Rorsh glowered up at the burning noon sky, focusing every bit of his malice into the withering glare. In the face of such a scowl any other creature on Caen would have slunk back into the shadows, but confident that even Rorsh could not make good on his threat the sun blazed all the brighter.

The farrow finally relented with a dissatisfied grunt and shrugged chafed shoulders uncomfortably under his heavy leather coat. Like others of his kind, Rorsh had never thought that something as simple as the sun could cause him discomfort, but this heat was well beyond anything he had ever known. He growled as he attempted to find some position that didn’t rub his sweat-covered body raw.

He cursed again at having agreed to come on this errand for the self-proclaimed “Lord” Carver. Out into the Bloodstone Marches, traveling leagues across heat-blasted desert with his final destination some giant rock no living thing gave a damn about. Rorsh refocused his stare at the mighty Rotterhorn in the distance, its craggy surface terminating in a mighty peak that dominated the surrounding landscape like a tyrant.

He judged he and his warbeasts were still three days from their destination at best, though what interest the place had to his current employer was well beyond Rorsh’s ken. He remembered the self-infatuated farrow blabbing on about bones, and auguries, and signs. Something about ancient power and dire portents had made Lord Carver’s eyes gleam like a thief’s in the presence of a grand treasure hall.

Maybe if he hadn’t been so drunk on the harsh grain alcohol that had flowed freely that night he would remember what in bloody Urcaen Carver had been on about. More importantly, he might have had enough good sense to have laughed in the Bringer of Most Massive Destruction’s face when he had offered this job—although that would no doubt have ended with his skull being introduced to the farrow king’s mighty blade, Hand of God.

Instead he had agreed to go out to this miserable desert and scout the region ahead of Carver and his crew. What he was supposed to find, well, that was just another bit of information that had vanished with the arrival of his hangover.

He cursed himself then and scratched a hoof forlornly in the hot sands. At this point the cool air of the Thornwood sounded good to him, or even the frigid climate of northern Khador. Anything but this intolerable heat, in this interminable desert, working for the insufferable self-proclaimed king of the farrow.

A shriek of panic brought him back from his wallowing to the scene of chaos in front of him. The sound of wood splintering and snapping as his two blast boars dug through the spoils of their latest ambush gave way to heavy grunting and snorts. Clearly they had found something to their liking. Rosh could feel their satisfaction through his connection to them, the sweet aroma of fresh fruit causing his mouth to salivate even though he was nowhere near the cart they had ripped apart. His mighty warbeast Brine had already claimed the choicest meal.

Rorsh was still getting used to his new beasts after having only been connected to Brine for so long. At times he found their minds frustratingly difficult to connect with; at other times, like now, he found himself assailed by their thoughts and emotions. So far they had proven loyal enough, and he had experienced no trouble controlling them when it mattered most. He had to admit their presence had been immensely

Shattered GroundS LeaGue FictionBy WiLLiam Shick

useful over the last few weeks of travel, as they had provided him tremendous reserves of vitality in the few skirmishes his group had fought along the way.

He smiled to himself as he drew on their strength, testing the connection he had with them. They had been a gift from Carver. Thanks, he supposed, for agreeing to go on this pointless mission. The giant cannons on their backs had been modified to fire projectiles of even greater explosive potential than those of the standard gun boars now so prevalent in Carver’s armies. Of course, that power came at a price, as always. The heavier powder loads used in the specialized ammunition quickly overheated the cannons and could inflict severe burns on the beasts. And then there was the question of the shells themselves. Rorsh preferred to travel light and Carver hadn’t been forthcoming with supply carts, so he had yet to allow the blast boars to use their newfangled weaponry.

No need to waste a good ace in the hole until you actually needed it.

While the two blast boars contented themselves with the crates of produce, Rorsh turned his attention to the human survivor whose cries of panic had broken him from his battle of wills with the hot sun. The man’s leg was broken where the cart had fallen on him after Brine had rammed it, and he now struggled, trapped and helpless, while the mighty farrow warbeast glutted himself on the flesh of the other merchants. Blood caked around Brine’s snout and tusks, lending an even more fearsome appearance to the massive beast. Despite having consumed nearly four men already, hunger still burned in Brine’s eyes—eyes that now stared at the last remaining trader.

