Cities of Sigmar – Warscrolls

The highest battlefield office in each citizen host is that of the Freeguild Marshal. Each has been trained extensively in the military academies of their home city, their skills honed in the fires of war. When entrusted with the magical weaponry and protective amulets of their parent city, the Marshals reach new levels of deadliness on the field. Each Marshal understands the importance of the calculated strike and the strategic withdrawal, the flanking manoeuvre, the bulwark and the feint. Their cutting blade is the cavalry wedge, their shield the wall of Steelhelms and their gun the massed Fusiliers firing on their mark to shred the enemy. Those commanders who ride to war are known as Cavalier-Marshals. They wield finely crafted magical weapons and more besides – in their packs are cartographical scroll cases of Azyrite design, telescopes with lenses of fine Hyshian crystal, Aqshian snuff-boxes and healing unguents imported from Ghyran. Every Cavalier-Marshal is well drilled in leading the charge, collapsing enemy battlelines in a single, decisive attack. Often carrying the weight of a Dawnbringer Crusade upon their shoulders, they are inspiring champions all.

The specialist wizards known as Alchemite Warforgers can exaggerate the innate strength of metal exponentially. These members of the Gold College are often requested by the Freeguilds for their mastery over metals and arcane machinery, which proves to be more practical than the high arcane arts of other wizards. Through their magic, the resilience of the metal used by the God-King’s armies is multiplied many times over. Wrought iron becomes hard as duardin-worked gromril and shields become inviolable bulwarks. Meanwhile, enemies find their own armour transmuting into cumbersome lead, staggering them at the critical moment. Blade hilts suddenly burn white-hot, forcing their owners to drop them, whilst halberds find their biting edge drizzling away into molten slurry. The signature artefact of the Alchemite Warforger’s profession is the massive crucible they bear at their side, a portable forge that contains the power of an inferno. Thick layers of leather protect them from the heat, but even veteran Alchemites must use long-handled tongs to bring out the runic cubes within. They use these cubes as lodestones that affect magical motes and the flow of the aether – simply by turning them this way and that, the Alchemite can melt metal around them until it flows at their command.

The Assassins of the Shadowblades embody the notion that a blade in the dark can achieve more than an army marching at midday. These are true masters of the killer’s art, able to shroud themselves in gloom so as not to be seen by the naked eye. They believe there is a noble purity in taking a single life to save the lives of many – no matter the method required. Acting as scouts and skirmishers in times of battle, Assassins far prefer to act as independents. If a sorcerous black mark in the shape of a curved blade appears on a person’s flesh, that unfortunate soul has been marked for death. To take flight is futile, and attempts to resist merely prolong the inevitable. There is no fortress, city or fortified war camp that the feared Shadowblade Assassins cannot infiltrate, and few foes can hope to survive the potent deathshead poison delivered by their wicked daggers. Stalking the shadows, the Assassin only reveals their position when they launch a killing strike. Once their target is in their sights, the Assassin seemingly bursts from pure darkness to unleash a flurry of attacks upon their unsuspecting victim.

Each wizard in the cities of Sigmar has a honed aptitude for the arcane. Whether through lineage traced to an ancient magocracy, natural affinity or the fruits of long study, each Battlemage has passed trials beyond number. They can slay a foe with a shouted phrase and a killing gesture just as easily as they can provide salvation with a warding symbol or chant. Amongst the Collegiate Arcane’s members are quick-tempered pyromancers from the Bright College and druid-like mages from the Jade College with the power of life at their fingertips. Morbid devotees from the Amethyst traditions of Shyish wield the chill magic of the grave, while those of the Gold College specialise in transmutation. Each Battlemage carries a trove of strange paraphernalia, from carved daggers and smoking grimoires to scrying orbs that seem to contain the stars themselves. Many are quite eccentric after spending years in isolation honing their craft. This, combined with their potential to unleash scouring elemental attacks that can wipe out entire battlelines, means they are viewed with a healthy dose of suspicion by the more earthly troops. Even Marshals can find themselves annoyed by a Battlemage’s quirks – though the best leaders know well to make the most of their accompanying wizards, consulting them on all matters magical.

The deft and decisive Fleetmasters who lead the Scourge Privateers explore the seas of the realms with watchful eyes in much the same way the Dawnbringers traverse the lands. Each commands a Black Ark, a floating sea-fortress the size of a castle that forms the heart of their fleet. The waters of the Mortal Realms are thick with hazards, from flesh-eating seaweed to spine-flinging gyresharks that can bite a vessel clean in half. Rather than fight a thankless war against these beasts, the masters of the Scourge fleets learn to avoid or even harness them using a combination of enchantment, patience and aelven artifice. The Fleetmasters are known not only for the speed of their assaults but also for their flair. As happy to inveigle themselves into high society as they are to stoop to the gutter, they cut quite a dash in their frill-collared drakeskin cloaks. Any would-be rivals who underestimate them are soon corrected by force; the dexterity with which Fleetmasters wield the blade is quite incredible. Though nominally a part of the God-King’s great alliance, all such lords crave power unto themselves. Many a Fleetmaster sitting upon the Grand Conclave of a fortress-city has friends in low places, a commanding interest in the local narcotics market or a lucrative sideline in smuggling prohibited goods.

