Iron Kingdoms Excursions: Season One Collection
Author: Darla Kennerud; Aeryn Rudel; Douglas Seacat
Date: 2014-09-11 04:00:00+00:00
Description: Take a short journey to adventure with Iron Kingdoms Excursions! Each season features six volumes, each containing three very short tales—1,500 words or less—about the people, creatures, and machines of Immoren. The Season One Collection gathers all eighteen previously released tales from the first season of Iron Kingdom Excursions into one book. Experience the Iron Kingdoms through the eyes of nine talented authors, including New York Times bestselling author Larry Correia, Hugo Award winner Howard Tayler, and Iron Kingdoms lead writer Douglas Seacat. Iron Kingdoms Excursions: Season One Coll
Publisher: Skull Island eXpeditions

IRON KINGDOMS

EXCURSIONS

SEASON ONE COLLECTION

LARRY CORREIA

ERIK SCOTT DE BIE

ORRIN GREY

DARLA KENNERUD

MICHAEL G. RYAN

AERYN RUDEL

DOUGLAS SEACAT

WILLIAM SHICK

HOWARD TAYLER

Cover by

NÉSTOR OSSANDÓN

CONTENTS

MAP

WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

STEP OUTSIDE

By Larry Correia

MOUTHS TO FEED

By Howard Tayler

A HERO’S END

By Aeryn Rudel

FAILURE TO IMPRESS

By Douglas Seacat

BEFORE DEATH, RETRIBUTION

By Erik Scott de Bie

STRAIGHT SHOOTER

By Aeryn Rudel

THE LAST HUNT

By William Shick

MURDER IN THE HONOR FIELDS

By Larry Correia

BOUND FOR HOME

By Michael G. Ryan

CALL OF THE CABER

By Howard Tayler

RAIDERS IN THE NIGHT

By William Shick

TONGUE-TIED

By Aeryn Rudel

SCRAP ANTE

By Howard Tayler

THE WORTHY

By Larry Correia

WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY

By Orrin Grey

REPLACEMENT PARTS

By Darla Kennerud

ANSWERING THE CALL

By Douglas Seacat

GENTLEMAN’S GAME

By William Shick

GLOSSARY

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

MAP

WELCOME TO
THE IRON KINGDOMS

The world you are about to enter is the Iron Kingdoms, a place where the power and presence of gods are beyond dispute, where mankind battles itself as well as all manner of fantastic races and exotic beasts, and where a blend of magic and technology called mechanika shape industry and warfare. Outside the Iron Kingdoms themselves—the human nations of the continent called Immoren—the vast and unexplored world of Caen extends to unknown reaches, firing the imaginations and ambitions of a new generation.

Strife frequently shakes these nations, and amid the battles of the region the most powerful weapon is the warjack, a steam-powered automaton that boasts great mobility, thick armor, and devastating weaponry. A warjack’s effectiveness is at its greatest when commanded by a warcaster, a powerful soldier-sorcerer who can forge a mental link with the great machine to magnify its abilities tremendously. Masters of both arcane and martial combat, these warcasters are often the deciding factor in war.

For the Iron Kingdoms, what is past is prologue. No event more clearly defines these nations than the extended dark age suffered under the oppression of the Orgoth, a brutal and merciless race from unexplored lands across the great western ocean known as the Meredius. For centuries these fearsome invaders enslaved the people of western Immoren, maintaining a vise-like grip until at last the people rose up in rebellion. This began a long and bloody process of battles and defeats. This rebellion would have been doomed to failure if a dark arrangement by the gods had not bestowed the Gift of Magic on the Immorese, unlocking previously undreamed-of powers.

Every effective weapon employed by the Rebellion against the Orgoth was a consequence of great minds putting arcane talents to work. Not only did sorcery allow evocations of fire, ice, and storm on the battlefield, but scholars combined scientific principles to blend technology with the arcane. Rapid advancements in alchemy gave rise to blasting powder and the invention of deadly firearms. Methods were developed to fuse arcane formulae into metal runeplates, creating augmented tools and weapons: the invention of mechanika. The culmination of these efforts was the invention of the first colossals, precursors to the modern warjack. These towering machines of war gave the Immorese a weapon the invaders could not counter. With the colossals the armies of the Rebellion drove the Orgoth from their fortresses and back to the sea.

The people of the ravaged lands drew new borders, giving birth to the Iron Kingdoms: Cygnar, Khador, Llael, and Ord. It was not long before ancient rivalries ignited between these new nations. Warfare became a simple fact of life. Over the last four centuries periodic wars have been broken up by brief periods of tense but wary peace, with technology steadily advancing all the while. Alchemy and mechanika have simultaneously eased and complicated the lives of the people of the Iron Kingdoms while evolving the weapons employed by their armies in these days of industrial revolution.

The most long-standing and bitter enmity in the region is that between Cygnar in the south and Khador in the north. The Khadorans are a militant people occupying a harsh and unforgiving territory. The armies of Khador have periodically fought to reclaim lands their forebears had once seized through conquest. The two smaller kingdoms of Llael and Ord were forged from contested territories and so have often served as battlegrounds between the two stronger powers. The prosperous and populous southern nation of Cygnar has periodically allied with these nations in efforts to check Khador’s imperial aspirations.

Just over a century ago, Cygnar endured a religious civil war that ultimately led to the founding of the Protectorate of Menoth. This nation, the newest of the Iron Kingdoms, stands as an unforgiving theocracy entirely devoted to Menoth, the ancient god credited with creating mankind.

In the current era, war has ignited with particular ferocity. This began with the Khadoran invasion of Llael, which succeeded in toppling the smaller kingdom in 605 AR. The fall of Llael ignited an escalating conflict that has embroiled the region for the last three years. Only Ord has remained neutral in these wars, profiting by becoming a haven for mercenaries. The Protectorate has launched the Great Crusade to convert all of humanity to the worship of Menoth. With the other nations occupied with war, this crusade was able to make significant gains and seize territories in northeastern Llael.

Other powers have been drawn into this strife, either swept up in events or taking advantage of them for their own purposes. The Scharde Islands west of Immoren are home to the Nightmare Empire of Cryx, which is ruled by the dragon Toruk and sends endless waves of undead and their necromantic masters to bolster its armies with the fallen of other nations. To the northeast the insular elven nation of Ios is host to a radical sect called the Retribution of Scyrah that is driven to hunt down human arcanists, whom they believe are anathema to their gods.

The savage wilds within and beyond the Iron Kingdoms contain various factions fighting for their own agendas. From the frozen north a disembodied dragon called Everblight leads a legion of blight-empowered warlocks and draconic spawn. The proud, tribal race known as the trollkin work to unite their once-disparate people to defend their lands. Deep in the wilds of western Immoren, a secretive order of druids commands nature’s beasts to oppose Everblight and advance their own various plans. Far to the east across the Bloodstone Marches, the warrior nation of the Skorne Empire marches inexorably closer, bent on conquering their ancient enemies in Ios as a step toward greater dominion. Shadowy conspiracies have arisen from hidden strongholds to play their own part in unfolding events. These include the Convergence of Cyriss, an enigmatic machine-cult that worships a distant goddess of mathematics, as well as their bitter enemies the cephalyx, a race of extremely intelligent and sadistic slavers who surgically transform captives into mindless drudges.

The Iron Kingdoms is a setting whose inhabitants must rely on heroes with the courage to defend them using magic and steel, whether in the form of rune-laden firearms or steam-driven weapons of war. The factions of western Immoren are vulnerable to corruption from within and subject to political intrigue and power struggles. All the while, opportunistic mercenaries profit from conflict by selling their temporary allegiance for coin or other favors. It is a world of epic legends and endless sagas.

Enter the Iron Kingdoms, and discover a world like no other!

STEP OUTSIDE

By Larry Correia

Doleth Island, Five Fingers, Ord, 602 AR

“Greetings, my large blue friend. I am Savio Montero Acosta, and I am hoping to engage you in a sword fight today.”

The trollkin pirate, Captain Gorth Splitskull, looked up at the human mercenary interrupting his supper. “Huh?”

The human swept his wide-brimmed hat off and made the sort of grand bow Tordorans favored. “A sword fight,” the man restated as he returned the hat to his shaved head. “My apologies for the interruption. Please, do not rush on my account. Once you finish, we can step outside and fight to the death at your convenience.”

There were two other trollkin warriors sitting at the table. Gorth looked to Skurl and Tormak, but they both looked as confused as he felt. Their ship, a heavy frigate, was between jobs, so they were passing time by spreading their coin across Five Finger’s seediest gambling halls, brothels, and taverns. Gorth had been having a good day up until now.

“Acosta, is it? Get lost before I have Tormak here pull your arms off,” Gorth warned.

Tormak gave a menacing growl. The sound carried through the packed establishment well enough to make all the thugs, criminals, cutthroats, and pirates at the nearest tables back away.

Not Acosta. “Ah, but unlike with your kind, my limbs would not grow back should you tear them off. How could the two of us have a proper sword fight then?”

Gorth shoved the rest of his pigeon into his mouth and chewed it, bones and all, as he sized up the Ordsman. The man looked lean and tough. Acosta was one of the darker-skinned humans, so he probably had some Sinari ancestry, but he talked and acted like a Tordoran. His armored great coat was open, revealing the hilt of a sword.

Gorth pointed a gigantic finger at Acosta’s chest. “I’m gonna finish my ale, and if you’re still here when I’m done, I’m gonna squish you like a bug. The owner’ll have to buy new carpet on account of all the bloodstains. Then me and my boys are gonna drag you out into the street and kick your head around until your body parts are spread so far the Watch accuses me of littering. And then I’m gonna take my ship to whatever backwater hole spawned you and bombard it so hard your mother will think the Orgoth are back.”

Acosta smiled. “Convenient. I was born just across the channel on Captain’s Isle. You would not have far to go.”

Since becoming a pirate Gorth had fought with and against a whole mess of humans from several different kingdoms, so he knew a dangerous human when he met one. It was the way Acosta’s face smiled but his eyes didn’t that tipped him off. It was a very eerie smile, and for the first time, Gorth felt a twinge of nervousness. This particular Ordsman was a stone-cold killer.

“Are you insane?”

“Some have said such things, but I do not believe so, no. Do you mind if I join you?” Rather than wait for a response, he pulled out the last empty chair at their table and sat down between Tormak and Skurl. Acosta was tall for a human, but he looked tiny between Gorth’s muscular crewmembers. “It would be polite to offer to buy you another drink, but I do not wish for your abilities to be in any way impaired when we duel.”

Gorth ran one big hand through his quills. This madman’s interruption was growing tiresome. “Time’s about up.” To show how little he cared about being drunk, he began chugging down the rest of his gigantic pitcher of ale.

Acosta shook his head sadly. “Now you shall be at a disadvantage.”

“Don’t you know who you’re talking at?” Skurl demanded.

“Of course. Do you think I go about challenging every pirate I see to a duel? That would be very wearying in Five Fingers, I assure you. This is Gorth Splitskull, captain of the Rampage and a rather fearsome combatant by his reputation.”

“So you know us, but you’re still picking a fight?” Skurl asked as he pulled a dagger from his vest. “I’m about done with the likes of y—”

There was a flash of movement, a cry of pain, and a thud, and by the time Gorth had lowered his pitcher, Skurl was staring at his lost dagger and severed fingers, which lay on top of his supper plate, still wiggling. Acosta hadn’t moved from his chair, but his arms were spread wide and a knife had appeared in each hand. Their razor-sharp tips were pressed against Gorth’s warriors’ throats. Tormak had frozen, too afraid even to swallow.

The room had heard the dagger hitting the table and had gone quiet. The only sound was Skurl’s whimpering.

Gorth nodded and set down the empty pitcher. “You’re quick.”

“In Five Fingers, you don’t live long otherwise.” The knives didn’t waver from the necks of the two trollkin. The politeness was gone, replaced with a menacing tone. “Are you ready to step outside, Captain? I’d rather not kill you here. I often gamble in this establishment, and sometimes I even win.”

“Why do you want to fight me so bad?”

“A reasonable question with two answers. Recently you sank a vessel that had a friend of mine aboard. My friend drowned. I do not have many friends.”

“Well, that’s surprising.”

“That alone would necessitate revenge, but you are also reputed to be very good with the blade, and I am something of a collector of challenges. You could say it is a personal quest. Be thankful for that, otherwise I would have simply shot you in the face already. I hope you provide enough of a challenge that I may gain something from the experience, but either way, you die.”

Gorth went for his sword.

“Disappointing.” There had been nothing new to be learned from this event.

Standing over the three dead trollkin, Savio Montero Acosta glanced around the room as he cleaned his sword on the cloth Splitskull had worn that showed his kriel’s quitari. The patrons, despite being a rough and seedy lot, were all staring at him in astonishment. At least there had been many witnesses to the fight. As his legend grew, more interesting challengers would seek him out, looking to test themselves.