“Please! Have mercy!” The man’s hands scrambled to find purchase on Rorsh’s coat, causing the heavy leather to rub on his sore flesh. “Don’t let that thing eat me, I beg of you!”

There was a loud crunch as Brine gobbled down the last leg of his current meal, followed by a wet smacking of lips and an almost comical gulp. Comical, Rorsh supposed, to everyone but the trapped human.

Having finished with the produce crates, the two blast boars had ambled over as well, sticky juices trailing down their muzzles. Each wore the same look as Brine. Rorsh knew a hog did not survive on fruit alone. They were, after all, a complex species.

Brine lowered his head and fixed the two light warbeasts with a blood-chilling stare, a guttural growl emanating from his throat. The gun boars halted but did not back away.

A quick and decisive mental command from Rorsh ended Brine’s challenge. You will share this one. Remember, we are one big, happy family now.

He felt Brine begin to resist, but when Rorsh increased the pressure of his mental command the warbeast reluctantly backed down, raising his bloody snout and letting out a huff that stank of

rotten meat as his shoulders slumped like those of a petulant child who knows he will not get his way.

The man’s eyes snapped frantically back and forth between Brine and the two smaller beasts. “Please, don’t!” He began sobbing with terror.

Rorsh turned his stare to the man and gave him with a wicked smile as he lit a cigar from his coat’s inner pocket. He puffed on it, savoring the bitter taste of the tobacco. He jerked his head toward the salivating warbeasts and simply said, “Mouths to feed. You understand.”

As the warbeasts set upon their screaming meal Rorsh stared off at the craggy peaks of the Rotterhorn, taking deep draws on his cigar. Soon, he thought to himself, already contemplating being back in the cool Thornwood. Soon.

As they approached the base of the enormous Rotterhorn, Rorsh chomped on the cigar in his mouth. He could feel Brine’s agitation at the sight in front of them. Arrayed before the base of the mountain stood an entire camp. The large stretches of red, gold, and black cloth suspended above the ground by long poles unmistakably marked the camp as skorne.

Rorsh cursed his luck as he shifted his raw skin beneath his heavy coat. Nothing is ever as simple as it seems. But then, you don’t make a fortune on simple.

Tightening his mental grip on his warbeasts, Rorsh pushed on toward the camp, waving a white kerchief he had pulled from one of the many pockets on his coat. He scowled up at it as he realized the cloth was so caked in grime and blood he might as well have been waving a bloody limb.

He pushed forward trying to look as non-threatening as one could when surrounded by three massive boars pulled from a nightmare grymkin tale. It didn’t take long for a lookout to see the merry band and raise the alarm. Rorsh had to admit

the easterners were efficient as they mustered to defend their camp. He stopped just out of reiver range and called out in choppy skorne, “Talk to leader. Have great deal for him!”

Rorsh held his breath as he watched his message ripple down the skorne line. He hoped his imperfect grasp on the language didn’t end with his corpse rotting in this blasted sun. The skorne were not given to conversing with outsiders.

He continued to soothe Brine’s agitation, but he was a mere thought away from unleashing the full power of his blast boar’s cannons if things turned sour. He let out a sigh as a skorne warrior broke through the ranks, his huge cataphract armor marked with mighty horns, a wicked-looking halberd held loosely in one hand. Slightly behind the cataphract came a lithe skorne, face hidden behind a twisted paingiver mask. Unlike the paingivers Rorsh had seen before, though, this one carried a strange polearm with some sort of claw at one end. In his other hand he held an iron chain that was attached to a pitiful wretch of a creature Rorsh recognized as a baby titan.

The skorne tyrant looked at the intruders casually, “You have my attention.”

Rorsh stretched his neck as if he had not a care in the world, taking his time before responding, “You pay. I and mine kill for you.” He stared the hulking skorne in the eye, his teeth slightly bared.

The paingiver with the strange polearm shrieked something incomprehensible, but the threat was clear enough. The skorne weren’t known for hiring anything they could simply enslave. The paingiver’s words had almost certainly reiterated that fact.

