gruesome act to earn his
final reward of daemonhood and immortality. Yet Khul is
plagued by a gnawing suspicion that, having climbed almost
to the pinnacle of Khorne's favour, his grip is slipping. Ever
since he first swung an axe, Korghos Khul has held himself
to a twisted sort of warrior's honour. But in recent years, the
lord of the Goretide Tribe has been tempted into betraying his
own blasphemous code by the nearness of his prize. He has
bolstered his numbers with the Bloodreaver Tribe, despite his
distaste for their corpse-eating degeneracy. He has loosed
Wrathmongers into his enemies' stockades and seen the foe
tear themselves apart in the grip of madness rather than fight
in honourable battle. Worse still, worthy quarry have become
harder and harder to come by, leaving Khul bereft of a hero's
skull to cap his towering pyramid. For all his creeping
doubts, however, Korghos Khul is still amongst the greatest
of the mighty lords of Khorne.
A lifetime of service to Khorne have earned Korghos Khul
many foul boons. His daemonic axe was bestowed after the
slaughter of a great lord of Slaanesh. His suit of bloodsoaked
16
armour was earned through countless acts of unspeakable
violence. Yet perhaps his most prestigious possession is the
Flesh Hound Grizzlemaw, gifted to Khul following his
horrific purge of the Direbrand tribe. This muscular daemonic
beast can tear a man to shreds with its razor-sharp teeth and
claws, while its barbed brass collar, crafted in the daemonic
forges of the Blood God’s realm, negates magic cast in its
presence. Grizzlemaw delights in devouring terrified mages
who find themselves suddenly stripped of their power.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Khorgos Khul 4 8 3 5 5 3 7 5 9
Grizzlemaw - 5 0 5 - - 4 3 -
POINTS: 345.
TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Lord).
EQUIPMENT: Full plate armour.
SPECIAL RULES: Daeamonic (Grizzlemaw only),
Daemon of Khorne (Grizzlemaw only), Eye of the
Gods, Mark of Khorne, Will of Chaos.
Grizzlemaw: Khorgos Khul is accompanied by his
Flesh Hound Grizzlemaw into battle. They should be
placed on the same base and counts as a single model
for all purposes. Grizzlemaw attacks using its own
profile which are not subject to any other special rules
that Khorgos Khul has.
Favoured of Khorne: Khul swings his deadly axe
assured of the Blood God’s blessing.
Khorgos Khul may re-roll failed rolls To Hit.
Mortal Bane: Not content to be feared for his past
conquests, Khul embraces combat more eagerly than
any other seasoned general.
Khorgos Khul and any friendly unit he joins may re-
roll failed charge distances.
Lord of the Goretide: Khul’s indomitable will has led
his warband to greatness, and all his warriors are
hungry to please him.
All friendly units with the Mark of Khorne within 12"
of Khorgos Khul may re-roll failed To Hit rolls of 1.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Reality-splitting Axe (Magic Weapon)
After a Khorgos has made all of his attacks with his
axe in close combat, roll a D6 for each enemy model
that suffered one or more wounds as a result of those
attacks but was not slain. On a roll of 5+, the axe
cleaves a rent in the fabric of reality, hurling the victim
to Khorne’s realm, and the model is removed as a
casualty.
 VORGAROTH THE SCARRED
And Skalok, the Skull Host of Khorne
Legends tell of the trail of slaughter left behind by
Vorgaroth the Scarred and Skalok, the Skull Host of
Khorne, their path of destruction having run for
millennia, their victims beyond count. Although one
would not hesitate to kill the other if given the chance,
together they have razed civilisations to the ground.
Whenever the mortal armies of Khorne falter, it is
Vorgaroth and Skalok that the Blood God sends to turn
the tide of battle in his favour.
Vorgaroth and Skalok soar through the skies high
above the land, ever-watchful for any sign of
bloodshed. Wherever battle may be found they swoop
down, bringing death and destruction to all who stand
in their way. Possessing a speed at odds with her
immense size, even the nimblest of warriors may be
crushed underfoot when Skalok charges, and each beat
of Skalok’s great wings disrupts the balance of the
winds of magic.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Vorgaroth 4 8 3 5 5 3 7 5 9
Skalok 6 6 0 8 8 10 2 6 8
POINTS: 790.
TROOP TYPE: Monster (Special Character, Lord).
MOUNT: Skalok, the Skull Host of Khorne (Chaos
Dragon).
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Fly (7),
Impact Hits (D6), Mark of Khorne, Natural
Armour (2+), Will of Chaos.
Fettered Servitude: Vorgaroth demands unwavering
obedience from any of Khorne’s followers that are in
his presence and will severely punish any warriors who
show the slightest sign of fear.
If a friendly unit with the Mark of Khorne is within 3"
of Vorgaroth and needs to take a Break test, you can
say that Vorgaroth demands unwavering obedience. If
you do so, the unit suffers D3 Wounds worth of
models, but the unit will count as being Unbreakable
for the rest of this phase. If you do not do so, and the
Break test for that unit is failed, it suffers D6 Wounds
worth of models (after the opponent has decided to
pursue or not, but before rolling the flee distance).
Fuelled by Death: When battle is joined, the servants
of Khorne are overcome with a murderous rage. Such
fury sweetens their blood, strengthening Skalok with
each ally she devours.
At the start of each of your turns, you may pick one
friendly model within 3" and roll a D6; if the roll is
greater than the model's Wound characteristics, that
model is slain and Skalok regains a number of lost
Wounds equal to the number of Wounds on the slain
model's profile.
Wings of Fury: Each beat of Skalok’s great wings
disrupts the balance of the winds of magic.
Enemy Wizards within 18" of Vorgaroth suffer -1 to
cast and dispel.
White-hot Balefire: This is a Strength 5 Breath
Weapon with the Armour Piercing (1), Flaming
Attacks and Multiple Wounds (D3) special rules.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Skull Cleaver Axe of Khorne (Magic Weapon)
Believing only the greatest of beasts can hope to
challenge his might, Vorgaroth hunts the world,
seeking out the mightiest to do battle with.
Vorgaroth may re-roll failed To Wound rolls when
attacking Monsters. In addition, for each To Wound
roll of 6, that attack is resolved using the Multiple
Wounds (D3) special rule.
17
 KHAZEK
The King of Ashes
Even amongst the crazed followers of Khorne,
there are those who whisper the name of Khazek
in fear. The King of Ashes has left a trail of
bloody slaughter across the Mortal Realm.
The tribes of the Chaos Wastes tell that Khazek
was once a nobleman until his proud land was
overthrown by Khorne’s legions. The young
prince was always in the vanguard of the ever
shrinking defenders, fighting until his weapons
broke and his shield split. The legend goes on to
say that he was taken by the Daemon Prince of his
enemy and thrown into the sea of blood spilt in
the battle. When the young prince emerged from
the hellish water he had been transformed. His
eyes were gone, replaced with pits that shone with
fire, his once pale flesh had turned to iron and the
rune of Khorne blazed upon his brow. Howling
with rage, Khazek fell upon the Daemon Prince
that had consigned him to the sea of blood,
wrenching a brazen tipped horn from its head he
speared it through the heart.
Since that day, the King of Ashes has never
ceased in his eternal quest of carnage in Khorne’s
name. The rewards bestowed for his endless tally
of skulls have been many.
After the Night of Six Hundred Skulls. Khazek
pulled the sword Azharon from the pillar of flame
that sprung from the heaped bodies of the
followers of Slaanesh he had slain. This splinter
of Khorne’s wrath throbs with volcanic heat, those
it strikes are consumed with the blood god’s anger
and burned to ash.
Following his destruction of the League of Blades,
Khazek was presented with the Armour of Blood.
Capped with the horns of the Daemon Prince he
slew on the day of his rebirth, the armour
constantly drips with infernal ichor. Maddened
prophets cry that this blood comes directly from
the realm of Chaos itself, weakening those nearby
as they are overcome with the otherworldly
foulness of its aura.
Khazek is said to have stood before Khorne
himself, sacrificing his entire army to reach the
brass keep. Atop a hill of skulls he called out the
names of all those he had slain for Khorne. The
sky wept, turning black as pitch as the Blood God
came forth. When he returned to the mortal
realms, The King of Ashes was suffused with an
18
infernal aura. Those in his presence are
overwhelmed with the urge to slaughter in
Khorne’s name, renouncing their former loyalties
as they cry aloud their supplications to the Blood
God.
At the battle of the Elder Gates, Khazek was
separated from his host and stood alone against a
trio of Bloodthirsters. The clamour of battle fell to
silence as mortals and daemons alike turned to
watch the epic combat playing out before the
Elder Gates themselves. Tales of the duel differ,
some say that Khorne himself reached out and
crushed the Daemons, forever binding them
together. Others say that Khazek slew them and
beat them into a new form. Whatever the truth, the
King of Ashes returned from the Elder gates atop
his new steed, the Daemonic drake Nazgharoth
and none could stand before him.
Khazek lives only to bring death in Khorne’s
name, he himself has no desire for glory or
immortality. For him only the taking of worthy
skulls brings the briefest moments of satisfaction.
The King of Ashes will never stop until the mortal
realms are reduced to a blasted wasteland strewn
with the shattered corpses of all who defy the
Blood God.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Khazek 4 8 3 5 5 3 7 5 9
Nazgharoth 6 6 0 6 6 6 3 7 8
POINTS: 635.
TROOP TYPE: Monster (Special Character, Lord).
MOUNT: Nazgharoth, a towering monstrosity with
three heads resembling those of mighty Bloodthirsters.
EQUIPMENT: Shield.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Fly (7), Mark
of Khorne, Natural Armour (3+), Will of Chaos.
The King of Ashes: At the start of each of your turns,
one unit in within 12" of Khazek may be forced to take
a Psychology test. If the test is failed the unit is
overcome by the urge to slaughter in Khorne’s name,
and they will gain the Frenzy special rule until the start
of your next turn.
Scorn for Sorcery: Khazek can channel Dispel Dice as
if he was a Level 2 Wizard.
Triumvirate of Blood: Each of Nazgharoth’s heads
bears the visage of a mighty Bloodthirster of Khorne,
first among the Blood God’s host of daemons.
After attacking with Nazgharoth each close combat
phase (before Stomps), you may pick one of the
following effects. You may not choose the same effect
in two consecutive rounds of combat.
• Fires of Wrath: One of the heads belches forth a
roiling stream of hellfire.
Nazgharoth uses a Breath Weapon Attack with
Strength 4 and the Flaming Attacks special rule.
• Furious Ruin: The ground around Nazgharoth’s
hooves twists and cracks, molten brass flowing forth
and warriors falling to their doom.
Nazgharoth rolls 2D6 with its Stomp Attack this
phase.
• Enraged Roar: One of the heads draws breath
before letting forth a bellow of such unnatural rage
that enemies’ heads explode into red mist.
All models in base contact with Nazgharoth must
pass a Toughness test or suffer 1 Wound with no
saves allowed.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Azharon (Magic Weapon)
The legendary blade Azharon is a singular weapon
which blazes with the boundless fury of the Blood God
himself.
If an enemy model is Wounded but not slain by
Azharon, roll a D3 at the end of the close combat
phase. If the result is greater than their remaining
Wounds characteristic, they are immolated by
Khorne’s wrath and removed as casualties.
Armour of Blood (Magic Armour)
Khazek is clad in the eternally gore-slick Armour of
Blood. The daemonic ichor that weeps it has a
debilitating effect on any who have not sworn their
service to Khorne, bombarding them with images of
endless slaughter and filling their mouths with the taste
of fresh blood.
Full plate armour. At the start of each close combat
phase, roll a D6 for each enemy unit within 8" of
Khazek. On a 4+, the models in that unit are overcome
with visions and suffer -1 To Hit for the remainder of
the close combat phase.
19
 TAMURKHAN
The Maggot Lord
One of the most powerful Champions of Nurgle to
rise up in the Chaos Wastes for many centuries,
numerous legends and lies clustered about
Tamurkhan long before he had gathered his great
horde and in fulfilment of prophecy struck out like
a poisoned talon at the wider world beyond the
Chaos Wastes. Some tales speak of him to be the
millennia-old scion of the Great Kurgan, one of
four sons, mighty and terrible, who each set out to
the four winds to conquer in the service of the
four great powers of Chaos. Others had it that he
was no more than vermin once – a corpse-canker
grown far and clever on the spoiled entrails of the
battlefield, swelled up and transfigured in the
basking light of the Eternal Battle in the uttermost
north. In either case he was an arrogant, savage
and monstrous warlord, and a true reveller in
decay and death, fated as one of Father Nurgle's
most favoured children for the carnage and
suffering he had wreaked in his god's name. As
the leader of a decaying warband of fanatical
acolytes and twisted monstrosities, mightiest of
which was the infamous Bubebolos the Toad
Dragon, Tamurkhan carved a bloody path for
himself on the road to victory, amassing around
him a great host in his master's name.
20
Tamurkhan, as he called himself was not as other
warlords and warriors of Chaos, but was subject
to a terrible mutation, as truly hideous as it was
rare. In mortal form he had been transformed into
a befouled, maggot-like creature the size of a
human child, grey-green and rotting, studded with
lambently glowing corpse-light eyes and a needle-
like snout that split open to reveal row upon row
of glassy, razor-barbed teeth. More awful yet than
even his form was the creature's ability to fall
upon a human or near-human victim and spear
into its flesh, bore deep within and devour it from
the inside out, inhabiting its dead flesh like a
puppet, turning his victim into a stolen second
skin in which to do battle. Thus empowered did
Tamurkhan prove all but unstoppable, and many
mighty foes fell before him. Even if the enemy
managed to best him, the true beast would show
its face and the temporary victor would become
Tamurkhan's newly rotting host.
At the outset of Tamurkhan's attempted incursion
into the Old World, he wore the flesh of Sargath
the Vain, once a powerful Champion of Slaanesh,
and took great joy in the slow decay of the
warrior's formerly beautiful flesh and the
corrosion of his bejewelled armour. This body,
which he had worn for nearly a year, failed him
however in single combat against the raw strength
and brute skill of the Ogre Tyrant Karaka
Breakmountain and was cut downy only for
Tamurkhan to rise' again in the Tyrant's flesh and
bone. This perhaps proved his undoing, as never
before had Tamurkhan tasted such unrestrained
strength and fury, and even though the body
continued to rot and sustain grievous injury, he
would not abandon it. There were those even in
his own camp that maintained that something of
the Ogre king's savage spirit remained within it to
worry at the Maggot Lord, who seemingly became
increasingly dull-witted and crude as the hulking
frame rotted around him.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Sargath 3 7 3 5 6 3 4 5 9
Tyrant 5 7 3 5 6 5 2 5 9
Possessor * 7 3 * * * * * 9
Bubebolos 8 4 0 7 7 10 2 4 6
Note: Tamurkhan must choose to start the game in
either Sargath's or the Tyrant's body.
POINTS: 655.
TROOP TYPE: Monster (Infantry, Special
Character, Lord).
EQUIPMENT: Heavy armour.
MOUNT: Bubebolos the Toad Dragon.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Mark of
Nurgle (included in profile), Unbreakable.
equal to the possessed model's stats. Note that any
wounds they previously suffered are still in effect.
So, for example, if a model has only one wound
remaining when it is possessed, it now has two
wounds including the +1 for the Possession
modifier.
Tamurkhan now uses any weapons or armour the
victim had (including magical types), discarding
both his own and any other equipment the victim
has. Likewise, any ability the victim had as a
Wizard is lost. This includes any special rules the
victim formerly used other than their unit type,
Natural Armour and Regeneration.

Nurgle's Favoured Son: Such is his pride he will
kneel before none but his rotting Father in
Plague.
If Tamurkhan is taken as part of an army, he must
always be its General.
Feast of the Maggot Lord: If Tamurkhan's
current body is slain, the true beast inside, a
rotting maggot-like parasite, will immediately
attempt to attack and possess a new host, gnawing
its way beneath their flesh and consuming their
brain and organs from within.
If Tamurkhan is slain in close combat, a special
possession attack is made against the model that
delivered the final wound to Tamurkhan. If
Tamurkhan's death occurs as a result of shooting
or other means, the attack will be made against the
nearest eligible model (friend or enemy) within
6". If multiple models fall into this category,
Tamurkhan's player chooses which to attack.
If no eligible model is available or the possession
attack fails, Tamurkhan is killed outright. Also,
Tamurkhan's power cannot save him if he is
destroyed by an attack which causes a model to be
slain outright rather than causing wounds.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Tamurkhan's Rune Blade (Magic Weapon)
While Tamurkhan was in possession of the rotting
remains of the Slaaneshi Champion Sargath the
Vain, he also wielded that fallen warrior's
murderous Chaos Rune Blade – an ancient
weapon finally shattered in combat with the Ogre
Tyrant Karaka Mountainbreaker.
Sargath only. Attacks with the Rune Blade are
Armour Piercing (1) and inflict Multiple Wounds
(2).

Both players roll a D6 and add the Weapon Skill

value of their respective models. If the result is a
draw, roll again until one side wins. If
Tamurkhan's player wins, the victim is killed
outright and their body is possessed. From then
onwards, Tamurkhan takes over the victim model,
which is detached from its unit and placed l" away
from it. The model is now controlled by
Tamurkhan's player for the rest of the game
exactly as if it were their own character model.
Only Infantry and Monstrous Infantry models are
eligible to be possessed. Tamurkhan cannot take
possession of a model with the Animated
Construct, Daemonic, Ethereal, Forest Spirit or
Vampiric special rule.

