Loremachine – Where have Menoth’s Protectorate been?

For too long, Menoth’s faithful have been absent from the battlefields of Warmachine. Their fiery return has brought joy to the hearts of many, but questions remain:

Where have the Protectorate of Menoth been all these years? 

And, more importantly, what — or who — brought them back?

If you missed part one, catch it here. 

Last we left things, Nadia — a Khadoran farm girl, refugee of the encroaching Orgoth invasion, and surprisingly skilled at wielding a skillet — was about to bear witness as ex-traitor Stallos revealed how Feora, Priestess of the Flame, led the faithful from the wilderness to reclaim glory in the name of the Lawgiver.

THE PILGRIMAGE

Act Two – Passage

By Matt Goetz

Menoth’s greatest gift unto humankind is the flame. In its presence we are warmed. By its power, water is made pure and bread fit for the table. Before its light, darkness yields; and by its beacon, even the lost may find their way home.

 - Visgoth Ezrah Kalloum, Keeper of the Pilgrim's Road, 447 AR

Imer, 623 AR

Stallos slowly made his way down the wide steps leading to the recessed centre of the plaza, his pace as careful and measured as Nadia imagined it might be on a battlefield. The temple guards stepped neatly in line behind him as he passed, the flames at the tips of their spears creating a trail of dancing fireflies in his wake.

The scent of incense had grown heavier over the last few minutes, saturating the air around Nadia. Somehow the silence which had spread throughout the crowd seemed to amplify the smell, one of her senses fading to the background and another expanding to fill the void. Her eyes passed over the people that had assembled to listen to Stallos. At least half of them were citizens of Imer, she reckoned. The two groups were easy to tell part, even without the obvious differences in their clothing. The city’s citizens carried themselves with a solemn air and wore calm expressions, a stark contrast to the urgency that possessed the newly arrived pilgrims.

Stallos reached the bottom of the stairs and strode boldly into the centre of the plaza. The masked sentinels that had accompanied his descent fanned out until they stood at equal intervals at the edge of the stone circle, facing outward toward the crowd. Despite their position between Stallos and the people, Nadia sensed no hostility from them. They were an honor guard, not wardens. 

The warcaster took a visibly deep breath, and then began to speak again. His voice pealed like a church bell from the walls, despite the mass of bodies pressed into the Plaza of the Faithful. Nadia soon found herself sat in rapt attention as he spoke, as did the rest of his audience. 

It was strange, she thought, how eagerly the crowd hung on Stallos’ words. It was clear he was not a practiced orator like the clergy’s sovereigns. His voice was hard and unpolished, his words those of one accustomed to giving clipped orders on the field of battle, and not building a narrative for an assembly to follow. His confidence was unwavering, but he stopped often to pull his thoughts together. He never quite seemed to know what he should be doing with his hands, oscillating between gesturing about him as he became impassioned, only to bashfully clasp them behind his back a few moments later. Soon they would escape once more and he would fidget with his fingers, running one nail under another to pick at the sand which had gathered.

And yet, despite all of this, Nadia and the assembled people of Imer still awaited his words like a parched flower awaiting the rain.

“I had been at the Spire of the Flame for five years. Like the other faithful in the city, I had come to investigate rumors that the exiled Priestess of the Flame had endured in the jungles of Alchiere, and I was rewarded for my belief. The ancient city teemed with fellow believers…”

Alchiere, 623 AR

Stallos brushed aside a thick branch growing from the trunk of a strangler vine tree, grunting at the weight. Alchiere’s vegetation grew so fast that despite the best efforts of Stallos and the other Menites, it was a constant battle to keep the trails they used from becoming overgrown, with vines waiting to trip the unwary and heavy leaves blocking the path ahead.

Stallos stepped aside and shifted his attention to Shield of Devotion, the aged Vigilant class warjack trailing close behind him. Through its optical sensors he saw the sun’s light gleaming from the back of his own shaved head, before turning his focus to the offending tree. A moment later, one of the machine’s heavy shield arms crashed into where the base of the intruding limb met the main trunk, crushing the wood with the impact and severing the branch in a shower of splinters.

The deed done, the warcaster withdrew his attention back to his own body. He addressed his companion while rolling the offending limb into the undergrowth with a heavy boot. “Sorry, friend. I know you could have done it yourself, but I knew exactly where I wanted it broken.” 