Not every champion of Sigmar’s creed is blessed with superhuman strength and immortality. Armand Callis and Hanniver Toll are agents of the Order of Azyr, mortal veterans of the shadow war between order and anarchy that is fought daily in the streets, noble districts and grand halls of the God-King’s mighty cities. Few members of the Order of Azyr have served Sigmar so long and so faithfully as Hanniver Toll. Countless heathen sorcerers, depraved cultists and other enemies of civilisation have met their end by his hand, dispatched with a pistol blast or a killing stroke from his arming sword. Entire cities unknowingly owe their continued existence to his intervention. Travelling alongside him is Armand Callis, who supplements his mentor Toll’s world-wise experience with rugged determination and heavy firepower. Impressed by Callis’s quick wit and fighting ability, Toll recruited him on behalf of the Order. While Toll navigates the murderous underbelly of the sprawling capital of Hammerhal, Callis stands at his side, ready to draw his brace of duardin-crafted pistols in the blink of an eye.

A guild unto itself, the Ironweld Arsenal specialises in the wielding of blackpowder and the creation of war engines. It counts talented human engineers as well as duardin amongst its number, though it is typically seen as a duardin-led institution. After all, it is usually a duardin Cogsmith to be found at the helm of each Ironweld delegation, a figure easily recognised by the smoking-brazier icon they wear upon their backs and the heavy-duty guns that they wield in battle. These inveterate tinkerers and combat engineers are known for their skill at siting and optimising gun emplacements, making field repairs whenever necessary to ensure a high rate of fire and ensuring the great cannons of the Castelite formations are used to deadly effect. Grizzled combat engineers who know how to squeeze peak performance and killing power from any war machine, Cogsmiths are also proficient warriors capable of cutting down those who would interfere with their field repairs – any foe that interrupts their inspections tends to meet a messy end at the barrel of a grudge-raker.

Despite her youth, Doralia ven Denst is a renowned agent of the Order of Azyr. Not only a hunter of witches and warlocks, she is a specialist in dispelling the endless spells they unleash, banishing them with consecrated blade and crossbow bolt alike. Her weapons inscribed with the holy writ of Sigmar and inlaid with nullstone and silver, Doralia is considered by many within the Order to be a prodigy. Doralia is a woman of incredible resolve. In battle, she will not stop or flee until the horrors she is facing are either banished or burnt to dust by Sigmar’s grace. After years of training with Galen, her father and mentor, the pair fight as a well-oiled machine. Doralia lays waste to spellcasting daemons from a great distance with her anti-thaumic crossbow, allowing her father to close in with a swing of his runic broadsword. Galen and Doralia worked together during the Siege of Excelsis to banish Synessa and Dexcessa, the twin daemons of Slaanesh – a feat that did not go unnoticed. As a result of her exploits, Doralia has earned the favour of the Seraphon, though the enigmatic saurians do not extend Galen the same recognition, much to her father’s frustration.

The highest battlefield office in each citizen host is that of the Freeguild Marshal. Each has been trained extensively in the military academies of their home city, their skills honed in the fires of war. When entrusted with the magical weaponry and protective amulets of their parent city, the Marshals reach new levels of deadliness on the field. The Marshal is sometimes accompanied by the finest squires from the next generation of recruits. Known as Relic Envoys, these young warriors dart back and forth, delivering messages to ensure all parts of the battleline act in deadly concert. It is common for these runners to bear a relic from their dynastic line, whether this be a revered weapon or the mummified head of a relative. The sacred memento will have been subjected to death rites that allow it to aid its descendants, whispering advice – or nonsense – from the other side of the grave. Freeguild Marshals who lead from the front are perhaps the most heroic of all. The respect they have won from their warriors is stronger than any shield, and their Relic Envoys ensure their orders always get to where they are needed. When battlelines clash, their skill with sword, hammer and pistol swiftly becomes clear.