The characteristics of the new body possessed

body uses the Possessor profile, but with the
following changes: -1 Movement, +1 Toughness,
+1 Wounds, -2 Initiative. Strength and Attacks is

21
 The Black Cleaver (Magic Weapon)
As part of his pact with the Chaos Dwarfs of the
Black Mountains, Tamurkhan was gifted by them
with a great double-handed axe, fitted with a
smouldering, cleaver-like pitted blade, borne up
from deep within their vaults. The strange greyish
fumes the massive weapon exudes when swung
are foully poisonous, which pleases the Maggot-
Lord greatly.
Tyrant only. Great weapon. Any model that
suffers a wound from the weapon and survives
must take a Toughness test or suffer a permanent
reduction of -1 to their Toughness score.
BUBEBOLOS THE TOAD
DRAGON
Toad Dragons are huge, reeking, primeval
horrors. They are, for the fate of the world,
blessedly few in number, and confined largely to
the trackless, otherworldly fens known as the Cold
Mires under the coruscating skies of the uttermost
north. These colossal beasts are near-mindless,
violent and almost impossible to kill, and have a
dire repute in the legends of the Northern Wastes
which name them for their appearance and raw
power, when in truth they are perhaps far closer to
the lumbering beasts that inhabit the jungles of
Lustria than the true and ancient lineages of
dragon-kind. It is here it is said that Tamurkhan,
chosen son of Nurgle tracked, and using
unspeakably foul rites bound to his will
Bubebolos, greatest of all Toad Dragons and
carrion-thing of Nurgle to be his mount and carry
him southward.
22
Bubebolos is an impossibly huge creature – a
lumbering horror from a forgotten age whose
flesh festers with unwholesome rot, and whose
black blood is clotted with maggots and carrion
worms. The strength of this colossal beast is
prodigious, as is its appetite, while its tainted
breath is so corrosively foul it can liquefy flesh
and whither steel in moments. Those it does not
devour or smash flat it can smother beneath its
feculent bulk as it crawls across the earth – its
questing tongue darting out with terrifying speed
to snatch up more victims to disappear down its
yawning maw. Such is the vast size of the beast it
is uncommonly hard to kill by normal means. Its
bulk and resilience are such that arrows and
blades are of little more account than pinpricks,
and even cannon fire and powerful magics must
strike at the vitals of such a creature in order to
slay it.
SPECIAL RULES: Natural Armour (3+),
Immunity (Psychology).
Colossal Beast: This creature is so massive it can
crush dozens beneath its bulk and annihilate great
swathes of men with a lash of its tail.
Bubebolos' Stomp inflicts 2D6 hits, rather than the
normal D6.
Unspeakable Foulness: A Toad Dragon may
exhale a blast of flesh-rotting foulness from his
gaping jaws. Any unfortunates caught in the path
of this tide of horror suffer the most appalling fate
imaginable as their flesh sloughs from their bones
and their lungs fill with blood and pus.
This is a breath weapon attack and any model
caught within its template is automatically hit and
must take a Toughness test at -1 of suffer a wound
with the Multiple Wounds (D3) and Ignores
Armour saves special rules.
Tongue Lash: In addition to the Toad Dragon's
normal attacks, it may also make a single special
lash attack with its befouled and venomous
slurping tongue. This single attack may be
inflicted against any enemy model in base contact
with the Toad Dragon; it is a Strength 4 Poisoned
attack with the Always Strikes First special rule.
Should the victim survive, they suffer -1 to hit that
round of combat.
 THE GLOTTKIN
Befouled Brothers of Nurgle
The story of the Glottkin began in the Empire, on the
coast of the Sea of Claws. The father of the triplets was
Ollos Glott, a humble Nordland farmer, and their mother
was Ethra Greenblood, a magic user schooled in the lore
of Life. Having witnessed a bloody Norscan invasion,
Ollos and Ethra stowed away with the armies that sailed
across the Sea of Claws in search of retribution. However,
where their comrades brought bloody vengeance to their
Norscan foes, they instead brought enlightenment. By
teaching the crafts of the farmer and the healer to the
savages of Norsca, they hoped not to prolong the cycle of
violence, but to break it.
After deserting from the Empire armies under cover of
darkness, the two emissaries slowly carved out a new life.
Ollos raised a humble house for his wife and tilled the
stubborn ground around it; Ethra acted as a wise woman
who influenced many of the fjord clans. Over the course
of the winter, Ethra's belly swelled to prodigious size -
that year her womb nourished not one child, but three. A
jealous Norscan hag cut Ethra's finger with a rusted knife,
and the shallow wound became badly infected. Unable to
heal herself from the gangrenous curse that flowed in her
blood, the she-wizard cried out in the night, begging the
gods to save her children from the lethal infection. Father
Nurgle was listening, and sent a daemon fly to alight on
the pregnant Ethra's gravid belly. Instantly the infection's
deadly grip lessened, and less than a week later Ollos
delivered three strong triplets near the rugged cliffs of
Fjordlingtribe. Each bore a three-lobed birthmark, the sigil
of the Lord of Decay, but their delighted father was
unaware of its significance. He named his children Otto,
Ethrac and Ghurek, and counted himself amongst the
luckiest men alive.
The triplets that became known as the Glottkin grew tall
and strong, and over time each showed great promise.
Ethrac in particular was a quick study, drinking in the
occult lore his mother had mastered. Meanwhile Otto and
Ghurek wrestled each other, clambered across the
treacherous cliffs of the fjords, and even sparred with the
local youths of nearby Fjordlingtribe. For a time, all
seemed well, and the Glotts brought the arts of the
civilised realms to their adopted people. Otto helped his
father harvest his crops with a great scythe of his own
making, Ethrac aided his mother in rituals of fecundity
that coaxed verdant life from the Norscan ice fields. Only
Ghurek proved wayward, more interested in brawling and
chasing women than helping his family in more
wholesome pursuits.
Though the Glottkin's parents worked hard to promote
peace, they could not dissuade the Norscans from the
seaborne raids that were so deeply ingrained within their
culture. In the autumn of 2506, the forces of Nordland
came in search of retribution once more. Over a thousand
state troops made landfall to bring war to the fjord tribes
that had taken the Glotts into their culture.
This time the triplets were at the fore of the fight. Otto
hacked away with the same scythe he had used to reap his
father's harvest, Ethrac used his darkest growth-magicks
to turn his foes into obese boulders of flesh, and the
brawler Ghurek flattened soldiers and champions alike
with his fists. Still it was not enough, for the black powder
weapons of the Nordlanders could kill at fifty paces, and
the great cannons winched up to the clifftops from the gun
decks of their galleons took a gruesome toll. The Glottkin
fought hard as their people were cut down around them,
blood dribbling over the lips of the cliffs and into the
crashing waves below.
The triplets soon became surrounded by the bloody
confusion of melee. When they saw their mother and
father cut down by Nordland halberdiers, all three of the
Glottkin cried out as one for vengeance. The seeds of
mayhem that had been planted within their souls, watered
by the blood of battle, finally began to bear fruit. Otto cut
men down like autumn corn as his scythe swung left and
right. Handgunner bullets thudded into his chest and even
his face, but they did not break the skin. Ethrac's magics
became ever more destructive, reducing men to pools of
black slime and causing maggots of dark energy to eat his
foes from the inside out. Ghurek was filled with a
daemonic strength, the warrior punching clean through
torsos and guts before picking up a great cannon by its
muzzle and swinging it like a giant club to sweep his foes
over the cliff. The Empire army broke under the fury of
the Glottkin's onslaught, and their legend began in earnest.
Since that fateful battle, Nurgle bestowed gifts upon the
triplets with every passing year, spoiling them much in the
manner a generous grandfather treats his grandchildren.
Little by little, the Glotts become very different men.
Ghurek grew larger and larger as his ravenous appetite for
life turned into desperate gluttony. Eventually man
became monster as Ghurek gained terrible strength, but
23
 lost the ability to reason. Known for growling a corrupted
version of his own name, 'Ghurk' was refashioned by his
adoptive grandfather into an obese spawn-thing so large
his brothers took to riding him to war. Great horns
sprouted from his shoulders, popping boils covered his
back, and his arms mutated hideously, one into a lamprey
maw, the other into a muscular tentacle, the better to
scoop up victims to sate his terrible hunger. Ghurk could
slay giants and ice drakes alike, devouring their corpses
and later defecating heaving mounds from which strange
new forms of life emerged into the light.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Impact Hits
(D3), Mark of Nurgle (included in profile), Poisoned
Attacks, Regeneration (4+), Will of Chaos.
Otto Glott: Otto Glott can hurl his scythe to cut down
his enemies, even when he is standing on Ghurk's
mighty shoulders.
Roll a D3 at the start of each Close Combat phase, and
add the result to the number of Attacks on Otto Glott's
profile. This bonus lasts until the end of the phase.

Ethrac Glott: Ethrac casts spells from his perch high

on his brother's shoulders.

The Glottkin are treated as if they were a Level 4

Wizard that can use spells from the Lore of Nurgle.

Ghurk Glott: Ghurk Glott can use the massive

tentacle that has replaced one of his arms to crush the
life from even the mightiest foe.
Embittered by the loss of his mother and father, Ethrac
became dark of heart. His spells turned ever fouler, and Before rolling To Hit, nominate one of the Ghurk's
the types of life they propagated were vile and Attacks as the Lashing Tentacle. This Attack has
unwholesome. The sorcerer burnt his parents' bodies on a Strength 10 and the Multiple Wounds (D6) special rule.
brazier that he has borne ever since, the stinking scent of
burnt offal drawing clouds of flies wherever he roams. Lords of Nurgle: The Glottkin, and all other friendly
The remains of his parents still smoulder there to this day, models within 12" that have the Mark of Nurgle special
a cremated reminder of the vengeance their sorcerous son rule, re-roll failed charge distances. In addition, if the
has yet to wreak. Glottkin are ever required to roll on the Eye of the
Gods table, do not roll any dice. Instead, the Glottkin
Of all the triplets, Otto embraced his new destiny with the always count as having rolled the Aura of Chaos
most fervour. He became a true devotee of Nurgle, reward.
intending to sow unbridled life across the world in every
manner and form, no matter how stomach-churning. His Pestilent Torrent: Ghurk has a Strength 3 Breath
scabrous body bloated and became as tough as bark. Weapon with the Ignores Armour saves special rule
Though the wounds he suffered on his steady rise to glory
which can only be used in close combat.
often did not heal completely, the contagions that drizzled
from his opened guts grew so virulent they were soon
weapons in their own right. Otto took to coating the blade
of his scythe with his own poisonous juices whenever he
went into battle, cementing his reputation as a harbinger
of plague. Amongst all the brothers it is Otto who is the
most driven. His taste for carnage has seen the roaming
Glottkin triumph against warbands that worshipped
Slaanesh, Tzeentch, even mighty Khorne. Yet, despite
their growing favour in the eyes of their patron, it was
only when Archaon approached them to lead his vanguard
that the triplets began their deadly journey in earnest...

M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Otto Glott 4 8 3 5 - - 5 5 9
Ethrac Glott 4 4 3 5 - - 3 3 8
Ghurk Glott 6 3 0 6 7 10 1 5 7

POINTS: 880.

TROOP TYPE: Monster (Special Character, Lord).

MOUNT: Ghurk Glott.

EQUIPMENT: Hand weapon, great weapon (Otto

Glott only).

MUTATIONS: Nurgle's Rot.

24
 THE MAGGOTH RIDERS
Lords of Icehorn Peaks
The Maggoth Riders hail from a bleak and deadly
place known simply as Icehorn Peak. It is in the
lands of the Icehorn tribe, a band of Warriors of
Chaos who are led by the notorious Orghotts
Daemonspew. Their domain is far, far to the north
of the Empire, where only the insane would travel
and hope to live. To go further would be to tread
the borders of the Realm of Chaos itself, and to
court the certain death to be found there.
As the End Times draw nearer and the power of
the Everchosen of Chaos waxes stronger, Orghotts
has led his fellow Maggoth Lords southwards, a
deadly triumvirate riding upon vile maggot-
things: Bloab Rotspawned, Orghotts’s chosen
Sorcerer, and Morbidex Twiceborn, his Jarl, both
renowned scions of Chaos in their own right (and
mighty enough to lead vast armies of their own).
They willingly ride at Orghotts’s side, for Nurgle
rejoices in things that come in threes, a homage to
the triple bubo that is his sacred sign. To the
tribesmen of the Icehorn tribe this is a time of
great omen – Father Nurgle is stretching forth his
hand to bless the dull and torpid world to the
south, and it is their Lord, Orghotts, and his Jarl
and Sorcerer who march as his vanguard.
Collectively, Orghotts Daemonspew, Bloab
Rotspawned and Morbidex Twiceborn are known
as the Maggoth Lords – warriors of Chaos capable
of mastering and riding foul pox maggoths into
war. Though these huge, larvae-like creatures
share dominant physical features, they are quite
different from one another. Each has its own grim
personality and a name that describes its foul
physical attributes: Whippermaw, Tripletongue
and Bilespurter.
Though not Daemonic, pox maggoths definitely
sit within the unwholesome menagerie of
creatures under Nurgle’s patronage, keeping
company with the slug-like Beasts of Nurgle and
bloated, rot-winged Plague Drones. For their part,
the pox maggoths have vile bodies akin to grubs
or maggots with gangly limbs, their distended
flesh covered in layers of rippling flesh, bulging
pustules and sagging folds of greasy skin. At the
end of their forelimbs are curved claws, as large
and strong as sword blades.
25
 ORGHOTTS DAEMONSPEW
Master of the Pox Maggoths
Orghotts' one and only wish is to become a true
daemon. His origins are buried under the blood-
flecked snow of three hundred winters, though the
people of the Icehorn Tribe whisper that he was born
of an unholy union between a Great Unclean One
and a human witch. Whether this tryst was the result
of a daemonic pact or something even fouler is best
not dwelt upon.
Orghotts is consumed by resentment that he has one
foot in the mortal realm and one in what he sees as
his rightful domain, the Garden of Nurgle. The
enemies of the Icehorn tribe call Orghotts the
Bastard King of Icehorn Peak, though none use this
title in his presence, for the well of buried anger that
suffocates the warlord's soul can boil over in a single
deadly instant.
There was a period in Orghotts' history where he
would regularly consort with – and even consume –
the daemonic servants of the Lord of Decay in an
attempt to contract Nurgle's Rot. He did this in the
hope that he would die from the spiritual disease and
become a Plaguebearer, as had so many lesser
tribesmen before him. Devout as he was, he felt sure
that the Lord of Decay would take pity on his
devoted disciple and reforge him in immortal form.
Ironically, the same unnatural resilience granted to
him by his half-daemon nature kept him from the
embrace of death and the nirvana that lay on the
other side. Nurgle's Rot claimed him as a vessel,
even reshaping his mortal form so that the single
horn of a plaguebearer sprouted from his skull in
place of his left eye, but it did not claim him

Icehorn Peak is situated in the far north of the world,

on the penumbra of the Realm of Chaos, and the
people that eke out a living from the god-touched
wilderness are well used to seeing the shimmering
landscape disgorge entire hosts of daemons.
Orghotts has dwelt on the margin of his master's
domain for several centuries, for the ichor that runs
in his veins lends him a sham immortality that has
extended his lifespan to many times that of the
oldest human.

The Realm of Chaos ebbs and flows across the lands

as the power of the Dark Gods waxes and wanes,
and at times it has spilt over the mountains to
consume Icehorn Peak and those who dwell in its
shadow. Orghotts has, at times, even walked the
twisting pathways of the Garden of Nurgle, though
instead of being the transcendent paradise he had
hoped for it proved instead a tantalising hell. The
Bastard King wandered the Realm of Chaos at one
step removed, able to see the garden unfold around
him but unable to breathe in the nostril-blasting
scents of its bright fungus or taste the rancid spores
that floated lazily through the air.

It was a vision of heaven dangled in front of his

aching senses, granting not peace but instead
inflaming Orghotts' desire to appreciate Nurgle's
gifts fully. The only things he was able to touch
there were a pair of rotbladed axes that he found
embedded deep in the trunk of a twisted tree that had
once been a dreaming life-wizard. The axes were of
mortal origin, and though it took every ounce of his
strength, Orghotts wrenched them loose and took
them for his own. He fights with these plague-caked
Rot Axes to this day, a permanent reminder of the
time he stood upon the threshold of his destiny.