If the warjack took offense at Stallos’ direct control of its actions, it made no outward sign of it.

The pair resumed their passage, traveling through the jungle for several more hours until the sun began to settle in the west, shafts of red-orange light bleeding through the jungle canopy and dappling the path ahead. Content, Stallos led his companion back to the Spire of the Flame.

Stallos was one of very few warcasters in the community. Since arriving at the Spire, he had taken it upon himself to devote part of each day to patrolling the surrounding wilderness. By undertaking this duty he not only assured the collective safety of the Creator’s faithful followers, but also freed up the time of the other warcasters, allowing them more freedom to conduct their own business—Feora, the Priestess of the Flame, most of all. 

Most days, the patrols yielded nothing more threatening than a pack of ikoskit vermin, or a chattering lemax clinging to the tree branches overhead, but Stallos knew greater dangers lurked in the jungle. The Spire’s forager teams and scouts had reported sightings of large primates nearer to the mountains, and he had personally driven off several throngs of the degenerate tree-dwellers that occasionally probed the Spire’s outer defenses. 

More concerning were reports of trollkin patrols in the deeper jungle. For the time being they seemed content to stay within their own territory. So long as that remained true, Stallos saw no need to incite rivalry with them, but it remained an unsettling thought in the back of his mind.

He was just passing through the ancient stone arch which served as the settlement’s southern gate, when the summons to evening prayers rolled out across the Spire of the Flame’s circular compound. A choir sang in lilting and reverent tones which brought a smile to his face. Across the entirety of the archaic complex people stopped what they were doing, and moved to converge on the building at its heart. 

The temple formed the base of the central spire, which rose high above even the tallest treetops. A column of fire danced in the wind at its peak, the reservoir which fueled it kept full with a steady stream of palm oil. Rather than entering, the congregation arrayed itself in neat rows before it, kneeling on the cobblestones in the open plaza. Once the last of them took their place, the Reclaimers moved to flank them, each figure a silent sentinel standing watch over the souls of the faithful. Stallos knelt behind the crowd, nudging Shield of Devotion to do the same.

The Priestess and Protector of the Flame emerged to appraise her congregation. 

As she stepped forth into the dwindling evening light, her armor caught and reflected the dancing fire overhead. The mask which concealed her face almost looked alive in the shifting firelight. The faithful collectively took in their breath at the sight of her, as did Stallos. She had that effect on Menoth’s true believers, no matter how many times they had stood in her presence. As before, he remembered the first time he experienced it, now over twenty-two years ago. 

“There is no god above Menoth,” she began, her voice a complex yet warm alto. The congregation repeated her words as she continued. “There is no labor unendurable in the name of Menoth. There is no pain unbearable in the cause of Menoth…”

One by one, Feora went through the lines of the Canon. The only members of the community in attendance that remained silent were the Reclaimers, who had sacrificed their voices in the Oath of the Last Breath. Even so, each of them bowed their head in reverence, drinking in the spiritual nourishment the Priestess offered.

When Feora brought the prayer to its end, she released the congregation back to its labors. “Let Menoth’s glory be a flame in the hearts of the faithful.”

Stallos rose alongside the others, wincing at the loud crackle which emanated from his left knee. He was just about to lead Shield of Devotion to the workshop for routine post-patrol checks and maintenance when he saw the Priestess beckon him. 

He patted his companion on the cuisse. “Go on, friend. I’ll check back in with you later.” 

As the warjack lurched away, Stallos hurried to meet the Priestess of the Flame on the stairs. Upon reaching her, he bowed his head in deference. “What is it you desire, Priestess?”

“Walk with me,” Feora said, leading the way into the Spire’s temple. Out of the corner of his eye, Stallos saw a figure trailing behind them, and recognized him as Kerr Malek, the High Scrutator. 

Within the temple, a small army of potentates studiously copied down inscriptions written on the columns and walls. When one sheaf was filled with tightly inked writing, a ready initiate would hand over a clean page to continue. 

Feora watched their quiet toil for a moment, before asking Stallos a question. “Do you know how many lines are inscribed here, Stallos?”

He indicated he didn’t with a shake of his head.