The armies of the Freeguilds eschew static towers in favour of those built atop hulking Ogor Warhulks. These battlements provide mobile vantage points, allowing a gunner riding aloft to snipe the command personnel of the enemy with relative ease. Their long-barrelled fusil allows them to engage at range and the tall crow’s nest protects them from return fire. When the enemy closes in, the ogor below uses their giant tower shield and heavy-headed mace to crush those foolish enough to get within reach. Those caught on the rim of the shield soon feel themselves being hoisted upwards and the ogor’s trowel-like teeth sinking into their flesh, for even a city ogor, relatively civilised in comparison to their wilderness-dwelling kin, likes a snack in the middle of battle. The relationship between soldier and ogor is not an easy one. Even city ogors, known for their ability to overrule the grumbling of their stomachs for hours at a time, are unpredictable. No ogor likes being clambered over by a mere thinling who should really be inside their gut. Those teams that last tend to have some manner of connection – a life debt after the gunner had saved the ogor from certain death, for instance, or a lost bet that the ogor feels obligated to fulfil.

As an agent of Azyr, Galen ven Denst has executed hundreds of Chaos cultists and living dead over the course of his career. He often fights alongside his daughter and fellow agent Doralia, whose engraved bolts cover him with pinpoint accuracy as he surges forward with blade in hand. His stoicism and agility is impressive, his skill with spell-banishing pistol and runic broadsword all the more so. With silver stakes and bullets engraved with nullstone maxims, Galen is an expert in destroying the incorporeal. From spellcasters and shamans to daemons and spectres, his weapons are anathema to magic and can dispel arcane energy in a flash. His weapons, of course, would be useless without the skill of the man behind them. Galen’s careworn face belies decades of experience destroying Sigmar’s foes. He is a decisive and tenacious hunter, capable of ignoring even grievous wounds when a hunt needs concluding. Having faced some of the darkest creatures of the Mortal Realms, there is very little that he is afraid of, and when threatened, Galen will always protect his daughter first. Having mentored her and enabled her to flourish into the steel-hearted sharpshooter she has become, he remains her devoted guardian above all else.

Pontifex Zenestra presides over the Cult of the Wheel, a religion that venerates the wheel as the symbol of progress and the passage of time. Its members believe that individuals must be crushed as grist beneath it for civilisation to rise anew and that sacrifice is necessary for Sigmar’s empire to prosper. Legend has it that Zenestra’s power stems from the touch of Ghal Maraz, bestowed upon her in recognition of her victories. Yet some claim it has a darker source, for there has been at least one occasion on which an assassin’s bolt has passed right through the Matriarch. Stranger still, the eldest of the cities say that Zenestra was a great-grandmother when Sigmar’s Tempest broke, though that cannot possibly be true. Despite these rumours, any who have seen Zenestra in battle know that she has the God-King’s protection. Her palanquin is so redolent with Azyrite energy that lightning crackles around it in a widening corona. Zenestra’s attendants never last too long in her service; each new pair is aged unto infirmity by even a month at the yoke. Nevertheless, as faithful throngs flock to her, there is never any shortage of pious replacements.

Duardin are suspicious folk who eschew magic wherever possible, for they consider it to be a fickle and dangerous art. Their hardy culture is instead rooted in martial tradition and prayer to their ancestors. What little magic they do use is concentrated within runes – inscribed sigils of power – rather than being cast directly by a mage. Runelords are talented metalsmiths who have mastered the ancient art of rune-shaping. Through rituals of hammercraft, they can unbind hostile magic or imbue the weapons of their kin with fearsome killing power. Each Runelord carries a rune staff and a forgehammer. First, they will beat sigils of power into metal and rock surfaces with the forgehammer, drawing on practised knowledge passed down through generations. Then, each rune is imbued with magical power using the rune staff, allowing the aetheric energy to be stored indefinitely. By calling on the stored, latent power of their engravings, the Runelords can imbue the weapons of their kin with ancient might. They will also craft warding runes during battle, allowing them to dampen or unbind the castings of enemy mages.

Many sinister rumours surround the rulers of the Darkling Covens. Their presence in the free cities is obscured by both mental layers of trickery and a physical web of secret temples. Despite this, their sheer arcane prowess makes them an invaluable ally of Sigmar’s people. The Sorceresses of the Darkling Covens are largely reclusive figures, though they possess tremendous political influence and skill in the magical arts. No aelven offensive is launched in the service of Sigmar’s hosts without there being a substantial gain for these shadowy mistresses. They command absolute power over their covens in times of battle, for their Dreadspear phalanxes and Bleakswords obey them unquestioningly. The warriors’ grace is marked by a wordless focus – the only indication that their loyalty is more ensorcelled than genuine. Despots who rule with unquestioned authority and cruel cunning, Sorceresses wield dark and terrible spells that can blast the life from their foes or wrack them with unimaginable agony. They will slit the throats of their own thralls in an instant if the need arises, allowing them to draw power from the sacrifice. They see engaging in melee as beneath them and thus take satisfaction in speaking words of pain that contort any who dare draw too close.

