The Saga of Halgrim Skullhammer: Part 1

This is an account of the warband I brought to NEMO, the New England Mordheim Open, in May 2025. Part 1 is the text of a zine I brought with me to hand out to my opponents. It’s background lore to explain who my Marauders of chaos are and why they’re in Mordheim. Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4 are a sort of narrative battle report of the three games I played at NEMO.

Like all Norscans, Halgrim was raised to worship the gods. And the worship that the gods demand is to raid the empires and kingdoms of the south. To plunder their wealth, to burn their comforts, to strike their proud heads from their soft bodies, and return them to the offering pyres of the North.

But there is another form of worship demanded by the gods; one which few follow. And that is the path of the champion, the wandering hero, the Warrior of Chaos. It had been four generations since anyone from Halgrim’s tribe felt that Northward pull on their hearts. The legends of those tribal heroes captivated the young Halgrim and inspired him to ever more daring feats of glory.

His raids upon the Empire were infamous and his sword arm was strong, earning him the respect of his tribe, the fear of the weaklings in the south, and the epithet “Skullhammer.” But now that he had risen to the position of chieftain, the hollowness of his victories weighed on his mind. The gods wanted more from him and they were denying him the satisfaction and the glory of his triumphs. So he went North.

On his travels, he met many fellow aspiring champions. And he slew them all. Even the wild beasts seemed to be drawn to him as if they had been sent by the gods as a challenge. Or as sustenance. The further north he went, the more and more these beasts began to resemble the twisted nightmare legends of his people. He added even these horrors to his strength. It mattered not.

As he drew closer to the home of the gods at the top of the world, the champions he encountered grew in stature and bore the marks of the gods’ blessings upon their bodies. And as he slew them, they died with one name on their lips: VALKAATI! 

He kept one of the challengers alive long enough to learn more about this Valkaati. She was a queen, astride a great dragon, chosen by the gods to lead a vast army of champions to burn the Empire of Man to the ground. At last, Halgrim knew why he had been called. He would be part of that glorious army.

Three days before he first caught sight of the encampment, he smelled the smoke from their offering pyres and ash began to fall from the sky. As he approached, he heard the din of sparring. And he realized that the vast dry lakebed that stretched out before him was not a lakebed; it was an army.

Arriving at the gate of the encampment, Halgrim was stopped by two gigantic armored brutes. They lounged against the gate, looking more naturally at ease in their vast black plate armor than a man in fine silks would be able to. One of the armored giants was eating the leg meat of some pack beast by stuffing it through the open mouth grill of his helmet.

“What-” rumbled the first warrior, not bothering to finish chewing his meat.

“I’ve come to pay tribute to your lord Valkaati, and to offer her my sword.” Halgrim replied proudly.

“Ha! This southerner wants to join our warhost.” laughed the champion.

“’Southerner?!’” Halgrim bristled. “I am a chieftain of my people! I hail from-”

“We know where you’re from,” the second champion drawled dismissively. “Golden hair, a mail skirt that glitters like fish scales, pretty silver rings on your arms.”

“Norscan,” spat the first giant. “Go home, southerner. We have no need for fishermen or merchants in our host.”

Halgrim drew his sword, letting his wolf pelt cloak fall to the ground. No longer laughing, the armored brutes dropped their food and, hefting massive weapons, drew themselves up to their full height. They were easily a head taller than Halgrim, even accounting for the blessings that the gods had bestowed upon him.

“Wait,” came a voice,  “This one may be useful to me.” 

A figure emerged through the smoke beyond the gate. It seemed to slither as it moved. It was a man who, among normal men, would have seemed like a muscle bound giant. But next to Halgrim and the two champions at the gate, he  seemed slight. He had the palest skin Halgrim had ever seen. His hair was long, greasy, and pitch black. He walked with a strange gait that was hard for Halgrim to focus on and make sense of.  

As he passed through the smoke, Halgrim realized his head was not attached to his shoulders. It was floating  some inches above the living stump of his neck which still bled and oozed. The gristle pulsing and undulating with each wet syllable that slid from the figure’s mouth. 

Halgrim could feel the power of the gods radiating from his body like an aura of sickening un-light. The runic blade at his side seemed to smear and vibrate in Halgrim’s vision if he looked at it too directly. 

“SORCERER!”

A dreadful, pious awe gripped
Halgrim’s stout heart
And froze his
blood.

“I am the herald of Valkaati Blacksteel, Wyrm-Blessed, and Chosen of the Gods. If you wish to join this great warhost, you will have to prove yourself to me.”

At this Halgrim dropped to one knee, plunging his sword into the earth. “Command me, lord.”

“There is an artifact I seek in the south. As a Norscan, you have knowledge of the Empire.  You will be my guide.”

The sorcerer turned and barked a command in an ugly language which Halgrim did not understand. Five pale and hunched Tong Marauders lurched through the gate. One of them led a pack of twisted un-wolved by a chain. The bodies of the wolves were subtly wrong to Halgrim’s eyes, as if their anatomy refused to decide which form to ultimately take.

“I give you command of this warband. Impress me, and I will speak to Lord Valkaati on your behalf.”

Halgrim’s new warband made his skin crawl. But he steeled himself, for surely the eyes of all the gods were on this Valkaati Blacksteel and her warhost.

“I will not fail, my lord,” he said, rising to his feet. “But where do we begin to search for this artifact?”

A wet smile darkened the sorcerer’s face.  “In the city of Mordheim.”

Go to Part 2