“Sovereign Talmen informs me there are over sixty-thousand lines here in the temple and around the inner surface of the Spire. It’s less than half of what our forebears found at Icthier when they first discovered Menoth’s True Law, but there is not a single reproduced line among them that any of the potentates have discovered.”

“Fascinating,” Stallos replied, his voice humble. He glanced at Feora’s other companion. If the Priestess’ words had any effect on the High Scrutator, it was impossible to determine behind his mask of office.

“Many of the words involve the deeds of a figure named Isur,” Feora continued. “From what we can tell, he was a contemporary of Priest-King Cinot. A pilgrim, of sorts, who Cinot sent east while he journeyed into the west.”

From behind his mask, Malek finally spoke. His voice was a flat and dusty instrument which made Stallos think of the drone made by the desert insects which infested the land outside Tower Judgment. “The inscriptions have proven quite revelatory. This Isur came to find a land of people who had forgotten the word of Menoth. That we have discovered first the Spire of the Flame and the other Menite ruins in this forsaken place, and now these words? This surely demonstrates the Creator’s guiding hand at work.”

Stallos nodded. “Clearly.” His reply was unintentionally terse.

Feora spoke again before the High Scrutator could. “Stallos, how stands the disposition of our Flameguard?”

“We’re weak,” Stallos responded without hesitation. He knew better than to prevaricate with the Priestess of the Flame. “Those who have found their way to you have loyalty which cannot be shaken, but loyalty does not on its own mend armor or provide rations. With the need to forage for supplies and reliable fresh water, the Flameguard are stretched thin and few are able to stand watch over the settlement. If I post more than a handful to guard the Spire, when they could be working to provide for us all, I feel it like lead in my stomach.”

Feora’s expressionless metal mask displayed a distorted reflection of his own face as she tilted her head and considered his words. “How many of them could be spared for an excursion?”

“None, if I were a smart man.”

Malek let out a dusty chuckle.  “What if you were a man of faith, warcaster?”

Stallos considered his words carefully. He knew all too well what the scrutators were capable of, especially if they believed they were being slighted. “As the Canon tells us, there is no labor unendurable in Menoth’s name.”

The Priestess of the Flame seemed satisfied with his answer. “Amass as large a phalanx as you are able. Have them gather enough supplies for a journey of at least twenty days. Leave only the infirm here at the Spire to protect the faithful, along with the preceptor you deem most capable of leading them in your absence. In three days, we begin our passage.”

--

Although Stallos did his best to accommodate Feora’s wishes over the following days, he also refused to neglect his duty to the people of the Spire. Each day, after giving his small group of preceptors their orders, he kept to his patrol. 

Shield of Devotion did not accompany him. The Spire’s warjacks were barred from leaving the complex, as an assembled host of vassals worked over them in preparation of the journey yet to come. Feora had ordered the immediate consolidation of all coal supplies besides, which had been loaded onto a string of wagons.

The Spire’s inhabitants knew something different was happening, but the Priestess of the Flame remained tight-lipped about her intentions. Those amongst their number, like Stallos, who had an inkling of the journey she was about to undertake, followed suit.

Throughout the three days, Stallos noted with increasing suspicion how closely the High Scrutator stayed by Feora’s side. Malek conversed with the Priestess of the Flame at all times of the day, his tones never rising to much more than a hushed murmur. He always seemed to have new a sheet of parchment in hand to show her, one of the many upon which the potentates had written the inscriptions lining the Spire Temple’s walls.

Looking at the scrutator made Stallos’ knee ache and his jaw throb. Malek was a latecomer to the Spire of the Flame, with them for only half a year. The High Scrutator claimed he had been guided by Menoth’s will to aid in the oversight of Feora’s flock, but the words rang hollow to Stallos’ ears. The Reclaimers at the Spire were clearly instruments of Menoth, their piety unquestionable; Stallos suspected that Malek’s presence, by comparison, was motivated by matters of political maneuvering rather than the divine will of the Creator.

Stallos turned his back on the High Scrutator, and discreetly left the main square. 

He made the short walk through the compound to the infirmary, which had been set up in the shell of an old ruin. Despite the stone building’s age, most of its roof had managed to survive the ravages of time, providing much needed shade for the sick that rested on makeshift cots inside. A single guard stood outside, a tall and slender man with skin the color of teak. He snapped to attention the moment he saw Stallos, who recognized him as a preceptor named Rosdan. 