He would best every last one or die trying.

The owner of the establishment rushed in with his guards, saw the bodies, and then saw Acosta sheathing his sword. “Damn it, Acosta! Not again!”

The swordsman tossed him Gorth’s coin purse.

“I did ask him to step outside.”

MOUTHS TO FEED

By Howard Tayler

Omok was tired and hungry, and he was only going to get hungrier. But hunger was not his primary concern now.

“You greedy-dumb fish-brains,” hissed Mamman-Shiha, the swamp gobber clan matriarch. She clenched her gnarled grey hands into fists and planted them firmly on her hips. Omok shrank away from her and looked to his younger sister Lili for support.

“It’s Omok’s fault, Mamman,” Lili said. “Omok is greedy-dumb and strong-smelly.” She waved at the tank on Omok’s back. “He is good for carrying the smoke but terrible for talking. He talked to the she-gator, Grakka the bokor, and told her all our scouting, then asked for more food. Grakka said no, said she was hungry too, said leave or she’d eat us.”

Mamman’s deep-set eyes widened with anger. “Liliganamatakka PFFTHAK,” she spat. “If you knew him to be smelly-strong and talking clumsy, why didn’t you speak to Grakka? I’ll tell you why. You are just as greedy-dumb. You hold the hose to his tank, and he pumps the smoke to your cloud, but you turn on him? You feed him to me like he is actual fish, not just fish-brained? Shame-filth, Lili.”

Omok groaned under the weight of his full smoke tank. “Mamman-Shiha, I am sorry,” he said. “I know the family is hungry-tired. Grakka paid only scrimpy-scant, enough food only for Lili and me. I thought maybe for the best sneaking she would pay more.”

Mamman lowered her ears and narrowed her eyes. “Talk deeper into the dark water, little deep-thinking fish-brain,” she said, a traditional warning that this conversation might have a hungry dracodile at its end, ready to swallow those who thought themselves too clever.

Omok shut his mouth.

“I am sorry, Mamman,” said Lili. She turned to Omok. “Sorry to you too. Scared and hungry, not thinking.”

Mamman nodded.

“Omok did do good scouting,” his sister said, her head lowered. “We found the farrow camp, and Omok counted every snout. No stitch-monsters, no rockets. Besides one bristle-boar they had only guns and blades. Then clever Omok thought maybe they were actually tasty-bait, a trap for Grakka’s pod, so he looked further.” She turned to Omok, and shrugged. “You tell her.”

“These farrow are wandering-lost, fish-brains. They camped too close to the dark water. Grakka’s pod could sneak-swim close, then pounce. Kill all, take all, maybe without losing a single tooth or tail,” Omok said.

Mamman-Chief shook her head. “Oh deep-thinker, the water had you undone. You planned for Grakka a battle that gobbers had no part in. Grakka has never wanted my poisons or potions and laughs at the clan’s short blades. With the cover of black water and darkest morning, the ever-hungry, never-happy bokor does not need your smoke. So why pay you, or any of us?”

Omok sank under the weight of the unused smoke. He and Lili had the only thing the clan could sell to the gators, and now he’d soured even that.

“The fish-brain wanderers, did they have food?” Mamman asked. “What would they pay us for a warning? For a morning fog under which to quick-flee?”

“Oh, no,” said Lili. “I mean yes, they had sacks and barrels in a broken-wheel wagon, but it is death to help them. Fog or fresh air, Grakka’s pod will end these farrow. If they are warned, the end will come under sunlight, and Grakka will know it was us, and I so very not-want what follows that.”

Omok nodded, and then he had a dangerous, clever, silly idea.

“Mamman,” he said, his stomach growling at the thought of a winter foraging through swamp duff for food. “Uncle Tin could easy-switch a new wheel, could do it with closed eyes even. If we leave swift-quick, with our very best sneak, we could take the wagon in the dark, ahead of Grakka-Bokor’s attack.”

Mamman’s frown became a smile, which spread all the way to her flattened ears. “Greedy-dumb Omok thinks like running water now.” She pointed at the heavy tank on his back. “Trade with Lili. You, Omok, take the nozzle, and soft-step as our sneaky first-feet.” She drew a long, oiled knife and spun it deftly in her gnarled hands. “The family will follow.”

A sliver of Calder hung in the sky, plenty of light for Omok and the clan to see but too dim for most other two-legged folk. He twisted the nozzle, teasing the flow forward. In battle there was never this caution, only the full hiss of a rushing cloud. Now, though, the fog needed to spread silently. He swept the nozzle to his left and right, giving it another twist for a longer throw. The nozzle cooled under his hand as the mixing liquids of his family’s secret formula drew in heat and expanded into a heavy fog that slowly rolled toward the farrow camp. It was a dense, yet shallow cloud that would allow in some moonlight from above by which to work but would fully screen the gobbers from the dim-sighted farrow on the ground.

“Too slow,” whispered Lili in a voice so low it might have been wind.

“Haste is noisy,” he whispered back. “We wait.”

He relaxed into the sweeping rhythm and the gentle billowing of the smoke.

After a thousand heartbeats, his hands were numb under the cold nozzle, and fog enveloped the farrow camp.

“Done waiting,” Omok said, cutting the flow and handing the nozzle back to Lili. He padded forward, eyes wide, feet silent. His fog was perfect, shifting in thick patches to further confuse the eyes. It blanketed the sleeping farrow in their bristle-stinky heaps, and it pooled heavily around the wagon, which had a log propped under the axle of the broken front wheel. That would save Uncle Tin some time.

A chuffing sound stopped Omok, and he crouched motionless. Beyond the wagon a large, scarred farrow stood watch, leaning heavily against a tree. His pole-cleaver sat loosely in the crook of his arm, and his hand was tucked into his belt. The dumb-tired fool was standing watch asleep on his feet.

Omok padded back to Lili and the others. “A guard sleep-stands against a tree. The rest are pig-piled on bedrolls. We go.”

The clan followed Omok back to the wagon, their footfalls whisper-quiet on the loam. Uncle Tin rolled a replacement wheel with one hand and carried a pail of heavy grease in the other. He wore his belt of black tools painted in tar for sneaky work. With the grease, Uncle Tin could quiet the wagon when it was repaired.

There was the chuffing sound again. Omok stopped in place, stock-still and silent.

“That’s not a snore-snort,” said Lili, pointing to the guard.

Omok closed his eyes and tugged on his ears. The sound came from below and behind the useless guard. Stupid-hurry dumb-greedy cocky!

“Bristle-boar is awake,” he said. “Staked to drink from the water, that way. No noise, no riling. Fog muddies our scent.” He turned to Uncle Tin. “Silent hurry, still safe.”

Uncle Tin began the repair, making it look even easier than Omok thought it would be. The tarred tools were whisper-silent, except for a single thump as Tin drove the cotter pin into place at the end.

It was one thump too many. The farrow against the tree stirred and then opened his eyes wide against the fog. Blind, surely, but if he raised an alarm they were lost.

Mamman-Shiha was already behind the waking guard. Omok watched helplessly. Even if she killed him quietly, his body might show signs that the clan had been here, signs Grakka might read.

The guard went limp and collapsed. Mamman-Shiha leapt forward as he fell and caught his polearm as it dropped. She flashed Omok a wide, wicked grin, laid the farrow’s big weapon on the ground, and held up a dart.

“Sleepy guard will wake in time to meet hungry Grakka.”

Omok let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Ugly-clunk wagon,” cursed Tin. “Heavy and stuck. Can’t pull.”

Omok and Mamman-Shiha slipped back to the wagon where the others had gathered. The wagon held a full winter’s worth of food, probably stolen on its way to a war somewhere else. Loaded like this, it was more than the clan could pull.

But not more than a heavy-strong all-fours bristle-boar could pull.

Omok hopped up into the wagon and grabbed a sack of onions.

“Omok,” said Mamman-Shiha, “what silly-smart thing just sprouted between your ears?”

“Fish-brained and clever-silly,” said Omok, holding an onion. “If bristle-boar likes sweet onions, it may pull,” Omok said.

The yoked bristle-boar pulled enthusiastically, ever-chasing, never-catching the onion that Omok dangled in front of it. Lili and Omok’s cousins scrambled back and forth behind the wagon, masking the churned ground of their passing and collecting the bristle-boar’s scat.

As the sky brightened Omok heard the sounds of a noisy fight-meal in the distance—roaring and screaming. No prisoners, not with Grakka’s pod.

“Greedy gatormen won’t miss onions and apples,” said Mamman from her seat next to Omok. “Grakka feasts on farrow.”

“All but our onion-craving, hungry hero,” said Omok, bouncing the onion in front of the massive, yoked bristle-boar.

“Omok, friend-to-animals, can build our hero a house in the village,” said Mamman with a wry smile. “A smoke-house.”

Omok smiled back. He liked the bristle-boar, but he liked bacon better.

A HERO’S END

By Aeryn Rudel

Primus Xicus’ swords had become part of him, extensions of his will made manifest in twin arcs of glittering steel. The Iosans, the toksaa, could not stop him; they could only die, falling in plumes of crimson beneath the scything sweep of his blades. He would not let his own wounds hinder him: a shattered bone in his right leg, a piece of broken blade transfixing a lung, and a gash in his abdomen through which a single loop of pink intestine protruded. Hoksune demanded that he fight until his body simply would not allow him to go on.

The battle had largely moved past him, and he fought the last of his enemies on a field soaked with blood and strewn with skorne and Iosan corpses. He and his brother Praetorians had battled their foes until only he and one final enemy remained. The Iosan leader was splattered with gore, his white armor nearly as red as Xicus’ own. The toksaa officer was skilled and precise, and he had deftly cut down many skorne with a great two-handed sword. He was a worthy opponent, and Xicus stepped forward to face him.

The Iosan brought his sword down in a low guard, hilt at his belly and four feet of steel projecting forward. It was the proper defensive stance against an opponent armed with shorter weapons. Xicus nodded and advanced, gritting his teeth against the pain that suddenly settled into his flesh now that the rush from fighting had ebbed. His body was remembering its wounds, reminding him that death was imminent. He had no time to spar with this Iosan. His strength was waning, and it would fail long before he could penetrate this enemy’s defenses.

Xicus charged, throwing a high cut with his right blade and a rising low cut with his left. The Iosan grimaced and took a single step back, just out of reach of the high cut, then flicked his sword out as Xicus quickly shuffle-stepped forward to bring the low strike into range. Their blades came together with the ring of steel on steel, the sound rebounding upon the great wall of the elven fortress behind them—the wall his supreme archdomina had cracked open, the wall that could not hold back the great Army of the Western Reaches.

He and the Iosan were close to one another now, and Xicus saw in his opponent’s eyes grim determination, anger, and, behind it all, fear. The Iosan feared the end; he feared death. In this, Xicus had already defeated him. To die in battle was the very heart of hoksune, the warrior’s code. There was no better death and no other way to cheat the Void awaiting all skorne souls. Xicus had no fear, only the hope he would be deemed worthy to join the exalted and his soul would be preserved.

Xicus took a step back, ducking under the Iosan’s return stroke. His blades had become heavy, and he felt cold creeping from the great gash in his belly and spreading to his arms and legs. He staggered backward, and his right leg buckled beneath him. The Iosan, sensing his advantage, lunged, and Xicus lurched forward to meet him. The Iosan’s blade punctured Xicus’ breastplate, and he accepted his enemy’s weapon into his body, trapping it there within the prison of his own flesh and bone. Realizing too late that his skewering thrust would not kill his foe immediately, the Iosan tried to yank the weapon free. Xicus pushed toward his enemy, sliding along the blade that impaled him, riding a final surge of adrenaline that gave him the strength to bring both his swords up, slashing. The Iosan’s head came away from his neck, splashing Xicus’ face with wet, red warmth. Headless, the Iosan toppled to the ground, leaving his blade jutting from Xicus’ chest like a great silver fang.

Xicus sagged to his knees, strength and vitality fleeing his battered flesh. His vision grew cloudy, but he saw Makeda, her banners flapping in the wind, leading hundreds of skorne warriors through the breach in the enemy wall. Tears stung his eyes at the sight of what he had helped create: conquest in a new land.

He fell over backward, and the point of the Iosan’s blade dug into the earth, pinning him to what would be his last battlefield. His vision shrank, the edges of the world hemming in until he looked down a long, narrow tunnel. His mind faded, spiraling toward darkness, and he wondered distantly if the Void was simply a state of not being, an unending nothingness.

The blackness grew, and he realized someone stood over him casting a long shadow across his body. Xicus closed his eyes as he accepted the end, but before the nothingness swallowed him completely, he saw a black sky glittering with a field of crimson stars.