26
completely as he had hoped. Though he has since
spread that most transcendent of diseases to
countless mortals, Orghotts remains stranded on the
mortal plane.
Like countless warlords before him, Orghotts walks
the path to glory in search of his god's favour. This
treacherous road leads only to death, to
transformation into a mewling Chaos spawn, or – for
a rare few – to immortality as a daemon prince.
Though Orghotts' daemonic allies have intimated
that even daemon princes bear the stigma of the
mortal seed that birthed them, he strives for that
status nonetheless, for if he wins favour enough to
cross the divide he will at last become a true
immortal.
In his quest for Nurgle's approval, Orghotts has
sailed in search of glory on many occasions. He has
led entire tribes south across the Sea of Chaos,
through the wilderness of Norsca and into the
Empire. He fought at the Battle of Kislev's Gates
during the Great War Against Chaos in 2303,
challenging and swiftly slaying the warrior priests
and grand masters of the Sigmarite armies sent to
stop him.
Though Orghotts considers himself a mere shadow
of the warrior he will one day become, in battle he
has always proved to be a force of terrible
destruction. Heavily armoured and all but immune to
physical wounds, those fast enough to land a blow
on Orghotts' stout frame invariably find their attack
shrugged off, and a decapitating blow levelled at
them in return. Even those of his blows that do not
truly connect can be lethal – a single scratch from
the Rotaxes will fester and turn gangrenous in a
second, laying the victim low even as Orghotts
barrels past in search of fresh opportunities to prove
his worth. Those assailants that do manage to
penetrate Orghotts' armour and pierce his skin
quickly learn the truth behind his name. Whenever
the warlord's flesh is cut open, a gout of daemonic
ichor spew out with shocking force. Its vitriolic
potency is enough to burn through steel and dissolve
the flesh beneath. It is a testament to the length of
Orghotts' violent odyssey that more men have been
killed by his tainted lifeblood than by the blades of
the latter-day champions that march alongside him.
The daemonic vitae that runs in Orghotts' blood
proved unpredictably useful in the harnessing of
Whippermaw, the pox maggoth that the warlord
rides to war. Orghotts first encountered the
monstrous maggotthing slumbering in the quagmires
of the Eternal Lagoon. Guided into the stinking
morass by a vision of Nurgie's fecund favour,
Orghotts wisely waited until Whippermaw was in a
digestive torpor after devouring a swamp drake
before approaching the beast. The maggoth slammed
a long claw into Orghotts' neck, but just as its long
tongue whipped out to ensnare him and yank him
towards its two gnashing mouths, the scent of
daemon ichor gave the beast pause.
Seeing his chance, Orghotts caught the beast's
lashing tongue in his gauntlet and swung up onto its
back, using the whip-like appendage as an
improvised rein with which to yank the pox maggoth
left and right until it had learned to obey his
commands.
Any other warrior would have been swiftly thrown
off and chewed in half, but the scent of Nurgle's
favour ran in Orghotts' veins. So it is that he rides a
powerful pox maggoth to this day, a beast just as
impervious to harm as its master. As the scale of his
deeds grows ever greater, Orghotts' chances of true
immortality become greater with every passing
night.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Orghotts - 8 3 5 6 3 5 5 9
Whippermaw 6 3 3 6 6 6 1 4 -
POINTS: 420.
TROOP TYPE: Monster (Special Character, Lord).
MOUNT: Whippermaw.
EQUIPMENT: Full plate armour.
MUTATIONS:
Acid Ichor: Whenever Orghotts Daemonspew suffers
an unsaved Wound in close combat, the model that
inflicted that hit must pass an Initiative test or suffer a
Strength 4 hit. Wounds inflicted by Acid Ichor count
towards the combat result.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Mark of
Nurgle (included in profile), Ward Save (6+), Will of
Chaos.
Whippermaw: Orghotts Daemonspew can make a
shooting attack using the following profile:
Range: Strength: Special Rules:
6" 4 Killing Blow
Poisoned Attacks,
Quick to Fire
MAGIC ITEMS:
The Rotaxes (Magic Weapon)
Rotaxes are a pair of long-handled weapons which can
kill a foe with the merest of scratches.
Two hand weapons. Close combat attacks made by the
wielder have +2 Strength and the Poisoned Attacks
special rule.
27
 BLOAB ROTSPAWNED
Harbinger of Fecundity
From afar, the sorcerer Bloab Rotspawned appears
to be constantly surrounded by swarms of unnatural
insects. Only his fellow warriors in the Icehorn tribe
know that Bloab is in fact the swarm, and the swarm
is Bloab. Though there was a time when he was a
tall and athletic warrior, now there is nothing left of
his mortal form but a sack of leathery skin filled
with wriggling daemon-maggots.
Even as a child, Bloab had an unhealthy fascination
for the smaller forms of life in the world. He took
great by in pulling the legs from snow spiders and
trapping ice moths inside wax-sealed skulls until
they starved to death. It was a habit that he took with
him into adolescence, and then into adulthood. Such
was his persecution of the Icehorn Peaks' most
diminutive creatures that Bloab eventually came to
the notice of Grandfather Nurgle.
28
Nurgle values all forms of life, no matter how small.
On some level it offended him that such a powerful
young warrior spent his time seeking out and
mutilating the least of foes instead of claiming glory
by cutting down the champions of the Urfather's
rivals. Every winter Bloab fought alongside the rest
of his tribe's menfolk against the tribes of Kvellig
and Tong, but when spring approached he always
went back to his sadistic one-man war against the
worlds of the tiny creatures that eke out a life from
the arctic wastes.
As with most of the Icehorn tribe's menfolk, Nurgle
had given Bloab the gift of resilience. Though the
Lord of Decay usually toughens the constitutions of
his devotees so they can better appreciate the
plagues that spill out from his garden, Bloab's skin
became Thundertusk-thick for quite a different
reason.
The Lord of Decay resolved to teach Bloab a lesson.
On one of his long hunting expeditions, the young
warrior began to find ever larger and more surreal
forms of insects. One by one he took his dagger to
them, cutting them into pieces and cooking their
chitinous legs over small cavefires for sustenance.
One night, when Morrslieb waxed full, Bloab was
taking his rest in a cave near the Forest of Decay. He
had just enjoyed a long but arduous day of torturing
large insects and small animals, and as night fell and
he drifted into a deep sleep, he started snoring loud
enough to scare off a cave bear. As his dreams
strayed into the Garden of Nurgle, a daemonfly with
human features wound its way down from the
craters of Morrsleib's surface and flew in lazy spirals
into Bloab's cavern refuge. Another came down
from the skies, then three more.
Soon the cave echoed to the roar of a thick black
swarm, but still Bloab did not wake. Forming a
twisting funnel like that of a tornado, the
daemonflies dived for his yawning mouth and
plunged down his throat into his body. There they
laid eggs by the thousand, nestling the clutches of
their larvae in his lungs, his guts, and his heart. Once
their business was done they flew out once more into
the night, blood-slick and grinning.
Bloab woke in agony from strange and disturbing
dreams, his insides burning. Within him the
daemonfly larvae had hatched, and the wriggling
beasts were eating him alive from the inside out. Just
as he had taken his time dismembering and
persecuting those creatures smaller than him, the
daemon larvae were in no hurry, lazily chewing at
their screaming host with their tiny razored
mandibles until there was nothing left of him save a
sac of toughened skin. However, Grandfather
Nurgle, in his beneficence, wished not to kill Bloab,
but to put him to new use. With the energies of
Nurgle sustaining him, Bloab survived his ordeal,
even with his insides hollowed out like a drained
gourd. One by one, the fat pupae that wriggled
inside him matured and split. New daemonflies
hatched one after another to crawl out of Bloab's
mouth and buzz in his wake, their affection for their
host like that of grateful children.
Since that grotesque experience, Bloab Rotspawned
has found himself high in the favour of Nurgle, for
the Lord of Decay is as forgiving of his worshippers
as an indulgent father is of his errant sons. When
Bloab becomes enraged, the contours of his flesh
ripple and pulse, spells of rot and dismemberment
spilling from his lips as his daemonflies hiss praises
to Nurgle around him.
Bloab was even allowed to walk the paths of his
master's garden, escorted through its treacherous
reaches by a humanoid figure that coalesced from
the very swarm that makes his fleshsac its home.
There he stood upon the threshold of Nurgle's great
rotting manse, marvelling at its entropic glory. He
did not have the courage to disturb his master's
studies at the cauldron, though when Bloab made his
obeisances and left, he found that a pair of bell from
the windspeaker that had clanged softly on Nurgle's
veranda now hung from his travelling scythe. They
still hang there now, their dolorous toll harming the
concentration of enemy mages and helping Bloab to
focus his own.
Bloab has truly repented of his former sins, taking
great pains to overcome sterility wherever he finds
it. So tireless has Bloab been in the propagation of
his master's diseases that, after introducing the
contagion known as the Black Blossoms to the Tong
tribe, he awoke one morning to find a giant pox
maggoth looming over him. The long-limbed
creature had sought him out not with intent to maul
and destroy, but to befriend. Once Bloab had
recovered from his shock, his daemonflies swarmed
around him and lifted him atop its shoulders.
Bloab's joy was magnified threefold when a warband
of vengeful Tong sought him out. His pox maggoth
heaved great sloshing balls of acidic bile into their
ranks even as his daemonfly swarms fell upon them
in a frenzy of tiny mandibles. His pets attacked with
such fury that they laid the tribesmen low before
Bloab had muttered a single incantation. Since that
day Bloab has been known in the north as the Lord
of the Daemonflies, a title that he delights in.
Not content to rest on his laurels, Bloab Rotspawned
has travelled south with the intention of bringing the
joys of plague to the civilised realms. Now it is his
maggoth, Bilespurter, that dismembers his victims,
and his daemonflies that ensure he has space enough
to work. In recent months his swarm has thinned in
number, its eldest members buzzing out on lengthy
migrations to seek out new champions for Nurgle.
Rumour has it that those touched by the Lord of the
Daemonflies' swarm are destined for great things,
though there are just as many reports of their painful
bites bearing deadly infection as there are rumours
of the seeds of greatness.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Bloab Rotspawned - 5 3 4 5 3 3 3 8
Bilespurter 6 3 3 6 6 6 1 4 -
POINTS: 455.
TROOP TYPE: Monster (Special Character, Lord).
MOUNT: Bilespurter.
MAGIC: Bloab is a Level 3 Wizard who uses spells
from the Lore of Nurgle.
EQUIPMENT: Great weapon, medium armour.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Mark of
Nurgle (included in profile), Will of Chaos.
Bilespurter: Bloab Rotspawned can make a shooting
attack in the same manner as a stone thrower, using the
following profile.
Range: Strength: Special Rules:
24" 3(4) Ignores Armour saves
Daemon Flies: At the start of each of your Magic
phases, before rolling for the Winds of Magic, every
enemy unit within 6" of Bloab Rotspawned suffers D6
Strength 3 hits with the Magical Attacks special rule.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Doombells (Arcane Item)
The bearer gains +1 to all of his casting results. Enemy
Wizards within 12" of the bearer suffers -1 to all of
their casting results.
29
 MORBIDEX TWICEBORN
Enemy of Sterility
The young warrior known as Morbidex Fireborn
had a troubled birth, heaved from his mother's
womb even as his parents' village was being burnt
down around their ears. Badly disfigured by the
flames, Morbidex's fearsome appearance
impressed all who saw it. Yet it was his skill at
arms that saw him rise to chieftain of his nomadic
tribe, for Morbidex was a merciless fighter with a
will of iron.
Morbidex had been brought up as a devout
worshipper of the Dark Gods, and had listened
well to his shamans. During their nightly tutelage
he learned that the great god Tzeentch was
associated with the flames of change. The young
chieftain grew to believe that it was the Great
Architect that had scarred him as a baby, and
30
vowed to take his revenge. His shamans were
horrified at the very idea, but Fireborn insisted.
He made preparations for a great voyage, and set
out for the Realm of Chaos in search of aid from
Tzeentch's greatest rival – Grandfather Nurgle.
Further and further north went Morbidex,
climbing through snowdrifts and hauling himself
up mountains in his ceaseless pilgrimage. The
landscape around him became stranger the further
north the chieftain went. Caves became glistening
mouths, cliff faces folded in on themselves over
and over again, skies screamed and withered trees
clutched at Morbidex as he battled past. Yet not
for one moment did he entertain the notion of
retreat.
In the end, the Garden of Nurgle came to
Morbidex. The aethyric winds were blowing
strong that year, and the Realm of Chaos spilled
out into reality, consuming the lands in a tide of
unreality. Unholy vegetation spread rapidly across
glacier and ice floe alike, fungi sprouted and
spores choked the air until the world became ever
more similar to the fecund paradise of the Lord of
Decay. Morbidex was climbing the sheer side of
Icehorn Peak with only a pair of sharp axes when
this wave of strangeness washed over him. As he
hung precariously from the mountainside, an
avalanche descended upon him – not of snow and
ice, but of giggling, excited nurglings. The
nurgling avalanche took Morbidex with it all the
way to the bottom of the mountain, each of the
portly little daemons squealing in delight around
the chieftain as they tumbled into the mortal
realm. The chieftain cried out too, but not in joy,
for he feared he was being carried to his death.
Buried alive by countless tonnes of suppurating,
daemonic flesh, Morbidex lost consciousness.
When he recovered he was swimming in a pitch-
dark morass of diseased liquids and squishy,
bloated bodies. He did not know which way was
up and which was down, and his breath came in
ragged gasps, each foul mouthful carrying a
throat-searing stink. He tried to dig his way
through the mass, flailing and thrashing as the
nurglings around him tittered and wriggled,
occasionally tickling him or poking tiny holes in
his flesh.
The boldest of the nurglings, introducing himself
as Little Bubo, slipped and squirted his way
through the living quagmire to Morbidex's side.
He asked the chieftain a child's riddle, and though
Fireborn sullenly ignored it at first, eventually he
gave the answer – it was a riddle he himself had
told as a child. Little Bubo burrowed down and
yanked hard at Morbidex's belt, but he was little
stronger than an infant, and achieved nothing.
Next to speak was Bull Boil, a comparatively
brawny nurgling with a steer's horns. He asked the
trapped chieftain a riddle of his own, and after
long thought, Morbidex gave the correct answer to
this conundrum too. Bull Boil shouldered his way
to Morbidex's feet and pushed upwards with all
his inconsiderable might. Over and over again this
strange test was undertaken, each of the bravest
nurglings asking his own riddle. Those to whom
Morbidex gave the right answer would aid him,
pushing and pulling as the chieftain struggled to
get free. Though they were individually weak,
when a dozen Nurglings strove to help, their aid
finally paid off. Slowly, inch by painstaking inch,
Fireborn managed to climb through the morass.
There was a price to be paid, of course, as there
always is when dealing with daemons. Those
nurglings to whom Morbidex gave the wrong
answer would laugh evilly and touch a part of his
anatomy with their spindly fingers. Mere
moments later, that part of Morbidex would
change to echo the form of the daemon-mite that
had touched it. When the chieftain failed to
answer Wobblegut's riddle he felt his belly
distending to become a pallid boulder of
suppurating fat. When Slitherlimb's question went
unanswered, Morbidex found a tentacle sprouting
painfully from his left elbow. Last of all was the
question posed by Grinling, a nurgling who had
suckled at Nurgle's own blistered teat. The riddle
was simple in nature – what were a man's desires
next to those of a god? By this point Morbidex
was at his wits' end. His head swimming, he
roared in frustration and caught the nurgling in his
hands, squashing it until it popped like an overripe
pimple. He found his maddened shout change to a
contralto yelp, then to a high pitched giggle as his
face changed to that of the Nurgling he had just
destroyed.
Morbidex fought through the pain of his
transformations, bursting up from the nurgling-
tide like a zombie clawing out from the grave. The
daemon-mites, impressed by the tenacity of the
champion in their midst, cheered in unison as
Morbidex threw back his newly-horned head and
laughed manically at the shimmering skies.
Morbidex has been followed by hundreds of
jubilant nurglings ever since. He was borne on a
squelching, farting pile of the creatures to their
caves beneath Icehorn Peak, where he introduced
himself as Morbidex Twiceborn. Recognising a
kindred spirit, Orghotts Daemonspew offered
Morbidex the position of jarl in his tribe –
provided, that is, he could conquer a beast of
greater size than a mere nurgling. Incensed,
Morbidex set off for the Eternal Lagoon in search
of a pox maggoth much like the one that Orghotts
himself rode.
He found one soon enough; a giant drooling fiend
with a triple tongue protruding from its mouth.
The chieftain ducked and rolled out from the
maggoth's powerful swings, and though his
nurglings distracted and confused the beast,
whenever Morbidex's scythe lopped off a limb or
a tongue it would swiftly grow back. The
rampaging maggoth swallowed dozens of
Morbidex's daemon-mites whole, and for a while
the chieftain feared for his life. However, the pox
maggoth's unholy appetite proved its downfall.
The nurglings inside the maggoth frolicked in its
stomach acids, giggling and splashing even as
they dissolved. Blending their essence with the
beast's, they mingled their minds with that of their
devourer until it too became a devoted followeil
of the Twiceborn. Morbidex rode the beast back
to Orghotts, taking his place at Daemonspew's
right hand.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Morbidex Twiceborn - 7 3 5 6 3 4 4 8
Tripletongue 6 3 3 6 6 6 1 4 -
POINTS: 410.
TROOP TYPE: Monster (Special Character, Lord).
MOUNT: Tripletongue.
EQUIPMENT: Great weapon, medium armour.
MUTATIONS: Nurgle's Rot.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Mark of
Nurgle (included in profile), Regeneration (4+),
Ward save (6+), Will of Chaos.
Lord of Nurglings: All friendly Nurgling units (see
Daemons of Chaos) within 12" of Morbidex
Twiceborn have the Regeneration (4+) special rule.
Tripletongue: Morbidex Twiceborn can make a
shooting attack using the following profile.
Range: Strength: Special Rules:
6" 6 Poisoned Attacks,
Quick To Fire
31
 GUTROT SPUME
The Lord of Tentacles, Master of the Plague Fleets
Gutrot Spume is the lord of the Dragonbone tribe and
the commander of the greatest plague fleet in the north.
A proud warrior whose towering arrogance often leads
him into battles against overwhelming odds, Spume
has risen from the ashes of former failure to reclaim his
position as one of the pre-eminent warlords of his age.
The love of the sea runs in Spume's veins. As a youth,
he earned his name from his habit of plunging into the
Sea of Claws with nothing but a knife. He spent more
and more time underwater, slaying the eater-fish and
swordsharks that roamed the fjords and dragging their
corpses back to his tribe. His ability as a warrior and a
provider did not go unnoticed, and Spume soon became
the jarl of the Dragonbone tribe.
Gutrot was not seeking to impress his fellow humans,
however, but the gods above. Spume dived time and
time again into the Sea of Claws. Whilst his
contemporaries hunted spawn, trolls and
slaughterbrutes on the tundra of his homeland, Spume
sunk his knife into kharibdyss, sea serpent and
merwyrm alike. When Spume heard tell of a gigantic
rot-kraken that was haunting the coast of the Bile
Lands, he made haste to hunt it down. The lunatic
ambition of his plan saw his expedition amassing a
flotilla of Norscan wolf ships, each filled with
tribesmen eager to turn the seas red with the blood of
monsters.
Though it took Spume several months of battling not
only the deadly beasts of the Sea of Claws but also the
elf fleets that sought to stop them, his shattered fleet
eventually found the oily slicks of diseased fluids that
were said to follow the rot-kraken's passage. Wasting
no time, Spume stripped to the waist and dived deep
into the waters. He followed the noisome stream of
secretions that he reasoned led to the kraken's lair,
swimming ever deeper until he glimpsed a tentacled
shadow of immense size writhing in the depths.
from his foolhardy quest. Yet Grandfather Nurgle was
feeling even more generous than usual, and though his
rival gods turned away in disinterest at Spume's failure,
the Lord of Decay saw fit to reward him for his
bravery. When Gutrot finally surfaced, his body had
changed beyond recognition. His left side had merged
with the kraken-spawn that had taken his arm, and his
entire flank bristled with tentacles that writhed with a
mind of their own. His gut had swollen to twice its
original bulk, and his skin was the ghostly white of an
undersea beast. Spume climbed aboard his flagship
once more, not as the jarl of a Norscan tribe, but reborn
as the Lord of Tentacles.
It was not long before Spume marshalled his armada
once more, this time intending to sack the coastal
settlements of the Empire. Word spread of his powers,
for those who opposed him quickly sickened and died,
or were found drowned inexplicably in the night. By
the spring equinox Spume's fleet of ramshackle vessels
was plunging through the waves of the Sea of Claws
towards the coast of Nordland. Ten thousand men and
more were held within the hulls of the algae-caked
ships, marauding tribesmen and armoured killers in
equal number. This time they would carve their
destinies from the soft flesh of southerners.
Gutrot Spume's fleet reached the Nordland coast all but
intact, braving the cannon fire of its fjord-forts only to
find the beach packed with rank upon rank of Empire
state troops. Above them, commanders in elaborate
helms flew on pegasus and griffon, bawling down

His confidence brimming, Spume swam down and

buried his blade in the thick fat that protected the
kraken's skull. A series of low subsonic shivers
pounded through the water, their tempo sounding
uncomfortably like booming laughter. Too late, Spume
saw smaller tentacle beasts converging upon him. Each
of the pallid things was no larger than a hound, though
they attacked in such number that he soon found
himself fighting for his life. Rubbery white tentacles
slapped and grabbed, razored beaks bit into his flesh.
One of the creatures swallowed Spume's left arm
whole.

Realising that he had seconds left at most, the jarl

fought his way free, his legs scissoring as he reached
desperately for the surface. He did not expect to
survive, just as his men did not expect him to return