“Rosdan, a moment?” Stallos kept his voice lower than usual. “How many Flameguard are currently in the infirmary?”

Rosdan considered the question. “Five, I think. Old Adil is still very ill. So is little Indra—poor thing can’t keep anything down. Azara and Harun collapsed under the sun while out tending the crops yesterday, but I think they’ll be okay.” He paused, trying to remember the last name. “Oh, of course. Izal. He came in last night complaining of a sour stomach, after eating one of those yellow fruits that look like a chicken’s foot.”

“Hmm,” Stallos leaned in, his voice dropping even lower. “I’m going to be leaving with the Priestess of the Flame tomorrow. This afternoon, after your watch ends, I need you to round up the ten finest spear fighters in the Spire. Make sure all of them have a bit of this fruit that poisoned Izal in their rations. You as well.”

Rosdan blinked twice as he took in and processed the unusual request, before slowly nodding and quietly speaking. “Of course. One of the foragers brought it in, you see. Before anyone could say anything, we diced it and tossed it into the stew. Nearly a dozen of us were stricken low by it. We’ll be nowhere near fit to travel.” His voice matched Stallos’ conspiratorial tone.

“I knew I could rely on you.” Stallos felt himself smiling. “That’s a good start, but I want you to find anyone who has even so much as a touch of jungle foot or bruised ribs. Don’t lie, especially not to the High Scrutator, but make mountains out of anthills. Find any excuse to keep good fighters here to protect the faithful. I’m leaving you in charge.”

The preceptor took in a deep breath, his chest rising proudly. He saluted again, but had the presence of mind not to speak further.  

--

The final night before they would leave the Spire of the Flame, Feora gathered the faithful for evening prayer. The High Scrutator joined her as she led the congregation in prayer. Despite his mask and heavy robes, it was obvious Malek couldn’t conceal his excitement. He moved like a child on their birthday, wound up tight as a spring. 

The last words of prayer rippled through the congregation, but Feora did not release them. Instead, Malek stepped forward. At a gesture from the High Scrutator, four potentates emerged from the temple bearing a long sandstone coffer between them. It was crowded with Menite script, Stallos saw. Despite its age, the stone seemed solid, with few cracks marring its surface. The reddish-brown jungle soil had stained around the base, the same dirt sitting in the recesses where the words had been carved.

Feora stepped aside and inclined her head as the priests lowered it before the temple stairs. 

Malek laid both hands upon the lid, palms down. “Beneath the foundations of this holy place, sealed in a chamber untouched since the age of the Priest-Kings, we have uncovered the mortal remains of Isur the Pilgrim.” His words were supremely reverential, at once projected across the assembled people, but somehow also bearing the intimacy of a whisper.

A surprised murmur swept across the congregation. 

The priests raised the coffer’s lid. Within lay a skeleton, its bones wrapped in the tatters of ancient vestments, fingers folded around a blackened metal menofix. Gold wire picked out the letters of the prayers which had been woven through the cloth, and small tablets of fired clay rested alongside the figure. Each slab was as busy with scripture as the coffer’s surface. 

Unable to resist their curiosity, the assembled faithful shuffled closer. Stallos let himself move along with them. Whatever feelings he might harbor regarding the motivations of the High Scrutator, the sight before him pushed them firmly to the back of his mind. 

The High Scrutator delicately moved Isur’s bones aside and withdrew the menofix, holding it aloft for all to see. “While Priest-King Cinot bore it west, Isur the Pilgrim carried the Creator’s law into the east. Here he died, steadfast among those who had turned away from the name of their maker.” The High Scrutator’s voice was much louder now, as he built to a climactic call to arms. 

“For centuries his bones have awaited the return of those who worship the Creator of Man. We are that faithful people, and we will not leave him buried at the edge of the world.” Malek turned toward the setting sun, his voice rising in volume until it rang from the stones of the Spire’s compound. “At dawn we begin our passage. We will bear Isur the Pilgrim from this sanctuary and return him to Holy Imer in the west, where his remains shall stand as proof that no distance is beyond Menoth’s dominion and no faithful servant is ever truly lost.”

The congregation bowed until their brows touched the cobblestones. Stallos followed suit, but his eyes tracked the High Scrutator all the way down.