Warden Kings preside over the Dispossessed duardin. Their clans are tight-knit and often insular, known to keep their own counsel despite always being keen to dish out unsolicited advice whenever they get the chance. Age is revered above all in duardin culture, and the Warden Kings and Queens are exemplars of this: they are usually battle-scarred, weatherbeaten and silver of hair, but their wisdom is hard-earned and their skill in a fight undimmed by the passing of the long centuries of warfare. It is their responsibility to preserve the legacy of their kind, to ensure that though the erosion of time and adversity may have snuffed out the flames of their ancient holds, they keep the proud traditions of their people alive. Every Warden King knows the names of those who wronged their forebears. As they march out to defend or reclaim their holds, they intend to settle those grudges. Warden Kings are often first into the fray, seeking out the most fearsome enemy combatants and bludgeoning them to death with rune-carved warhammers. In their wake come their oathsworn kin, following the tenacious example that the Warden King sets.

Each wizard in the cities of Sigmar has a honed aptitude for the arcane. Whether through lineage traced to an ancient magocracy, natural affinity or the fruits of long study, each Battlemage has passed trials beyond number. They can slay a foe with a shouted phrase and a killing gesture just as easily as they can provide salvation with a warding symbol or chant. Amongst the Collegiate Arcane’s members are quick-tempered pyromancers from the Bright College and druid-like mages from the Jade College with the power of life at their fingertips. Morbid devotees from the Amethyst traditions of Shyish wield the chill magic of the grave, while those of the Gold College specialise in transmutation. The bearded shamans of the Amber College prefer to commune with the wilds rather than learn in formal settings. They specialise in the animalistic magic of Ghur, allowing them to empower their fellows with monstrous strength. The most capable amongst them ride to war upon giant, twin-headed griffons they have spirit-bound to their will. Only a wizard can hope to control these especially feral beasts, as more than one Steelhelm has found to their cost. From the backs of these terrifying beasts, an Amber Battlemage can lay waste to foes from afar or strike from on high in a vicious frenzy of stabbing beaks and ripping talons.

The feared warlords of the Order Serpentis delight in inflicting pain and terror upon their foes. They ride to war on obsidian-scaled dragons that can lay waste to armies with their dagger-like claws and foul, choking breath. These creatures are terrible to behold, more like the sinuous and shadowy drakes of Ulguan legend than the proud Draconith of Ghur. To see one of these monsters looming out of the stinking fug of war is often enough to break a foe that was expecting to fight only soft-skinned humans. When these beasts exhale clouds of noxious gas that poison those foolish enough to confront them, their twisted, wrinkled lips pull back in snarls of sinister glee. Like sabrecats playing with defenceless bear cubs, they claw and swipe at their reeling victims before catching them up and finishing the job in a spectacular display of gory dismemberment. The Dreadlords who ride these drakes were the nobles of Narkath, an ancient Ulguan nation felled during the Age of Chaos. They are the ones who smuggled the last Black Dragon eggs out of that cataclysm and who retained the knowledge of how to hatch them through blood sacrifice. The relationship between Dreadlord and Black Dragon is not one of master and beast; it is a symbiosis between two ice-hearted killers who share the same insatiable lust for slaughter.

The highest battlefield office in each citizen host is that of the Freeguild Marshal. Each has been trained extensively in the military academies of their home city, their skills honed in the fires of war. When entrusted with the magical weaponry and protective amulets of their parent city, the Marshals reach new levels of deadliness on the field. Each Marshal understands the importance of the calculated strike and the strategic withdrawal, the flanking manoeuvre, the bulwark and the feint. Their cutting blade is the cavalry wedge, their shield the wall of Steelhelms and their gun the massed Fusiliers firing on their mark to shred the enemy. The tools of the Marshal’s trade are many. They include blessed blades of banishment, heavy warhammers that echo the holy form of Ghal Maraz, lances hung with glorious banners and duardin-crafted plate armour. Some take to battle upon a proud, avian griffon to better lead by example and to survey the battlefield from on high; such a sight is a morale boost unto itself, symbolising Azyr in all its glory. Identifying where their presence is most required, they descend like a speeding comet to lay waste to their enemies.

Many sinister rumours surround the rulers of the Darkling Covens. Their presence in the free cities is obscured by both mental layers of trickery and a physical web of secret temples. Despite this, their sheer arcane prowess makes them an invaluable ally of Sigmar’s people. The Sorceresses of the Darkling Covens are largely reclusive figures, though they possess tremendous political influence and skill in the magical arts. No aelven offensive is launched in the service of Sigmar’s hosts without there being a substantial gain for these shadowy mistresses. They command absolute power over their covens in times of battle, for their Dreadspear phalanxes and Bleakswords obey them unquestioningly. The warriors’ grace is marked by a wordless focus – the only indication that their loyalty is more ensorcelled than genuine. Many Sorceresses go to war upon fearsome Black Dragons. They delight in the terror in the eyes of their enemies as the scaled beasts rip their prey apart with sword-sized talons. Meanwhile, from the drake’s elegant fanged maw, clouds of caustic, choking gas billow over the battlefield from on high to poison all below.