32
orders for their men to hold. Amongst their number
was Karl Franz himself, for the Empire knew well of
the Norscan love of spring raids, and word of the
approaching fleet had travelled fast.
The invading fleet sailed at full speed into the bay,
bellowing hordes leaping over shield-studded gunwales
and thundering out into the shallows. In a matter of
minutes battle had been joined, Spume at the forefront
as the killing began. The warlord shouted a challenge
to the Emperor high above, but instead of fighting him,
the griffon rider turned his steed around and fled.
Spume was still laughing when the southern ruler
returned a few hours later. His mirth soon faded when
the pale-skinned Ice Queen that now shared his saddle
cast a great spell that froze the waters of the bay,
trapping the vast majority of his men up to the knees
with it. With the Norscan hordes trapped in the frozen
waves, the state troops of the south redoubled their
attack, finding it easy to kill Spume's warriors one by
one with longspear and halberd. Gutrot fought hard but
eventually admitted defeat, skidding back along the
thick ice to his flagship and sailing back to the
Dragonbone tribe to lick his wounds. Over the years
that followed, he rebuilt his armies and his fleet,
swearing a solemn oath that should he find a chance to
wreak his revenge, he would seize it without hesitation.
It’s rumoured his flagship, a gargantuan vessel named
the Rotten Beast, is built around the half-dead carcass
of a rot-kraken, though no living creature can (or wants
to) verify the tale. Writhing tentacles lash nearby
vessels with a sentience of their own, with the power to
crush a greatship. Spume’s plague fleets now dominate
the Sea of Claws. As one of the mightiest armadas to
ever sail the world, it won’t be long before Spume sets
his sights on the Empire and revenge. When the plague
fleet heads south, the Empire will burn.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Gutrot Spume 4 8 3 5 6 4 5 5 9
POINTS: 270.
TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Lord).
EQUIPMENT: Great weapon, medium armour.
MUTATIONS: Nurgle's Rot.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Mark of
Nurgle (included in profile) , Will of Chaos.
At Home on Land or Sea: Gutrot Spume and any unit
he is with gains the Aquatic special rule.
Flailing Tentacles: Immediately before Gutrot Spume
attacks in the Close Combat phase, roll a D3 and add
the result to the Attacks characteristic on his profile.
33
 KAYZK THE BEFOULED
Champion of Nurgle
The Kurgan warrior known as Kayzk has given much
in the service of his god, Nurgle the Lord of Decay. He
has given his flesh, which is now a rotting, pestilent
mass, robbed of form and feeling. He has given his
voice, for his vocal cords are no more than an open
wound, and he long ago gave his soul to be the Plague
Father's trinket. Kayzk stands as a living (if it can be
called such) testament to the full horrors of Nurgle's
blessings, earning him the epithet 'the befouled' by
those of the Plague-God's bleak faith.
A mighty champion in his own right, Kayzk came to
command his own warband of Kurgan horsemen, who
followed his path of decay and became known as the
Plague Knights for the foetid, half-Daemon beasts they
rode into battle –vile, mutilated creatures whose
cancerous flesh rapidly wept pus over any wounds they
sustained, suturing them shut. Kayzk the Befouled was
one of the first to flock to Tamurkhan's banner, joining
with the Maggot Lord in the Chaos Wastes and
sweeping down through the lands of the Kurgan at his
side, serving as Tamurkhan's chief lieutenant and
master of his mounted troops. During the Battle of the
Black Pit, Kayzk is said to have fallen, not to the shot
or sword of the Empire defenders, but in Drazhoath's
sorcerous fires as he led the ill-judged attack on the
slave encampment to secure fresh sacrifices for his
master's dark rites.
34
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Kayzk the Befouled 4 7 3 5 5 2 4 4 8
Rotbeast of Nurgle 7 3 0 4 4 3 2 2 6
POINTS: 280.
TROOP TYPE: Monstrous Cavalry (Special
Character, Hero).
MOUNT: Rot Beast of Nurgle.
EQUIPMENT: Full plate armour.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Fear, Mark
of Nurgle (included in profile), Poisoned Attacks,
Regeneration (5+), Will of Chaos.
Corrupted Flesh: Kayzk's ravaged flesh is a rotting
mockery, little more than a roughly human-shaped bag
of putrescence and corruption which feels neither pain
nor hurt. This grants him phenomenal resistance to
injury meaning that Kayzk must be all but hacked apart
before he can be stopped.
All attacks (except those with the Flaming Attacks
special rule) suffer -1 To Wound Kayzk the Befouled.
Plague Knights: Plague Knights is a name given to the
mounted elite from amongst the Chaos warriors whose
patron is Nurgle. They are infected with all manner of
crippling diseases and are motivated by a strange morbid
energy. This enables them to survive blows which might
otherwise slay another Chaos Knight. Their originally
splendid wargear, coats of arms and banners have
become tattered and dirty like the rags of lepers. Their
silk and fur cloaks hang from their shoulders like the
shrouds of a corpse. Many Knights bear their
disfigurements openly and are quite proud of their bloody
sores and discoloured skin. Others cover their shrivelled
limbs and leprous faces with bandages. Some hide their
faces behind bizarre carnival masks with absurdly
grinning or grimacing faces. All Plague Knights ride
Rotbeasts because their crippling diseases make it hard if
not impossible for them to move about unaided. Fat flies
swarm about them, crawling in and out of their robes, and
where their Rotbeasts’ feet tread the soil, maggots and
worms spill up from the loam. They are often
accompanied by a Nurgling which perches on their saddle
or shoulder, or which hangs to their horse harness,
gurgling delightedly as the Knight charges into the
carnage of battle.
If Kayzk is included in your army, you may upgrade
one unit of Chaos Knights with the Mark of Nurgle to
Plague Knights for +24 points per model. Plague
Knights ride Rotbeasts of Nurgle and are Monstrous
Cavalry. In addition, they have the Regeneration (5+)
special rule.
 VALNIR THE REAPER
Over two hundred years ago, the name of Valnir
the Reaper was feared throughout the lands of
Kislev and the Empire. As a great warrior in the
Tribe of the Crow, he took the path over the
Mountains of Dusk to the Realm of Chaos and
became a Chaos Warrior and then, in time, a
feared and mighty Champion of Chaos.
In his region far to the cold north, it is said that
none were a match for Valnir in battle. His
strength of sinew and skill at arms were such that
he was considered by many an equal to even the
warriors of the Great Warhound. Yet while his
tribe cheered his many victories and watched him
rise to become their undisputed leader and
warchief, Valnir himself felt no joy. He took no
pride in his actions or appearance, nor did he revel
in the luxuries that his small empire of conquered
lands could bestow. Why this might have been,
none of the legends say, but all agree that Valnir
was ever grim of visage and heavy of heart.
Indeed, it was said amongst his people that if
Valnir's misery were to flow as a river from his
mouth, then it would cover all the lands of the
north with its bitter waters. Yet, despite Valnir's
obvious despair, he was not apathetic or defeatist.
Though no one could say why, Valnir hated the
world with rare fervour and was determined to
impose his misery upon all the lands of men. But
nothing the gaunt-faced chieftain could do,
however terrible or cruel, seemed enough.
Valnir's desperation grew as it became ever more
apparent to him that nothing would sate the
terrible bitterness within his heart. The sheer
hopelessness of his state came to him one day
when he and his warriors prepared to descend
upon an enemy village. With tears of frustration
glistening within his otherwise dead eyes, Valnir
declared to his men that he cared not for the thrill
or rush of battle, nor the expansion of his lands or
the dubious joys of taking slaves. All he wished
from war was to show the world what it meant to
suffer as he did, and no action or torture he could
conceive of came close to doing that.
Valnir's men were astounded, and were made
more so when Valnir declared that he would fight
no more battles until he had found a way to hold a
mirror up to the world that would show it the
futility of its endeavours and the truth of despair.
Without further word, Valnir left them.
North he walked, and further yet, the flickering
lights of the Chaos Wastes acting as his compass.
His misery knew no bounds, and yet his
resentment of the world at large drove him ever
onward. Once beyond the ountains and fjords of
the Vargs, Valnir contind north across the pack
ice towards the land of the Kvelligs and the
Aghols. Onward he walked, past the lands of the
nomads and on to the hinterlands of the Chaos
Wastes. He came upon a wide plain that echoed
with the baying of bounds. Any lesser man would
have been unmanned by fear at the terrible sound,
but Valnir did not care. Death was no threat for
one who hated life. He strode on without
hesitation, and when the great hounds of that plain
came for him he faced them with stoic
determination. Huge they were, standing some
four feet at the shoulder, with dagger-like teeth
and slashing claws. Sword in hand, Valnir
smashed them to the ground, never once breaking
his stride.
Again and again they came against him, and again
and again he cut them from his path. Eventually
Valnir entered the foothills beyond the plains of
hounds, and the attacks dwindled, and then
stopped. Yet the gaunt warrior had not escaped
unscathed. His arms, face and legs were crossed
with lacerations and tears, and it was clear from
35
 their growing heat that they contained infection.
Still, Valnir did not care. He pushed northwards
and up into the mountains.
Amongst the icy peaks, Valnir fought the great
blood eagles, huge winged creatures with the eyes
and claws of giant cats. He survived landslides,
earthquakes and the eruptions of volcanoes, until
eventually he reached the mountain's highest point
and descended down the other side towards the
great ice sheets that bridged the Mortal Realms to
the warped horror of the Chaos Wastes.
Monsters of unspeakable horror lay waiting in the
depths below the ice, bursting up in an effort to
drag Valnir down to a watery grave. But Valnir
avoided them. A biting chill blew from the north,
numbing Valnir's mind and wearing down his torn
and scarred body. But still Valnir struggled on.
The magic saturated air glittered with illusions
and false visions – more than enough to lure the
unwary or careless to their doom. But still Valnir
prevailed, until eventually he stepped onto the
barren rock that marked the border into the Chaos
Wastes.
Many warriors and barbarians had stood in his
way along that journey, and many fell creatures
too, but none could match the horrors that awaited
him within the Wastes. Monsters and shapeless
chaos spawn lay ahead of him, and he knew that
the countless warbands of Chaos's greatest
champions were said to roam there. Yet Valnir
would not turn back. The earth itself writhed and
warped around him, creating deadfalls and
chasms, or else volcanoes that would suddenly
rise from the ground, covering the land with lava
and ash. Sickened by the noxious fumes that
breathed out from the scarred earth, and with his
wounds swelling with filth and pus, Valnir began
to hear voices inside his head, each telling him to
give up and submit, or else swear himself to one
of the Lords of Chaos. But Valnir refused to
submit or seek aid. He would finish his quest
alone, just as he had started it.
Onward he staggered, towards the great teeth of
the Chaos Realm. He would reach the heart of
36
decay, or die in the attempt. On the very edge of
madness, Valnir came across a vast, rotting tree.
On every branch there hung a strange three-orbed
fruit, slimy with corruption and crawling with
maggots. Around the base of the tree, twisted
among the roots, were the corpses of dozens of
dead creatures and men, each in different stages of
decay.
As he stepped closer, Valnir felt an overwhelming
feeling of despair flood over him, drowning his
bitterness and robbing him of all determination. It
was a feeling that not even he, normally so used to
suffering and stoic in his misery, could tolerate.
Here at last was the clarity he had sought. He
stumbled to his knees amidst the decay and rot,
his body slumping forward to lie atop the pile of
carcasses before him. Valnir embraced defeat at
last, but instead of giving up his life, Valnir
prayed to this fountain of despair, asking for the
right to spread its truth throughout all the mortal
lands.
He had passed his final test. Nielglen himself was
the estuary from which all fear and misery flowed,
and he required that his servants submit only to
him, while desiring to spread his word across the
world.
None can know what divine and daemonic
process transfigured Valnir. It is enough to say
that Nielglen chose to bestow his blessing upon
Valnir, making him the Reaper, the gatherer of
souls, whose task it was to spread fear and disease
in the name of the God of Despair. He granted
Valnir a daemonic weapon of great potency, a
flail that could take souls as easily as it could take
lives. Great was the number of innocents
harvested by Valnir the Reaper.
Long and terrible was Valnir's service to his god,
and horrific indeed was the suffering he inflicted
in his master's name. When the Great Chaos War
came, Valnir answered the call to arms like so
many other champions of Chaos. He fought for
his patron at the siege of Praag, and the titanic
battle for the Gates of Kislev. In the final
cataclysmic melee, Valnir charged the Tsar of
Kislev, but was cut down and mortally wounded.
Yet, indomitable as ever, somehow Valnir
managed to stagger away from the battlefield. His
followers carried his body back to their lands, as
was his final wish. Here was built a great stone
throne from where Valnir could survey his
ancestral lands. But Valnir possessed the infernal
vitality of his master and, though the years rolled
by, Valnir's body did not decompose completely –
it seemed to regenerate just as much as it rotted.
Thus it remained for over two hundred years. But
over the years the black wind from the Realm of
Chaos grew stronger, and one day Valnir's rotted,
skeletal form lurched to its feet. Thus Valnir stood
tall once more, not dead, not alive, but a daemonic
creature sustained by the power of Nurgle, the god
of pestilence. His soul had returned to its carcass.
Valnir the Reaper stalked the land once more. The
tribesmen of the Crow fell to their knees when
they saw him, and worshiped him as a demi-god.
To them he was living proof that the lord of
Pestilence was with them, and the southern lands
will pay dearly for their victory at Kislev.
Valnir was awakened by Nurgle for a reason. The
Reaper's work was not yet done. Although the
power of the lord of Pestilence grew ever greater,
Nurgle was not satisfied. He remembered his
champion who had sent so many souls to him.
Now he would continue to do so.
Only Valnir and his patron know how many souls
he must gather before he can rest again. In the
passage of time Valnir has come to hate all living
beings because they stubbornly hold on to their
souls and do not surrender them to his lord
Nurgle. His flesh has rotted almost completely
away. His Chaos armour is a shattered ruin.
Maggots writhe in his eye sockets. His entrails
ooze through the gaps in his armour. Yet a
terrifying strength lives on in his skeletal frame.
His grip is like iron, and no foe struck by his
terrible flail ever recovers. The more he slays, the
greater his vitality grows. His body has been
crushed in battle many times, yet he has always
risen again, ever eager to slay more and leave
their rotting carcasses empty of their essence, their
souls sent screaming to the realm of Nurgle.
Where Valnir walks, plague and pestilence follow.
Wells and fountains dry up and rivers and streams
turn foul. Animals become rabid and men sicken
and die. Many-times has Valnir won a battle
before it has started, his fanatic Marauders cutting
swathes through an army of stricken and diseased
men, weakened by the onslaught of the Breath of
Nurgle.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Valnir the Reaper 4 8 3 5 6 3 5 5 9
POINTS: 315.
TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Lord).
EQUIPMENT: Heavy armour.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Fear, Hatred,
Immunity (Psychology), Mark of Nurgle (included in
profile), Regeneration (4+), Will of Chaos.
Wind of Pestilence: Where Valnir walks, disease
and death follows.
At the start of each round of close combat, all
enemy units in base contact Valnir get infected by
the deadly contagion of Valnir. Roll a D6 to see
which ailment the unit(s) suffers.
D6 Result
1-3 The Red Plague. The horrifying disease
of the north wipes out men like a scythe
cuts wheat.
The unit suffers D6 Strength 3 hits which
Ignores Armour saves.
4-5 Brain Fever. As their brains become
infested with worms and a burning fever,
the victims become insane and weak-
willed.
The unit suffers -2 to their Leadership
until the start of the next round.
6 Black Rot. The flesh of the victims of the
Black Rot turns dark, their hair falls out
and their skin becomes a leprous,
putrefied mess.
All the members of the unit suffer a -1
Toughness penalty until the start of the
next round.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Gatherer of Souls (Magic Weapon)
The Gatherer of Souls is a massive rusted flail,
charged with the corpulent power of Nurgle. Its
blows do not only kill, they consume the souls of
its victims as well. Much of this stolen energy is
passed to Lord Nurgle, but it also strengthens
Valnir, making him stronger and faster in his task
of collecting souls.
Flail. For every unsaved Wound caused by Valnir
in close combat, he may increase his Attacks or
Strength by 1 in the next round of close combat.
"Let the air turn stale and fetid, let the flies gather
like clouds. Let us worship the master of the
plague, Nurgle! Nurgle! Nurgle!"
Nurgle cult incantation
37
 FEYTOR THE TAINTED
Champion of Nurgle
The name Feytor the Tainted is spoken in whispers around
the campfires of the hardy people dwelling in the northern
icelands of Norsca. The name is greatly feared, for it is said
that Plague and Pestilence stalk at his side. Fanatically
devoted to Nurgle, Feytor has lived far longer than his
allotted human lifespan. Leading his powerful warband, the
Decayed Ones, Feytor continues to impress his god, who in
turn blesses him with the power necessary to overcome his
foes.
Born into a poor farming family in a small rural community
in the northwest of the Empire. Feytor was the eldest son of
his widowed mother. The general day to day running of the
farm fell to him, despite being not yet out of his teenage
years. Life was hard for the family, and when a particularly
harsh winter struck, they were left near starving. Snow had
lain on the ground for nearly six months, and countless
people had perished in the freezing conditions. Entire villages
and towns starved to death, for food was scarce. The previous
year's crop had been poor, and the people relied on food
supplies coming from other areas of the Empire, but often the
way was blocked by the poor weather conditions. When the
caravans did get through, the food was often spoiled, and
there was never enough to go around. Banditry became
increasingly common, as people became desperate for food
and warmth. Tribes of savages from the north descended on
the hapless villages, burning, killing and looting. In this time
of extreme hardship, a new terror struck the already
disheartened people; plague.
This plague was fast acting and deadly, and it consumed
entire village populations in days. They died in agonizing
torment: their bodies bloating out of all proportion and great
welts and boils bursting all over their flesh. So fearful were
the people of this contagion that, when one of Feytor's
younger siblings began to show the early symptoms, all the
neighbouring families immediately abandoned their lands and
began the long trek to Wolfenburg, where they hoped to find
solace. Refusing to leave their family land. Feytor and his
family cared for the sick child as best they could, resigned to
the fact that the foul seed of plague was already within them.
Feytor prayed devoutly for deliverance from the terrible
disease, his pleas directed towards any deity who would
listen. To the astonishment of the family, his prayers seemed
to be heard, for the boy did not perish. Feytor's brother soon
recovered enough to be able to walk, though his skin was still
bloated and discoloured. Feytor also bore the mark of his first
taste of disease, for his hair had begun to fall out in chunks,
his skin became a sickly pallid colour, and dark circles
surrounded his eyes. Nevertheless, the family lived, and they
said silent words of thanks to whichever deity had come to
their aid.
However, the family soon came under the scrutiny of the
local people who had begun to move back to their lands.
Seeing Feytor's sickly appearance, the ignorant farmers
scorned the family, whispering darkly about him and his kin
and refusing to conduct trade with them for fear of catching
disease. Quickly, the family were desperate with hunger and
cold and were forced to leave their home. On the road,
travellers steered clear of them, and Feytor's frustration and
anger increased as he watched his family grow weaker.
Nobody gave him a chance to explain that they were not
38
plague carriers, that their sickness was not in any way
debilitating. Indeed, Feytor had found that his sickly flesh
was now increasingly resistant to cold and pain.
After being run out of countless villages and towns
unsympathetic to their plight. Feytor eventually led his family
to a cave at the base of the Grey Mountains to the west of the
Empire. Game was plentiful, providing Feytor and his family
with food and furs. For a time, the family was happy, though
a deep seed of resentment had been planted in Feytor. At
dusk one day after hunting. Feytor was returning to the cave
with his kill over his shoulder only to find hoof prints in the
snow. Dropping the deer in the snow, he raced after the
tracks, which led directly to his family. With horror, he raced
into the clearing before the cave entrance to find the burnt
husks of his brothers, sisters and mother tied to blackened
stakes. Smoking ash was all that was left of what must have
been a mighty pile of wood spread at the base of the stakes. A
group of men stood watching the grisly scene, scarves tied
over their facts. Blind with rage. Feytor raced into the midst
of them, striking out with his large hunting knife, plunging it
deep into the neck of the first man. The others turned in
surprise, their eyes filled with horror. One of them barked an
order to kill the plague-carrier. Fury coursing through his
veins, Feytor laid around him with his meaty fists, ignoring
the blows of the swords that tore at his flesh. One by one, he
struck the men down, killing the final one by pummelling his
head into a rock. Tears blurred his vision as his anger wore
off, and he sank into the snow, burying his head in his hands.
When he came to his senses, he felt drained, as if some force
of energy that he had been temporarily granted was wearing
off. He surveyed the bloody scene, with his burnt family
surrounded by the bodies of their murderers – soldiers of the
Empire wearing the yellow and crimson tabard of Ostermark.
Their bodies were bloated and open sores had burst over their
skin, though Feytor took no notice of this. He felt like there
was nothing to live for now, and he knew that he would be
hunted as long as he lived. Nevertheless, he rose to his feet
and set off to the north, for no better reason than it seemed
the right thing to do. Soldiers dogged his tracks, but after
almost a month of pursuit they lost his trail. They never
returned to their homeland. Feytor disappeared from the
Empire history books, living on only as a story told around
the fireplace on cold and dark nights.
In the sagas of the northern barbarian tribes of the Norse,
however, they tell of a sickly man coming into their land,
pursued by many of the weak southerners. Intrigued. the
Norsemen drew off the pursuit, leaving the sickly one alone.
Unsure as to what his coming meant, but having seen it in a
vision gifted by the gods, the Chieftain of the Wolf Brothers
tribe watched the stranger. They followed him as he entered
their tribal lands, and as he took up residence in a rough cave.
The stranger had shrugged off terrible wounds inflicted by
those who had pursued him, and the Wolf Brothers were
impressed with his resilience. After several weeks, the tribe
decided to approach him. The Norse recount the meeting of
the Wolf Brothers and the stranger in their histories, for this
meeting had a considerable impact on these hardy people.
After his coming, many of their people turned towards the
worship of Father Nurgle, and a number of mighty
Champions of Nurgle rose, bringing glory and pride to the
Wolf Brothers.
The Wolf Brothers eventually embraced Feytor after he
bested one of their strongest in bare-fist fighting, and he then
joined their tribe. It was through the guidance of the tribe's
Shaman that Feytor came to realize that it was indeed Nurgle
himself who had protected him and his family from the
plague, and it was this same divine being who had filled him
with the strength with which to avenge his family's killers.
Learning all that he could of his patron deity, Feytor began to
worship his protective god in earnest.
Several years after being welcomed by the Wolf Brothers.
Feytor began to push for the tribe to begin to expand, so that
it would be strong enough to begin raiding the northern
Empire and lands of Kislev. Their chieftain, Svolos Wolf,
rejected his wishes, and the rotten seed of resentment began
to grow within Feytor. Eventually he challenged Svolos, and
the two met in unarmed combat. Svolos was a tall, broad
shouldered veteran warrior who had fought off many others
who had tried to take his position. He struck Feytor with
mighty blows that sent his head reeling backwards, but
Feytor merely grinned and waded through the heavy punches.
Ignoring blows that would have incapacitated a lesser man,
he bore Svolos to the ground, and rained a flurry of blows
into the warrior as the Wolf Brothers watched on in silence.
Fists bloody, Feytor eventually rose from the now motionless
body and claimed leadership over the tribe.
Feytor began to approach the neighbouring tribes,
proclaiming to them that he carried the word of Nurgle, and
that they must join him. When the tribes refused to swear
allegiance to him, disease and pestilence began to appear
within the tribesmen, striking down strong warriors and
children with equal ferocity. Again Feytor approached the
tribesmen, telling them to forsake the worship of their own
gods for the benevolent love of Nurgle, and the tribe would
he saved. In this manner. Feytor's warband grew quickly as
more and more neighbouring tribes swore kinship to him.
The following decade saw Feytor rapidly grow in power and
influence. His body became increasingly strong, and he was
now almost immune to pain. The devotion of his followers,
most of whom had taken Feytor's lead and begun to worship
the Lord of Decay, ensured that they, too, became a fearsome
force, terrifying their foes with their deathly appearance and
unholy resilience. A sickly cloud of yellow fog and the
buzzing of flies followed their advance, and few could stand
against them without fear filling their hearts. Feeling in his
now twisted soul that the time of ultimate vengeance against
the Empire would soon come, Feytor continued to expand his
realm and spread the good word of Father Nurgle.
Those who encountered them knew Feytor's followers as the
Decayed Ones, and they embraced the name, forsaking the
name of Wolf Brothers. Their reputation was grim, and they
thrived off the fear that they instilled in their enemies. Many
of the original members of Feytor's Decayed Ones lived still,
though their wolf pelts and leather were replaced with
powerful and heavy armour that molded to their festering
bodies. They spread dread in their opponents' hearts, ignoring
dire wounds and advancing relentlessly. They sought out the
most fearsome warbands roaming the Chaos Wastes and met
them in battle under the roiling skies. Always, the Decayed
Ones left a single survivor, hideously infected with disease,
their legacy, who would spread the word of plague in his own
manner.
Seeing the mighty twin-tailed comet pass through the sky
above, a waking vision came over Feytor. Many had been the
times when Father Nurgle had thrust such visions into
Feytor's head, and the advice given had always ensured
mighty victories and glory for Feytor. This vision directed
him to travel to the Mountains, where he would meet the
great Uniter, Archaon, and join him. Excitement filled
Feytor, for he knew that the time of his vengeance on the
Empire had come...
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Feytor 4 8 3 5 6 3 5 5 9
POINTS: 270.
TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Lord).
EQUIPMENT: Full plate armour.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Mark of
Nurgle (included in profile), Will of Chaos.
MUTATIONS: Nurgle's Rot.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Filth Mace (Magic Weapon)
This rusted mace oozes pus and slime and drips with Nurgle's
choicest plagues and bears a dark enchantment that ensnares
the souls of those crushed beneath its filth-encrusted mass.
The captured soul is bound to the weapon, and can be seen
writhing in eternal agony. The screams of these spirits are
deafening and fearsome in equal measure, but they are as
nothing compared to the terror caused when a fresh soul is
bound to the mace, fuelling an epidemic growth of new
disease: the wails turn into phlegm-choked laughter and the
steady drip of pestilence becomes a weeping flood.
Close combat attacks made with the Filth Mace have the
Poisoned Attacks special rule. Once the wielder has killed an
enemy model in close combat, he immediately gains the
Terror special rule and, from the start of the next Close
Combat phase (friend or foe), all subsequent Attacks made
with the Filth Mace have the Multiple Wounds (D3) special
rule.
Necrotic Phylactery (Talisman)
Originally crafted by Ku'gath Plaguefather himself, the
Necrotic Phylactery absorbs all curses and poisons.
The model carrying the Phylactery has Immunity (Poisoned
Attacks, Lore of Death, Lore of Nurgle, Lore of Plague). In
addition, the bearer automatically passes all Characteristic
tests (except Leadership tests).
39
 PLAGUESTRANGLER
VILESTENCH
Plaguestrangler Vilestench is a champion of
Nurgle who singlehandedly defeated over three
score of High Elves in single combat. He was
responsible for the destruction of Sjoktrakten, a
city in northern Norsca in only one day.
Plaguestrangler has lived for over three thousand
years and has risen to fame amongst the ranks of
Chaos, having started life as a lowly cult fanatic.
Vilestench's most memorable feat, and the one
that earned him the Palanquin, was when he began
the Black Fever in the town of L'anguille.
Plaguestrangler sailed his Plaguefleet to
Bretonnia, some five hundred years ago, and
passed the plague onto some local peasants and
farmers who walked to the Bretonnia port and
began an epidemic of the deadly contagion.
Vilestench defeated several Bretonnia armies
before Nurgle decided it was time for him to leave
and return to the Realm of Chaos to collect his
reward. Since then Plaguestrangler Vilestench has
commanded great respect from those who fight
for him and has become a feared sight upon the
battlefields of the Warhammer world.
40
Plaguestrangler now commands an army which is
storming down from the north towards the Chaos
Dwarf city of Huzkuluk and the High Pass across
the Worlds Edge Mountains into the Empire. If
Vilestench were to reach the lands of Kislev there
might be another plague infestation in the city of
Praag for Nurgle to gloat over the other Chaos
Gods with.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Plaguestrangler 4 8 3 5 6 3 5 5 9
Palanquin of Nurgle 4 2 0 2 - - 3 8 7
POINTS: 280.
TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Lord).
MOUNT: Palanquin of Nurgle.
EQUIPMENT: Hand weapon, heavy armour.
SPECIAL RULES: Daemonic (Palanquin only),
Daemon of Nurgle (Palanquin only), Eye of the Gods,
Mark of Nurgle (included in profile), Will of Chaos.
Noisome Stench: Plaguestrangler has not
washed since he was twelve years old and as such
has attracted a rather nasty smell over the last
few centuries. The stench is so bad that it can
knock out opponents if Vilestench gets close
enough.
All enemy models in base contact with
Plaguestrangler must pass a Toughness test at the
start of each round of close combat. If failed, they
may not attack this round. This has no effect on
models with the Animated Construct or Daemonic
special rules.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Plague Sceptre (Enchanted Item)
The Plague Sceptre of Nurgle bears hideous
markings and its metallic surface is etched with
plague encrusted sigils on contagionic power.
Locked deep inside the sceptre is a spell of disease
and destruction.
Bound Spell, power level 5. The Plague Sceptre
contains a direct damage spell with a range of 12".
The target unit suffers D6 Strength 4 Hits which
Ignores Armour Saves. At the end of the next Magic
phase, the unit will suffer an additional D6 Hits.
Remains in Play.
 DECHALA
The Denied One
Dechala is the mistress of the Tormentors, the greatest
of all of Slaanesh’s warbands to ever roam the Chaos
Wastes. She is as cruel as she is beautiful and as
pitiless as she is beguiling. Dechala who causes the
hearts of men to go astray. Dechala who appears in the
dreams of night and in the vision the day. Dechala who
burns and casts down with nightmares the lands and
peoples of Sigmar. Dechala, the Denied One. She has
plagued the Mortal Realms for longer than Imperial
histories record. There are numerous legends about her,
although no two concur on all the details of her past.
There are, however, twelve accounts that are
interesting in their consistency.
Some suggest that Dechala's near-immortality is in fact
part of a curse laid on her as punishment for some
terrible crime long ago – although who laid the curse
and what her crime might have been, the legends do
not agree. One legend tells that Dechala was once a
beautiful princess of far-off Ulthuan who fell (or was
pushed) into darkness millennia before the rise of
Sigmar. The legend tells that Dechala was once the
daughter of An-Toralis, a great and mighty lord of
Nagarythe who had fought alongside Aenarion against
the hordes of Chaos so many thousands of years ago. It
is said that such was Dechala's porcelain-skinned
beauty that she drew the gaze of the daemon prince
Samael Silver Tongue, exalted servant of the Pleasure
God. Wherever Dechala fled with her family, Samael
and his daemonic minions would find them.
to become the monster Samael wanted her to be. In
anger and frustration, Dechala agreed to marry Samael
so long as he granted her the power to revenge herself
upon her hated family. Wicked joy in his heart, Samael
agreed. He gave Dechala strength of arm and skill with
blades, and led her back to the camp of her father. In
that fell night, Dechala unleashed all her wrath upon
her one-time family, killing her siblings and cousins
and drinking the blood of their children. Her father she
left until last, and he took many hours to die, screaming
his regret and his horror into the darkness.
Such was the imagination and fury of Dechala's
patricide that the Lord of Pleasure blessed her with his
mark. But as is often the way between the followers of
Slaanesh, sudden jealousy began to ferment in Samael's
heart that his beloved lord had shown Dechala His
favour. Despite this, they married, and so were they
bound, one to the other. But Dechala had tasted the
painful glory and twisted passion that flowed from her
new god Slaanesh, and she became less and less
content to exist in the shadow of her husband and lord,
Samael.
"I will linger below you no longer," she said at last.
"We are equals you and I, in as much as we are both
favoured by Holy Slaanesh, created to serve Him." But
Samael would not listen to her, and when Dechala saw
that his thoughts were turning against her, she fled
away into the Wastes of Chaos.