There was no way to measure time within the comfort and peace of a sacral stone. His voice was one of many that existed alongside the great spirit of the ancestral guardian, a skorne hero who had died many centuries earlier and who had been awakened at the behest of the supreme archdomina. There were other voices too, fragments of thoughts and emotions from others like himself, those deemed worthy enough to be rescued from the Void for deeds of martial renown.

Now Xicus was awake, and he could no longer hear the voices of the others. He could hear only the extoller standing before him. The skorne mystic stared at him with one eye of flesh and blood and another of cold stone—the crystal oculus that could see into the spirit world. Behind the extoller were blocks of black stone upon which skorne workers toiled with hammer and chisel. One of the blocks resembled a massive stone warrior.

“You are Xicus of House Zhuron,” the extoller said, his occulus flashing with silver light, “once of the Praetorian caste.”

“I am . . . Xicus.” The sound of his voice was deep, resonant, and alien. The name held no meaning to him; it was simply a word, an echo of something he might once have been.

“Take up your weapon, Xicus,” the extoller said and gestured at a great sword of black stone leaning against an unworked block of the same substance. The mystic’s crystal eye glowed silver again, and Xicus found the radiance oddly compelling.

Xicus took a step. The sound was that of a mallet striking a boulder, and his movements, though slow, felt inexorable and full of purpose. He walked the few short paces and grasped the massive blade by its hilt. He knew it weighed as much as an armored skorne warrior, but to him it was light and well balanced, as a good sword should be.

The extoller moved past him and opened a set of broad double doors. Harsh sunlight streamed in, but it did not blind Xicus. He saw the shining desert beyond and the glaring sun beating down, but all was diffused, muted, as if he were viewing the world through a thin shroud. It looked like his homeland, but Xicus knew it could not be.

“Join your brothers, Xicus,” the extoller said. “Go forth and fight again. Your supreme archdomina has need of you.”

Xicus stepped through the doors and out onto a huge field of baked earth. He glanced around and saw the walls of a great fortress rising behind him. Ahead, rank upon rank of motionless black figures waited, their stone bodies silent and terrible, their hands grasping great swords—like his own, each ready and sharp. As one, the immortals turned to face their newest brother, and Xicus heard their mental voices, the welcoming susurrus of pride, purpose, and strength.

He saw before him a field of heroes, and he went to stand among them.

FAILURE TO IMPRESS

By Douglas Seacat

Approaching Bottomton, Ordic Coast, 608 AR

Kiel gripped the railing with what little strength remained to him as the deck swayed mercilessly beneath his feet. It was a motion he should have been accustomed to after more than a month at sea, but his body refused to adapt. His eyes swam, his head spun, and he felt his stomach clench as it tried to eject what wasn’t there. He retched and tasted blood. He was weak from hunger and dehydration, and his mouth and throat were raw.

This particular rail had become very familiar to him, something of an old friend—his only friend, it seemed. As the nausea faded somewhat, he became aware of several people talking nearby, not bothering to lower their voices.

“He be the worst maggot we ever brought aboard. A cursed day, the day we found him.”

Kiel glanced behind him and saw several experienced sea dogs glowering in his direction. He was used to stares from passing sailors as he was retching off the rails, but this hostile gathering was new. The current speaker was a particularly large and ornery pirate named Bloodeye, a man prone to the kind of heavy drinking that led to days of angry hangovers. His eyes were as red and inflamed as his name suggested.

“We’re almost to Bottomton,” said Whiskers-Jim, a short, lean pirate with an oiled moustache. “I say push him into the deep before we get there. Save us the trouble of chasing him down after we make landfall.”

Bloodeye grinned in a way Kiel didn’t like at all and said, “Should have thrown him over weeks ago.”

A pudgy sailor called Waddle said, “Now, now. Shae don’t take kindly to drowning lubbers. We can probably get a bit of coin for him somewhere. At least make something for our trouble.”

Whiskers-Jim sucked a tooth. “Too bad we’re not headed to Blackwater. Could sell him for necrotechs’ meat. Not that he’s much more than skin and bone.”

“I heard Doc knows someone in Bottomton might pay for a live body,” said Waddle. “Apothecary up past the Choke needs someone to test his mixtures on, see what’s poison and what’s not. Bet he’d pay a few gold to keep ol’ Waterspout here chained up in the basement.”

Kiel couldn’t tell if they were serious or just trying to scare him, but they didn’t seem to be joking.

“Doc might use him for a bit o’ butchery practice,” Bloodeye said with another fiendish grin. “Course, then he’d wind up in the stew.” He said this last with a grimace.

Bloodeye’s disgust actually hurt Kiel’s feelings—now he wasn’t even good enough to be supper? “I didn’t even want to be a sailor!” he protested, but his raspy wail only prompted laughter from the pirates.

It had all started when he made the mistake of getting drunk at a dockside tavern in Clockers Cove, near the warehouse that employed him as a clerk. He’d known the tavern to be a rough establishment, full of dangerous sailors from ports unknown. Locals gave the place a wide berth, but he had been feeling adventurous and in need of diversion. He had woken with a splitting headache on the deck of the pirate ship Talion, already under full steam in open water. Seasickness was to become his constant companion, a brief and unpleasant reprieve from the floggings he received for failing to do the work required of him. He had discovered that many of the veteran sea dogs had gotten their start by being kidnapped and pressed into service, though all had adapted faster and better than he.

Whiskers-Jim stopped laughing. “I was there, you liar!” he said. “You bragged you’d been sailing since you were a lad. Went on about all the ports you’d seen. Even talked Bloodeye into buying you an ale!”

The truth was Kiel couldn’t remember a single thing from that night. “I was drunk!” he protested, still clutching the rail. “I counted boxes at Hornsby Shipping. I’d never even been on a boat that wasn’t docked. I’m no pirate.”

“Well, that’s plain enough now,” Bloodeye said. To his companions he added, “No one’s going to miss him, either way. Let’s put him over the side.”

As Bloodeye stepped toward him, Kiel could do nothing but tremble and hold onto the rail. There was nowhere to run, even if he’d had the strength.

A calm voice spoke up from behind the gathered sea dogs. “Bloodeye, leave him to me.”

The group backed off, and behind them Kiel saw one of Talion’s officers—Bosun’s Mate Argan Grath, assistant to the trollkin in charge of the decks. Bloodeye looked between the bosun’s mate and Kiel and shrugged. “No skin off my back.” With that, he and the others slunk away.

Kiel forced himself to release the railing and stand straight, wiping his mouth on a ragged sleeve and mustering what dignity he could. “Thank you, Bosun’s Mate.”

“Sure, Kiel. Everyone deserves a second chance. Come with me.” Grath steered Kiel toward the main deck with an arm around his shoulders but then gave a nod to someone behind them. The world went dark as coarse sackcloth came down over Kiel’s head and he was thrown roughly over someone’s shoulder.

Kiel stopped struggling once it became clear it was useless. He soon heard the sounds of the ship docking and tromping boots. As he was carried off the ship, he could not help but think of the sea dogs’ words regarding his possible fate, and he found himself weighing the possibilities. Being a slave wasn’t so different from being an impressed sailor, he figured, but the notion of sampling poisons or being cut up for stew made him want to retch anew. He fought down his nausea, not relishing the notion of being sick while his head was in a sack.

Before long he was set down on a hard-backed chair, and the sack was yanked free. He blinked and saw he was inside a cramped office, directly before a broad desk heaped with stacks of papers and ledgers. Behind it sat Lord Rockbottom, the one-legged dwarf who was the Talion’s paymaster and the de facto mayor of the pirate town. The only other thing Kiel knew about him was that he was fond of burning people alive with his fire-belching gun.

Behind Kiel, Grath said, “This one might do. Can’t go an hour without retching. Grogspar wants him off the ship.”

Rockbottom’s eyes narrowed. “Are you literate? Read that,” he demanded, indicating the shipping mark branded on a crate against the wall.

Kiel’s heart was hammering, and he squinted to focus. “Um, lessee . . . Mercarian League. Carter and Wainway Exports. Mercir. Fragile. Do not upend.”

Rockbottom grunted and pushed a ledger toward him, tapping at a tightly scrawled list with numbers to the side. “Give me the total of the right-hand column.”

Kiel tried to focus and began adding the numbers in his head. Not easy with no quill to mark his progress, but it was a familiar task. “E-eleven thousand seven hundred and eight?”

Rockbottom’s scowl smoothed and he nodded. He turned and said sharply, “Mr. Baggerly!”

A pale man wearing a soiled visor leaned back from another desk beyond a set of shelves. “Yes, sir?”

“You’re fired! Get back to the ship.”

Looking relieved, Baggerly stood and came forward, pulling off the visor to drop it next to Rockbottom. “Thank you, sir!” he said, scrambling past Grath and out of the office as quickly as his feet could take him.

Rockbottom flipped a bright gold coin through the air to Grath, who caught it, offered a bow, and strolled out of the office. Kiel watched him go, then turned to see Rockbottom holding out the visor. He took it, mouth agape.

“Baggerly couldn’t do sums to save his life,” the dwarf said. “You work for me now. No more sailing, no more dreams of a share of the spoils. You’re mine until I have no more use for you. You’ll do inventory and double-check sums. You’ll work twelve hours a day. Steal from me and I’ll cut off one of your hands. You’ll get room and board and a salary commensurate with your speed and accuracy. You’ll treat my orders as scripture. Understood?”

Tears welled in Kiel’s eyes as he realized at last that he was not going to be killed or put back on a ship. He sat up straighter and said, “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir. You won’t regret this, I promise!”

BEFORE DEATH, RETRIBUTION

By Erik Scott de Bie

Eastern Occupied Llael, 607 AR

“Ly-Veld, lyss Scyr,” she whispered. Her mission had failed. She felt numb, already dead.

Spittle and blood flew from Nyr’s mouth as the Winter Guard punched her down. The cold, hard-packed floor slammed into her head hard enough to make the musty pit of a root cellar spin.

The younger of the two Khadorans fidgeted uneasily. He was short for a human and had a thin, weedy voice. The Iosan had learned Khadoran, but she found it sometimes difficult to follow their dialect. “Do not kill her, Voltok. Magziev Skalzi—”

“I know what the Skinner says, Rhold.” Voltok’s elbow smashed into Nyr’s nose and she twisted on the floor, shuddering. Her middle felt like something had crawled into it and died. She spat blood and spittle to clear her mouth, sending two distinct stabbing pains through her ribs. She tried to ignore them, praying to both Lyliss and Scyrah for strength.

Voltok cracked his knuckles where he stood over her, his hands wrapped in blood-encrusted bandages. He nodded to the door. “Report to the tower—tell the magziev the prisoner will talk soon.”

Rhold frowned. “And leave you alone with the prisoner?”

“I can handle her.” Voltok drew himself up. “That was an order.”

“Yes, sir.” Rhold hesitated a moment at the stairs, looking back with that odd expression. Sympathy, perhaps? Then he was gone.

Voltok loomed over Nyr as she lay at his feet, her chest heaving. He was a big man—his shoulders were as broad as an axe was long, his arms the size and shape of cannons. He’d set his helmet and gauntlets aside, the better to enjoy the brutality. He had every reason to be confident.

Nyr glared at him. He seized her throat and lifted her to her knees.

“The Skinner wants to know what your band is doing in western Llael, so far from home. Your friends were much easier to kill than you. What makes you special? Why are you here?”

Nyr thought of her duty and kept silent, even when another ringing punch opened her lip. “Ly-Veld, lyss Scyr,” she murmured.

“What?” Voltok bent over her, craning his head toward her cracked lips. “What did you say?”

Nyr lunged upward, seized his throat in her mouth, and bit down.

The soldier didn’t even have time to scream before she cut off his air. His hands opened and closed in confused spasms, and she locked her jaw like a hunting dog seizing a prize. He scrabbled at her head, but his fingers slipped in her blood. Choking and gurgling, Voltok managed to get his hands on her shoulders, and Nyr wrenched away just as he pushed with strength born of terror. They came apart with a grinding, squelching sound, and blood exploded over Nyr’s face. Voltok’s scream came out as a gurgling red fountain from his torn throat. He collapsed.

Nyr, who had earned the epithet Lingering Death, stood over the man’s shuddering corpse and spat out a gory chunk of flesh. “Before death,” she said, her Khadoran heavily accented but clear enough, “retribution.” Nyr shed her manacles with the key from Voltok’s belt, ignoring the pain ripping through her splintered middle.

She headed up the stairs from the cellar. She found Vyshkyr—her chain blade—hanging on a hook near the top of the stairs. The familiar weight of the chopping blade and chain reassured her.

The door across the small room opened. “Voltok—” Rhold stopped short and stared at the blood-smeared Nyr. He reached for his pistol.

“Ly-Veld, lyss Scyr,” she said and hurled the chain blade.

Rhold jerked to the side, but the blade bit into his neck, splattering blood against the wall in a wide arterial spray. He clamped a hand to his neck, staggered, and fell to the floor.