First Marshal Vedra is the fiery heart of Hammerhal Aqsha’s military might. Her incisive wit and expert ability to change the tide of battle have been invaluable to Sigmar’s cause. Yet despite being held aloft as a shining figurehead by the Grand Conclave, Vedra would rather be in the tents and barracks with the soldiery, playing cards and drinking sweetblack. She is most beloved of the common folk, who are fiercely loyal to her on and off the battlefield. In battle, Vedra wields enchanted weapons taken from conspirators she has personally slain. First in her favour is the blade Parchtongue, white-hot with Aqshian magic that is cool to her touch alone, followed by the greataxe Justice. When fighting alongside the Cults Unberogen, she opts for the Hammer of Zeal. She hates the heavy mace named Warmaker with a passion and has ‘accidentally’ lost it a dozen times, though it somehow always finds its way back to her. Vedra’s famous battle-temper is mirrored in her great leonine steed, the manticore Infernadine. Only those with formidable willpower and authority could ever hope to train a manticore; Vedra possesses both qualities in abundance, and the two make a terrifying pair indeed.

Each wizard in the cities of Sigmar has a honed aptitude for the arcane. Whether through lineage traced to an ancient magocracy, natural affinity or the fruits of long study, each Battlemage has passed trials beyond number. They can slay a foe with a shouted phrase and a killing gesture just as easily as they can provide salvation with a warding symbol or chant. Amongst the Collegiate Arcane’s members are quick-tempered pyromancers from the Bright College and druid-like mages from the Jade College with the power of life at their fingertips. Morbid devotees from the Amethyst traditions of Shyish wield the chill magic of the grave, while those of the Gold College specialise in transmutation. There are those of the Collegiate Arcane who rely on esoteric technology over the savage dominion seen in Aqshy and Ghur. Battlemages of the Celestial tradition have a great insight into reading the stars of the aetheric vault to pick out strands and echoes of future events. They make frequent use of portable astrolabes and telescopes to bolster their powers. Some will ride to battle upon Celestial Hurricanums, massive chariot-like constructions whose orreries can summon a vortex of aetheric energy from the skies. They use this energy to blast the foe apart with bright, scouring lightning.

Each wizard in the cities of Sigmar has a honed aptitude for the arcane. Whether through lineage traced to an ancient magocracy, natural affinity or the fruits of long study, each Battlemage has passed trials beyond number. They can slay a foe with a shouted phrase and a killing gesture just as easily as they can provide salvation with a warding symbol or chant. Amongst the Collegiate Arcane’s members are quick-tempered pyromancers from the Bright College and druid-like mages from the Jade College with the power of life at their fingertips. Morbid devotees from the Amethyst traditions of Shyish wield the chill magic of the grave, while those of the Gold College specialise in transmutation. The wizard-philosophers of the White College use brilliant devices set with aetherquartz when they need to bolster the illuminations and ritual exorcisms they use to banish the foe. Known as Luminarks of Hysh, these obsessively calibrated contraptions concentrate motes of Hyshian magic through a series of arcane lenses. In doing so, they form a beam of light so intense that it can melt right through a rampaging daemon lord and leave a smoking hole behind. Powerful White Battlemages direct searing rays of light from the Luminark to vaporise enemy champions whilst deftly casting scouring sorceries of their own.

Clanking monstrosities of steel and iron, Steam Tanks rattle across the battlefield, blasting away at targets with their cannons and steam-spewing guns while grinding yet more to paste beneath their wheels. This mechanical behemoth of metal and flame is an expedition’s last line of fire, capable of shooting superheated steam from its turret or blasting apart foes with the cannon mounted upon its prow. As Steam Tanks can be quite temperamental, with every inch of their massive surface concealing cogs and machinery, the crews of such behemoths maintain them even during battle with meticulous rituals and checks. At the forefront of larger Steam Tank formations ride the Steam Tank Commanders, veterans of countless battles who are deft at coordinating shock assaults that leave the enemy shattered and reeling. Though these finely dressed warriors may be mistaken for nobility, often bedecked in feathers and fabrics in the colours of their parent city, they should not be underestimated. Each earned their rank by surviving expeditions and wars that led to the establishment of strongpoints across their home realm. After one too many disdainful comments referring to them as soot-covered engineers, they reimagined themselves as steel-shod knights of legend, commanding respect wherever they go.