Rorsh casually took his gaze off the tyrant and turned it on the paingiver. Speaking in farrow he said, “You could try.” He shrugged his shoulders at his warbeasts and grinned a wide, malevolent smile. “But my friends are bigger than yours.”

The farrow felt cold steel bite into his flesh as the strange polearm snapped shut around his neck. Apparently, that skorne could move a lot faster than Rorsh had given him credit for. Clearly his meaning had gotten through, even if the farrow words hadn’t. The paingiver’s masked face was so close to

his he could smell the skorne’s sickly sweet breath. “One flick of my wrist and you are meat for your hogs!” He

was surprised to hear the words growled in perfect farrow, but he never let the grin off his face.

Feeling Brine was close to the breaking point, Rorsh bent his will over his companion. An outburst now would be most unfortunate for them all.

Rorsh said nothing. He simply motioned with his steely eyes for the paingiver to look down to see that in his hand he held a stick of dynamite, the wick already burning. “Here I am, being all friendly, and you’ve got to go and ruin it,” he growled under his breath.

“Enough!” The tyrant’s voice booming the skorne word across the barren sands caused even Brine to start. Perhaps he wasn’t happy at being excluded from the conversation. He looked Rorsh’s mighty warbeasts up and down before saying in skorne, “What is your price, farrow?”

Rorsh licked his parched lips. “One thousand, yellow coin. And food for me and beasts.”

“Three hundred,” the tyrant said, staring coolly back.

“Eight.”

“Four.”

Rorsh looked down at the wick. They had only seconds now before he’d have to go to plan B—a plan that involved a very unpleasant explosion.

“Five hundred,” the farrow grunted.

The tyrant paused for a long moment before responding. “Done.”

Rorsh smiled as he snuffed the burning wick with calloused fingers. Two paydays for one job. Maybe the desert isn’t so bad after all.

Rorsh cackled as he lit another stick of dynamite and tossed it into the ranks of Temple Flameguard bearing down on the skorne front line. The stick rolled across the hot desert sands and exploded well behind the sturdy shields of the Protectorate warriors. Many fell to the ground, red stains blossoming on several of the white tunics.

Before the rest could regain their footing, Rorsh sent a mental command to his blast boars. The smell of burning pig flesh filled his nostrils, causing his gut to tighten with hunger as the pair sent two deadly overloaded salvos into the faltering Flameguard. The rush of hot air from the explosion made his coat billow about his hooves, and he watched as bodies were churned up into the air only to come down as mangled corpses.

Rorsh lit another cigar as he let his mind touch Brine’s, releasing all the mental restraints he had put in place. The massive warbeast let out a bellow of rage and charged forward into a smoke-belching Repenter. The warjack’s flamethrower washed liquid fire over Brine, but the beast’s rage blinded it to the pain. With steel-shattering force he smashed into the light ’jack, his massive horns tearing it from the ground. One punishing fist followed another as Brine smashed armor plating and ripped the warjack limb from shattered limb.

The Protectorate troops had come in force to the base of the mighty Rotterhorn three days ago, searching for something amid the craggy peaks and caves. What they wanted Rorsh could only guess, but in his dealings with the Protectorate he knew they had a fondness for ruins and crumbling texts—just the kind of thing someone might find in an ancient mountain of rock like the Rotterhorn.

His new skorne employers had been searching for their own prizes buried somewhere within the Rotterhorn’s rocky core. Rorsh hadn’t cared to ask what it was that had them out here, and they likely wouldn’t have told him anyway. He only knew there was way too much interest in this worthless piece of rock. Still, as long as there was, he could be sure of finding plenty of work.

Brine had turned his attention to the remaining Flameguard. Rorsh closed his eyes as he took a long draw from the sweet cigar and listened to the sound of bones crunching in the pig’s massive jaw. He smiled as he felt the rush of power fill him, drawing strength from his warbeasts just as he drew smoke

from the cigar. At first it had been difficult to manage the power of three separate beasts, but Rorsh had been pleased at how quickly he had mastered the careful balancing act required of him.

Rorsh watched as the Protectorate lines redressed after the first assault. Based on the size of the force arrayed in front of the skorne lines, that first attack had simply been an exploratory one to assess the opponent’s strength. Now the true fight would begin.