Knowing she could be detected at any moment, Nyr paused at the gasping soldier’s side only long enough to pull the pistol from his limp hand. Then she wrapped Vyshkyr’s chain around her arm and ran out into a broad, snow-covered field. Several other buildings were arranged on the perimeter, and she smelled the stench of burning flesh. Two Khadoran soldiers—Winter Guard—shouted from the direction of an old guard tower. The Greylord she had to kill would be there.

The first Winter Guard raised his blunderbuss and fired. The shot exploded into the snow several feet from her. She ran at him and hurled Vyshkyr, pointing her left arm at her target. The blade sank into the soft spot under the man’s arm, piercing lungs and heart. He collapsed into the red-stained snow even as Nyr vaulted his corpse, yanking her weapon free.

The second soldier took the time to aim, but she hesitated too long. The Iosan leaped back and forth, whirling the chain blade around her. The Winter Guard fired, and the bullet exploded into the ground a few inches from Nyr’s right foot. Nyr ignored the agony in her legs and leaped up the steps to the tower, snapping Vyshkyr’s blade back into her hand. The Khadoran’s blue eyes went wide, and Nyr slashed her blade across the woman’s throat. The soldier’s head bounced down the steps.

Nyr stood before the door, refocusing. Her faith had allowed her to get this far, to endure watching seven of her fellow Iosans slaughtered. Only now did she recognize what her mind had taken in at a glance: near the steps, a charnel pile of several slim Iosan corpses, blackened and left to smoke in the winter air. They had been her escort, brave mage hunters every one. She saw them now as a sacrifice necessary to get her inside so she could kill the Greylord butcher they called the Skinner. This had not been Nyr’s original target, but now she saw the hand of the divine in delivering her here.

She heard muffled shouts from one of the other buildings. The soldiers would not be delayed by uncertainty and confusion for long. She pushed open the door and slipped inside.

Nyr felt like she’d stepped into a bank of warm fog. Grotesque smells mingled in the humid air, and beakers and other paraphernalia surrounded her, boiling over and emitting the foul vapors of a tannery. She reeled, fighting for breath, but then shook it off. Move! she told herself.

Too late.

A spear made of ice stabbed into her gut, nailing her to wall. She dropped Vyshkyr and grasped at the ice, which burned her fingers.

“Welcome,” a brawny human woman said. The magziev was sweaty in her white undershirt spattered with black, crusted blood, and her arms were stained red to the elbows. “I had hoped Voltok would learn more from you before bringing you here. But so be it.”

By Scyrah, the woman speaks Iosan! How did she learn our tongue? Nyr tried to move, but the pain in her middle was excruciating. Numbness crept outward into her body, and the blood pooling around the wound froze solid.

“I’ve long hoped for the opportunity to ply my trade against Iosans,” Magziev Skalzi said. She set down her skinning knife next to the red-and-purple form of a flayed corpse on the gore-stained table. She nodded to a carefully stitched coat of tanned skin on a frame behind her. “You have such lovely skin.”

There was a reason Analia Skalzi’s men called her the Skinner.

A smile cracked the woman’s deranged face, and blue runes danced around her left hand. Nyr gritted her teeth at the thought of dying to human magic.

“You are strong,” Skalzi said. “Voltok was hard on you. You can rest now.”

Nyr brought up the pistol she’d taken from Rhold. It shook in her fist.

Skalzi’s eyes widened, but she cloaked herself in freezing, shielding magic. “Such determination is admirable, but so is wisdom to know when you are beaten.”

Nyr pulled the trigger. The shot pierced through the ice shield to blow half the Skinner’s mouth away.

Skalzi collapsed to the floor, her eyes wide with shock. Nyr knew the Greylord couldn’t fathom how her magic had failed to stop a bullet from a crude Khadoran pistol. Nyr’s ability to slay mages relied on her conviction and faith, not the weapon she wielded.

Nyr wrenched herself free of the icy spear. Blood soaking her middle, she half-limped, half-crawled to the choking Khadoran, dragging Vyshkyr behind her. She pulled in the chain and raised the blade high over the Skinner’s ruined face. The woman sputtered, leaking blood and spit.

“Ly-Veld, lyss Scyr,” Nyr said. “Before death, retribution.”

Then a shot took her in the chest. The air went out of Nyr’s lungs, and she wavered on her knees. She glanced back and saw Rhold leaning heavily against the doorframe, his blunderbuss in one hand, the other holding a stained bandage to his bleeding neck. He looked pale. He would not outlive her long.

Feeling bitter triumph, she brought down the blade with the last of her strength.

STRAIGHT SHOOTER

By Aeryn Rudel

“Hey, Valkar,” Kurn whispered to the dwarf walking in front of him. “You got any uiske?”

Valkar glanced over his armored shoulder and scowled. “Yes. I have enough for me.”

Kurn glanced around, looking for Captain Vornek Blackheel. The captain didn’t mind a quick nip on the road, but they were guarding important cargo now, one of the first mercenary contracts the dwarves of Baram Fort had been offered in nearly two months. The captain had said drunkenness would not be tolerated on this excursion—they needed the money that badly.

“Come on,” Kurn said. “Don’t be that way. I can’t shoot straight without a drink.”

“Too bad,” Valkar hissed over his shoulder. “Now shut your hole. Murgan’s lookin’ at us.”

Kurn looked up and saw that Blackheel’s hulking second-in-command was indeed staring at him. The ogrun never drank, though he tolerated the drunkenness of his dwarven charges with grudging acceptance. What else could he do? Baram Fort was where the Searforge Commission sent its trash, the final stop for those members of the High Shield Gun Corps deemed unworthy of every other post. But this job needed to go smoothly, and Kurn wouldn’t bet on much tolerance from Murgan.

Kurn and the other twenty-one members of Baram Fort who had been chosen to escort a pair of Khadoran wagons loaded with iron ore to Skirov were all armed with double-barreled carbines, stout shields, and short-hafted axes. To Kurn, the weapons and armor felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. He never really noticed the weight when he was properly drunk.

They had been marching for two days, with another two days of it ahead of them. The road between Baram and Skirov was well known for bandits, and the Khadoran merchants had paid good silver for a safe trip.

“Right, lads,” Blackheel called out from astride his pony. The commander of Baram Fort was riding up alongside the wagons, hand on his carbine, looking over his men. “Step lively. Only a few more miles before we stop for the night.”

Kurn wondered why the captain got a pony while the rest of them had to walk. It seemed unfair. Sure, he didn’t know how to ride a pony, but it couldn’t be all that hard. He sighed. At least they were going to stop soon. He could smother his sorrows with sleep.

The wagon he was walking next to suddenly lurched to the side and came to a stop. He looked up at the driver’s bench, about to tell the stupid human driver to watch where he was going, but the words died on his lips. The Khadoran was hunched over, a black-fletched arrow jutting from his forehead.

“Oh, damn it all,” Kurn said as arrows began to fall all around them. Most were coming from the thick stands of trees on either side of the road. Both wagons had stopped now, and he heard Vornek shouting, “Shields! Shields and shooters!”

Positioning his shield in front of him, Kurn took a step to his right to butt it up against Valkar’s. Kurn was the front of the line, and after Valkar there were eight more dwarves, all with their shields locked together and their carbines braced on notches in the rims.

Arrows began thudding into their shields. One skipped off Valkar’s helmet, causing him to yelp in surprise. The dwarves couldn’t see any targets yet, and the arrows kept falling. The merchants were hiding under their wagons, shouting in Khadoran.

The rain of arrows slowed and then stopped. Kurn glanced down the line and saw that only one dwarf had been hit. It looked like Gornum. The youngest member of their group was lying on his face, multiple arrows sticking out of his back.

“Steady, lads!” he heard Captain Blackheel shout from the other side of the wagon. “Keep those rifles up!”

It was sound advice. Seconds later, the tree line disgorged a cluster of men—Kurn guessed around twenty—armed with axes and with bows slung across their backs. They looked like Khadorans. The bandits came charging across the hundred yards that separated the trees from the wagons, weapons raised. They probably figured their superior numbers would carry the day. They figured wrong.

“Let ’em have it!” came Blackheel’s order.

Kurn sighted down the barrel of his carbine and pulled the trigger. The gun barked and bucked against his shoulder, and he heard the rest of the dwarven carbines go off simultaneously with his. He missed—there was no doubt about it. Without a drink in him, his hands shook like mad. Thankfully his brothers in arms had better aim, and eight of the charging men were stopped in their tracks by Rhulic bullets. Kurn didn’t bother to fire his second barrel—he’d only miss again—but the other members of the gun corps cut down another six bandits with their second shots.

“Don’t reload!” This was Murgan. “Axes!”

Kurn slung his carbine and pulled his axe from his belt. He glanced over at Valkar, who was doing the same. There were still eight men charging toward them. With axe and shield in hand, Kurn broke ranks and charged into the first bandit. He slammed his shield into the man’s legs, knocking him over, then buried his axe in the human’s skull as he was trying to stand.

To Kurn’s relief, he saw that Murgan had joined the fight. Unlike the dwarves, the ogrun was armed with a long-hafted war cleaver and a huge steel-rimmed shield. He was an absolute terror in battle, and Kurn watched him cut a man in half with a swipe of his war cleaver, then spin in a tight circle and use his shield to brain a second bandit charging up behind him.

Kurn glanced down as he pulled his axe free from the man he’d just killed and his heart leapt into his throat. Great Fathers in council, the dead bandit had a flask on his belt! Kurn snatched the flask, popped it open, and took a swig. The stark, acrid burn of vyatka raked his throat, and he nearly fainted with delight. He took another swallow and saw the battle was over—almost. Valkar was dealing with the last bandit, and the desperate attacker had somehow knocked the gun corpsman’s shield away and was slashing wildly at him with what looked like a wood axe.

Murgan and other members of the gun corps rushed to Valkar’s aid, but Kurn could see they wouldn’t reach him in time. He dropped his axe, unslung his rifle, and put the weapon to his shoulder. He lined up his shot, took a breath, and pulled the trigger. The carbine kicked his shoulder, and ten yards away the human’s head snapped forward as the heavy slug plowed through it. The man dropped dead at Valkar’s feet.

“Regroup!” Murgan shouted, and Kurn and the other dwarves began pulling back into shield formation—a wise precaution if there were more bandits.

“Thank you, Kurn,” Valkar said once they were back in formation. “He’d have killed me for sure.”

Kurn smiled, held up the flask he’d taken off the bandit, and shook it so Valkar could hear the contents slosh inside. “Like I told you, I always shoot better with a drink.”

THE LAST HUNT

By William Shick

Winter, The Scarsfell Forest

He moved beneath the canopy of mighty evergreens, which allowed few rays of the waning sun through their thick boughs. To Lugurix, a white mane of Yugar Tuath, every noise in the forest gave him information required for survival. He could infer the lack of nearby predators from the calls of birds and the movements of small animals beneath the crisp layer of frost-coated detritus. His acute sense of smell could detect even the faintest scent of prey, but now he smelled the strong, coppery tang of fresh blood. Following the scent trail, he soon found the mutilated body the smell originated from.

He moved quickly toward the carcass, recognizing the heavily muscled creature as a gorax. Lugurix kneeled and breathed in deeply. Beneath the gorax’s pungent musk he could make out the scent of another great beast—a forest mauler. He spotted a broken bough, its green needles and grey-brown bark covered in dark crimson. Picking up the branch and bringing it to his nose, Lugurix smiled at the gift the Devourer had bestowed upon this day’s special hunt.

He rose and motioned to a smaller figure behind him who wore heavy furs similar to his own. Despite their difference in size, the young Tharn possessed the same predatory features as Lugurix, including the same yellow-flecked brown eyes.

Lugurix cringed as Grimhilt bounded forward at his gesture, any care to silence his footfalls forgotten in his enthusiasm of hunting alongside the white mane. As the young Tharn came within reach Lugurix grabbed him by the throat and yanked him off the ground. “If you continue to crash about, I shall end this hunt early and return with your carcass to our tuath,” he whispered.

Grimhilt kicked helplessly in the air for a moment and grasped at Lugurix’s hands about his throat. “Forgive me, Father,” he choked out, keeping his gaze averted in submission.

Lugurix set the boy down and released his grip. Despite his actions, he held no anger toward his youngest son; he simply wished for the lesson to take root. Grimhilt would come of age in only a few days, when he would undergo the change that would allow him to channel the power of the Wurm. Then he would no longer be considered a child and would forfeit all privileges and protections provided by that status. His life would be measured only by his skill and his cunning within the tuath. This hunt was the last Lugurix and Grimhilt would take as father and son. If they hunted again, it would be as fellow warriors.

He handed Grimhilt the branch. “Tell me, what does this show you?”

The young Tharn took the branch from Lugurix and carefully examined it. “It is freshly broken, perhaps only an hour past.” He sniffed, pausing to consider the scents that filled his nostrils before continuing. “The blood is not from the gorax. It is from a forest mauler.”