Amongst the sinister ranks of the Shadowblades gallop the Dark Riders, aelven killers mounted upon swift steeds from Ulgu’s depths. Those unfortunates marked for death by this murderous cabal are first targeted by Assassins, but those who somehow escape their pursuers do not find a much better fate waiting for them out in the wilds of the realms. Fleeing targets are run down by the Dark Riders, who stop only long enough to secure their kills before riding hard back to their masters. For those marked by the Dark Riders, there is nowhere to flee. The red-eyed shadowmares ridden by these cloaked killers are unnaturally silent on the approach in spite of their speed, allowing their masters to level spears and repeater crossbows to deal a fatal blow to their quarry. On occasion, Dark Riders fight alongside the military forces of a city’s expedition. They terrorise enemy encampments and patrols, striking forth from unknown quarters in a succession of lightning-fast raids. Dark Riders wage a war of terror and confusion, attacking their enemy’s weakest points with merciless precision. They slaughter at will then melt back into the shadows before their foes have a chance to react.

It is the favoured tactic of the Drakespawn Knights to harry the foe rather than to attack them head-on. They target the rear of enemy forces that seek to close upon those they call allies – or, more often, bait. An echelon of Drakespawn Knights hunts armies like the rokodiles of Ghur stalk their prey, snapping and weakening before moving in for the kill. The contribution of the Order Serpentis to the Cities of Sigmar is significant; many an expedition would have failed without the charge of a Dreadlord’s host. Whether they fight for Sigmar’s cause, or purely for their own advancement and sadistic enjoyment, is another matter entirely. The Drakespawn Knights follow the ancient beastmaster traditions of Narkath – an Ulguan empire lost to the Age of Chaos that waged war from the backs of Black Dragons. The Drakespawn were created in an attempt to recreate the Nakarth mounts of old, but they lack the raw power and flight of their draconic predecessors. The aelves believe that, on some level, the Drakespawn must know that they are incomplete creatures, for they are bitter-natured indeed. Only when these carnivorous monsters can rip and tear in protracted combat do they show any signs of joy, savouring every hunk of meat they bite away and guzzle down.

The Freeguild Cavaliers ride at the forefront of the Dawnbringer Crusades upon the finest destriers that lifewater can buy. Some of these mounted knights are elevated through the ranks by an exceptional aptitude for war, their skill with blade and warhorse all the pedigree they need. Many are the sole survivors of fallen strongholds, men and women who fought to the last even as their friends and family paid the ultimate price. They go to war clad in the panoply of their former settlements, swearing a vendetta and salvaging the finest weapons and armour before riding out to avenge the fallen. Cavaliers know the wars they fight will not be decided in one glorious, shattering charge. Theirs is a long, relentless battle that grinds on for hours, if not days; for such red work, the sword or the axe is their weapon of choice. In a tight wedge of muscle, horseflesh and metal, they drive their charge home, blades biting deep and steel-shod hooves lashing out to cave in faces and shatter skulls. The enemy howls in disarray as the Cavaliers burst through their formation – then wheel, weapons raised, for the fight to begin in earnest.

Cruel-hearted and avaricious, Black Ark Corsairs form the hard-bitten crew of the Scourge Privateer wolfships. Wielding a variety of lethal weapons, they thrive in the chaos of a swirling melee, where their superior swordsmanship can be put to deadly use. There are a great many cities founded on the coasts and deltas of the realms, and it is from such locations that the Corsairs ply their trade, whether their customers desire their deadly skills or the strange sea creatures they tame. Their sleek, dark-hulled ships and vast Black Arks are a common sight outside the harbours. The Corsairs of the Scourge armadas are known for their cunning and lethality whenever their forces are committed. Those who form the body of these forces strike swiftly and well, life on their rolling sea-vessels making them sure-footed even by aelven standards. Black Ark Corsairs can be easily recognised by their sea-drake cloaks, tough but pliable accoutrements that can be used to intercept enemy blades and missiles with a swirl of a hem before the lethal riposte is delivered, whether by finely balanced blade or by a dark-feathered shaft from a repeater handbow.

The Black Guard are the most elite wing of the Darkling Covens, high-helmed warriors who wield devilishly sharp ebon halberds. Each of their number is trained from childhood in the cloistered orders of their kind. By the time they are inducted into the ranks of the Black Guard, they will have attained such pinnacles of martial skill that they could even hold their own sparring with the gladiatrices who serve Morathi. Though the training of a Black Guard is long and arduous, and few make it to full adulthood, the rewards for those who excel are great. The eldest and most experienced of their number become the castellans and majordomos of their Sorceresses, given something approaching trust by their mistresses in order to better lead their armies in the name of order and prosperity – the type that benefits the aelves most, of course. These fanatical warriors are dedicated to protecting the Sorceresses of the Darkling Covens and carrying out the will of their ruler above all else. Clad head to toe in ensorcelled plate, the Black Guard present an impassable and deadly obstacle to any who threaten their Sorceress. In turn, they benefit from the shadowy arcane wards woven by their mistress.

