The heroes stood in triumph, backlit by the dying embers of the Subjugator as its superstructure was pulled into the lower planes by its infernal self-destruct mechanism. The sky above the surface of the great Battle Cube was blood red and hung ominously overhead, its crimson hues reflected in the pitted and scored surface beneath the heroes’ boots. Dotting the reddish void, twinkling with movement, were not stars but the angular shapes of a thousand cubes, as though the sky were full of dice cast by the gods in one of their great games. The surface of the cube was not perfectly flat – it seemed to have its own geography of mountains and valleys, and the rusted metal beneath their feet was pockmarked with pits and fragments of corroded shards. The screams of armies, orcs and goblinoid alike, echoed for miles along the face of the great cube, as did the ringing of sword against breastplate, and the sickening crunch of axe into bone, amplified a thousandfold. It soon became clear that the irregular terrain of the vast battlefield was created by piles of corpses, some rivalling the geometric hills and mountains off on the horizon, and the shell craters and pit-like depressions were filled by the dark, congealing blood of the fallen. The mountains of flesh and bone and the rivers of gore were the byproduct of a horrific, costly stalemate that had existed for eons. The smell of the iron surface and the bloody aftermath of endless war became mingled into an overpowering stench, and swarms of carrion birds and flies darkened the stagnant skies, eager to find a roost and perch to feast. They were not alone. Orcish airships – great hot air-filled balloons made of sewn patches of hide with boat-like vessels hanging from chains beneath – drifted in formation, surrounded by the wheeling and darting gargoyle shapes of hobgoblin flying machines spitting hot lead. Ballistae mounted on the orc ships hurled great steel bolts at the offending aircraft, occasionally finding their mark in a crushing blast of shrapnel that rained down flaming wreckage, glittering shell casings, and sizzling scraps of vellum. The fields around them were covered with a dark, ferrous mixture of blood and rust, plating the surface of the Battle Cube in fractious scales the length of a Waterdhavian city block, like a great sleeping dragon. There was a no wind, but the occasional vertigo-like sense of velocity that belied the stillness of the stagnant air – the great cube was indeed always in motion, hurtling through the void of Avalas. As the cube continued its course, large shards of this grisly substance occasionally peeled away and flew off into the ether, tornado-like, somethings dragging a hapless squadron of troops with it as it funneled towards Ocanthus, Acheron’s deepest, darkest, and most dangerous layer. There was plenty of danger here, however. The battle, wherever it was, had raged over the land and left a bitter wake of destruction behind. Rusted greatswords were plunged into the ground like improvised tombstones marking the resting place of a noteworthy fallen, and thrusting up from the mounds of skulls and ribcages were cactus-like growths of iron gibbets, towering in judgment over the land, the corpses of victor and defeated alike hanging in cages that evinced drumhead court-martials and vicious reprisals on an industrial scale. Great battlements had been kicked over like sandcastles beneath a beach bully’s heel. The ground vibrated to the beat of ironshod sabatons as a horde of orcs, greater than any army the heroes had ever seen, strode heedlessly towards the front, breaking around the burning remains of the fiendish airship like a herd of horned cattle driven to market. “Where are all these soldiers coming from?” Bob wondered aloud. Siegfried pointed towards the blue-white glow of an arcane gate a few miles distant. “That’s one of the portals that connects this battlefield of endless strife and stalemate to the home cube of either orc or hobgoblin and given that the orcs are marching away from that gate, I’d wager that’s a gate to Nishrek, the abode of Gruumsh and our ultimate destination. That’s known as the Godsworn Eye. Somewhere else on this cube will be the goblinoid portal, the Way of Conquest, which links back to Clangor, the mustering point in the goblin afterlife.” Siegfried pointed to the only other significant geographic abnormality, the great fortress of iron that stood much closer than the portal. “That there is where we’ll find Obould, isn’t that right, Gnash?” Gnash the Slash was on his knees staring forlornly at the flickering embers of the Subjugator , his back to the rest of the party. He was muttering as he shook his head. “I was so close to the vault. The Vault!” Varien smirked at the barghest’s plight. Siegfried cast sending to the orcish radio operator