Lugurix smiled, his thin lips revealing elongated canines. “Yes. The Wurm guides our hunt today. Let us prove ourselves worthy of his gifts.” He drew a wickedly serrated hunting knife from his belt and presented it handle-first to Grimhilt. “Today you shall complete your last hunt as a child not with a bow but with a blade.”

Lugurix watched his son’s face carefully, looking for any sign of fear or trepidation. He was pleased to see neither as Grimhilt grasped the worn leather hilt of the knife. The blade was sized for a fully transformed male, and in Grimhilt’s hands it looked more like a short sword than a hunting knife. Despite its size the young Tharn wielded it easily, taking a few practice swipes before shoving it through his own belt.

Lugurix took his powerful hunting bow from his back and nodded to Grimhilt to take the lead. This time the youth moved swiftly and silently, as Lugurix had taught him. The elder Tharn recalled their first hunt together, when the boy had barely turned five. Lugurix had brought down a massive elk with a well-placed shot, leaving it alive but immobile. Grimhilt had not hesitated when Lugurix placed a dagger in the boy’s hand. He had instead darted beneath the powerful creature’s antlers and slit its throat, claiming his first kill for the Devourer.

The smell of their prey was heavy in the air, and Lugurix could almost taste the mauler’s musk. He felt the urge to cast off his heavy fur cloak and transform, letting the Wurm take hold of his entire body. He did not fight it. He felt the tingle of energy course through his veins as he summoned forth the Devourer. His muscles expanded and his bones lengthened. The visage of a snarling, viscous predator replaced his human face, and razor-sharp fangs gleamed from his lupine snout.

He looked ahead to Grimhilt, who was scaling a pine tree. Even without the power of the Wurm imbuing him, the youth bounded up the tree with grace and agility. The young Tharn would wait for his signal to attack. Lugurix drew a six-foot arrow from the quiver on his back and placed it on the string of his bow.

Slowly, he moved toward the shadow of his prey, drawing his bow with practiced ease. His eyes were locked on the massive form of the forest mauler. He could see a ragged gash along its hindquarters, along with several lesser wounds from its fight with the gorax. The beast moved slower than usual, its wounds clearly affecting it. Its injuries gave them a chance.

They had been careful to stay downwind lest they alert the mauler to their presence. As the creature swung its large head about, Lugurix could see the bony protrusions that radiated from its short snout. Each antler-like growth contained a sensory bulb, and the mauler’s senses were very keen. The creature paused, steam blowing from its nostrils as it tested the air. Time was short.

Lugurix drew in a breath, his body still despite the strain of keeping the massive Tharn bow drawn. He loosed the javelin-like arrow from his bow and sent two more sailing after the first.

A trio of dull wet thumps followed by a pained bellow told Lugurix he had hit his mark. He dashed forward, drawing another arrow and loosing it at the roaring mauler. Though each shaft sank deep into the creature’s thick, leathery hide, the white mane knew they were not enough to slay the great beast.

Lugurix saw Grimhilt leap from his perch above, Lugurix’s massive hunting knife glinting like a steel fang. Tharn and blade crashed onto the wounded mauler’s back, causing the beast to buck and roar with rage. Holding on with powerful legs, Grimhilt slammed the blade again and again into the mauler’s thick hide, each strike sending a spray of arterial crimson into the air.

Lugurix dropped his bow to pull his mighty axe from his back and charged. He ducked a swipe of the creature’s wicked claws and brought his weapon up in a powerful swing. The axe bit deep into the mauler’s neck. Muscles straining, Lugurix pulled the axe free and swung again, this time from above. The blow cleaved through the beast’s spine, and its head fell to the frozen earth.

The forest returned to stillness as steam rose from the bloodstained ground. Grimhilt looked at his father, and Lugurix returned the look with a surge of pride. He no longer saw a child; a blood-covered Tharn warrior stood before him now. The white mane held out his hand, and Grimhilt quickly returned the hunting knife. Wasting little time, Lugurix set about carving open the fallen mauler’s chest. His muscles burned as he opened the beast’s chest cavity and ripped out the warm heart.

Darkness had overtaken the forest. It was the night of Calder’s new moon, with only the weaker light of its two sisters to illuminate the forest. Grimhilt watched, waiting for his father to feast on the essence of his prey to commune with the Devourer Wurm.

Lugurix placed his hand on his son’s shoulder in a brief moment of affection and thrust the mauler’s heart toward him, saying, “Finish your offering to the Wurm, and may he reward you with his strength in the days to come. This was your hunt. This is your kill.”

Grimhilt nodded reverently, then brought the massive bloody muscle to his mouth and began his first feast as a warrior of the Tharn.

MURDER IN
THE HONOR FIELDS

By Larry Correia

Khadoran-Occupied Laedry, 606 AR

He’d been summoned in the middle of the night, which meant someone had died. An entire unit of Winter Guard waited for him, which suggested a crime of violence and a scene in need of securing. A kapitan was calling the shots, which meant the victim had been someone important.

“Halt! Who goes there?” called out a jumpy sentry.

“Lieutenant Inspector Ivan Durova.” He answered immediately, before the young man was tempted to aim that blunderbuss in his direction. He hadn’t survived a decade of hard service in the Winter Guard to get himself shot on accident on this mundane assignment. “Kapitan Gurko requested my presence.”

Nearby, the kapitan heard his voice and gestured for the guards to let him pass.

“Why are we in a graveyard?” Durova asked as he approached his commanding officer.

“Don’t call it a graveyard. That offends the Umbreans,” Yelena Gurko said as she aimed her lantern at the rusted iron fence. “This place is known as the Honor Fields.”

He knew that, of course. Still . . . old tombs, narrow paths lined with spiked iron fences, and crumbling statues, all covered with a moist, clinging fog and prickly overgrown vines . . . It looked like a graveyard to him, and not a very nice one at that. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“We must appease the Llaelese locals if we are to maintain order, Durova.” She began walking down the twisting path. Using his truncheon as a cane, he limped along behind her. “Our occupation will be far easier if we are seen as liberators rather than conquerors, and that means respecting the local Llaelese traditions.”

He’d never much cared for Llael, and he liked the place even less after their Resistance had blown him up, but he kept his opinions to himself. “So who is the victim?”

“Andor Gobyato.”

“The magziev?” It wasn’t often a powerful arcanist got himself murdered. No wonder Gurko had gotten him out of bed. “The Greylords Covenant won’t be pleased,” he said.

“I’m honestly not looking forward to giving them the report,” Gurko said.

“Was it those damned gun mages again?” A number of recent murders had turned out to be connected to the Llaelese Resistance. Dozens of Llaelese had already been tried and executed in connection to their activities. He was a lowly inspector, though, so he was allowed to work up only the initial reports on such cases. The renegades were considered an internal security matter, so just when things got interesting, Section Three would take over and he’d be sent back to checking alibis and whatnot.

“If only it were. Bullet holes, even magical ones, are easy to explain. This is proving to be more difficult. Hopefully you’ll be able to tell me what happened here.”

Gurko was a clever officer. If she were stumped, this might actually be an interesting case. “I’m intrigued,” Durova said.

“Good. I know you find your current occupation dull compared to leaping into ditches to strangle trenchers, but I need that analytical brain of yours right now, Durova.”

After he’d been crippled in battle, it hadn’t mattered that he’d been awarded the illustrious Anvil of Conquest; the Winter Guard had no use for someone who could neither march nor run. Rather than retire, he’d joined the small and ill-regarded investigative division of the guard. His former rank earned him the title of Inspector, but he spent most of his time handling the drunk and disobedient along with the occasional soldier killed outside of combat. A guardsman was meant to be a soldier for the Motherland, not a glorified nanny. Luckily, he turned out to be one of the few who were actually good at solving crimes, which kept him from dying of boredom.

The kapitan halted and motioned toward an old Umbrean tomb encircled by watchful Winter Guard. They had hung several lanterns to help chase away the mist. “A patrol found him an hour ago,” she said.

Durova walked into the overlapping circles of light, careful not to step on anything. He stopped and slowly turned, taking it all in. Magziev Gobyato’s body had been lifted and impaled on the spikes of a tall iron fence near the tomb.

“A killer who honors tradition,” Durova suggested.

“What tradition?” Gurko asked.

“Some of the ancient Umbrean horselords favored impalement as a method of execution.” He approached the body slowly, studying the tracks and their relative depth in the moist soil compared to his own weight. The footprints of the patrol who had found the corpse were easy to distinguish, as the soldiers had stepped in the congealing blood. Other prints, though—larger, deeper ones—looked to have already been there when the blood began to pool. The inspector bent to examine those more closely.

Whatever had impaled the magziev on the fence had weighed more than any three of them put together, even taking into account the victim’s weight. Add the height of the fence and the angle of the spikes through the corpse, and the strength required was significant. With surprise, Durova recognized a sensation he hadn’t felt in some time: excitement tinged with fear.

“The killer wore armored boots—badly rusted, judging by the flaking. He weighs approximately five hundred pounds and is at least seven feet tall,” he stated, almost as if to himself.

The kapitan considered this. “Only ogrun are that big or that strong. There are very few in Laedry, and most of those work for mercenary companies. I’ll order them all rounded up for interrogation.”

But Durova wasn’t listening, his attention entirely absorbed by the corpse and the area directly around it. Based on the blood spatter and the lack of signs indicating a blow to the head, the magziev had been alive when impaled upon the spikes and had thrashed quite a bit before perishing.

Gobyato had earned a fearsome reputation for killing Cygnaran soldiers with ice magic. The inspector followed the tracks back to where they originated at the tomb, and sure enough, all the vines and grass there was crunchy, scorched dead by sudden icy cold. The magziev had struck his attacker with arcane energy, but it had not mattered.

A large iron pry bar lay discarded amid the dead grass. The door to the tomb hung open; from the disturbed rust, it had had been broken open recently. “Has this building been secured?” Durova asked.

“Yes, of course,” Kapitan Gurko replied. “I had the area cordoned off, and I personally examined the body and the tomb. I saw enough to tell me I was out of my depth. That’s why you’re here.”

Durova grunted. She’d been right to summon him. “I believe Magziev Gobyato may have been treasure hunting on his own time.” Taking one of the lanterns, he poked his head inside the tomb. The soldiers probably hadn’t noticed the intricate runes carved all along the interior of the doorframe. He couldn’t read them, but they were obviously arcane in nature—necromantic if he had to make a guess. Carved pictures of a noble horselord covered the ceiling. These seemed to tell the story of a rise to greatness and a subsequent fall into darkness. One carving depicted what appeared to be a great ceremony with the mighty horselord in shackles, and another showed the imprisonment of a twisted creature in a tomb that looked very much like the one he was standing in.

Durova felt his pulse rise at the sight. What in Morrow’s name are we dealing with here?

Inside the tomb was a single enormous stone sarcophagus. It was empty; the stone lid had been knocked aside. That, too, was covered in runes—lines and lines of cramped symbols. Except for a handful of early Menite symbols, the unfamiliar language looked like Old Khardic. On a hunch, Durova went back, retrieved the pry bar, and used that to lever the lid so that he could see what the interior side looked like.

The stone had been scratched thousands upon thousands of times. He compared the span of the scratches to his own hand. The grooves were set wider but had clearly been made by fingernails. Yet the hardness of the stone suggested that such an effort would have taken hundreds of very frustrating years. The magziev had accidentally released something that had been trapped for a very long time.

Durova carried the pry bar back out and approached Gurko. The open air was a relief. “I have good news and bad news, Kapitan.”

“Always the bad news first.”

The lieutenant inspector did not hesitate. “Laedry has some manner of unnatural monstrosity loose within it,” he said. “We need to track it down and destroy it or it won’t be just an unlucky magziev we’ll be burying.”

Kapitan Gurko sighed and asked, “And your good news?”

He looked back to the tomb. “I am no longer bored.”

BOUND FOR HOME

By Michael G. Ryan

Cloutsdowns Province

They followed the darkness, and the darkness followed them. It surrounded the small, vicious group of bane thralls, a preternatural blackness that enshrouded and flickered out from them in tendrils, enveloping all the life and light it could suffocate in its bitter coldness. They had come over a hundred miles since losing the Satyxis captain who had commanded them north of New Larkholm on the Cygnaran coast; now they followed their new leader as it obsessively led them across the countryside, laying waste to whatever life they encountered on the way to a village none of them knew anything about.

Even their leader could not explain the compulsion—this rune-carved corpse had not been his body in life, a life forgotten until the urge had inexplicably come upon it. This body was merely an animated shell for its bane spirit to inhabit. Unlike the other bane thralls, the leader felt uncomfortable in its strange body, as if it could almost remember what it had once been. One word kept returning to it. Home.