--

By sunrise, the coffer had been secured upon an ornate bier, the wagons had finished being loaded, and a marching column was organized at the Spire of the Flame’s western gate. Stallos stood at the head of his soldiers and formally passed the defense of the faithful to Preceptor Rosdan, who looked somewhat worse for wear than he had the previous day. 

At Feora’s command, the procession left the Spire and began their journey into the west. 

Picking their way through the jungle was slow going, and the group were often forced to stop and hack away at plants which had overgrown the path. The jungle's cacophony fell quiet as they moved, birds and beasts fleeing from the approach of humanity. It was as if they were within a bubble of silence that parted the way before them and closed up in their wake. Only the shrill whine of biting insects, Stallos noted, broke up the hushed whispers of the wind and leaves.

A few days later the jungle finally thinned, as the column reached the Steedrest River. After travelling alongside its waters all morning they eventually found a shallow ford, and after crossing entered a region which had yet to be named on any modern map. A vast and rolling landscape awaited them, where small clusters of trees grew amid a sea of amber grass. Much of the terrain for this leg of the journey was given to this mild and rippling grassland, with only occasional patches of wetland which were easily avoided.

Further north the grass began to thin, giving way to a rough valley of scrubby sage and gnarled little trees. Most of them welcomed the change. Despite the dust kicked up by their passage, and having to periodically stop to free a wagon wheel which had become tangled in vines tougher than boot leather, this land was less fatiguing to travel through than the long grass.

Feora led their procession each day. Her pace and presence was indefatigable. Never once did Stallos see her tire or slow. Her steps were purposeful and unwavering. When her companions approached she listened to them carefully, and offered benediction. Through her, Stallos felt the guiding hand of the Creator. At times it was all he could do to tear his gaze away, lest he become awestruck.

The Priestess of the Flame was accompanied by a small band of Daughters of the Flame and a severe woman named Valeria. The latter was a seasoned explorer, it seemed. She wore her dark hair in thick plaits to keep it from her face and neck, and carried an ornate bow made in the style favored by Idrian hunters. In the late afternoon, Feora would send her ahead of the column to find favorable terrain where they could make camp for the night, and once more in the morning to plan their route. 

One mile bled into the next as the group kept at a steady pace. Stallos stayed near Feora during the day, leading a modest phalanx of Flameguard soldiers. He had cautioned them to snuff their flame spears while in the dry grass and had each of the Cleanser Purifiers triple-check they had closed the fuel valves of their weapons. The Priestess of the Flame might have demonstrated the ability to make fire dance at her whims on numerous occasions, but Stallos wasn’t eager to test the limits of her abilities. 

Marching by Feora’s side left Stallos in closer proximity to the High Scrutator than he would have liked. Malek traveled on the ornate bier bearing Isur the Pilgrim’s coffer, occasionally commenting on the labor of the junior priests who marched beneath its weight. Malek was a strange soul and hard to predict, Stallos observed. Of all the scrutators he had encountered, which was a number far higher than he would have preferred, this one seemed almost merry. 

“I didn’t think that punishment was meted out anymore,” Malek commented one day, when they made camp for the evening. 

Stallos didn’t need to ask the High Scrutator what he meant. The skin on his forehead where the menofix had been branded began to itch just thinking about it. “To my knowledge, you don’t,” he responded.

“You must have borne it for a long time.” Malek’s breath hissed between his teeth, although the following words were almost kindly. “It must have been hard for you. Tell me, what did you do to earn it?”

“I made a mistake.” Stallos occupied himself with stirring his meager dinner around his bowl. He was not eager to offer the scrutator any more information.

“Whatever it was, it must have walked a very narrow line of being worthy of permanent penance, but not severe enough to warrant death. Most who wore that brand lived as pariahs reduced to begging for bread.” Malek leaned closer, studying the scarred tissue. His face was close enough that Stallos could see the man’s eyes beneath the mask, and the reflection of the firelight flickering over them.

“They weren’t warcasters. I am.” Having a scrutator this close to him again made dozens of old aches flare up across Stallos’ body. The memory of feeling pieces of bone grinding against each other in his punished flesh flashed through his mind.

Malek sat back. “Does that make you better than the branded beggars?”