Samael wanted Dechala as he had wanted no other

being since his ascension to daemonhood, yet such was
the cruelty within his heart that it was not enough for
him to snatch her from her family, as indeed, he could
most surely have done. Instead, Samael wanted to drive
her family apart, fermenting fear and hatred within
their mortal hearts.

Always his demands were the same: if Dechala was

given unto him, he would leave her family in peace.
Until that time, he hounded their every footstep,
violating their homes and their minds, killing their
servants and pets in the most horrific ways, and
pushing each and every one of them closer and closer
to madness. Perhaps it was Samael's efforts that finally
broke Dechala's family, or perhaps the brutal insanity
that had emanated from Aenarion since he had drawn
the Widowmaker finally affected them too. Whatever
the case, the day came when An-Toralis struck a
bargain with Samael, and handed over his daughter to
the daemon prince.

Rather than simply abuse her and consume her soul,

Samael chose to corrupt Dechala so that her beauty and
grace would be his forevermore. Such was Dechala's
fear of Samael, and such was her bitterness towards her
father for abandoning her, that she was all too willing

41
 Samael's anger at his wife's lack of constancy boiled
and raged. He lashed the ground and air with fire and
fury. He raised his arms in prayer to his Master.
"Sovereign Lord!" he cried. "The woman that I took for
myself has run from me! To her I showed Your Glory,
and through me she tasted Your Sweetness. Bring her
back, Darling One! Bring her back so that I might
punish her, so that I might burn her with my coldest
love!"
Then Slaanesh appeared before Samael, and wrath was
in his gaze, "Make no demands of your Lord! Make no
demands of Me lest I take back all that that I have
given you and cast you from My sight." Thus rebuked,
Samael lowered his eyes from his Master.
But Slaanesh loved His servant Samael and offered
him this compromise, "If Dechala agrees to return to
you of her own volition, then she is yours to do with as
you please. But should she choose to remain apart from
you, no matter how far Dechala may rise in My favour
and Grace, she will never ascend to your height of
Daemonhood as long as you yet survive."
And so it was that Dechala refused to return to her
husband, and was free to rise through the ranks of
Slaanesh's favoured champions. Yet her freedom is
42
bitter indeed, for no matter how many gifts she
receives from her god, she will never join the ranks of
His daemons as long as Samael remains in existence.
Dechala is without doubt one of the most inhuman
creatures to have ever hunted beneath the stars. She is
mutated beyond recognition, making her a creature of
Chaos more akin to a Daemon than a mortal. Dechala
is described as beautiful, pitiless, and extraordinarily
beguiling, despite the fact that she apparently bears
little resemblance now to either human or elf. The
many blessings bestowed on her by her perverse god
are said to have mutated her to such an extent that she
appears more daemon than human.
Her skin is described as smooth, white as porcelain and
without blemish. Her lower torso has been warped into
the shape of a lithe and sinuous serpent, and her long
tail ends in a scorpion's sting that whips and cracks
when she is aroused or angry. Dechala's multitudinous
arms grasp heavy-bladed swords, and her blue-green
eyes are said to burn with a wanton inner-light,
promising terrible pain and boundless pleasure to all
who would stand against her. She has beauty that only
Slaanesh can bestow, but it is as unearthly and
disturbing as it is irresistible. Her visage evokes
loathing as much as it arouses pleasure.
Throughout the long millennia, Dechala has missed no
opportunity to demonstrate her total dedication as a
disciple of Slaanesh. Her whole existence seems to be
based around her need to indulge her every whim, and
be free from what she regards as the shackles of law
and order. However, it is plain that she seeks these
things only for herself, everyone else can suffer and die
for all she cares, just so long as her own desires are
satisfied.
Yet death is not the worst fate of those who would
stand against her, for such is Dechala's twisted nature
that she prefers to enslave her enemies rather than kill
them. If the stories are to be believed, Dechala has
created one of the most potent and dangerous
substances in the world, using an unholy blend of
sacrificial blood, warpstone, and the vile fluids of her
fornication. Those unlucky enough to be captured by
Dechala are forced to consume some of this hideous
elixir, and from that point on they need no chains to
keep them from fleeing her camp. From their first sip,
Dechala's prisoners become the most desperate of
addicts, as their craving for this noxious liquid renders
them as helpless slaves to the slightest whim of their
cruel and lustful mistress.
As can be expected of a Slaaneshi champion of her
infamy, Dechala does not work alone. She has gathered
about her a loyal band of Slaaneshi hedonists, and
together they have cut out one of the bloodiest and
most fearful reputations of any warband to emerge
from the Chaos Wastes. Like their mistress, they revel
in perversity and vice, actively enjoying the suffering
they bring to others – hence their name, the Tak'neisen,
or the "Tormentors".
The decadence of the Tormentors is said to have sunk
to levels of depravity unknown anywhere else in the
world. One can only imagine the horrors inflicted upon
Dechala's slaves, as they amble around the Tormentors'
camp, attending to the unholy desires of their masters.
Each dose of Dechala's elixir that the slaves ingest
induces their minds to slip further and further into a
dreadful waking nightmare, while their bodies slowly
warp and change. In time, I am told that their physical
shape deteriorates to such an extent that all that
remains of these pitiful creatures is a quivering mass of
abused flesh. Having allowed their slaves to reach this
heinous state, the Tormentors then abandon them to the
soul-wrenching withdrawal from Dechala's elixir that
will be followed by a painful and lingering death.
Before the slaves reach this point of formless
damnation, they follow the Tormentors as a horde of
shambling horrors – nightmarish blasphemies against
nature that simply should not be. Those enemies that
the Tormentors do not slay for sport, or those
unfortunate souls that are left wounded upon the
battlefield, will find themselves overwhelmed by a
mass of these screaming slaves, only to be held down
and forced to ingest some of Dechala's vile elixir. One
drop is enough to damn the recipient to become yet
another slave to the lustful cruelties of the Tormentors.
Death may seem a welcome relief to these poor souls.
In battle Dechala is an enchanting sight, her snake-like
body dancing to amuse her patron. And as delicate and
sensuous as her movements are, they are nonetheless
lethal to those who dare to oppose her, and many an
opponent has been cut to pieces while entranced by her
dance.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Dechala 6 8 3 4 4 2 9 8 8
POINTS: 250.
TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Hero).
EQUIPMENT: Two hand weapons, medium
armour.
SPECIAL RULES: Always Strikes First, Eye of
the Gods, Mark of Slaanesh, Poisoned Attacks.
Dances of Slaanesh: Even battle is a way for Dechala
to please her master. She dances across the battlefield
sensuously, her blades making eerie whistling music to
accompany her movements.
Dechala may pick one of the following dances at the
start of each round of close combat, the effect of which
lasts until the end of that turn or until a new dance is
chosen. She cannot choose the same dance in two
consecutive rounds of combat.
• The Praise of Slaanesh: Dechala fights with
dancing movements that enthral her enemies, and
her twisting body becomes almost impossible to hit.
All successful rolls to hit against Dechala in close
combat must be re-rolled.
• Dance of Destruction: Dechala swirls with frantic
energy, cutting limbs and severing heads with her
whistling blades.
Dechala gains +1 To Hit.
• Daggerdance: Dechala’s twisting blades make a
wall of steel around her that no sword master can
penetrate.
Dechala gains the Parry (5+) special rule.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Elixir of Damnation (Enchanted Item)
The Elixir of Damnation mutates its victim, leaving him
in the grip of pain and ecstasy, unable to oppose
Dechala. Her weapons and tail are coated in this
noxious elixir.
If an enemy models suffers an unsaved wound, they
cannot voluntarily move, attack or cast spells in the
next turn.
43
 STYRKAAR OF THE SORTSVINAER
Champion of Slaanesh
Styrkaar was born into the Sortsvinaer tribe on the
northern coast of Norsca. His father, Jerg Svengor,
was a powerful warlord, and as a young boy
Styrkaar was treated with respect due to his status.
Nevertheless, no Norse warrior, no matter how
important, would have a weak or spoilt son, and so
Styrkaar was expected to learn to hunt and fight like
any other tribesman. Jerg Svengor was a harsh man,
unpredictable and volatile, and his son often felt the
touch of his fists.
However, when Styrkaar was once beaten by
another Norse warrior, Jerg Svengor had the man
whipped until his back was a bloody mess. Svengor
then beat his son. for he agreed that the boy needed
punishing, but wanted to make it known that it was
no one else's right to do so.
As a baby, Styrkaar was aware of a companion
unseen by the rest of the tribe. The young Styrkaar
used to giggle at the antics of this being as it danced
above his crib. This shadowy friend said its name
was Sle'zuzu and also told Styrkaar that he could
never tell his friends or family about him - or he
would leave. Styrkaar accepted this condition
without question and never for a moment thought it
strange to have Slc'zuzu as his constant companion.
SIe'zuzu used to whisper words and secrets to the
young chieftain's son that made his life in the tribe
easier. If Styrkaar was caught misbehaving, Sle'zuzu
would speak softly into his car. Prompted by his
unseen friend, the young boy would then repeat
these words out loud, and often his punishment was
lessened. Slc'zuzu seemed to know exactly the right
words for Styrkaar to say to make people pleased
and friendly towards him.
Styrkaar was a popular and outgoing child, who
made friends effortlessly and charmed adults, who
were impressed with his fearless attitude and self-
confidence. He was respected by his peers, for there
was no favouritism in the eyes of his harsh father.
He trained alongside the other children, learning the
ancient Norse techniques for hunting, fighting, and
crewing the Norse longships that sailed the icy seas.
In all these areas. Styrkaar excelled, impressing his
elders and making his father quietly proud. With
Sle'zuzu's prompting. Styrkaar began to realize that
he could use this popularity to his own advantage.
By the time he was in his late teens, Styrkaar had
secured himself a powerful position within the tribe
and was held in high esteem. He had grown into a
tall and strong warrior, and had led numerous
successful raids against other Norse tribes, the
Kurgan to the north, and the coastal towns of
44
Bretonnia and the Empire. His peers, and even the
older, veteran warriors of the Sortsvinaer, followed
his lead without question, for they had faith in their
Jerg's son. Jerg Svengor's silent pride of his son
began to sour, for he began to see the popularity of
Styrkaar and the loyalty that his people had for him
as a threat to his own position. His treatment of
Styrkaar became increasingly harsh, and this began
to cause resentment amongst the tribe. Styrkaar
quietly fuelled this grudge, though he was
painstakingly careful never to appear disloyal.
Eventually, a confrontation arose between father and
son, during a feast celebrating the success of yet
another of Styrkaar's raids. Jerg Svengor, his face
reddened with mead, refused to join the toast raised
for his son and stood up drunkenly from the feasting
table. Pointing at Styrkaar, he said that his son
would never achieve the successes that he himself
had. As the tribesmen began to murmur
disapprovingly amongst themselves, Sle'zuzu, who
spoke only rarely to Styrkaar these days, prompted
the young warrior into action. He stood from the
table and. with Sle'zuzu feeding him the words to
speak, calmly asked his father to raise his goblet in
the toast. Outraged, Jerg Svengor swung a fist in a
clumsy blow, smashing Styrkaar to the ground. A
slight smile appeared on Styrkaar's lips for a
moment as he rose from the ground and wiped a
small trickle of blood from his nose.
The tribesmen had all risen from their benches and
surrounded the Jerg and his son. All was quiet, save
for the crackling of burning wood in the firepit, until
one voice sounded at the back of the hall, shouting
for Styrkaar to strike back. Styrkaar smiled, for he
recognized the voice of his companion. Sle'zuzu.
Other voices joined this one, until the entire room
rocked with the sound of people urging Styrkaar on.
Jerg Svengor turned around in anger and fear,
searching vainly for some support but finding none.
Enraged, he turned and swung another blow at his
son. Styrkaar swayed to the side, and the punch
sailed past his head. Stepping in close. Styrkaar's
elbow connected sharply with Jerg Svengor's head,
and the large man stumbled. Following up quickly.
Styrkaar landed a heavy kick to the side of Jerg
Svengor's left knee, which collapsed with a
sickening crunching noise, and the older man
dropped. As Styrkaar stepped in to finish off his
father, the older Norscman grabbed Styrkaar by his
leather tunic, pulling him down into a vicious head
butt that broke Styrkaar's nose. Breaking free of his
father's iron grip, Styrkaar viciously struck Jerg
Svengor's cars with his hands. He fell back to the
ground, blood running from his ears, his hearing lost
forever.
That night, Styrkaar became the new chieftain of the
tribe. The feasting continued for three solid days and
nights. When at last the celebrations ended. Styrkaar
lay exhausted yet exhilarated on his heavy, furred
pallet, sleeping women on either side. Sle'zuzu came
to him then, whispering quietly. The shadow being
advised Styrkaar to raise an altar to Slaanesh, the
Dark Prince often known amongst the Sortsvinaer as
Shornaal. Sle'zuzu told Styrkaar that Slaanesh was
looking down upon him and had already shown
favour to the young Norseman. With dreams of
grandeur and excess filling his mind, Styrkaar
slipped into sleep.
During the following years. Styrkaar, revelling in the
excess of slaughter and debauchery of war, led the
Sortsvinaer to increasingly greater and more
ambitious raids and battles. Always as he fought, he
heaped devotion onto the god Slaanesh and always
he returned victorious. After one such raid. Slaanesh
made it known that the actions of Styrkaar were
pleasing. As the sky darkened above, the spirit of
Sle'zuzu was forced into Styrkaar's mind and
convulsing body, making the two become as one.
His skin began to glow unnaturally from within, as if
a cold light burned beneath his pale flesh, and his
teeth lengthened into delicate fangs. For the
tribesmen who followed Styrkaar unquestionably
and knew nothing of Sle'zuzu, they merely saw that
their leader had become touched by the gods
themselves and fell to their knees in adoration and
wonder.
As the years progressed, his fame continued to
spread across the lands of the north, and the favour
of Slaanesh became increasingly apparent. He rode
to battle borne upon the back of a mighty Steed of
Slaanesh — the wyrm-like Daemonic creatures
beloved of the Dark Prince. Warriors came from all
over Norsca to fight alongside one so favoured by
the gods and hoped that, in doing so, they
themselves could gain a measure of Styrkaar's
greatness. The number of warriors fighting under
Styrkaar's name increased greatly, and he bathed in
the praise and devotion that were lavished upon him.
pleasure in the pain and ecstatic torture he inflicted
on others, and the rewards to be reaped after the
slaughter.
Styrkaar's killing spree continued unabated for years
on end. In bloody combat. Styrkaar and his
followers slaughtered many other powerful
warhands as they roamed the Chaos Wastes,
including Karnak and his devotees of Khorne, and
the mysterious Asgeiir and his masked warriors of
Tzeentch. In hand-to-hand combat. Stykaar slew
Vandred the Majestic, a favored follower of
Slaanesh. Upon the champion's death, his warband
all dropped to their knees and cried the praises of
Styrkaar.
Whispers began to reach Styrkaar of a warrior,
blessed by all of the gods and bearing ancient
artefacts of wonder. The name Archaon broke
through the haze of adoration that surrounded
Styrkaar, and he sat up from his bed and without a
thought pushed away the bodies that reclined around
him. At first he was angered by the name and the
awe that surrounded it. His god, the rapturous
Slaanesh, let it be known that Archaon was within
his favour, as well as the favour of the entire
pantheon of the gods of Chaos, and that Styrkaar
was not to stand against him. Voices began to
whisper within Styrkaar's mind, and he began to
formulate a plan.
Stories of the successes of Archaon continued to
spread throughout the lands, and when word came of
his arrival in the Sortsvinaer-controlled territory, the
tribes were excited and fearful. They knew that their
lord Styrkaar had slain his rival Slaanesh champion
Vandred and that Vandred had been a favoured
companion of Archaon. Many thought that Archaon