stationed at the fortress. We’ve successfully docked and disembarked. Carve a path and stand ready for our arrival, worm. We are expected. The reply was swift. Follow the river of your enemies’ blood so you may grind them beneath your heel as you approach. May your blades knock aside all obstacles. The inexorable march of hundreds of thousands of orcs indeed posed an obstacle, including an encirclement of increasingly hostile spirits who were growing ever more suspicious of the mortals within their midst. Siegfried held the Ettin Axe of Uruth aloft, catching the attention of the orc spirit legions that marched endlessly through the gloomy no-man’s land of ruined battlements, shell craters, and wrecked siege equipment. “Brethren! Hear my command!” Siegfried shouted imperiously, aided by the Ettin Axe. “Clear a path and escort us to the Iron Fortress!” The orcs nearest the party, who had been advancing with menace, immediately snapped to and turned towards the throng of marching soldiers, elbows and shields out, making a dent in the green-skinned tide. Siegfried’s commanding countenance rippled out among the ranks, which formed up, diamond like, around the heroes and their mounts. Siegfried placed Lady Dejatha upon Violance’s saddle. The human woman was quite nervous, almost comatose with shock, having traded the sterile surroundings of the infernal airship, regardless of the horrors visited upon her by Rimmon and his minions, for a true hellscape beyond all mortal imagination. Siegfried gave the noblewoman his most reassuring smile. Bear with us just a little longer, he said telepathically. We’ll have you free of this place and back to civilization as soon as we can. Lady Dejatha did her best to smile. Erwen put a boot on Gnash’s backside. The barghest snapped out of his reverie. “Yes, yes, I’m still useful!” he said. The Arcetalos swooped down from the sky above to land before Varien. As the paladin was about to mount his phoenix, he heard a guttural whispering from a ferrous mound behind him. He turned and inspected the outcropping, and realized that what he’d initially taken to be geologic layers of volcanic rock were instead flattened humanoid husks, the tattered remains of a soul raised and resurrected until it was a mere shadow, stacked among its brethren as a buttress against the oncoming enemy. No longer a skeleton, but a brittle leftover. One of the husks had locked dull eyes with him and was mouthing something from desiccated lips. Varien leaned over to hear. We are the Dead. Short days ago, we lived. Felt dawn. Saw sunset glow. Loved and were loved, And now we lie On the fields of Acheron. The last vestiges of the battered soul’s life force seemed to eke out in puffs of rust as it disintegrated. Varien mounted the Arcetalos. In celestial, he spoke to her. “Burn them.” The Arcetalos screeched and beat her wings against the soulful remains of the mound, incinerating the pile of remains. Several orcs gave approving glances and raised their spears and shields in salute. Varien and the Arcetalos took wing. He was able to take in the grand scope of the marching formations that streamed across the battlefield towards a red mist on the horizon that pointed the way to the front lines and endless slaughter. The fetid charnel house stench wafted over the approaching horde like a welcoming fog that foretold their fate. At the periphery of his vision, the battle raged. The escort forged through the marching soldiers. The nearest orc guard to Siegfried gave him a quizzical, yet deferential glance. “Uh, do you have a banner to raise, my liege. Siegfried nodded and cast pillar of lordly might , which displayed his banner – the sigil of Neverwinter with the snowflakes replaced by the symbol of Many-Arrows. The unfurled arcane banner was met with a boisterous “Lok’tar!” from the honour guard. New banners, raised by sheer force of will from the spirit legions, took up Siegfried’s sigil. More units flocked to Siegfried’s banner as they marched through the war-torn battlefield. Here and there, scavenging creatures pawed and tore at the detritus, but they were careful to scurry out of harm’s way as the formations maneuvered through. There was something odd about the iron fortress on the horizon. While the honour guard and escort were marching towards it, it was soon clear that the fortress itself was moving towards them as well. “Gnash, I trust this is the way of it,” Siegfried said. “Oh yes, absolutely!” Gnash snapped to attention. “Head straight for the fortress, that’s the one I promised to bring you here to visit, and I always keep my promises,” he chuckled, “especially when there’s a dagger pointed at my neck.” Siegfred nodded, satisfied that the barghest wasn’t fibbing. At first, the massive fortress seemed to move nearly imperceptibly, but as they closed the distance