Just before they reached the road to the village, their leader raised one of its axes, and the thralls halted. They whispered to one another in a harsh, mongrel mix of various human tongues as they fanned out and formed a defensive stance, war axes ready, eyes bright green in anticipation of the slaughter to come. Their undead bones rattled against their armor, but there was no one to hear the hollow sounds of their restlessness. They were yet a good distance from their victims, and none of the villagers had cause to be out in the midnight hour.

The leader stared at the flowerless green bushes that lined the dirt road. They needed pruning, though it did not know how or why it knew this. It did not matter, the entity told itself, as soon no one would be alive to tend to these or any other plants here.

The leader swept its rune-covered axe through the nearest bush, severing it at the trunk.

The leader commanded its squad onto the road, leaving the rose bushes behind. Only once all its thralls were in motion did it hoist one of its axes over its shoulder and follow. But as it moved, it mindlessly traced a symbol on its breastplate: looping scratches with a long line extending below it. Compared to the cryptic sigils and runes inscribed elsewhere on its armor and its bones, this symbol was simple, distinctly of the mortal world, and wholly out of place—a single rose.

The village the leader felt compelled to reach was only three hills away, and the formless, moving cloud of blackness the thralls punched into the moonless night would be nearly invisible to the human eye. Driven by the intent and command of its new leader, the unit marched with exceptional stealth, nothing like the incessant chatter and heavy shuffling of the living.

At the base of the last hill before the village, the unit came upon a sentry—out of training despite being many years a veteran, now just a body meant to sound a horn that would warn the village of danger. The old man started when the unit’s freezing darkness washed over him and his horn was knocked from his hand. Recovering quickly, he lunged for the horn, and the leader of the thralls struck his hand off. A gout of blood sprayed across the cold dirt road, but the man didn’t cry out. Instead, he locked his jaw and snatched up the horn with his remaining hand. Before it could be knocked away from his lips, he blew a single loud note—a dull, colorless sound—and then let the horn fall to the ground beside him.

The bane thralls surged to cut the old man to pieces, but the leader hissed a command and they were momentarily restrained, though it could sense their impatient fury. The leader dipped its skeletal face toward the maimed sentry, but the old man, trembling, cradled his bleeding stump and rolled onto his back. The leader slowly picked up the horn from where it lay in the dirt. It was a delicate golden instrument with a name inscribed in a looping script along the bell.

The bane thrall leader gazed at the horn and traced the symbol on its breastplate. The old man turned his face away, refusing to look into the leader’s dead face.

“We knew your kind would come back to finish what you started,” the old man said.

The leader stared down at him, casting aside the horn and turning one of its axes between its fists.

“Why can’t you leave us alone?” The old man tried to roll onto his side, but his flesh was weak now, and his fading existence pinned him to the cold earth as effectively as if he were bound. After that, he did not struggle. “Isn’t it enough that you killed my boy last time? His wife visits his grave every day, while I can’t even do that. But you only killed his body, not his soul.” He lifted his chin defiantly. “You can’t steal our memories.”

The leader of the thralls raised its axe. As it did, the old man looked up at it for the first time, his final gaze falling to the scratches on its armor. The swirls that formed petals, the sharp line that formed a stem. He blinked, momentarily confused by what he recognized, and then he squinted up at his executioner. The thrall leader hesitated.

“Danelon?” the sentry whispered. “Is that you in there?”

The axe fell, three times.

The old man died staring at the blood-spattered rose symbol of his lost son.

The unit moved up the hill to overlook the village. The thralls whisper-hissed among themselves, impatient eyes turning, burning, toward the leader as if to drive him faster to their victims. They spread out, axes at the ready, a palpable hunger rippling through their darkness. All they needed was their leader’s order to sweep down on the village.

It had lagged behind to loom silently over the decapitated corpse, but now it moved up to where it could see their target. The compulsion that had brought it this far was still strong and awakened a scattershot recollection of the people it knew were sleeping below. Its bony fingertip traced the scratch marks it had carved into its armor—the petals, the stem, the thorns. When it reached the hillcrest and looked down the slope to the village below, a memory of standing in this very place came to it, attached to the echo of an unfamiliar emotion that felt foreign to it now. It brought its war axe down from its shoulder. The old man’s blood painted the weapon black in the moonlight. The leader avoided looking at its stained edge.

As it watched the torchlights moving chaotically in the village below—a disorganized militia gathered in the square with weapons that had no hope of stopping the attackers—the leader sensed the barely restrained rebellion in the bane thralls. It snarled a warning to them, but it knew they felt their own compulsion, one that was growing in him as well—the need to slay the living.

Already the alarms were sounding across the village. The leader’s baleful green eyes narrowed as it saw the windows of one particular home brighten, partly illuminating the garden behind it where it knew a young married couple had raised the flowers they sold. For a moment, a woman’s silhouette appeared in the open doorway, but the leader knew she was not the panicking sort.

Rose, it remembered.

Her name hung there in its mind. On its breastplate. It looked down at the scratch marks. The snarls of those awaiting to be unleashed drowned its memory.

It dragged its ragged fingernails across the scratches and gave the order to attack. As the thralls descended toward the village, the leader saw the woman fleeing into the darkness with the other villagers. Its pace quickened. Soon it was among its victims, and it thought of her no more.

CALL OF THE CABER

By Howard Tayler

Fossamin Sodrok adjusted her grip on her shield and rolled her shoulder to shake off the dull ache she’d developed on the march across the Rimeshaws. Her feet were fine, but the shield was getting heavy. She glanced down the line to her left to see Kollodor marching in perfect step with the kriel’s warriors on either side of him, smiling in spite of the heavy stone caber he carried.

She had no idea how he did it. Sure, he was half a head taller than most of the rest of the kriel, but the caber was almost as tall as he was and more than a foot thick. How much did it weigh? A thousand pounds? Two thousand?

“About sixteen hundred pounds, Fossy,” said Joktun, the shaman who marched behind her and to the left.

“How did you know I was wondering about that?”

“I’ve seen that particular grimace before. You were thinking about the burden it must be.” Joktun stepped up alongside her, and the line of warriors shifted subtly at the change in formation. “And now you’re wondering why our mighty brother carries it on the march instead of hauling it to battle in a cart,” he said with a cocked brow.

“I get tired just watching him.”

“That is the crushing voice of the caber, its stony soul calling to all those around it, demanding obeisance. Kollodor hears that voice and answers with every strand of his soul. From heels to hips, from fingers to teeth, from breath to bones he answers, proves he is stronger, and the caber obeys.”

Fossamin said nothing. It all sounded like mystical farrow-scat, but it wouldn’t do to say so.

“But that doesn’t answer your question, does it?” Joktun continued, a twinkle in his eye. “Why doesn’t Kollodor save his strength for the coming battle? Strength is not saved for the caber, Fossy. Strength is continually reforged, hammered with every step into greater strength. The body is broken and rebuilt, becoming mightier with each mile. Kollodor carries the caber because if he does not, the shout of the stone may be too much for him when the moment comes to throw it.”

More inscrutable mysticism, but it did make a kind of sense. Fossamin’s shoulder hurt under the weight of her shield, but not as badly as yesterday. When she needed to raise the heavy slab of wood and iron to stop the blighted legion’s blades, she was confident she could. They all could, her brothers and sisters of the kriel. These blighted monsters would break against the—

An arrow struck the ground just half a pace in front of her.

“Shields to the sky!” shouted Joktun as a line of blighted Nyss archers cleared the rise. The archers had the high ground, and that was a problem. Another volley of arrows arced silently through the air toward them, and Fossamin swung her shield up for cover. A breath and a half later an arrow slammed into it. The archers had found their range, and that was a bigger problem.

“Charge!” cried Joktun, his voice both a command and a prayer invoking Dhunia’s blessing. Fossamin felt all weariness vanish, and she sprinted toward the top of the hill with the trollkin warriors, ears filled with the heavy pounding of trollkin boots.

Kollodor, sixteen-hundred-pound caber and all, was out in front. The caber tipped forward as he approached the line of archers, and to Fossamin it looked as if he had lost control of it. Then he launched it forward. The archer in his path, a fish-belly pale creature, let out a short scream that ended in a soft crunch. Wicked little creatures, but there just wasn’t much to them.

Fossamin looked to her own target and saw what might have been surprise in the archer’s eyes as she and the rest of the line closed the final three paces in a single, breathless bound. Yes, she thought, we are faster than we look.

The archer hastily drew his sword, but Fossamin easily slapped it aside with her shield and brought down her own, much heavier blade. The ugly creature twisted clear but stepped directly into the path of Joktun’s sword, making no sound at all as the Dhunian shaman thrust the blade through his throat.

Fossamin stepped past the falling corpse and moved toward the left flank, toward Kollodor, who was recovering the caber for another blow. An arrow sizzled past her head from somewhere on the right flank and struck Kollodor squarely in the neck. He gasped and coughed, spitting blood onto the caber, and fell to his knees. Fossamin raised her shield and crouched beside him, covering them both. Surprising her, the caber-bearer knocked the blade from her sword hand, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her hand down to the blood-spattered caber.

“Take . . . it . . . up.”

He coughed blood once more, then slumped sideways to the ground, where he lay curled almost as if settling to sleep next to the great column of stone.

“Ogrun!” shouted Joktun.

Fossamin looked up and saw three huge blighted ogrun rushing up the back side of the hill. The blighted monsters, bigger than any trollkin, brandished their war cleavers, ready to cut the kriel warriors to ribbons.

The roar of battle ran through the caber and up into her hand, and the stone seemed to say, Take me up? You? No, I will lie here while you fight and die. My master is no more. I am free.

“Wurm’s bowels you’re free!” Fossamin said. She lifted one end of the caber and threw her shoulder under it. Remembering how Kollodor had smashed that archer, she thought perhaps the stone could be made to do most of the work. She kept lifting and pushing, tipping the caber up and then forward, toward the onrushing ogrun.

I will fall uselessly, whelp.

The caber would be easy to side-step, she realized as she brought it upright once again. It would not do the work of killing on its own. Setting her jaw, Fossamin reached down to thrust her hands under the base of the caber. She heaved upward, and pain shot through her shoulders and spine to her hips and knees as the caber again asserted its will.

Even now I topple where I can crush no one. Do you think to hurl me, to direct my voice? My master is fallen.

The ogrun at the fore was almost on top of her, and in his eyes Fossamin thought she saw feral amusement at seeing her crouched at the base of a falling stone pillar many times her weight.

“Don’t be fooled,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “I’m stronger than I look,”

With a savage scream she launched the caber forward into the ogrun. Pain wracked her body as if she were the one being crushed by the stone. Joints tore; muscles ripped free of their moorings; bones shuddered and broke. Her vision swam red, but through the haze she saw the ogrun flying backward into a knot of Nyss warriors, trailing black blood and broken tusks.

Fossamin awoke staring up at the sky. She drew in a breath, and hot pain raced from her ribs to her shoulders. She exhaled carefully, and more pain lanced down her spine.

“The caber spoke to you.” The voice was Joktun’s, but Fossamin couldn’t turn her head toward him. Or speak. Or even nod.

“I can tell by the way you lie so still and say nothing,” he continued, laughing kindly. “The caber shouted you right into the ground, just as it shouted back that blighted ogrun.”

Fossamin tried to smile. It only hurt a little, so she smiled some more, and pain spiraled around and down her neck.

“A smile!” Joktun said. “Your kith and I smile as well. Ogrun flat on their backs are just meat to be hacked apart. The Nyss behind them might have rushed us, but the rest of the kriel cleared the hill right about then, and the sickly long-ears ran north instead.”

Fossamin said nothing, and sought ways to breathe without moving a muscle.

“You’ll live, and you’ll heal. Eat something as soon as you can. From now on you’ll have Kollodor’s share of the food in addition to your own.” Joktun patted his belly. “Your body is answering the caber’s call, but it needs more than mere sustenance. All those things you tore and broke are going to grow back a little stronger.”

Joktun crouched beside her and squeezed her shoulder, then whispered, “When next the caber calls to you, you shall surprise the stone by answering in the voice of its master.”

RAIDERS IN THE NIGHT

By William Shick

Ordic Coast, 607 AR

As the pirate landing skiff came within a hundred feet of the shore, captain Terapex turned toward her chosen raiders, the Mortus Kelend. All were garbed in their captain’s chosen colors of deep purple lined with bloody crimson. Golden half-masks hid their feminine features beneath snarling bestial visages. Combined with the horns that jutted from their skulls, the masks gave them the look of nightmares pulled straight from Urcaen itself. Only Terapex remained unmasked, a mark of leadership among the fearsome warriors.

“Remember, nothing remains alive by morning.”