“No, I am far worse. They accepted their punishment and bore their brand the honest way.” Stallos’ eyes narrowed as he stared back at the High Scrutator. “The Protectorate wouldn’t kill off one of its warcasters in the middle of a war. That would be like cutting off your own finger in the middle of a fight.” 

Stallos jabbed a finger against his temple. “There is no absolution in this brand. I was given it as a reminder that I should have died on a wrack outside Tower Judgment. For my sins, I deserved nothing less.”

Feeling awkward after his outburst and foolish for allowing Malek to bait him, Stallos returned to his dinner. As he pushed his spoon through the rations, he could feel the High Scrutator studying him, like an insect collector with a fresh specimen pinned to their desk. Eventually, he gave up and left the remainder uneaten.

--

Several days later, Valeria returned from one of her scouting missions to where they had paused to rest and let the caravan’s horses graze. The woman’s expression was grim as she approached the Priestess of the Flame. 

“What news, sister Valeria?” Feora asked. 

“We near the Brackish Lake. Trollkin villages line the shore and the riverbank. Each has an unlit beacon near its center. Our company would have little trouble overpowering one of these villages should it come to violence, but its neighbors would know of our presence before the last of the trollkin fell.”

Feora remained silent. The impassive mask covering her face made it impossible to weigh her reaction to the news. Stallos couldn’t help but imagine the Priestess fighting down a simmering rage that threatened to boil over, however.

“We cannot risk harm coming to the Pilgrim’s remains,” Malek stated. His tone made it clear he felt there was no room for debate. “We must find an alternate route.”

Feora held up a hand and silenced the High Scrutator. “Sister Valeria, what say you?” 

Her voice was unexpectedly calm, Stallos thought.

The hunter chewed her lip in thought. “There is a narrow pass through the Lion’s Teeth north of here, but it would add considerable time to our journey.”

“Do we have enough supplies to sustain us?” Stallos asked, after a moment more of silence between them. 

“We will start rationing immediately,” Feora responded. “From now onwards, everyone is limited to a half-portion. Pray to the Creator. Belief that we are the agents of his divine will shall provide us with the sustenance to continue our journey to Holy Imer.”

The Lion’s Teeth rose out of the grasslands like the broken jaw of a buried colossus. From a distance, the range seemed no more than a dark seam drawn across the horizon, but at their feet the heights were mountains of dark stone, their distant peaks capped with snow and wreathed in clouds.

The pass Valeria spoke of was scarcely a road at all. It climbed between leaning crags, and became a shelf so narrow that in places the wagons rolled with one wheel scraping the mountainside and the other a few handwidths away from open air. The further they climbed the thinner the air became, the temperature bleeding away until their breath smoked, and frost rimmed their shields and armor when they awoke in the morning. 

The beasts of burden that pulled the wagons, jungle-born shagmar, fared the worst. The creatures balked at the cold mountain wind, twisting their broad heads away from it with every step. At times the creatures refused to press on, forcing the soldiers to haul on the ropes tied to the wagons until the shagmar started moving again. Before long, most of the Flameguard began to grumble about their palms chafing and blistering beneath their gloves.

At night there was no wood for campfires, so the travelers were forced to huddle together for warmth beneath oiled cloth, listening miserably as the wind howled around them. On nights when the cold became too severe, Feora ordered fires to be lit with supplies taken from the coal wagons, but none of the company were under any illusions that they could truly afford to do so. With each flickering fire, the precious fuel supply for their warjacks became more scarce. 

It was on the fifth day in the mountains, on a morning they awoke to sleet drifting through the air, that the first of them died. An older priest named Joran passed in the night, his body discovered in the morning as a frozen mound beneath his blanket. He was interred under a stone cairn with a somber grave marker beside it, and the Reclaimers gave his soul its rites of passage so that it might travel to the City of Man.

The following day a greater disaster struck. 

A supply wagon near the back of the trail rolled over a patch of road left weak by so many cycles of freezing and then thawing once more. Stones under its wheel gave way, and it pitched sideways over the edge. The shagmar pulling it howled as they clambered desperately to gain purchase, alerting nearby Flameguard who seized the wagon’s guide ropes. The soldiers’ boots were skidding across the stone underfoot as Stallos rushed to join them, concentrating his willpower to give his muscles extra strength and prevent the weight of the wagon pulling them into the ravine.

