PROLOGUE Season

of the Beast

The beast at the centre of the cave dreamed of blood, blood and war, civilisations torn down and entire
populations gorged upon by the children of Chaos. Flames and the coming of the End Times consumed its
every thought, order overturned and the rule of the Dark Gods absolute.
Its massive, shaggy form shifted position, its cloven hooves rippling the rock as though it sat upon
glistening mud. Curling horns sprouted from its bestial skull, protruding from a ripped and stained leather
mask behind which two bovine eyes glimmered with dark malice. A web of skulls was woven into the shaggy
mane that ran the length of its twisted spine, the jaws opening and closing in silent screams of anguish.
The monster clutched a gnarled and twisted staff in one massive fist, its substance slithering and
insubstantial, as though the beast's flesh merged with the dark wood. It traced patterns and lines in the fluid
matter of the cavern floor, ever more chaotic and irregular as they overlapped and spiralled.
Clouds of stinking vapour gusted from its snorting nostrils, twisting and swirling in the air before being
absorbed by the fabric of the walls. The rock glistened with a dank dew of moisture, dancing images of war
and death burning in its depths, reflections of the twisted thoughts of the shaggy beast that drooled thick
ropes of animal saliva.
Humans called it the Shadow-Gave, while the elves knew it as Cyanathair and in the dwarf tongue it was
called Gor-Dunn.
The fires of war burned in its eyes and it could feel the approach of its children, the true inheritors of the
world. It could sense the breath of Chaos within them, the boon of change and mutation that marked them out
as the chosen of the gods. Three came, the mightiest beasts of their herds, fierce and proud, filled with power
and drawn towards this dank, icy cave to seek approval from the gods that theirs was the right to rule this
gathering of warherds.
It turned a rheumy eye towards the cave mouth as the weak autumn light was blocked off by the three
supplicants. It saw they were tall and broad, with great, corded muscles beneath dark, matted fur, each the
master of a great warherd. All three carried crude weapons: heavy iron axes or thick, blade-studded clubs,
though in truth anyone of them could fight as well with horn, tooth or claw. One stood on thick, goat-like
legs, its shaggy head crowned with a mass of bronze-tipped antlers and a thick mane of bright orange fur.
Another stamped iron-shod hooves, its rump elongated like that of a horse, though its skin was scaled and
bronze. Dark spines grew from its back and an extra set of arms sprouted from beneath its armpits.
But greatest of all the Beastlords was a massive, bull-headed creature with dark, bloodstained fur, its hide
scarred by decades of killing and battle. Thick, hooked chains looped across its chest and it wore spiked
shoulder guards crudely fashioned from the breastplates of those it had slaughtered. It carried a massive,
double-headed axe, its blades rusted, but with a potent magical aura surrounding them.
The beast in the cave let out a single bray, guttural and wet, and the three supplicants advanced towards
it, their steps halting and unsure, though none wished to show weakness before the others. To do so would be
to die.
 The Shadow-Gave felt the breath of the gods sluicing through its body in a torrent of power and
exhaled it as a noxious cloud of dark, writhing mist. The mist pulsed with the essence of the north,
growing and billowing outwards to envelop the three who had come to stand in its presence.
Instantaneously, the creature with bronzed antlers collapsed, roaring in agony as its body was
gifted with the power of the gods and thrashing limbs and grasping, thorned pseudopods erupted from
its fluid flesh. The other two backed away from the howling creature spawned from the Shadow-
Gave's gifts and awaited their fate at the hands of the magical mist.
Both were enveloped by the miasmic cloud of sorcerous power and the Shadow-Gave felt their
will and ambition war with the power of change that seared through their veins. The bronze-skinned
centaur creature reared up on its hind legs, the dark spines on its back mutating into rippling tentacles
with snapping jaws. It lunged towards the Shadow-Gave with a shriek of bestial fury, but a massive,
clawed hand dragged it back, the huge bull-headed monster slashing its axe through the writhing
creature's midsection. Dark ichor sprayed from the wound, hot and stinking, and the Beastlord cried
out as its matted fur burned where the blood spattered then ran in rivulets down its fanged, bovine
features, scarring pale grooves in its face.
Its flesh darkened, taking on the bronze hue of the beast it had just killed and its breath smoked
with the heat of a furnace. It let out a mighty bellow, the very walls of the cave cracking at its din, and
the Shadow-Gave nodded in acceptance as the writhing black mist dispersed and faded from sight.
The massive beastman let out a great, snorting breath, its hide now dark and scaled, its horned
head scarred and burnt, but its flickering, multi-coloured eyes shone with purpose and power. It raised
its axe in a brief salute to the shaggy, horned creature at the centre of the cave and ripped one of the
chains from its armour, plunging a barbed hook into the screaming flesh of the thrashing creature that
had first succumbed to the Shadow-Gave's magic.
Without further ado, the Beastlord turned and marched from the darkness of the cave, leading the
snapping, howling spawn by the thick chain looped around a muscled forearm. Its thoughts
crystallised as it left the dank confines of the Shadow-Gave's lair, feeling the breath of cold air from
the mouth of the passageway.
It stepped into the cold light of day, feeling its eyes burn with its purity, and grunted in
satisfaction as it saw the gathered warherds. Hundreds of twisted bestial creatures awaited the return
of their leaders, braying minotaurs, growling beastmen, stamping centaur creatures and all manner of
things so blessed by the touch of the Dark Gods that any resemblance to the beasts of this world had
long since vanished.
As great a herd as it was, the Beastlord knew that many of these beasts would not survive the
winter, too malnourished and too weak to hunt what they needed to survive. The resurgence of the rat-
things in the high peaks had driven them from their hunting grounds and down the northern flanks of
the mountains.
The herds had bemoaned their fate, but the Beastlord now saw this for what it truly was — a sign
from the gods.
Now it was time to descend to the lands of men and feed once more.
The Beastlord led its chained spawn towards the monstrous host, revelling in their howls and
snorts of abasement — the touch of the Shadow-Gave was upon it and all the beasts could see its
favour. They gathered around the Beastlord, raising their bellowing voices in praise of the Dark Gods
as it marched through the herd.
Far below, the Beastlord could see a massive, sprawling expanse of forest, a patchwork of
browns, greens and golds, nestling at the foot of tall, snow-capped peaks of grey rock.
With his newly enhanced flesh he could smell the rank stench of earth magic emanating from the
forest and see the dimming power that radiated from its heart as winter closed in.
The Beastlord raised its axe and led the warherd towards the forest.