As one her entourage nodded, silent. Terapex knew they would remain so until the first kill was made, at which point they would unleash their voice in a chorus of oblivion. She could see the anticipation, the absolute desire for battle, within each of her sisters’ lean, muscular bodies. She had hand-picked each one, taking the measure of her sister Satyxis in the fires of combat. She had chosen them for their skill as well as their cruelty and determined their worth by their cunning as well as their loyalty. The masks they wore were more than a psychological weapon in combat. Outside of battle they obscured the face so that no member was indistinguishable from the other. Among their sisterhood they were all equal, all the right hand of Terapex. It was their privilege to serve within her exalted company.

The skiff ground upon the sandy shore, and Terapex was the first to leap over the side and race toward the sleeping town. Her boat was only the vanguard, containing her and her cadre of twenty Mortus Kelend. Three more skiffs would be landing within minutes, having departed from the Shadow Weald a respectable time after their captain, as was her due. Those boats carried a group of brutal bloodgorgers as well as several bands of human pirates from Blackwater in addition to a small coven of blood witches led by the ancient hag Ezmaraz. Despite its Cryxian origins, the Shadow Weald held none of the Nightmare Empire’s undead minions, which suited Terapex. She far preferred the fiery bloodlust of the living over the predictability of bound thralls.

As she ran, the Satyxis captain uncoiled the barbed lacerator at her hip and drew a bladed pistol from its holster on her thigh. It was impossible to know when the village’s lax sentries would spot their approach, though she wouldn’t be entirely surprised to find them sleeping at their post. She felt an inkling of disappointment creep within her at the possibility of such a simple slaughter. She hoped for at least some sport tonight.

She felt no small measure of satisfaction as she saw movement from the lookout tower at the edge of the village, quickly followed by the dull peal of the town’s alarm bell.

Terapex motioned for a trio of her raiders to eliminate the sentries and continued to the first small house near the shore. She kicked down the light wooden door with ease. The house was barely more than a common living area, where the family bedded. A metallic snap of her lacerator split the sternum of the young man who had barely wiped the sleep from his eyes at the sound of the alarm bell. Blood sprayed from the fatal wound, glistening black in the dim rays of Laris and spattering Terapex’s face. She licked the droplets from her lips and let out a shrill battle cry heralding the man’s last night on Caen. Soon the banshee-like wail was echoed across the town.

Terapex’s celebration was cut short as a hard blow connected against her back, knocking her forward. Instinct took over and she spun about, ignoring the dull pain that throbbed where the blow had struck and using the momentum of the blow to speed her movements. Her animalistic snarl became a wicked chuckle as she caught sight of her attacker. The man’s wife stood clutching a heavy iron skillet in her trembling hands. She was barely older than twenty years. Though the woman stood squarely with the Satyxis who had just murdered her husband in cold blood, Terapex could see the terror barely held in check behind her wild eyes.

“You’ve got spirit, girl, I’ll give you that,” Terapex said, amusement coloring her voice. It looked like she would get her sport tonight after all.

With slow, exaggerated movements, the Satyxis dropped her whip and slid her pistol back into the holster. She spread her arms in invitation. “Come now, girl. Avenge him.” When the woman made no move Terapex growled. “I don’t give this chance to most. You’d best take it before I run out of patience. Or else I’ll open you like a fish just as I did your mate.”

The taunt snapped the woman out of her torpor. With a strangled cry she lunged at Terapex, swinging the heavy pan in a well-aimed crossbody strike the Satyxis narrowly avoided. For the briefest instant as the housewife brought the pan around in a powerful backswing, Terapex wondered if she might have misjudged this human.

Terapex deftly slipped under the attack and slammed her fist into the woman’s gut, doubling her over and causing her to cough violently as the wind was driven from her lungs. Instead of pressing the advantage, however, the raider turned and patiently waited for the woman to recover her breath. “Come on, now,” she chided. “You can do better.”

The woman came on again, but this time her attack was slower, weaker. Terapex sighed to herself in disdain as she easily slipped under the woman’s guard and brought her horned head down in a vicious head-butt. The wet, crunching sound of bone and cartilage being pulverized filled the small house, and the woman’s scream of pain was quickly cut short as she choked on the blood pouring from her ruined face and fell heavily to the floor.

Ignoring the woman’s gurgled moans, the Satyxis casually picked up the heavy skillet from where it had dropped and tested the weight of it in her hand. She grabbed the woman’s hair in her other fist and turned the ruined face to look into her own.

“I want you to know, girl, that by the time dawn’s weak rays touch this pathetic smear of a village, naught will be left of all you know and love but corpses and ash.”

Terapex didn’t bother to wonder if the woman even heard her but only released her head and brought the heavy pan down, ending her moans of pain with a dull thud and a sickening crack of splintering bone.

The Satyxis straightened herself over the corpse of the housewife and looked down at the gore-slicked pan before tossing it aside to land with a heavy thump. Instinctively she cased the house for valuables but was unsurprised to find nothing of worth. The iron skillet likely represented the greatest treasure these people had owned. She shook her head dismissively.

It did not matter. This night her orders were not to plunder but to sow terror and death among the mainlanders. Fulfilling such orders was a reward unto itself.

A predatory smile split her lips as she took up her lacerator whip and headed toward the door and to the promising sounds of screams and battle beyond.

TONGUE-TIED

By Aeryn Rudel

The tent flap opened abruptly, letting in the cloying reek of the swamp. Torfal looked up from his scroll, waved his hand to dismiss the smell, and glared at the young trollkin warrior bursting into his tent. “Torfal,” the warrior said, “you have to come!”

“Burnok,” Torfal said slowly, “how many times must I tell you to leave me alone when I’m translating?”

“I’m sorry, Elder.” Burnok was breathing heavily and his eyes were wide. “I wouldn’t bother you unless I had no choice. But you should come before Gorthane . . .”

“Before what?” Torfal asked and set his quill down on the makeshift desk—a knotty board propped across two stumps. “Gets drunk, drops his axe, and chops off two of his toes again? Or is it something more dire?”

“Some . . . things came out of the swamp,” Burnok said. “Gorthane wants to kill them.”

“What things? Farrow? Gatormen?” It wasn’t uncommon for bands of those savage peoples to offer their services to the kriels, and they sometimes made useful, if unreliable, allies. They also frequently raided for food and treasure, and Gorthane and his champions had been called upon to defend the kriel from their marauding more than once.

“No, Elder. I don’t know what they are. No one does.”

“Then why is Gorthane considering attacking?” The brainless oaf, Torfal thought. Always itching for battle even when it isn’t in the kriel’s best interest.

This was intriguing, though, and now Burnok’s urgency seemed reasonable. The young trollkin had more sense than most of the young warriors did, and he knew that Torfal, unlike many stone scribes, did more than simply record the deeds of great trollkin heroes. Over the years the elder had developed a keen interest in the tales and myths of other races, which had forced him to learn at least a smattering of many human tongues as well as farrow, gatorman, and other more obscure languages.

“Very well,” Torfal said and stood. He lifted his axe from where it leaned against his desk, grunting slightly at its weight. It had been some time since he’d had reason to take it up, but the kin were at war, and the young warriors expected their leaders to be armed. He offered a silent prayer to Dhunia that he wouldn’t have to use it. “Take me to Gorthane.”

The ground was a thick mire as Torfal made his way toward the outskirts of the camp. The swamps around Lake Scarleforth were treacherously deep, and the only firm footing amounted to mud that didn’t rise past the ankles. It was a tiring slog to where Gorthane and the other warriors were gathered; Torfal was breathing heavily by the time they arrived.

Gorthane was a massive trollkin, almost ogrun-sized, and his war maul had crushed more enemies than could easily be counted. His champions—sizable kin but nowhere near as big as their leader—stood clustered at the edge of the swamp, weapons in hand, where the firmer mud gave way to a soup of brown water, tangled vines, and rotting vegetation.

“We were handling this, old one,” Gorthane said as Torfal approached. The champion held his maul before him, and his face was set in a petulant frown. “This doesn’t concern you or your . . . studies.” Gorthane had little use for kin who didn’t fight, and although he saw the chronicling of heroic deeds as important, he had less respect for Torfal’s other interests.

“I’m sure,” Torfal said. “Show me these creatures you are so eager to slaughter.”

“There.” Gorthane pointed to a weedy boulder about ten feet into the swamp. When the boulder shifted and a pair of great yellow eyes opened on its surface, Torfal realized he was looking at the massive head of a swamp troll. “They’re hiding in the water next to Blugg.”

“I don’t see—” Torfal began, and then three shapes rose up out of the swamp. They were humanoid and roughly the size of trollkin, but beyond that they seemed completely alien. The first word that leaped into Torfal’s mind was frog. That’s what they most resembled: tall, gangly, humanoid frogs. Their slick skin was bright green, and their eyes jutted from their heads on short stalks. Each carried a short spear in a four-fingered hand, the fingers ending in round suckers. The frogmen held their weapons before them point-first—a defensive stance but not overtly hostile. Torfal noticed an iron manacle around the wrist of the lead frogman, trailing a short length of broken chain.

“They fled into the water before my boys and I could attack,” Gorthane said. “I thought Blugg would just eat them, but the stinking, ornery troll seems to like them, if you can imagine that.”

“Elder,” Burnok said, drawing a scowl from Gorthane, “that’s a skorne manacle on the leader’s wrist.”

The skorne had been active around Lake Scarleforth for some time, and the trollkin warband had clashed with them often. The eastern invaders were notorious for using enslaved creatures to fight for them.

“We found a skorne patrol a few miles from here yesterday,” Gorthane said grudgingly. “All had been killed. Their bodies were puffed and black, like they’d been poisoned.” He stared at the frogmen. “I’ll bet our friends here had something to do with that.”

One of the frogmen had reached the shore and stood patiently, spear point up. The two behind him held their defensive posture.

“Looks like they want to talk rather than fight, Gorthane,” Torfal said, casting a black look at the champion. “You’re aware that not everything that lives in this swamp is an enemy, especially if it’s been held prisoner by the skorne.”

Gorrthane scowled. “My job is to protect this kriel, not negotiate with every slimy toad that hops out of the muck.

“Lucky for you, that’s my job,” Torfal said. He stepped forward and held his hands out, empty palms up.

“Who are you?” Torfal ventured in quor-og, the burbling tongue of the fishlike bog trogs. It was as good a first guess as to their language as any.

The lead frogman held his ground and kept his spear up. He cocked his head at the words and rapidly blinked his eyes twice, but he made no other movement or reply.

Torfal nodded, not knowing if the frogmen would even understand that gesture. He tried his question again in quor-gar, the language of the gatormen, which drew the same response: nothing. He then ran through a number of human tongues, each eliciting blank stares and little else.

“Well?” Gorthane said. “Are they hostile?”

Torfal turned and scowled. “I don’t speak frog. Do you?”

Gorthane shrugged. “Then try skorne. They were skorne prisoners, right?”

Torfal nodded, irritated that he hadn’t thought of this before the war-mongering champion. He’d picked up a bit of the language from the few warriors they’d captured and interrogated. His understanding of the language was elementary at best.

“Who you?” Torfal said. The words felt sharp and alien on his tongue.

The lead frogman’s eyes rose on their stalks, and he bobbed his head up and down, an obvious gesture of excitement. Then he spoke in a deep, croaking voice, his skorne as bad as Torfal’s. “I Swamp-Walker,” he said. “Fish-Hunter and Loud-Singer.” He pointed the butt of his spear at the two frogmen behind him. “We no fight blue-skins.”

Torfal was delighted he’d managed to communicate with the strange creatures and that, likely to Gorthane’s disappointment, they were not hostile. “Torfal,” he replied, tapping his chest. “Storyteller,” he added.

Swamp-Walker took a step forward, keeping his spear pointed up. “You fight sharp-heads?” he said, then held up his manacled wrist, shaking the chain attached to it.

“Yes,” Torfal said, smiling at the oddly appropriate description of the skorne. “We fight and kill many sharp-heads.”

Again Swamp-Walker bobbed his head. “You master long-tongue?” he pointed his spear at Blugg. The swamp troll had moved toward the shore, listening. Torfal had never seen the lazy, cantankerous swamp troll so interested in anything.

Torfal considered the question. No one could be said to truly control the swamp troll, but like most trolls, Blugg fought willingly for the kin. In the end, Torfal thought it better not to muddle the situation with too much information.

“Yes,” he replied. “Long-tongue fight for us.”

Swamp-Walker held his spear out to Torfal, the shaft of the weapon across both open palms. “We fight sharp-heads for blue-skins.”

Torfal accepted the spear. He didn’t know what else to do, so he held it for a few seconds, then returned the spear to Swamp-Walker in the same manner it had been given to him. That seemed to be right. The frogman bobbed his head again and accepted the weapon.

“Well, old one,” Gorthane said. “What did he say? Are we eating frog tonight?”

Torfal turned to the towering champion and poked a finger into his broad chest. “Absolutely not.“ He smiled. “You have new recruits.”

SCRAP ANTE

By Howard Tayler

Northern Thornwood Camp #248, Doloven 605 AR

“Deal me in,” Kerne said.