Ranks of knights errant in gleaming white armor advanced with shields held high. Behind them marched more of the Flameguard, their tall shields locked together, and lightly robed zealots ran among the white blocks of soldiers like insects on a burrow mound. Warjacks interspersed within their lines sent up plumes of smoke that painted black lines across the sky. Rorsh could see several Crusaders, along with more Repenters and several Vigilants, their mighty shield fists creating a solid wall of armor.

He heard a thunk from behind as the skorne lobbed great explosive balls from their catapults. The projectiles crashed into the Vigilants, bathing them in fire but barely denting their polished white shields. Rorsh moved up and prepared to add his blast boars to the skorne firing line. He found a place a little behind a herd of enslaved farrow brigands being harshly commanded forward by the paingiver task master Morrkar. Acrid smoke belched from their crude pig iron rifles as they fired into the Protectorate lines, though they were clearly well out of range.

Rorsh watched impassively as his fellow farrow were thrown forward into the implacable wall of white. Most were shot down in a hail of crossbow bolts from the errants, but a few made contact and caused a small amount of havoc before they themselves were brutally cut down. Shame. Could have used a few to block some bullets myself.

The skorne commander shouted orders and a line of venator reivers moved up, their guns hissing death as they unleashed a brutal volley into the advancing Protectorate forces. Zealots screamed and fell clutching their wounds, while the errants used their shields to save themselves from the worst of the incoming needles. Rorsh issued mental commands and the blast boars cannons roared again, sending

deadly explosions into the ranks of knights. His lip curled back in a feral smile as the blast boars reloaded their cannons. He let his mind slip back into Brine’s, savoring the familiar feeling of the warbeast’s battle lust. Soon, my old friend.

The Protectorate lines broke ranks and began charging at the red line of skorne warriors. Praetorians met Flameguard as spear and shield clashed against dual blades. Rorsh directed his blast boars to fire upon a hulking Crusader, willing them to empower their blasts with even deadlier force.

The shells ripped great holes in the machine, severing an arm and crippling both legs. Rorsh took aim and fired at the warjack with his pig iron before loosing Brine once more from his mental leash and charging into the swirling chaos with him.

The melee was a brutal sea of armored bodies, the forces colliding like two avalanches meeting in a valley. Rorsh waded through the press, his cleaver slicing armor and flesh with ease, savoring the sweet coppery spray of blood from his deadly work. He drew on Brine’s fury and the blast boars’ strength to become a vortex of destruction amid the chaos.

An errant’s blade slid under his guard, slicing at exposed flesh. Rorsh immediately sent the wound to one of his blast boars, and a great gash appeared in the creature’s hide. Rorsh had no sooner turned to deal with the errant than a spear jabbed into his thigh, rending flesh while the scalding spearhead cooked meat from bone.

Rorsh again let the wound pass to his warbeasts but decided he was too vulnerable amid the violent press of combatants. He lit a stick of dynamite and tossed it to the ground. The few warriors who saw what he had done tried to clear away from the deadly explosive but were penned in by comrades behind them.

Rorsh slipped away before the dynamite exploded, its blast killing Protectorate enemies and skorne allies alike. Once he was free of the crush of combatants, he took stock of the situation.

The battle raged about him with neither side having the upper hand, but the weight of numbers was clearly favoring the Protectorate. Brine tore a bloody swathe of destruction through the Protectorate lines, and Rorsh realized with some dread that his companion had moved too far away, out of mental reach.

Rorsh was about to whistle for Brine to return when he saw one of the Vigilants barreling down on his position. With a surge of arcane power he turned the ground around him to mud before ordering his blast boars to intercept the charging ’jack. The Vigilant’s feet slipped on the soft ground, breaking the momentum of its charge as the two gun boars bore down on it. Satisfied the threat was dealt with, Rorsh turned back to recall Brine.

He heard two great thumps of fist impacting flesh followed by a rush of wind before a horrendous force knocked him off his feet. Struggling to regain his breath, he felt a crushing weight on his chest and realized the blast boar’s shattered body pressed down on top of him, forcing the wind from his lungs. I always knew that windbag Carver would be the death of me!