In battle, Styrkaar moved with fluid grace, and his

enemies were filled with a mixture of awe and
horror. Upon the back of his serpentine steed, he
gloried in slaughter, rampaging through the ranks of
his enemies and dealing death with every flick of his
blades. The followers of Styrkaar screamed him on,
revelling in the madness and flow of blood and
bustling to get as close as they could to his exalted
form. If any of his followers got too mar. Styrkaar
would lash out at them, and they would fall back,
ecstatic to have felt the touch of their idol. Seeking
out battle wherever he could find it, he took great

45
 brought war to the Sortsvinaer, yet Styrkaar sat
unmoving within his hall, even as he was informed
that Archaon and his Swords of Chaos approached.
They rode unopposed through the villages of the
Sortsvinaer, approaching Styrkaar's hill fort. Only
when Archaon stooped his powerful form to enter
the hall of Styrkaar – his mere presence filling the
air with an electric-like energy – did the Sortsvinaer
leader stir, raising himself from his reclining pose.
Archaon nodded his helmeted head slightly, in
respect to Styrkaar, who returned the gesture. With a
dismissive motion of a hand. Styrkaar waved his
awe-struck attendants from the room.
When the pair emerged from the hall, they could see
that many people had travelled from all over
Sortsvinaer land to witness the outcome of the
meeting. As is the Sortsvinaer custom among allies,
the two mighty warlords clasped each other's
forearms firmly, and the gathered crowd filled the
air with their raucous cheering. What force in the
world could stand against the armies of these two
mighty leaders fighting together? Knowing that
when the time came for Archaon's assault on the
lands to the south, Styrkaar would be leading the
Sortsvinaer tribe in an all-out assault from a
different direction, Archaon left the lands of the
Norse with confidence, Styrkaar had pledged to
launch all the longships he had at his disposal when
the time came, sailing them in a mighty assault force
that would strike terror in all that opposed his forces.
They would hit behind the front lines of the weak
Imperial defence to support Archaon's assault.
Styrkaar looks towards that day with longing – he
knows that Slaanesh is pleased with him and that if
he performs as expected in the forthcoming conflict,
his path to Daemonhood is assured...
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Styrkaar 4 8 3 5 5 3 7 5 9
Daemonic Mount 8 4 0 5 5 3 4 2 7
POINTS: 330.
TROOP TYPE: Monstrous Cavalry (Special
Character, Lord).
EQUIPMENT: Full plate armour, shield.
46
MUTATIONS: Allure of Slaanesh.
SPECIAL RULES: Daemonic (Daemonic Mount
only), Eye of the Gods, Mark of Slaanesh.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Blade of Ecstasy (Magic Weapon)
This thin, elegant blade is engraved with thousands
of whispering red-lipped mouths and edged with the
eyeteeth of innocents. It can bestow crippling bliss
with the slightest scratch.
Each time the Blade of Ecstasy inflicts an unsaved
wound on a model, that model must pass a Strength
test or be removed from the game.
The Beguiling Gem (Talisman)
The Beguiling Gem is an intricately carved talisman.
This large gemstone, seemingly an amethyst, sits in
a gilt frame of platinum and sparkles in the light.
Carved in its setting are images of Daemonic women
seducing mortal men. When held in the hand, worn
about the neck, or pinned to the wearer’s garb, this
gemstone pulses with a pinkish hue. It’s believed the
Beguiling Gem is not a gemstone at all, but rather it
is the only tear Slaanesh ever shed, crystallised by
the Dark God’s madness. Those who gaze upon it
are transfixed by its otherworldly appearance.
All enemy models in base contact with the bearer of
the Beguiling Gem must take a Leadership test at the
start of every Close Combat phase. Any model
which fails is transfixed and may not make any
attacks that round, and any attacks made against it
by the bearer will hit automatically.
Pendant of Slaanesh (Enchanted Item)
This small silver pendant is wrought to look like a
serpent. Its eyes are set with amethysts. It was
crafted from the crystallised soul of the first human
to have been seduced by Slaanesh. When worn, it
comes to life, burrowing deep into the owner's chest,
inflicting hours of agony as it slowly scratches
through skin, flesh and bone before nestling next to
the champion's heart. Once there, it invigorates the
bearer with sublime energy whenever he feels pain
and instils a euphoric state that even the fear of
death cannot man. Once a warrior has tasted this
ecstasy, they will jealously guard the pendant,
surrounding themselves only with loyal followers
and shunning the company of rival champions lest
they try and take it for themselves.
The bearer of the Pendant of Slaanesh can only join
units that have the Mark of Slaanesh. No other
character may join the same unit as the bearer and he
cannot join units that already contain a character.
Whenever the bearer, or his unit, take a Break test, it
is taken on one less dice than usual. In addition, for
each unsaved Wound the bearer suffers, he gains +1
Attack for the rest of the battle.
 GLUTOS ORSCOLLION
Lord of Gluttony
Glutos Orscollion is a true epicurean, a monstrous
champion of Slaanesh who has gorged on the
sacking of nations – and still, he is not sated. Around
him he has gathered a vile parade of gourmands and
sycophants, each devoted to appeasing their master's
cursed hungers.
Of all the Dark Prince's champions, few are as
repugnant as Glutos Orscollion. His disciples name
him the Grand Gourmand, the Vintner of Souls, the
Scrumptious Sinner. Lounging atop his opulent
palanquin, Glutos embodies overindulgence. Piggish
eyes glimmer amongst the folds of his face, and an
overlong tongue slobbers across drool-covered
chins. From his swollen frame emerge grasping
tentacles and other unnerving signs of the Dark
Prince's degrading affections. The pompous
Homonculus known only as the Gourmalice
prepares his diabolical feasts, while slaves cover his
body in glistening oils and resplendent jewels. There
can be no doubt that Orscollion is the paragon of
gluttony, one of Slaanesh's most beloved sins.
The Orscollions were once known only as a clan of
failing merchants from Araby. With their fortunes
on the wane, the scrawny Glutos was forced into the
role of thief and cutpurse, eventually infiltrating a
temple in Al-haikk and stealing its sacred golden
grain. Yet Glutos' will was brittle. Overcome by the
gnawing cramps of his underfed stomach, he ate the
grain – and in that instant, he was damned.
Unbeknownst to him the rite was secretly devoted to
the Slaaneshi Daemon Prince Loth'shar. No sooner
had he indulged himself than Glutos was wracked
with a terrible hunger that could only be sated by
consuming something even grander than the
daemon's treasure.
At first, Orscollion attempted to repay his debt
through conventional means, squandering every
stolen coin on increasingly outlandish foodstuffs. In
this he was profoundly unsuccessful. Driven to the
brink by the daemon's taunting, it was only when he
discovered a body left to rot in the back alleys of Al-
haikk that his fate changed. Guided by Loth'shar's
mocking whispers Glutos fed upon the corpse,
weeping at his own foulness even as the flavours
danced upon his tongue. In that moment, kneeling
amidst the ruin of his own debasement, something
splintered within him. The shade of Loth 'shar
appeared before him, assuring Glutos that he was
upon the right path and that the daemon would
assuage – if not banish – his hunger for a time if
only he pursued more esoteric treats.
In Al-haikk, the magical flesh of wizards was not in
short supply. The more Glutos feasted upon mages
murdered in back-alley souks and secretive pleasure
houses, the greater the favour Loth'shar bequeathed
upon him – and as his corpulence grew, so too did
his fame. Hedonites of Slaanesh travelled from
across the realms to pay tribute to he whom they
considered their lord's chosen Gourmand, offering
riches, obscene delicacies and pacts of blades for the
chance to feast at his side. Towns were massacred,
trading caravans raided, and even armies routed, all
to feed Glutos' dark cravings. Consumption became
an end unto itself, and even morbidly obese daemon-
epicures came to seek out Orscollion and his
carnival, dining on tormented souls alongside
shrieking gluttons.
The more varied flavours Glutos samples, the
greater his sorcerous abilities become. This is not the
gastromantic shamanism of the Ogres, but rather the
rewards of a refined palate, for should Orscollion
limit himself to repetitive tastes then this favour will
be agonisingly retracted. At the height of his powers,
Glutos is a living conduit for the magics of excess.
With a contemptuous twitch of his ring-encrusted
fingers he compels the stomachs of his enemies to
distend, bursting from their bodies in showers of bile
and gore. The scented vapours that waft from the
serpent-mouth grilles ringing his lavish palanquin
fill the mind with a fog of temptation, Those
Hedonites who inhale them are roused to avaricious
fury, while their foes are wracked by crippling
hunger-spasms that soon drive them over the edge of
sanity.
47
 Glutos is surrounded by a demented circus that aids
his search for the most esoteric tastes. The
Painbringer Kyazu serves as Glutos' executioner in
return for the chance to indulge his cannibalistic
urges. Dolece, Priestess of the Rite, ensures only the
worthiest morsels reach her bloated master, while
Lashmaster Vhyssk is charged with driving the
palanquin on, never ceasing while there are new
delights to sample. Yet Glutos' most dangerous
companion is found in the head of his mirror-staff.
From here, Loth'shar's leering visage whispers of the
new sweetmeats his champion must seek out, and
the suppressed desires that dwell in the hearts of
men.
The armies of Glutos Orscollion echo their master in
slavish devotion to overindulgence. Mortals and
daemons charge forth with reckless abandon, blades
and claws lashing out with euphoric ferocity even as
their bodies begin to tear at the seams. With deep
and rumbling laughter, Orscollion promises delights
beyond measure for those who bring him the most
scrumptious offerings. As the Hedonites gorge
themselves upon still-screaming flesh, enemy
warriors are overcome by a wave of horror at the
gory spectacle. These terrified foes are soon filleted
like squirming fish by the hungering Hedonites,
presented as a grisly – and often still living –
banquet in honour of the Grand Gourmand.
M WS BS S T W I A
Glutos Orscollion - 5 3 5 - - 3 3
Painbringer Kyazu - 6 3 4 - - 5 3
Lashmaster Vhyssk - 4 3 3 - - 4 1
Priestess Dolece - 4 3 3 - - 4 1
Palanquin - - - - 5 6 - -
Palanquin Bearers 6 4 0 5 - - 3 6
POINTS: 675.
TROOP TYPE: Shrine (Armour Save 5+, Special
Character, Lord).
MAGIC: Glutos Orscollion is a level 4 Wizard. He
uses spells from the Lore of Slaanesh. In addition to his
other spells, he knows the Crippling Famishment spell
below:
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Mark of
Slaanesh, Ward Save (5+).
The Grand Gourmand: Glutos sees battle as a grand
banquet in which his darkest appetites may be given
free rein.
At the start of each of your turns, Glutos gains one the
abilities as indicated in the table below. Note that all of
these abilities are cumulative.
Turn: Power:
1 Aperitif: All friendly units with the Mark
of Slaanesh within 6" of Glutos gain +1
Leadership.
2 Starter: All friendly units with the Mark of
Slaanesh within 6" of Glutos may re-roll
failed charge rolls.
3 Main Course: All friendly units with the
Mark of Slaanesh within 6" of Glutos are
Unbreakable.
4 Dessert: Glutos gains one additional spell,
chosen as normal.
5 Digestif: Glutos may re-roll casting and
dispel results.
Fog of Temptation: Those who inhale the scented mist
emanating from Glutos' palanquin are wracked with
Ld
9 agonising hunger-spasms.
-
- All enemy units within 6" of Glutos suffer -1 To Hit in
- close combat.
-
- Gorge on Excess: The followers of the Gluttonous
Host grow strong on acts of excess, be it gulping down
raw flesh or engaging in some other depraved
perversion in the heat of battle.
All friendly units with the Mark of Slaanesh that are
within 12" of Glutos may roll a D6 for each unsaved
Wound inflicted by them in close combat. For each roll
of a 6, the unit regains one Wound's worth of models
previously slain during the game.

Crippling Famishment Cast on 7+

With a snap of his fingers, Glutos shares his endless
hunger with those he finds appetising, paralysing his
prey with a violent surge of immeasurable hunger.

Crippling Famishment is a hex spell with a range of

18". The target unit must divide all its movement by
half (rounding up) until the start of the caster's next
Magic phase. The caster may choose to extend the
range of this spell to 36". If they do so, the casting
value is increased to 10+.
EQUIPMENT: Great weapon (Painbringer Kyazu
only).
MAGIC ITEMS:
The Leerstave of Loth'shar (Arcane Item)
Loth'shar constantly drives Glutos on in pursuit of
nearby delicacies, and rewards him for each unholy act
of consumption.
The Leerstave gives Glutos a +1 bonus to cast and
dispel spells.