it was clear the gargantuan fortification was covering great ground on massive, rusted iron legs, towering above the battlewagons, siege engines, and slave-drawn cannons that made up the orc forces. Each lurch forward caused the ground to shake. The construct evoked illustrations of the impressive Citadel of Many-Arrows in Faerun, but a version that was walking of its own volition, its own legions mere specks in comparison. Even Gnash was suddenly reverent, clearing his throat and whispering “That right there is Istvarhan, the Walking City.” Varien, this place looks sick, Siegfried said telepathically. Istvarhan was a looming neighbourhood of towers, battlements, and keeps built upon a platform raised on rusted iron legs, its half-alive superstructure reinforced by towering metal walls on which hundreds of ballistae, catapults and cannons poked through firing slits. The upper defensive tiers were unleashing a cannonade skyward to ward off attacks from the circling hobgoblin aircraft. Istvarhan’s armored exterior was festooned with troops that crawled over its surfaces like angry ants defending their anthill and strode in lockstep with the unerring march of the spirit legions, who kept time with each thunderclap of the wide, iron feet. The individual towers rotated independent of each other, bringing entire phalanxes of ballistae to bear in battle so that the expended hemisphere could be reloaded, and prevent attackers from scaling the walls with ease. Great spinning flails on the underside of the platform further warded off would-be intruders. Its size and strength struck awe in the orcish half of Siegfried’s heart as he saw the combined, collaborative work of the orcish pantheon that went into its creation. It was a war machine unlike anything he’d set his eyes on. “I want that,” Siegfried thought to himself. “Yeah, so, no sudden moves, but they know we’re coming, so we should be good,” Gnash was saying. The orcs began to chant Siegfried’s name and exhorted other legions to make way and take up his banner. Gnash and the head escort led the formation to a reinforced gated elevator platform that appeared to be lowered to allow them entry. The cage bristled with razor-sharp barbs to interdict any unwanted hangers-on. Elite orc warriors, each of whom would have been a powerful warlord in life, stood guard at the ready with weapons of exquisite quality, their eternal reward fulfilled. It was clear that Istvarhan was designed as an impregnable, easily defended bulwark, an interlocking network of gatehouses that provided entry to compact city blocks, each separated into potential killzones by heavy portcullises that were currently drawn up to allow the city’s business to be transacted. Every alley was a dead-end lure for potential invaders, every street and intersection boasted catwalks laden with simmering cauldrons of boiling oil, and stacks of polished hurling-stones, and any distinction between barracks, brothel, bank, and barroom seemed to be negligible. “A quartermaster’s paradise, this Istvarhan,” Gnash said, stepping seamlessly into the role of tour guide in order to maintain his utility. “Part factory, part armory, part mobile embassy – you’ll find emissaries and neutral observers from across the Lower Planes here seeking audience to dissuade or deflect Gruumsh’s wrath, that sort of thing. Artisans too – after all, Istvarhan is dedicated to the glory of conquest, so you’ll find banner-makers, sculptors, monument men, and so on.” Indeed, banners from every orc tribe Siegfried had ever heard of, and dozens more that were new and strange from beyond the planes, were hoisted and unfurling majestically as the city moved. Sparks flew from grilled ducts in the streets as the unmistakable ringing of great forges below the main deck implied industry to keep pace with the obvious arms race afoot in Acheron. “Multiplanar merchants have been known to open up shop here, with official sanction. Dealing in the arms trade, mostly, because what else is there on Acheron?” Gnash looked around and lowered his voice to a whisper. “And there’s a black market as well, though you didn’t hear it from me. Spoils of war, soul coins, artifacts recovered from the depths of Thuldanin, all of it gets laundered, and the only things getting more grease than Istvarhan’s mighty treads are the palms of people in the know.” He nodded at a hooded creature amidst the crowd of orc petitioners in the streets and received a discreet nod in return. Siegfried’s honour guard began to attract interest from the locals, especially since his banner was a new one not seen before. Several orcish brows were raised and furrowed at the sight of the non-orcs in the party. “They’re not used to seeing mortals here,” Gnash explained. “Their curiosity stays their blades, for now.” Gnash discreetly flicked up