Rorsh pushed at the mound of flesh, trying to free himself from the suffocating weight. Every effort pushed more air from his burning lungs. As he gasped for one final, shallow breath, his vision blurred and darkness overtook him.

The pleasant smell of cooking meat wafted into Rorsh’s nostrils, and his stomach growled. He tried to rise so he could discover the enticing aroma’s source, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. The delicious smell turned to one of charring, and he began to struggle and squeal frantically as a white-hot lance of pain shot up his body.

“Good. Our guest is awake.”

Rorsh blinked, and the red glow of coals smoldering within a heavy tent slowly came into focus. A masked scrutator stood before him holding a glowing brand. Smoke drifted from the bits of flesh still attached to it.

Bits of my flesh.

Rorsh grunted and twisted his wrists in their iron bands. He was firmly bound on the scrutator’s table. Several attendants in priestly robes scurried about, preparing various instruments and chanting low prayers to their deity. Two heavily armored exemplar knights stood vigil by the tent entrance, their golden helms concealing their faces. At least he was fluent in the human’s tongue, if the man even cared to speak.

The scrutator drove the brand into his exposed chest, and Rorsh squealed again. He tasted coppery liquid in his mouth and knew he had bitten his cheek. He fixed the expressionless scrutator’s mask with a malevolent stare. “Hardly how I would treat a guest.” He cackled at his joke through teary eyes.

The scrutator’s voice rang eerily from his golden mask as he said, “The only reason you have yet to be immolated by holy fire is that I have questions. Questions that need answers. Provide them to me and the pain stops.” He paused as he drew another brand from a bowing attendant. “Fail to do so, and I promise there will be no end to the agony your impure flesh will endure.”

The scrutator waited for some response, but Rorsh was already done with talk. He knew full well it didn’t matter what he said or didn’t say. He found himself searching for Brine, desperately groping for the familiar connection and the power it held. But he could feel nothing but the pain of his burning flesh as the scrutator resumed his holy work.

Brine wandered, lost and confused. His mind raced to understand what had happened. He had been glutting himself on the flesh of his foes, reveling in their terror as the warm blood ran down his throat and its intoxicating smell filled his snout. Then everything had gone blank. Rorsh had disappeared in the middle of battle. He had left Brine alone.

In his confusion, Brine had raged in a fury that knew no bounds. There was no friend, no enemy, only the need to feel the comforting connection with his master once more.

When the battle had ended, Brine had simply sat down and waited for Rorsh to return. He hadn’t even had the desire to feast on the mounds of delicious flesh that surrounded him. He just sat and waited.

It was amid the dead that Brine had felt a niggling at the very back of his mind. It had pulled him from the brink of his black despair at losing Rorsh. He had felt compelled to follow it. For reasons he didn’t understand Brine had stood up from his macabre bed and begun walking.

The feeling had gotten stronger with every step. He was nearly there now. Excitement welled up within him as he sensed Rorsh’s mind in the distance. He snorted in anticipation when he finally spotted campfires and tents ahead. Those tents had Rorsh. Through the faint connection with his master he could feel Rorsh was in pain. The tents were hurting his master. Rage swelled inside him at the thought. He would get Rorsh back, and not all the tents in the world would stop him.

Rorsh lay panting, fighting against the pain that threatened to consume him. The scrutator was babbling about ancient rights and places of power and foretold destiny. Rorsh had stopped paying attention to the human’s blather a long time ago. He was just happy that at the moment the man seemed to love exercising his voice more than putting brand to flesh. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

Gradually he became aware of a familiar presence tickling the back of his mind. It was faint, but it was growing inexorably stronger.

Brine!

Just the knowledge that Brine was alive filled Rorsh with newfound strength. He strained against his bonds, and the scrutator paused in his lecture. “Are you ready to speak yet, farrow?”

Rorsh curled his lip in a savage half-smile and answered in farrow, “Tell you what. You let me go, and I’ll forget this whole thing.”

The scrutator snarled, “You insolent speck of dust! I will—” A loud alarm from outside the tent stopped him. “You!” he said as he grabbed one of the attendant priests. “Find out what is going on. Quickly!”