The Bleakswords are the master swordsmen of the Darkling Covens. Their blades move fluidly and surely as if they were extensions of their own arms, allowing the Bleakswords to leap into the fray in a blur of flashing steel. Each is inducted into the ranks for their merciless nature and their ability to kill quickly and without hesitation. These aelves are also absolutely loyal to their Sorceress, surging ahead of her on the battlefield to obliterate the foe at a single, wordless gesture. Their fanatical loyalty burns with a passion so intense that it appears unnatural, and rumours swirl as to the amount of free will they really possess. Wielding their gleaming swords with supernatural grace, the Bleakswords slice their foes to ribbons with a cruel laugh and a flurry of quick strikes. Their duelling speed is as deadly as it is famed – stories circulating around Dawnbringer campfires claim they make their moves in the blink of an eye. The Lordlings leading the Bleakswords are often the fastest and most precise of their number, able to thrust their sabre so quickly that they can slit a human’s throat before the foe can even draw their blade from its scabbard. The scant few hits they fail to deflect with their shields are swiftly riposted, knocking back enemies and leaving them vulnerable to the perfect killing counter-strike.

Darkshards are the deadly sharpshooters of the Darkling Covens. Each is armed with a master-crafted repeater crossbow capable of loosing bolts with incredible speed. In battle, they fill the skies with thick clouds of missiles that rain down in a withering hail upon the enemy, each volley piercing eyes and puncturing hearts. Darkshards are fair shots, but they are trained to focus on speed over accuracy. They riddle their targets with iron‑tipped bolts, each one viciously barbed to ensure that it cannot be removed without tearing apart the victim’s flesh in the process. The use of these painful projectiles speaks to the sadism of these shadowed warriors. The Darkshards often indulge in unnecessarily cruel behaviour in battle, such as intentionally trying to hamstring lesser foes and even shooting perilously close to human allies to create fear for their own enjoyment. Though they are confident in the knowledge that they will not hit their comrades, on account of the Darkshards’ almost supernatural accuracy, this fact is little known by the average Steelhelm.

Dreadspears form the spine of most Darkling Covens. They are the dense core of warriors that brings the enemy to a standstill, hardened veterans who fight in tight phalanxes, inviting foes onto their barbed spear tips. Fully in thrall to their mistresses, these cruel aelves fight and slay with unnerving focus. Dreadspears attack with pinpoint certainty, each warrior having been trained to wait for the perfect moment before thrusting their weapons into the hearts of their foes. Those Dawnbringers who have seen the Dreadspears in combat have remarked on the almost mechanical unison of their movements, how they march forth fearlessly into situations so dire that other warriors might have fled rather than face them. Indeed, Dreadspears are often sent to take the most dangerous of sites or to recover relics desired by their Sorceress. Precious few know the truth – that behind each Dreadspear’s glazed eyes is an arcanely imbued loyalty that compels them to carry out their Sorceress’s will at any cost. It is up to these silent warriors to fulfil those tasks their mistress does not trust humans to perform, for only in mind-controlled servants can she ensure absolute fealty.

Marching alongside the vanguard of the Darkling Covens are the skull-masked Executioners, warriors whose two-handed draich blades are so well-made and balanced that they can cut a man in two at the waist. It is said of this secretive warrior brethren that they openly worship Khaine the Bloody-Handed, the aelven god of war; that they are not truly aelves but are in part shadowkin from Ulgu; that they bathe in spiced blood instead of sleeping; and that they endure a constant agony that can only be relieved by the act of the violent kill. As to the veracity of these rumours, the mistresses of the Darkling Covens never speak. Perhaps it is those same doyennes who first circulated such legends, for a shield of terrifying rumours can protect a citadel district far better than any moat. True virtuosos of slaughter, these warriors have mastered the art of severing heads with every swing of their curved draichs. Crimson arcs of hot blood spurt into the air as the Executioners leave a trail of diced cadavers in their wake.

The fanatical Flagellants that march alongside the Dawnbringer Crusades fight not with military training but with frenzied zeal. These are the people so besotted with the God-King that they will carry cumbersome relics, form great chain gangs to drag shrine-laden metaliths and lash themselves until they bleed. While their extreme devotion is seen as insanity by many of their allies, the land upon which the Flagellants’ blood falls is truly cleansed, for their immense belief in Sigmar allows him to act through them in some small measure. Though no sound-minded Marshal would openly admit it, there are few better ways to scour the realms of the taint of Chaos than through blood sacrifice, few better ways to honour the authority of the Heldenhammer than to suffer in his name – and suffer these wild-haired mendicants do. When the enemy is close at hand, crowds of Flagellants will hurl themselves into the fray with a screamed prayer on their lips. They claw down as many of the enemy as they can in an act of superlatively violent martyrdom. Though they will have gone to the grave in the name of Sigmar, they take zealous satisfaction in bringing their foes down with them.

