The Mad Sun Packriders

When the dust rises on the horizon and the squabbling grows louder than the howls, it can only mean one thing: the Mad Sun Packriders are on the move. Unlike their elite cousins, these goblins don’t ride in small, disciplined bands—mostly because they’ve never heard of discipline. Instead, they come in noisy, jostling packs, their wolves snapping and snarling as much at each other as at the enemy. Each wolf is smaller, wirier, and meaner than the beasts ridden by the warlord’s chosen. What they lack in size, they make up for in sheer numbers and speed. A mob of them comes crashing in like a tide of fur, teeth, and badly aimed spears—less cavalry charge, more avalanche of chaos. At the head of the pack, a Champion bellows challenges that no one takes seriously, while the Bannerman waves a ragged scrap of cloth daubed with the blazing icon of the Mad Sun. Somewhere in the middle, a Musician blasts an off-key horn or bangs on something that might once have been a drum, keeping time that