The man scraped low and hurried out of the tent. The exemplar guards did not even shift as he passed.

“Better decide,” snarled Rorsh as he reached out with his mind to Brine. “My deal won’t last forever.”

Brine smashed men beneath his fists and sent their bodies flying with great sweeps of his horns. He could feel Rorsh calling, guiding Brine to him. Demanding blood.

Brine loved blood.

He stamped his hooves and snorted excitedly as his muscles tensed. Like lightning he sprang forward, head down, scattering men like leaves in the wind. Rorsh spoke to him through their connection, urging him on. Brine thought of nothing but Rorsh.

Soon he would be with his master again.

The sounds of battle outside had pulled the scrutator’s attention from Rorsh for the time being. Time the farrow planned to use to good effect.

Brine was close enough now that Rorsh felt a familiar flooding of strength course through their mental link. He drank it like a man dying of thirst gulps at cool water. His wounds began to knit, burns dissolving into perfect flesh. He flexed his muscles against the restraints of the scrutator’s table and felt them begin to give way. He drew more power from Brine and tried again. His muscles bulged, and the iron bands broke away.

Now let’s see what that masked fool has to say for his lack of hospitality.

The scrutator turned just in time to see Rorsh break free and called to his guards. Before they could so much as stir from their stony vigil, the forms of both guards came flying into the tent with deadly impact, smashing into the stunned scrutator and trapping him beneath their armored bulk.

Brine stood at the tent opening, aquiver with the violence he had just wrought. Rorsh shrugged into his heavy leather coat, buckled his weapons back on, and walked casually over to his large companion, his most trusted friend.

“I knew you’d make it.” He patted Brine on the neck, then leaned in close to whisper menacingly, “Next time don’t take so long.”

Brine snorted again, and Rorsh turned his attention to the scrutator struggling to free himself from underneath the dead exemplars. The farrow snarled, then reached for the brand that had earlier cooked his flesh and carried it to the brazier. He held the brand to the red-hot coals, staring at the scrutator the entire time. As he walked over with the heated brand in his

hand, the man stopped pushing at the bodies trapping him. Rorsh bent down and pulled off the scrutator’s mask.

To his credit, the man’s face remained as emotionless as the mask he had worn, even as Rorsh raised the white-hot brand and held it mere inches from his pale skin. After a moment, the farrow grunted and stood up. With great care he pulled a stick of dynamite from his coat pocket and put the brand to the wick until it caught.

“You should have taken my deal,” Rorsh said. He bared his teeth in a wicked smile as he dropped the lit dynamite by the scrutator’s trapped body.

He looked back at the brand, then pulled a fresh cigar from his coat pocket and lit it with the hot metal. He drew the smoke in deeply, smiling as he savored the flavor. Then he turned and headed into the darkness with Brine on his heels.

Rorsh was still smiling when the explosion lit up the night.

Rorsh stared up at the blazing sun, a satisfied smile on his face as he lounged in the shade of the mighty Rotterhorn. Brine lay resting a few feet away, his sleeping mind a jumble of emotion and images as he dreamed. Rorsh closed his eyes and let the strength of the connection wash over him again. Ever since his night in the Protectorate camp it had felt so much sweeter.

He had lost both blast boars, but he found it didn’t bother him much. Fewer mouths to feed. Besides, he doubted it would be hard to convince Carver to loan him a few more.

Even the thought of Carver didn’t diminish the farrow’s smile. The self-proclaimed king of the farrow had a knack for making enemies—and a leader with enemies had plenty of work for folks like Rorsh.

The sound of a caravan approaching pulled Rorsh from his pleasant trance. He squinted into the distance. It was lightly guarded, just like the three others that had passed this way over the last few days.

Rorsh kicked Brine awake as the first cart of the caravan crossed into the blast zone of the dynamite Rorsh had buried in the sand. For a piece of sunbaked desert rock, there was definitely something important about the Rotterhorn all of a sudden. Damned if Rorsh knew what, but he never really cared about the big picture anyway.

He raised his pig iron and drew a bead on the stick of dynamite he had left slightly exposed. Besides, a place with trouble is the perfect place for farrow like me. And there sure as hell is plenty of trouble brewing around here.

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