his greatcoat’s collar and tried to lower his profile. “They might think you’re delivering hostages or VIPs – very important prisoners.” Siegfried pointed to the glowing helmeted paladin astride a flaming phoenix circling overhead. “Does that look like a prisoner to you?” Gnash turned his mechanical claws upwards in a shrug. “Anything to break the monotony of the afterlife, I guess. We all gotta keep up appearances. Anyways, currently this is Obould’s seat of power – he’s campaigning on the Battle Cube at the behest of Gruumsh – but this city is big enough to travel anywhere it wants, and it can even fit through the portal back to Nishrek and go who knows where else. Rather than make camp elsewhere, Obould’s using it as his base of operations. The orcs are making moves, and who knows what next season’s campaign will bring. Will they break the stalemate? Time will tell,” he chuckled. “Time will tell.” The party was led to the centre of the great iron keep via a sloping ramp wide enough for an army to march up or down, with an independently rotating citadel at its very core, including a panopticon atop a spear-studded spire. “So Obould’s seat of power rotates?” Erwen piped up. “That reminds me of a limerick…” Siegfried shushed the Halfling. There was a place for the Arcetalos to land and Violance to be properly quartered. Wardens kept the streets clear ahead of the honour guard’s approach. Siegfried stood high in VIolance’s saddle as he waved imperiously to the growing crowd – loud, proud, and clearly meant to be here. The Ettin Axe of Uruth was on full display, ice and fire alike blazing. Passers-by began to toss small trinkets including soul coins. Gnash looked at Siegfried. “Mind if I clean up after you?” “Certainly, Gnash, I’m not about to stoop for pocket change,” Siegfried said. Gnash grinned. “Well, I certainly am!” He ducked down and collected what he could. Siegfried could hear Gnash talking up his name as he moved through the crowd. Circling overhead, Varien could see that orc spirit legions were quietly closing ranks behind Siegfried’s procession as it moved through the streets – ranks of legionaries guarding the road behind. Each gatehouse portcullis also closed in their wake. Varien frowned. Siegfried’s honour guard picked up the tempo of Istvarhan’s heavy gait and began to chant “Siegfried of the Sword Coast! SIEGFRIED OF THE SWORD COAST! SIEGFRIED OF THE SWORD COAST!” Ranks of orc petitioners and spirit shamans lined the streets near the citadel and stood stock-still upon the parapets and catwalks overhead, stationed at each gatehouse. The counter-chant that grew in strength with each step towards the citadel was “OBOULD-WHO-IS-GRUUMSH! OBOULD-WHO-IS-GRUUMSH! OBOULD-WHO-IS-GRUUMSH!” There was the accompanying clang of axe upon shield and breastplate punctuating each utterance of “Obould” and “Gruumsh.” The Ettin Axe’s embedded personalities Ur and Krypt were in their element. Siegfried could feel them slavering. Ur’s haunting whisper was insistent. BY YOUR COMMAND, THIS IS AN OPPORTUNITY. DO NOT LET IT PASS US BY. Krypt’s low voice shook with delight. RAISE AN ARMY, SIEGFRIED. A CONQUERING ARMY! WE COULD DO IT ALL! Siegfried replied. We will have many of these. I will show you the best way to command. I shall show you the power of words and warfare – the true way to wage war. Krypt replied in a strangled voice. ALL RIGHT I WILL TRY TO KEEP IT TOGETHER! Ur whispered, I’M INTERESTED TO SEE WHAT IT IS YOU THINK YOU CAN DO. WE CAN TAKE YOU FAIRLY FAR DOWN THE ROAD OF ADULATION. I want one of these back home, Siegfried indicated the fortress. YES, CONQUEST. WHAT IS RIGHTFULLY OURS – I MEAN YOURS. I MEAN OURS. Azuredge was less certain. We are far from Waterdeep, Siegfried. I worry. We are on a diplomatic mission authorized by Waterdeep, remember? Siegfried replied. Azuredge sounded unconvinced. That’s stretching both the letter and the spirit of the Lords’ injunction. Do not forget your charge to protect Waterdeep when making your plans, Siegfried. Of course, Waterdeep has nothing to fear from me , Siegfried told the axe. Waterdeep would never be conquered. Waterdeep will always be an independent state. Azuredge seemed to take Siegfried at his word. The aura of anxious fear faded from Siegfried’s psyche. Naturally, Siegfried left out the lands around Waterdeep from his consolation. If his plans came to fruition, he wouldn’t need an army to defeat Waterdeep. Siegfried’s entourage approached the massive citadel gates. Great orc champions served as the citadel’s last line of defence and stood impassively, looking every inch the veterans of millennia-long service in the afterlife. “They make tanarukks look like Halflings,” Erwen whispered. The defenders’ leader stepped forward. “Obould-Who-Is-Gruumsh is expecting you.” The citadel gates began to open.