They were on the cusp of hauling the wagon and its team back from the brink when one of the guide ropes snapped. The wagon swung down hard into the icy rocks below, bursting apart in a shower of timber, bundled supplies, and shattered casks. Borne downwards into the ravine by their weight, the shagmar bellowed in panic as they fell, until a bone-shattering impact with the rocks forever silenced them.

The lost wagon had carried a good amount of their supplies; grain, dried meat, and most importantly, water. The cost of this loss was greater than Stallos could have feared. Their half-portion rations became quarter-portions. The horses received only enough grain to keep them alive, and what little roughage could be dug out from between mountain stones. In desperation they adopted the practice of bleeding the remaining shagmar into wooden bowls, creating a thin broth which could be passed around the Flameguard, albeit carefully so they did not risk killing the beasts. 

On the second evening after the wagon was lost, Malek demanded the bearers of the Pilgrim’s bier should eat first. Isur’s body, he stated, could not be permitted to fall through the weakness of those entrusted to bear him. 

Tempers flared in response to his demand. A young Flameguard named Titus glowered at the High Scrutator over the meagre stew which was about to be handed to him. “The priests eat while the soldiers starve?” 

Both the Flameguard and priests nearby bowed their heads. Before the altercation could escalate further, Stallos rose and stood before the Flameguard. “There is no pain unbearable in the cause of Menoth, brothers and sisters.” He turned to the High Scrutator. “Those who bear the Pilgrim’s weight preserve more than their own lives, I agree, but if you feed only those who bear his weight, you will have none left to guard it.”

“The greatest of our knightly orders need only faith in the Creator to hold their blades and shields aloft to the heavens, and visit reckoning unto our enemies.” Malek replied coldly.

The Priestess of the Flame stepped between them in a sudden flare, amber flames radiating around her and superheating the air until it hissed. When she spoke, her voice echoed across the entire column. “The quarter-ration stands. The bearers of Isur the Pilgrim shall receive one mouthful more, taken from my portion. 

“Those who seek more than their share steal from every faithful soul in these mountains. Any who dare raise a hand against their brother or sister over a growling stomach will forfeit the next day’s ration entirely.” 

Her gaze turned toward Malek and remained there until the scrutator bowed his head. 

--

Over the next two days the procession diminished into a line of figures bent beneath the press of the wind. No one spoke other than to call warnings along the trail. Their shared prayers passed through cracked lips at a whisper, until the air became so thin their breath became too precious to spend. 

Near the trail’s summit, white clouds filled the valleys between mountain peaks and the sun shone brighter than Stallos had ever beheld before. His weakened knee burned with every step. Yet, despite her fast, the Priestess of the Flame still strode at the head of their column, unbowed by the wind and possessed of the same unflinching resolve she had shown when they crossed the grasslands.

Midway through the third day, Feora unexpectedly called for the column to stop and rest. Wind whipped at the skirts of her vestments as she stood atop a rocky spur, looking westward at something Stallos could not see. After a moment of silence, he discerned her murmuring a prayer, the words carried back to him by the wind. 

The air warmed as runes the color of burning coals surrounded the Priestess of the Flame. She gestured into the bank of clouds before her, and a rolling column of fire erupted from her outstretched hand, so bright that it burned blurry afterimages into Stallos’ vision. The flames evaporated the cloud bank, tearing the sky in front of Feora in two. Before the formation could close over the wound once more, Stallos and the rest of the company saw what it was Feora had seen.

Far below them, amidst a vast expanse of ochre desert, a winding ribbon of blue glinted in the sunlight as a river divided the land, leading south to a hazy shoreline. Perched just west of it, the brilliant sun glinted off proud brass and gold. It was a city, too distant to make out except where it reflected the light and the desert’s color shifted slightly, but it was unmistakable.

The Priestess of the Flame turned back to face the group. “Behold, my brothers and sisters! The way before us is now clear. There stands the birthplace of our faith, wreathed in the words of Menoth’s True Law!” She invited them all to join her. “Look and see. We are almost home.” 

What next?

• Browse the Covenant of the Flame collection to see the Menoth’s faithful depicted in detailed miniature form, including Feora and Stallos 

• Pick up a Warmachine app subscription to access a whole library of lore for armies across the Iron Kingdoms

• Join the #loremachine channel in the official Warmachine Discord to hang out and chat with other readers