48
 EGRIMM VAN HORSTMANN
Sorcerer of Tzeentch
At the edge of the Screaming Hills stand the Silver
Towers of the Cabal. Here Tzeentch's Sorcerers study
arcane lore and augur divinations, trying to foretell the
moment when the Storm of Chaos will arise again, and
how to harness it to their will. The Sorcerers of the
Cabal do not speak: instead they communicate using
telepathy, even over great distances. This way no-one
will know their plans.
The Chaos Warriors of the Cabal are called the Thralls
– they are the willing slaves of van Horstmann. Upon
joining the Cabal, a warrior or wizard must swear
unending loyalty to the master of the Cabal and his lord
Tzeentch. The recruit is branded with the magical sign
of Tzeentch on his forehead so that he can never rebel
against the will of his masters. In return, he is initiated
into the secrets of the Cabal.
The Armour of the Cabal is archaic and ceremonial to
the point of impracticality and is covered in a mass of
talismans, ribbons, and warding sigils. Their weapons
are often magical, ensorcelled by the sorcerers of the
Cabal. In battle, their blades give off an eerie glow that
is frightening and yet at the same time fascinating. The
members of the Cabal are terrifying foes. They act and
fight in perfect synchronicity, guided by the mad
genius of the Chaos sorcerers. Their battle plans are
infinitely complex and often seem contradictory, and
yet they are always victorious. Their opponents feel
that they are part of an act in which their roles are
predestined. Trying to resist is like struggling against
invisible chains. The symbol of the Cabal is the
unblinking withering eye of Tzeentch on an open palm.
Their banner bears this symbol, and it is a source of
pride to the Cabal that it has never been captured. It is
said that a man who gazes into the Withering Eye will
grow old and waste away in mere moments.
When Egrimm van Horstmann was ordained as Grand
Magister of the Order of Light, he was acclaimed as the
youngest and most gifted wizard to rule over a magical
order. As he knelt down and swore allegiance to the
Emperor, no one guessed that his loyalty had already
been given over to another, far more sinister master.
As an Apprentice Chanter of the ritual-bound Order of
Light Wizards, van Horstmann served under Master
Chanter Alric, the Savior of Apesto, who taught him
many of the order's ancient secrets. However, all the
time he served the Order of Light, Horstmann prayed
to the gods of Chaos for the power to defeat his peers.
His progress was rapid. By day, he studied Light
Magic, and by night, he pored over ancient manuscripts
devoted to the lore of the Chaos gods. Daemons of
Tzeentch whispered their timeless secrets into his
sleeping mind, and Egrimm's evil powers waxed
strong.
For three years, the Grand Magister worked his evil in
the darkness. Seeds of corruption were planted in the
hearts of the Acolytes of the Order of Light. Rituals
were subtly modified, and their powers redirected.
Beneath the College Egrimm laboured at the sealed
vaults one-by-one defeating their magical locks to
uncover the forbidden things they contained. It is
impossible to calculate the damage done or the horrors
unleashed upon the world by the Grand Magister
before his evil was uncovered by the Inquisitors of
Sigmar and the Grand Theogonist Volkmar.
The search for and discovery of the source of
corruption would make a long and horrific tale in its
own right. In the end, the Grand Magister unlocked the
Dragon Baudros from its timeless prison beneath the
Pyramid of Light. Upon the winged and two-headed
form of this most infamous of all Chaos Dragons, van
Horstmann ascended into the sky, left his former life
behind, and headed toward the Chaos Wastes. With his
corrupted acolytes, Egrimm formed the Cabal, perhaps
the mightiest of all the warbands of Tzeentch. These
sinister warrior-wizards of Tzeentch saw Egrimm van
Horstmann as their master. Egrimm covets nothing less
than dominion over the entire world. He is a great
conspirator, second only to his master Tzeentch. His
acolytes are everywhere, and many of the secrets, cults,
and covens in the Old World are ultimately controlled
by Horstmann. Such plots and schemes please
Tzeentch immeasurably, and he has rewarded van
Horstmann greatly, making him the most favoured of
his servants.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Egrimm 4 5 3 4 4 3 4 3 9
Baudros 6 6 0 6 6 6 3 6 8
POINTS: 720.
TROOP TYPE: Monster (Special Character, Lord).
MAGIC: Egrimm is a level 4 Wizard. He uses spells
from the Lore of Tzeentch.
EQUIPMENT: Full plate armour.
MOUNT: Baudros the Chaos Dragon.
"Woe, O world! The Age of Mortals is coming to
an end. Time passes into oblivion, and the stars
lapse in the sky. The dreadful breed of night is
crawling out of darkness, to take possession of the
world. Fools! Seek refuge in faith or madness, for
there's no longer any other place to hide. The
Reign of Chaos has begun!..."
Egrimm van Horstmann, Champion of Tzeentch
49
 SPECIAL RULES: Dark Fire of Chaos, Eye of the
Gods, Fly (7), Fumes of Contagion, Mark of
Tzeentch, Natural Armour (3+), Will of Chaos.
Power of Mind: The will of Egrimm is stronger than
steel.
Egrimm always takes his Leadership tests using 3D6,
discarding the highest result.
Cunning of Tzeentch: Egrimm is blessed with the
deep wisdom and cunning of Tzeentch himself. In battle
he can confuse enemy plans and foil their attacks. The
opposing generals are like puppets in a play staged by
Egrimm.
Any army led by Egrimm gets +1 on its dice when
rolling to see which player gets to choose table sides,
and when rolling to determine who gets the first turn.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Chaos Runeblade (Magic Weapon)
This evil blade was forged by the deluded Dwarf
Runesmith Grugni Ironheart, a secret and embittered
worshipper of the Chaos gods. This is a black blade
encrusted with writhing Chaos runes that radiate a
dark and malevolent power. Its touch is deadly and its
bite will penetrate ordinary armour with ease.
The wielder of this sword gains the Multiple Wounds
(D3) and Ignores Armour saves special rule.
50
Spell Familiar (Arcane Item)
A Chaos Familiar can take almost any shape, from a
tiny midget or strange beast to a walking tome or, as in
the case of Egrimm's, a swirl of sulphurous smoke. It
memorises a spell on its master's behalf constantly
rehearsing for its big moment until it is called upon to
share its arcane knowledge.
The Spell Familiar gives Egrimm one additional spell.
Skull of Katam (Arcane Item)
Upon his death, the skull of the daemonologist Katam
was daubed with runes using the blood of the Chaos
Dragon Baudros. The skull continues to utter words of
power, and a wizard who listens may learn many
arcane secrets. However, every time the bearer
consults the skull, there is a chance it will reveal one of
the true mysteries of the Realm of Chaos, imparting
knowledge that blasts the mind with its scope and
impossibility. In time, the skull's whisperings drive its
owner insane, reducing him to a drooling madman
whose gibberings are joined only by the eerie sound of
Katam's laughter.
The bearer of the Skull of Katam can choose to consult
it before attempting to channel power dice each Magic
Phase. If they do so, roll 2 extra dice. If the bearer
consulted the Skull of Katam, they suffer a -1
Leadership penalty for the rest of the game for every
result of 1 rolled when channelling this round – if it is
ever reduced to 0, they are immediately removed as a
casualty.
 AEKOLD HELBRASS
Champion of Tzeentch
There was a time, many years ago now, when Aekold
Helbrass was the respected son of a noble household,
living in his father's mansion house in Altdorf. Back then,
Aekold had everything a young man of the Empire could
possibly want: wealth, power, a beautiful fiancée and a
commission within the Templar Order of the Jade Griffon.
But these good things were not to last.
His problems started when he joined what he thought to
be a harmless secret society calling itself the "Brethren of
the Golden Eagle." He had understood little of the
principles behind the Brethren's complex rites, but they
had shared a common goal. They wanted to change the
world.
Aekold had always believed that there had to be
something more to existance than the petty bickering and
selfish politics of city life, despite the fact he had found
little evidence of that something more in all his twenty-six
years of living. In his quest for a better way, Aekold
embraced the Empire's state religion with a passion,
seeking to devote his life to the service of the
Heldenhammer. But over time he found even the
teachings of Sigrnar's Holy Church lacking, in that they
promised little but expected much. They taught that there
would be no cessation to the pain and pettiness of this life,
and even after death there could be no guarantee of peace
or an afterlife, so grave were the horrors that beset
mankind. It seemed that the lives of men were doomed to
be spent in the pursuit of petty things for an uncertain
reward. Day and night Aekold prayed to Sigmar, begging
the first Emperor to show him how he could change the
world for the better – to make a difference. But no answer
came. Then, as Aekold's hopes of ever finding the
knowledge he sought had begun to fade, a drinking friend
introduced him to the Brethren of the Golden Eagle.
Aekold saw at once that this was what he had been
looking for all his life. The Brethren were dedicated to the
notion of changing the world, and their every word and
endeavour stretched towards this end.
The Brethren's preacher was an intelligent and urbane
man by the name of Melic Rosencrantz. He was a magus
of considerable skill and power, easily a rival to the
initiates of the Colleges of Magic, able to change base
metals into gold, heal wounds with a word and change
animals into new forms. Here was a man that Aekold
could follow. The young knight was certain his prayers
had finally been answered.
The rituals of the Brethren called upon a "Great Lord of
Change", beseeching this divine being's aid so that
improvement might be found in this world and in this life,
rather than in the uncertainty of the next. Aekold's
intelligence and powerful personality soon earned him a
position in the Brethren's most secretive Third Circle, and
before long he had been initiated into the many secrets of
the coven.
Then, one night, the Templars of Sigmar raided his cult's
hidden shrine. Aekold only narrowly escaped their
clutches, but under the interrogation of the witch hunter
captain himself, one of Aekold's fellow acolytes broke and
revealed the names of all the members of the coven,
Aekold amongst them.
Aekold's commission in the Order of the Jade Griffon was
revoked, and his fellow knights came to arrest him and
bring him before the authorities of Sigmar. Aekold begged
them to listen to him, but they cared nothing for his
excuses. Three of them died under Aekold's sword, and
the other two were so badly wounded they would never
fight again. No matter what could be said about him, no
one could doubt that Aekold was the most talented
swordsman of his order.
Aekold fled through the streets of the Empire's capital,
pursued by his former friends, the town watch and the
feared Templars of Sigmar. In his desperation, Aekold
sought refuge at the house of his betrothed, Lady Johanna
von Leber, but even she had barred her windows against
him. He tried to explain the unjustness of the assumption
made against him and why he had been declared an
outlaw, but the lady did not want to hear him. She
declared that she did not ever want to see him again,
accusing him of bringing disrepute upon her family and
their standing in society. Aekold knew then that but for
Validus, his warhorse, he was truly alone.
With little else to do, Aekold headed for the River Gate.
Without pause or leave, the once-knight rode down the
guards and took the north road at a heedless gallop.
Before long Aekold bad left the Reikland's borders far
behind him, but Sigmar's witch hunters were always close
at hand. Forced to live like a beast of the wild, Aekold
slept in the darkness in the deep forests and travelled by
night to avoid the eyes of the curious. His food he stole or
bought from roadside farms, and he avoided every town
and toll gate. All the while the humiliation of his fall from
grace made his blood run hot.
At the borders of Ostland, one of Sigmar's Templars
finally caught up with him, and a crossbow bolt intended
for Aekold's heart only narrowly missed taking his life.
Only by throwing his great zwei-hander, an unthinkable
deed for a knight, did lie manage to kill the witch hunter
before one of his crossbow bolts could find its mark. The
two-handed sword had struck his foe squarely in the chest,
and Aekold had barely managed to recover from the
attack before the ferocious hunting dogs of the Count of
Ostland appeared, snapping at his heels.
Perhaps fate had been unkind to Aekold. After all, the
young man had only sought to escape the monotony of his
jaded and dull existence as a young nobleman of the
Empire. All around him he had seen the decadence of the
Imperial capital: the filthy streets and the hopeless mobs
of the poor, begging and scraping out a miserable
existence in hovels and disease ridden slums. Aekold had
wanted to change everything, to begin anew, start afresh,
to cast down the old, corrupt society and be part of
building something new, something better.
51
 But this was not to be. His life was in ruins, his father had
disowned him, and his friends turned against him. He had
been driven beyond the borders of Kislev to the very edge
of the civilised world, fleeing for his life and with a price
on his head. All he had left were his weapons, his strong
sword arm and his will to survive. They would have to be
enough. He was about to enter the Troll Country and none
would dare to follow him there.
Aekold travelled northwards for seven days before he
encountered any resistance. He had seen the groups of
misshapen creatures in the shadows of the treeline or upon
the distant horizon, but they had never sought to approach
him. They seemed content to watch. Why, Aekold did not
know, but until they became a threat he decided to pay
them no mind.
As Aekold travelled onward, the trees grew thinner and
thinner, and the land grew ever rockier. After a time he
came across a great monolith, a standing stone carved as if
by some titanic hand. It was inscribed with sigils and
runes that seemed to glow in the gathering darkness.
Though he could not say why, Aekold knew that the
carved slab was of vital importance to him. He had to
know what was written on the monolith, even if it would
cost him his soul. But the monolith was not unguarded.
Out of the crude shrine that stood next to the carved pillar,
a huge creature emerged. The earth shook under its great
cloven hooves and gigantic muscles writhed under its
thick hide. Huge horns spiralled above a bovine head, and
yet the creature's body was humanoid, though massive
like that of an ogre. In its hands the bull-creature carried
an axe that Aekold reckoned must have weighed almost as
much as he did. Aekold recognised the creature from the
grimoires of the Brethren: this was a Minotaur, a gigantic
blasphemy against nature, a cross between a mighty bull
and a giant man.
Yet, despite its brutal appearance, intelligence gleamed in
the creature's bloodshot eyes – the low cunning of an
animal combined with some of the sense of a man.
Forcing his voice to stay calm, Aekold told the creature of
his desire and intention to study the carvings on the
monolith.
In coarse and barely recognisable Reikspiel, the Minotaur
replied that only the Chosen One could find the path, and
that all those who could not Change must perish. Then,
52
bellowing a battle cry, the Minotaur lifted its gigantic axe
and charged. Aekold slammed down his visor and spurred
Validus to a gallop. They thundered towards each other,
man and beast, one screaming the battle cry of an Imperial
knight, the other bellowing and snarling in the dark tongue
of Chaos.
They struck. Aekold's lance pierced the Minotaur's left
shoulder, its wooden haft shattering with the force of the
impact. Rearing upwards, Validus lashed out with both
iron-shod hooves and crashed down against the Minotaur's
skull. But the creature's gigantic axe had just as great a
reach as Aekold's lance, and its swipe was blindingly fast.
It hit Aekold's raised shield but the tremendous force of
the blow ripped it from his hand, leaving his left arm
numb.
The Minotaur swung again with its free hand and its
massive fist, perhaps twice the size of Aekold's head,
smashed the knight from his saddle. Aekold crashed to the
ground, the air driven from his lungs by the force of the
impact.
With a ferocious roar, the Minotaur tore the steel tip of the
lance from its shoulder and threw it to the ground. Thick
blood oozed from its wound, but the creature seemed not
to notice. With blood-red eyes and crimson foam pouring
from its mouth, the creature bellowed once more. All
vestiges of sanity had disappeared from its face.
It rushed towards the fallen knight, swinging its axe in a
huge arc, it axe struck a stone where Aekold's head had
been but a heartbeat before, and such was the force of the
blow that the blade of the axe cracked and the haft
snapped in two like a dry twig. Aekold regained his
footing and scrambled towards Validus. He drew his
sword from its scabbard hanging from the horse's saddle.
But the Minotaur had been just as quick. Two mighty
arms closed around Aekold's chest, squeezing him until
his armour creaked as he was lifted above the head of the
Minotaur. Though his ribs threatened to break and his
strength faded, Aekold swung his blade downwards.
It struck the Minotaur in the neck, cutting muscles,
severing tendons and sinew, and splintering the bones
beneath. A cry of fury and pain cut the air. As the
Minotaur toppled forward, Aekold hit the ground
alongside it. The world seemed to spin and go dark. When
Aekold woke, the Minotaur was nowhere to be seen.
Groaning with agony Aekold rose to his feet and
staggered across to the monolith. Despite the pain, Aekold
felt driven to see the carvings immediately, as if forced to
by some unseen hand. As he looked upon the swirling
designs and jagged runes that covered the monolith's
surface, Aekold realised that they formed a picture.
Stepping back, Aekold began to make out the shape of a
knight with the device of a rampant Griffon on his shield,
the same device on Aekold's own shield. The former
knight studied the ancient carvings, and while he was no
expert, he was sure that judging by the wear of the rock
they had to have been several centuries old. And yet,
undeniably, the knight carved on the stone was supposed
to be him. A chill ran down Aekold's spine. He turned his
back on the monolith.
Days passed and Aekold rode further north. Here was a
place unfit for mortal men, only those who had pledged
themselves to darkness could travel safely. Yet Aekold
sensed that he could still choose his path, as if he stood at
the very edge of sanity but had not yet crossed to the
madness beyond. He knew that this was his very last
chance to turn back and rejoin civilisation. He could ride
to Tilea or the land of the Border Princes and offer his
services as a freelance to one of the countless mercenary
bands of the Old World. He was strong and fast, well
versed in tactics and strategy. With a little luck he could
quickly win fame and fortune, and soon lead a mercenary
contingent of his own.
For a long while Aekold held Validus in place, and then,
making up his mind, spurred the horse onwards, to the
north and darkness. It might have been his imagination,
but mocking laughter seemed to whisper upon the cold
wind as he rode on.
Day and night lost all meaning. The eternal darkness of
the Chaos Wastes was lit only by the strange lights
emanating from the far north. Each time Aekold blinked
his eyes, the landscape appeared to have subtly changed.
When he tried to focus his eyes on any landmark it
seemed to almost flee from vision, and things he thought
would take minutes to reach escaped ever further into the
distance no matter how hard he galloped towards them.
Water now could not quench his thirst. He yearned for
something of more substance, something he could not yet
name. Neither did he feel the need to sleep any more. He
felt wide awake, and his senses were sharper than he had
ever dreamed possible. He felt no hunger. He felt strong,
healthy and fast, stronger and faster than he had ever been
before.
His warhorse, Validus, had also changed. Its teeth had
grown sharp, and it no longer shied back with fear when
one the foul creatures from those endless plains
approached: its eyes glowed red in the eternal darkness of
the Chaos Wastes, and its hide had become darker and
tough as leather. Aekold noticed that Validus's tongue was
now as rough as sandpaper and had grown long and
forked. The steed no longer brushed its nose against
Aekold's face, but always stood silent and unmoving when
they were not riding.
The unearthly wind of the Wastes was full of sounds,
strange voices that whispered to Aekold about all his
noble and evil deeds, as if warring for his attention,
perhaps even his soul. But one voice was stronger, and it
drowned out all the others: "Be strong," it would say,
"only the strong are welcome."
When one day Aekold cried back to the sibilant voice that
he was strong and that he feared nothing, mocking
laughter returned in answer. Then the voice whispered to
him once more: "Then show me, gallant knight. Prove to
me your courage."
On the horizon, a gigantic shape loomed from the
darkness. It was a gateway that stood on top of a long
flight of steps. It was a titanic altar, perhaps erected by the
giants of ancient times when the world was young and the
gods of Chaos first turned their eyes upon it.
In the sky above the gateway flames danced, forming the
shapes of eldritch runes, not unlike the ones Aekold had
seen on the grimoires at the temple of Sigmar, hidden and
locked away from ordinary folk. But as a part of his
training Aekold had learned to decipher them, and so read
aloud the message written in the sky: "Shamelna
Tzeen'neth! Atde phaosden tak'zith!"
Then Aekold dismounted, and started to climb up the
stairs. On and on he climbed, higher and higher, until the
air grew thin and cold and clouds whirled far below him.
Despite his heavy armour, Aekold felt no fatigue.
At the top of the stairway Aekold gazed around him. He
had come to the end of his journey. The gateway before
him seemed to be made out of polished silver, reflecting
the grim darkness and dancing lights of the Chaos Wastes.
Aekold stood before the portal and stared at his mirror
image. Looking back at him was a young, handsome
Templar in burnished armour, holding a shining sword
with a jade griffon set into its pommel. This was what
Aekold could have been, something he had now lost for
all eternity.
The mirror image spoke: "I am the Guardian. I am the
defender of humanity. You are an abomination." With that
the reflection stepped out of the portal with its sword
raised in a knight's salute. Then it charged.
So swift was the attack that Aekold barely had time to
