The Real Problem

Hours had passed by the time Cash managed to pry himself away from the Wyrdfire Club.

It was dark outside, the night clamped across the top of the battlements of Rotefalk like a shutter on a lamp. The torches on the walls looked pitiful, the sentries below them even smaller.

From a certain point of view, the problem he faced was fascinating.

Given the troops at his disposal and knowing the ground outside the fort, he was pretty sure he could beat any given part of the enemy army.

Savage orcs? No problem, whittle them down at arms length with fire from ridge outside the fort, then crush the squabbling remnants with infantry and cavalry flankers.

The dead? Send witch hunters after the leadership, keep the bulk of the men together with the priests and the banners so they wouldn't panic.

Elves of Naggaroth? Swamp them with armoured rank and file, send elites round the back under cover of the pines along the edges of the pass. Hope that the Grey Wizard could deal with any of their sorceresses.

Ogres could chew on a heavy firing line of cannon and crossbow, as could a chaotic warband. Maybe even a staggered one, with one flank in front of the other. As the enemy closed, the front line could retreat under covering fire, giving the approaching foe the choice of changing target to the next flank and spending more time moving to engage, or chasing their original intended and getting hit from the back and sides.

Whatever actually turned up on the day, the men of Rotefalk could beat it, supposing the wizard's device actually worked. And that it wasn't all a trick of the enemy. And that Sigmar was listening to their prayers. And that he wasn't just getting bigheaded from listening to the garbage Croaker was spouting.

What was he even thinking of, agreeing to their plan? No way were any of that lot going to repay the favour. They just wanted his advice. If the plan worked, that would be his part done and dusted. He'd never see the reward, assuming Portrauber actually came up with one.

All the same. There was a remote chance. He looked up at the pitch black sky, rubbing his temples to clear his head. Another year out here, facing down gods only knew what, that would probably be the death of him. The crazed Khemrian necromancer last year was bad enough, or the demon-summoning cult of Vishnayizu the spring before. Nobody minded losing a toe here and there, or breaking a rib or three. But it all started adding up over the years. Cash already felt like he was more scar tissue than man. At some point, he'd just be walking gristle, just waiting for something to bash him up enough for it to count.

No, it was worth trying to get out.

But he could think of a couple of good reasons it wasn't going to work. Three, if you counted the plans he'd just seen. They were all terrible, produced by idiots with plenty of bravado and no common sense. But he could get round that, flatter them whilst changing a plan to one that would work.

First, he still had to pick one of them that he trusted enough to get behind. It was like picking which one of several barrels of poisonous snakes to plunge your naked arm into.

Then, he had to take into account the fact that it wasn't just one enemy army he'd be deploying against. The wizard's device could force them to turn up when and where he chose. But all of the enemy would still be coming. They'd have to win several fights in a row against different enemies.

And that, he knew, was a real problem.

-

So, Woff-fans, here's your conundrum! 

During the 'Boot, you'll be pitting your warbands against one another. These are, secretly and without your knowing it, the component parts of the colossal Woff-tide of Darkness* heading to Rotefalk Fortress. Exactly why they're fighting each other is yet to be revealed, but suffice for now to say that it's going to be really extremely compelling stuff once I've thought of it. 

But while you're busy fighting each other for Woff-Dominance*, spare a thought for Sergeant Cash and his tactical dilemma. 

Suppose that you had 3000 points of stout Empire troops at your disposal, including a single high level Grey wizard. 

And then suppose you could pick exactly which of the armies appearing at the Woffboot you could face off against. Even picking a particular list if more than one is being fielded. 

Once you've picked the order you'd fight them in, your Empire army can redeploy after each battle. But it doesn't get reinforcements - any troops who've either routed entirely off the field or been wiped out are lost to you for good. Damaged or routing troops go back to full strength through the magic of Woff-Vigour*.

This is all entirely optional, of course, and has no bearing whatsoever on the Woff-Results*. 

But I, General Kraken, do hereby undertake that if any single general manages to fight out these battles and win before Woffboot IX, I shall get them something nice for their army and paint it if that's desired. 

*Trademark pending