The Command Corps are a group of experts, champions and specialists that guide the Marshal in matters of war. Standing by their commander are the Arch‑Knights, exemplars of the blade and axe who protect their lord in battle. Each bears a fierce totem fashioned after a great beast that reflects their fighting style. Next is a Great Herald, who holds aloft the regimental banner that will be planted at the heart of a new settlement. It is their role to sound the advance, charge and timely retreat. Most Command Corps include a War Surgeon skilled in the arts of triage and amputation. They are incredibly proficient, able to perform medical miracles even under fire on the battlefield. Should a soldier succumb to their injuries, however, their soul is guided to their afterlife by the Soul Shepherds, allowing them to escape the clutches of Nagash. The strange piping of the Shepherds’ homunculi is silent to the living, but a lilting requiem can be heard as one approaches death. Lurking in the shadows are the Whisperblades, who keep the Marshal apprised of dissent. They wear cloaks of Ulguan falsecloth that allow them to blend with darkness – all the better to listen, learn and assassinate.

At a barked command from their Fusil-Sergeant, the Fusiliers release a deafening volley. Entire enemy ranks topple backwards, torn and bleeding. Another volley sounds, then another – as many as three salvoes in the space of a minute. Against the daemon and the gheist, the Fusiliers will fire shots inscribed with sigils of the God-King. Magic-wielding champions are silenced with a sphere of pure realmstone, taken with silver tongs from a small nullstone casket. In this way, even the meanest human gunline can take down the most vicious scourges of the Mortal Realms. The weapons of these gunlines are loaded and fired in much the same way as a miniature cannon. Each is also set with a thick wooden shield, which, when facing outwards alongside the iron-rimmed shields of footsoldiers, creates a defensive Castelite formation. The slaughter-fusils used by some Fusil-Sergeants, however, are more complex. These devastating firearms are triple-barrelled and able to be fired in quick succession or in one blistering volley. Such weapons are cumbersome, especially when carried in conjunction with hardwood pavises and lanterns for reloading in darkness; yet, in a flurry of movement, the gun is prepped, propped and raised. Its signature roar is never far behind.

The Steelhelms are the weatherbeaten infantry at the heart of each Freeguild regiment. They cross the battlefield in a defensive shieldwall known as a Castelite formation and are often used as guardians of artillery emplacements. Throughout all levels of the Dawnbringer Crusades, there is a quiet respect for their sheer tenacity. After all, Steelhelms are most frequently the humble men and women of the Sigmarite cities, recruited from all walks of life. This is not to say that they are untrained – once they take the Coin, the recruits are given arms and armour and drilled in their city’s military academy for the expedition to come. Each battalion is headed by a Steelhelm Herald, bearer of the consecrated regimental standard. The toughest, most resolute member of the soldiery is usually given this duty – so vaunted is this honour that they would rather die than let the standard fall. Alongside them comes the Battle Priest. Ever ready to deliver a sermon or beat back the God-King’s foes with their fists and hammers, they carry the relic of a Sigmarite martyr to clear Chaos taint from their path. If a Battle Priest forms the spiritual armour of the Steelhelms, it is the Sergeant-at-Arms who provides its iron fist. Resolute, stubborn and formidable, they use wits as well as brawn to ensure they and their unit live to fight another day.

Of the Dispossessed duardin, it is the Hammerers who are renowned as the Kingsguard. They are stalwart bodyguards traditionally tasked with guarding the Warden Kings in battle, and to this end, they would lay down their lives without hesitation or fear. Each is hand-picked for their station as a result of their feats of exceptional strength and courageousness. The rhythmic rise and fall of the Hammerers’ gromril mauls instils terror in their enemies just as it lifts the spirits of their fellow duardin. The metal from which these weapons are forged is said to be the hardest in the Mortal Realms; only the duardin know how to craft it – and they guard this secret jealously. Expertly wielded by the Hammerers, these two-handed greathammers can split rock like cordwood and crack enemy skulls as easily as Aetherwing eggs, allowing the duardin to smash a path through even the most tenacious foes. When the Hammerers’ carnyx sounds the charge and the gleam of their gilded, sloped helmets can be seen cresting the horizon, surrounding allies are inspired to fight ever harder. The duardin are particularly beloved of the Warden King whom they serve; even away from the battlefield, they are his trusted advisors and drinking companions.