defend himself. From the first blow Aekold knew that his
life was at stake. Never before had he met a man who
could match him in a sword fight. But this warrior from
beyond the mirror-gate was just as fast, strong, and skilled
as he was. They slashed and struck, weaving dodging and
parrying as they circled each other warily. Now and then
one of them would launch an attack with blistering speed,
only to be parried by equal skill.
Aekold was struck suddenly by the pointlessness of it all.
Why did he struggle so much to defend himself when he
had nothing left to defend? But instead of giving in,
Aekold smiled, brought up his sword and charged.
Both men struck. The Templar's sword sliced through
Aekold's armour, cutting deep into his ribs. But Aekold's
sword took the Templar's head from his shoulders.
As the body of the white Templar fell, blood gushing from
the stump of his neck, Aekold sank to his knees, his own
life blood oozing through the gaps in his armour.
He was dying and he knew it. Yet he had come so far and
seen so much, too much to let it all end in that moment.
Agonisingly slowly, Aekold began to crawl back to the
portal, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Now the silver
of the mirror showed no reflection, only the multi-
coloured flames of the Chaos Wastes coloured its surface.
Aekold touched the mirror's surface. He knew that his
own death waited for him on the other side of it, yet still
he had to continue. As the world seemed to spin around
him, Aekold heard the sibilant voice again, only now it
seemed to echo all around him: "The way lies beyond this
portal, yet only the Chosen One may enter! Are you he?"
For one final time Aekold felt a pang of guilt – for one
last time he longed for his former life. But what had he to
go back to? His past was as dead to him as the headless
Templar that lay behind him. Finally Aekold pushed
against the surface of the mirror-portal.
53
 A searing pain, like lances of pure white fire, ripped
through him. Aekold screamed in agony as he felt talons,
hotter than hellfire, colder than the void, tearing him apart,
separating flesh from bone, raking his very soul and
obliterating whatever was left of his sanity. Then all sense
and feeling left him.
Aekold, the son of Graf of the Reikland, was gone. The
newly born champion of Tzeen'neth standing before the
mirror-portal turned around to study his new form.
The pale reflection in the mirror showed a face quite
unlike the young knight who had left Altdorf all those
months ago. Two eyes, glittering like multi-faceted gems
and burning with inner balefires, stared back at him. His
armour was covered in twisting runes that glowed in the
flickering darkness of the Chaos wasteland. His sword
gleamed with blue light, and seemed to moan as he moved
it, its shape changing with each motion.
Aekold began to laugh. He raised his sword, lifting it in a
challenge to humanity and all the things he had once held
dear. His laughter turned to a scream of hatred and
vengeance: "I will return!" he cried. "For now I know the
truth!"
Aekold Helbrass, Champion of Tzeentch, bears a most
unusual gift – the gift that is known as the Breath of Life.
Where Aekold walks the grass springs green and meadow
flowers blossom. When he walks upon desert sands and
stony rocks, the land bursts into life as he passes.
Any living thing he touches springs into new and vigorous
growth. The long-dead wood of doors and staves takes
root upon his touch. His touch can restore to health
creatures that are upon the threshold of death, for such is
the power of the Breath of Life. His touch is as
indiscriminate as it is potent, behind him he leaves a trail
of new life and everything he touches is affected.
54
While life giving is the gift of Aekold, he slays his
opponents without pity or care for their life, for he knows
all life is but an endless dance of change, dictated by
Tzeentch, the Master of Fate.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Aekold 4 8 3 5 4 2 7 4 8
POINTS: 205.
TROOP TYPE: Infantry (Special Character, Hero).
EQUIPMENT: Full plate armour.
SPECIAL RULES: Eye of the Gods, Mark of
Tzeentch, Will of Chaos.
The Breath of Life: The Breath of Life is one of the
mysterious and bizarre gifts Tzeentch has granted to
his most favoured of followers.
Aekold has the Regeneration (4+) special rule. In
addition, any Character model in base contact with
Aekold Helbrass also gains Regeneration (4+) as long
as they are in contact with him. If Aekold is killed
during a battle, roll a dice at the end of the turn that
killed him. On a 4+ he recovers to full wounds, and is
placed where the model was originally slain, at least 1"
away from any unit or Impassable Terrain.
MAGIC ITEMS:
The Windblade (Magic Weapon)
The Windblade is the great double-handed broadsword
of Aekold, granted to him by his master, Tzeentch. Like
all the favours given by the Changer of Ways, it is an
erratic and unpredictable weapon.
Great weapon. At the start of each of his turns, roll a
D6 and consult the chart below to see what effect the
Windblade will have on its bearer:
D6 Result
1-2 The Windblade allows its bearer to walk the
winds of magic and move with an astounding
speed.
Aekold gains the Fly special rule until the
start of his next turn.
3-4 The Windblade becomes as light as a feather
in the hands of its bearer, and yet still retains
its deadly power.
Aekold gains the Always Strikes First special
rule until the start of his next turn.
5-6 The Windblade swirls and leaps from the
hands of its wielder, striking enemies at a
great distance before returning to his hand.
Aekold may throw the Windblade as a
missile attack with a range of 12" and the
Quick to Fire special rule. If the unit is hit it
suffers D3 Strength 5 hits.
 MELEKH THE CHANGER
Champion of Tzeentch
The story of Melekh the Changer's rise to power began on a
storm-filled night in Norsca. Lightning bolts arced from the
skies and crashed down onto the ground below while the
deep rumble of thunder briefly drowned out the pounding of
torrential rain on the huts of the Aesling village. Melekh was
the son of the tribe's blacksmith, and his woman Keyla was
heavy with child. It was on this abysmal night that the babe
chose to enter the world. Alas, there were complications with
the birth, and the old wives were reluctantly forced to call
upon the tribe's shaman for help. Gaerkkol was a strong
warrior, gifted with powerful magic and second only to the
tribe's chieftain.
Whilst Melekh's partner screamed in agony, Gaerkkol cast
spells to soothe the mother's pain and encourage the child to
enter the world. Unfortunately, the effects of alcohol and the
other narcotic substances Gaerkkol used to induce his trances
marred the drunken shaman's concentration. What should
have been a simple ritual went horribly wrong. Keyla's body
arched with pain as colourful magic energies flowed around
her. Gaerkkol tried in vain to stop the arcane power that shot
from his fingertips, but he could do nothing. As a mighty
blast of light enveloped Keyla, the child burst from its
mother's womb. Gaerkkol was helpless to save her, and with
the babe held in his arms, Melekh watched her life ebb away
before his eyes.
When Melekh cast his eyes upon the child, a deep sense of
sickening horror filled his soul. The babe was malformed.
Instead of the innocent head of a newborn child, the infant
bore the visage of a bird. Screaming to one side of the bird's
head was a twisted image of a child's face, but it was the
soulless, black eyes of the bird that stared at its father.
Melekh was sure the chieftain would insist the child be cast
from the village, but instead he saw the babe as a good omen
for his people. The child was named Cyspeth, and the
chieftain announced to the entire village that their daemonic
patron god Zarechgor had clearly blessed Melekh and his
son. A great funeral was held for the mother followed by a
feast held in honour of the new arrival. As the joyous revelry
began, none saw the scowling look of disapproval that fell
across the face of the shaman.
At the height of the festivity, the chieftain announced that the
Daemon Zarechgor had spoken to him in a dream the
previous night. He had instructed him to hold a contest of
might. The strongest warriors of the tribe would all fight for
the honoured position of becoming Gaerkkol's new
apprentice. At the announcement, a look of horror crossed the
shaman's face, and he slunk away from the hall back to his
hut. There, he searched through his scrolls and tomes until he
found a book bound in human flesh. Inside the book was a
small piece of text. It was a prophecy written by the Sorcerer
Necromundo the Insane that spoke of the arrival of a mighty
warrior who would unite and lead the tribes to great victories.
Slicing his sacrificial blade through the exposed belly of a
small rabbit that he kept caged, Gaerkkol sat for many hours
reading the signs that the poor beast's entrails foretold.
Everything pointed to the fact that the time of the prophecy's
fulfilment was upon them.
The day of combat began, and Melekh was amongst the first
to fight. Armed with a mighty halberd and encased in the
finely forged armour of the tribe, he proved to be a great
warrior, besting any foe that faced him. His mastery of the
blade was great, and soon only he and Dered, his childhood
friend, remained. Before the two warriors faced off, Melekh
was alarmed to see the shaman present his opponent with a
talisman that would ward off harm and bring good fortune in
battle. Melekh cleared his mind and focused on the fight. For
over an hour, the two warriors fought. Neither was able to
best the other, but as they both tired, Melekh's opponent
tripped. The amulet he wore around his neck broke and
scattered on the ground. Melekh seized upon the opportunity.
Bringing his blade down in a powerful arc, he severed the
head of his opponent. Triumphantly raising his sword above
his head, the crowd cheered as they all hailed Melekh the
new champion of their tribe.
The aging shaman was desperate to prevent the prophecy
from coming true and began to plot. Every champion of the
tribe would serve under the shaman to learn his art. As
Melekh's new master, Gaerkkol could send his apprentice on
a quest to prove his worth in front of the gods. All
apprentices would undertake such quests, which usually
involved bringing back the head of a dangerous monster or
the recovery of an ancient magical artefact. The following
morning, Gaerkkol commanded that Melekh bring himself
and his newborn son to his hut. When Melekh arrived,
Gaerkkol was already waiting outside, ready to set his pupil
his chosen task. He snatched the child from Melekh's arms
and with a wicked smile on his face, Gaerkkol announced
that Melekh was to go forth and find the true daemonic name
of their patron demigod Zarechgor.
Melekh felt his knees go weak, and his head swam at the
thought. In order to discover a Daemon's true name, he would
have to best the Daemon, and that meant traveling into the
Realm of Chaos. With a child favoured by the gods as his
ward, the shaman would have even more power and influence
on the tribe, and Melekh was helpless to prevent this terrible
fate. Determined to complete his quest and save his son from
the dark influence of the shaman, Melekh immediately
headed north. After a month of constant fighting and
hardship, he spied a great gateway made from the skulls of
men. Beyond the portal, the air shimmered and crackled with
energy. Tendrils shot out from the thick mists searching for
prey, and Melekh could hear the cackling howls of the
creatures that lived within the other world. Standing before
the gateway to this realm, Melekh's heart pounded, heavy
with fear. To step into this other world would be certain
death, but he would never see his tribe or his son again if he
did not. Summoning all his courage, Melekh forced himself
onward, and as he slowly stepped forward, the mists dragged
him into the Realm of Chaos.
At first, Melekh could see nothing before him but a thick
pink veil that shifted in colour, turning a deeper shade of red
before his eyes. The air he breathed was thick and
suffocating, and Melekh felt as though his lungs were
exploding within his chest. Inhuman screams sent his heart
racing, but he was unable to locate the source of the noise. As
he stared into the dense, shifting fog, which had now turned a
deep shade of blue, Melekh could make out shadows of
strange creatures. Fear began to creep into his being, and as it
did, the mist thickened around him. The now purple fog
coalesced in front of his eyes a few yards away, and Melekh
stared at the swirling images before his eyes. The smoky
strands of air gathered and began to solidify into the form of
a man. Melekh suddenly realized that he was staring at a
55
 mirror image of himself. He could see his own face, formed
from the magical clouds, staring back at him. He watched
horrified as the dark silhouettes he had spied moments before
surrounded his image and began feeding off it. Talons formed
from fog ripped apart his shadowy form, and Melekh felt as
though he was witnessing a vision of his own death. The
shadowy Daemons started to become more solid as fear took
hold of the mortal champion. Then, from the mists, a foul
creature emerged. It possessed multiple elongated arms and a
gaping mouth filled with menacing rows of sharp teeth.
Melekh drew his sword and hacked the beast in two, but the
Daemon did not die, instead splitting into two separate
Daemons that gibbered and bared savage claws and fangs.
More and more of the horrific Daemons appeared, each one
tearing itself apart to form two more, and Melekh knew his
fate was sealed.
Melekh's horrified mind told him he was doomed, but as an
Aesling warrior, he would not die cowering like a beast. He
took a deep breath and sought to master his fear. As he took
control of his emotions, he watched the Daemons howl and
hiss, slowly hacking away. It suddenly crossed his mind that
these Daemons were perhaps feeding off his fear, and so
Melekh advanced towards them. The Daemons no longer
sought to attack him now that he was prepared to face them,
and so Melekh concentrated in an attempt to master his
emotions. The Daemons bowed at his passing, and soon he
found he was able to summon more to his will. Within
moments, a small army of hideous creatures were bound to
his will, fighting off other Daemons who had gathered around
him like moths to a flame, trying to steal away with his soul.
Lost in the mists of Chaos, Melekh's small army battled
against all manner of foul Daemons. Plague-ridden, bloated
monsters fell under his blade. Savage, huge beasts with great
horns and mighty axes cut down the Horrors he had
summoned but were, in turn, destroyed by the manta-like
creatures that Melekh called down from above. Melekh
discovered he was able to manipulate the substance of the air
around him, solidifying and forging it into material form. He
fashioned a great disc upon which he rode to battle at the
head of his army, cutting down the enemy with deadly blades
fixed on the sides of his flying creation. He had no idea of
how long he fought in the mists: hours, days, even weeks
may have passed. The Realm of Chaos was a never-ceasing
battle against the entities within that sought to feed from him.
Melekh's mortal soul was like a flaming beacon attracting the
Daemons of Chaos to him. He constantly called out
challenges to Zarechgor, his patron god, but was met only by
hordes of slavering fiends. Suddenly, when Melekh was
beginning to lose all hope, the mists started to swirl in a
powerful vortex. He was blown off his disc, and the small
army he had gathered was scattered in all directions by the
power of this unworldly storm. When the swirling winds
finally abated, Melekh watched with terror as a massive
creature stepped from the ethereal shadows. It was lithe with
clawed feet and long robed arms ending in elongated taloned
hands that grasped a huge, ornate staff. The Daemon's bird-
like head craned down from the end of a long neck to stare at
Melekh.
The Greater Damon demanded to know who called upon him,
a chorus of familiar voices from Melekh's past resonating
through his entire body. Melekh stood quaking before his
god. Raising his blade, Melekh stepped forward and spoke.
He shouted his name and bade the Daemon to tell him its true
name. The Daemon knew that telling this mortal his true
name would give Melekh power over him and laughed at the
human's impudence. Zarechgor pointed his staff at Melekh,
and a blast of red fire enveloped the Aesling warrior. Melekh
fell under the magical onslaught, and his soul writhed in
torment as the red flames engulfed him.
56
He tried to stand and fight the Daemon, but a second blast of
fire, this one vivid green in colour, burst from the staff and
sent Melekh flying backwards. His body was crushed and
broken. Lying on the ground, he stared at the Daemon who
towered above him. Melekh whispered and, unable to hear
his victim's dying words, the Daemon stooped closer to
listen. Melekh once more asked the Daemon for his true
name. Again the Daemon laughed, but as the question filled
the Daemon's mind, his conscious thought began to solidify
as an answer in the mist. An image formed, and from far
away Melekh could hear his army of Horrors chanting an
unrecognizable language. As Melekh's question had filled the
Daemon's thoughts, they had for a moment become
corporeal. The Horrors that had been bound to Melekh now
chanted them over and over.
With his last breath, Melekh repeated his minion's words and
heard the Daemon howl in anger as he realized that he had
been tricked. The strength of the Greater Daemon began to
flow through Melekh. He had bound the might of his god to
his will, and the power of a Greater Daemon was his to
command. The Daemon's knowledge filled his mind, and
arcane wisdom flooded into his consciousness. Melekh
collapsed, his mind overwhelmed by the experience, and
Zarechgor watched over his new master, bound to protect
him. When Melekh awoke, Zarechgor told him of the
prophecy. The Greater Daemon had been impressed by the
cunning of Melekh and bestowed an enchanted blade upon
him. The Daemon's final gift to Melekh was to cast a spell
that opened a portal from the Realm of Chaos back to the
material world. The black star-filled doorway sprung open
before Melekh, and he prepared to return triumphant.
Melekh called his Daemon horde around him, and from
beneath his feet, the disc rose from the mists. The small army
flew towards the open portal and out into the material realm.
The army appeared in the mountains close to the Aesling
village. Gaerkkol, who was now the tribe's chieftain, had
foreseen Melekh's coming and had prepared an army of
warriors to fact him. At Gaerkkol's side stood Melekh's son
Cyspeth. What Melekh could not have foreseen was that, in
the few months that he thought he had been away, twenty
years had passed Cyspeth was now a grown man and had
been apprenticed to the shaman. Daemons and men stood
facing each other ready to do battle. The horde of Daemons
was eager to wage war and shed the blood of mortals, but
Melekh knew that Gaerkol's powers should not be
underestimated. He also knew that his son had been blessed
by Tzeentch, and with Gaerkkol as his master, he could prove
to be a deadly foe.
The skies suddenly darkened, and lightning crashed to the
ground as it had on the night of Cyspeth's birth. A great
lightning blast struck the earth between the two armies, and a
massive explosion sent rocks and soil soaring up to the
heavens. From the fiery crater that the blast had created rode
a mighty figure on a huge fearsome steed. He towered taller
than any mortal, and his mount's eyes glowed red with the
fires of hell. It was Archaon, the Lord of the End Times. At
his coming, the howling of the Daemons ceased, and an eerie
silence fell upon the battlefield. He rode his horse to a high
ridge over-looking the open field on which the armies had
gathered, then spoke. His voice echoed across the land and all
who heard it knew his power.
"And with the coming of the End Times, the old will fall by
the hand of the new."
At Archaon's signal, the two armies charged. Daemons
spewing forth magic that enveloped the warriors and warped
their mortal bodies into horrible mutations. Those who
survived hacked apart the fragile Daemons, and in the midst
of it all. Melekh met Gaerkkol. At the shaman's side stood
Cyspeth, his magical blasts destroying the Screamers that
flew overhead. Neither Gaerkkol with his ancient knowledge
nor Melekh with his new-found power could best the other.
Then, with a powerful thrust, Gaerkkol hit the flying disc;
Melekh was momentarily caught off balance and stumbled
from his platform. Gaerkkol stood over him ready to deliver
the fatal blow. Manic laughter overcame the shaman. He had
outwitted the prophecies of the gods and even thought he
could destroy Archaon and seize command of the armies of
Chaos.
As Gaerkkol raised his sword to bring it down and sever the
head of Melekh, a look of surprise and horror spread across
his face. Melekh waited for the deathly blow but instead
Gaerkkol slumped to the ground. Behind him stood Cyspeth
with a bloodied dagger held in his hand. The dark eyes of the
mutant child looked at the father as they had when he had
been born. By the hand of the new, the old had been slain.
Melekh commanded the fighting to cease, and as he did so,
Archaon rode down from the ridge. His Daemon Steed reared
before the father and son, and both knew they were to follow
the Lord of Chaos. Archaon's army was now complete, and
with his all-conquering force, the Old World would fall.
M WS BS S T W I A Ld
Melekh 4 8 3 5 5 3 7 5 9
Disc of Tzeentch 1 3 0 4 4 1 4 2 7
POINTS: 390.
TROOP TYPE: Cavalry (Special Character, Lord).
MAGIC: Melekh is a level 2 Wizard. He uses spells
from the Lore of Tzeentch.
EQUIPMENT: Fireglaive, full plate armour, shield.
SPECIAL RULES: Daemonic (Disc of Tzeentch
only), Daemon of Tzeentch (Disc of Tzeentch only),
Eye of the Gods, Flaming Attacks (Disc of Tzeentch
only), Fly (9), Mark of Tzeentch, Will of Chaos.
MAGIC ITEMS:
Golden Eye of Tzeentch (Talisman)
This intricately carved golden talisman is inscribed with
mesmeric twisting shapes that seem to writhe and change. It
consists of a filigree of witch-hair cradling the fossilised eye
of a Lord of Change. It is said to give the bearer a sixth sense
that warns him of threats from afar. This arcane jewel glows
brightly, hiding the wearer behind a nimbus of iridescent
colours.
The wearer gains a Ward save (3+) against all missile attacks.
Blood of Tzeentch (Arcane Item)
The Sorcerer holds a phial of liquid balefire, which when
tasted lends his skin an iridescent glow and his words the
chime of supernatural command.
The bearer of the Blood of Tzeentch may re-roll one casting
dice per turn, provided it was not originally a roll of a 1.
Mirror of Knowledge (Enchanted Item)
This double-sided mirror allows the Champion to look into
the minds of others and learn their secrets.
The bearer can pick any enemy unit within 24" at the
beginning of each of his Magic phases. The opponent must
reveal everything that is not apparent about the unit, such as
Magic Items and Hidden units.
57