At least that’s what Trencher Corporal Kerne Mallory thought he had said. He had practiced his pronunciation so the Gobberish phrase ulada nito had a solid, confident sound to it, but the tent full of card-playing gobbers went silent. All eyes were on him and the bag of battlefield scrap he held at his side.

“Not ulada nito, Corporal Mallory,” said Mo. “Ulada only means deal like ‘clever bargain.’ For dealing cards it’s shidda. You told us to bargain you under, and the way you said it very clearly told us all to cheat you.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s what we’re going to do if you decide to play.” Mo turned to the rest of the tent and rattled off some Gobberish. All Kerne caught was “He something play something told apple happy cheat,” after which the other gobbers cackled with laughter. Kerne realized his Gobberish was okay when he was listening to Senior Mechanik Gersten shout it across the field, but this was somebody else’s trench entirely. He pulled his coat tightly around himself and prepared to wander back out into the rain where he could be bored and broke among people he could talk to. When they actually talked to him, anyway.

“So,” said Mo, “what did you bring?”

“I can stay?”

“Sure. Just don’t mangle our language. I’ll translate, and we’ll cheat you gently.”

“Well, okay then.” He upended his sack on a side table, spilling out muddy bits of torn metal, shorn bolts, and wire. “It’s all I could find.”

“Where has it been?” asked Rala, the only other gobber here whose name he knew. She was speaking very slowly, and Kerne followed pretty well.

“I picked it out of a crater over by the 221st.”

“She’s not asking where you found it,” said Mo. “She’s asking where it has been.” He picked a piece of wire from the table and wiped it clean. “Like this. Looks like part of that wire fence you trenchers cut through last fall. It probably got tangled around the foot of a ’jack and got dragged for miles.”

“I . . . I have no idea. All I did was dig it out of the crater.”

“Oh.” Mo looked unhappy. “If it had a story, it would be worth something.”

Kerne blew out a sigh of despair. “Mo, I’ve lost all my scrip and my liquor rations playing cards with Corporal Duffock. I don’t care about the money. I just want to play cards. It’s cold and boring here. You guys play for scrap, so I thought if I dug some up, I could have a game.”

“Tallpink clumsy shovel-fix,” said one of the gobbers, pointing at his pack.

Mo scowled at the speaker. “Nicetalk never tallpink, something, something.”

Kerne ignored the insult. It was their tent, and he was tall and pink. “He’s probably talking about my lucky shovel,” said Kerne, pulling his entrenching tool from his belt. “I’d fix it properly, but the socket threads are stripped. It’s okay. The bent nail holds the head on just fine.”

Mo eyed the shovel. “How’d you break it? Why is it lucky?”

“Well, Manny, our Grenadier, was throwing a hole for us when one of those troll spears knocked his leg out from under him. Next thing we know, there’s blue-skins rushing us, and ol’ metal Manny has gone bolts over boiler into the hole we were supposed to be in.

“Duffock and the guys piled in anyway, and I jumped in last, but by then we’d run out of hole. Half of me was sticking out of it, and in the rush my pack was climbing up my back sideways.”

“Sounds like you’ve told this story before,” said Mo with a sly grin. “Get to the part about the shovel.”

“Right. So I’m sticking out of the hole, and then a team of pygs popped out of the brush and started laying down cover fire. Bullets whizzed around, and I tried to get low but just couldn’t. Then something slapped me in the head, and I was out. I missed the part where Captain Reinfeld dropped artillery practically on top of us, breaking the trollkin charge and opening them up for a counterattack. I woke up with a headache, wondering why I wasn’t being eaten by a troll.

“I saw Rala. She was trying to repair Manny’s leg. My shovel head—” Kerne held it up, “—had popped off the shaft. It had my hair and blood on one side and this dent on the other. Near as I can tell, it’s from one of those blue-skin bushwhacker bullets.”

Mo looked up at the shovel, then looked for a long moment at Kerne. The stare was just starting to feel weird when Mo turned to the rest of the group and began spouting Gobberish.

Kerne could only make out about one word in five, but he could tell that Mo was re-telling the story. The rest of the gobbers nodded, and Rala slapped her head when Mo referred to Manny. Then Mo got to the end of the story and everybody got very, very quiet.

“We don’t have a big enough wrench,” said Rala in Gobberish. Or at least that’s what Kerne thought she said. It made no sense.

“What does that mean?” Kerne asked.

“It means we can’t afford to play scrap ante with you if that shovel goes in the pot.”

Kerne looked down at the shovel and then over at his pile of muddy scrap.

“Well, ain’t that a piece,” he said, blowing out a heavy sigh. “The only money I’ve got is too good for you. You guys can keep this junk.” He waved at the muddy pile on the table. “Me and my shovel are gonna go watch the rain make puddles.” Alone.

He turned to go, but Rala had moved between him and the door of the tent.

“You stay here while I fix that shovel.” Her Cygnaran sounded just fine.

“I thought these things were worth more when they’re—”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Rala. “Tools need to work. Scrap is worth most when it’s got a good story, but scrap that has a good story and that can be bodged back into a good tool? That’s worth the most of all.”

“Tell him the rest, Rala,” said Mo.

“Fine. If I fix your shovel and make it work again, that makes me worth more, because I get to be part of the story.”

Kerne considered this for a moment.

“If I let you fix my shovel, you’ll let me play cards with you guys and I can pay using that stuff I dug up?”

“No. If you let me fix your shovel, you get a working shovel.”

“Rala . . .” Mo said.

“And I give you a handful of rivets that popped off Manny when that spear hit him. You can play with those.”

Mo stepped between them.

“Before you agree, Kerne Mallory, you should know we’re still going to cheat you. No way is Rala going to let you leave with her Manny-rivets. But at least you’ll get to play cards.”

Kerne thought about that for a moment, and then held out his hand. “Ulada,” he said. “Deal.”

This is Howard’s second story featuring the gobber mechaniks Mo and Rala. To read more about these characters and their adventures on the Cygnaran front lines, check out the short story “Heartfire” in the Skull Island eXpeditions anthology Called to Battle: Volume One.

THE WORTHY

By Larry Correia

The Bloodstone Marches, 606 AR

Primus Kuthsheth of the Praetorian, sword master of House Balaash, watched the lone armored figure trudge across the distant sand dunes. The desert sun beat down upon them, but the human still wore his heavy armor and helm. Perhaps sensing he was being watched, the figure paused and turned his head until he faced his pursuers.

“That is the human who defeated Erishum’s patrol?”

“Yes, Primus,” the Venator dakar answered. “His tracks do not lie.”

More of Kuthsheth’s cohort joined them atop the ridge, yet the human did not flee. From the time the skorne had invaded the west, most humans had learned to run at the sight of the superior warriors, but this one simply stood waiting.

“Erishum was one of my students.” He had been capable enough. “Tell me what you have learned of this human.”

“Our patrol raided a caravan, expecting to capture it and take slaves, only this creature arrived and killed six Praetorians. We do not know where he came from or why he is here—perhaps he is from one of the settlements we have burned. With one hand he wields a flaming sword, and with the other he bears a shield with the symbol of the human’s masked creator god upon it. We captured one of the god’s priests, who said this man is what is known as a paladin. They are of a warrior caste called the Order of the Wall.”

Kuthsheth nodded. Archdomina Makeda had ordered him to terrorize this region and claim it on behalf of the Skorne Empire. He couldn’t do that with this paladin killing his raiders with his flaming sword. “They sound like worthy adversaries.”

“The paladins are extremely skilled and strong warriors, but they are unworthy of respect.”

Kuthsheth frowned at this. Among the skorne, strength and respect were the same thing.

“This Order of the Wall does not fight to conquer.” The dakar seemed baffled by the concept. “They only protect the weaker humans.”

“A warrior must defend his house’s assets.”

“No, Primus. I mean they value the lives of the lower castes more than their own.”

A warrior sacrificing his life for his inferiors? “Inconceivable.”

“Our paingivers applied their most vicious devices to the priest’s flesh until they were certain his words were true, Primus. The paladin is an aberration, even among humans. With your permission, I shall have my Venators put him down like a diseased reptile hound.”

But Kuthsheth was thinking. The paladin of the Order of the Wall was still watching them, waiting.

“No. I will face this creature alone.”

Walking across the dunes gave Kuthsheth time to remember. When he was a young Praetorian, his house had been defeated by House Balaash. As was the way of the skorne, the defeated warriors had been cast into the slave pens of the victorious house. He had thereafter fulfilled his duty to his new house, as had all the slaves. They knew that though their own deaths would bring eternal torment, hope yet existed for their descendants to be promoted to a higher caste—and only the warrior caste could reach exaltation. So Kuthsheth had worked hard, hoping his children might be promoted to be artisans or beast handlers, and perhaps in a few generations their children could become warriors.

Except Archdomina Makeda had rewarded his loyalty by returning him to the warrior caste. It was a surprising act, but she was a surprising ruler. Since then he had served her with all his strength. He would follow Makeda into the Void if need be.

Nearer now, Kuthsheth could see that the paladin was large for a human, broad and tall enough even for service in the Cataphracts. With an expert eye the primus looked over the man’s battered armor, noting all the spots where it had been cut by steel or dented and then hammered back out. The claws of some fearsome beast had left scratches across the breastplate and chipped the painted symbol of the human’s god.

The paladin had taken his helmet off, revealing wrinkled, discolored skin with prickly grey hair sprouting from the bottom half of his face. Humans were hideous.

Yet the creature’s eyes were those of a real warrior. Though they were a startling blue the color of the desert sky, they were just as cold and hard as those of any experienced Cataphract. Humans showed their age more readily than skorne, and Kuthsheth estimated that like him, this creature would be considered an elder among his people.

Kuthsheth stopped twenty paces away. “I am Primus Kuthsheth of the Praetorian, sword master of House Balaash. I have come to kill you in single combat.”

The human said something in his strange, soft language. Of course, they couldn’t understand each other.

“You elevate the weak. Why would you punish them like that? Struggle is how we grow. Why would you deny the lower castes the blessings of conflict and curse their descendants with eternal weakness?” The paladin answered his challenge with more garbled nonsense. It saddened Kuthsheth that such big questions would have to remain unanswered.

Hundreds of his soldiers watched from along the cliffs. Kuthsheth worried the human might believe there was no escape and give up, and he hadn’t walked all this way in the sun to not have a proper battle. “I ordered them to let you go if you defeat me.”

The paladin tilted his head to the side. He said something else completely incomprehensible. The only word Kuthsheth understood was Menoth, the name of the human’s masked god.

“Skorne do not have gods. We do not need them. I’m told your priests teach that your essence lives on in some other realm. Our souls are cast into eternal torment, and only our greatest warriors are worthy of having theirs saved in a sacral stone. That explains why most humans are soft, but not the occasional thing like you.”

The paladin stared at him with unwavering eyes. They studied each other as the hot desert wind whipped the man’s tattered cloak.

Kuthsheth continued, “Two old warriors come to bleed in the sand . . . There is no extoller here, and even if there were I doubt I am yet worthy of exaltation, so if I allow you to kill me, I will go to the Void.” He placed his hands upon his sheathed swords. “That is an excellent motivator.”

The human put his helmet back on, took up his mighty tower shield, and drew his gleaming sword. The steel began to glow orange, as if it had just been pulled from a forge.

Kuthsheth bowed. The paladin dipped his helm in acknowledgement.

Now one of them would die.

Perhaps they understood each other after all.

“The Worthy” marks Larry’s second foray into the culture and worldview of the skorne. He first delved into the brutal intrigue of the Skorne Empire in the Skull Island eXpeditions novella Instruments of War, where he introduced the character Kuthsheth.

WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY

By Orrin Grey

The mask I wear is not made for my comfort. It forces my breath and the stench of hot iron back into my nose and mouth. When the mask comes off at night, it feels like pulling open a wound. Still, when I lie on my cot in the darkness, I long for it again, closing me off, closing me up.

The shackles on my wrists bite into my skin. They’re removed only when I sleep or when I work. Even when I’m not wearing them they leave behind red welts, brands that will stay with me forever and mark me even if I live to be an old man.

The chains that crisscross my body bind my arms to my sides so I cannot lift them. The chains are hooked to my shackles and to the collar at my neck with heavy locks that clank when I walk. They weigh me down, give me something to strain against, and when they are gone, I feel their phantom weight.

My bonds are heavy, but I wear them gladly. They are nothing compared to the burden I bear, and their presence serves as a constant reminder of that shame.

On the first day I came to the House of Truth, Scrutator Solas told me, “Sometimes we are forced to take up the weapons of the enemy so they cannot overpower us.” He was talking about the warjack cortexes I help build; he was also talking about me and those like me. That is what we are: weapons of the enemy.

In the House of Truth I work with artificers and heretic wizards who wear bonds like mine, though not by choice. Together we assemble the cortexes. The others complete their tasks through careful study, I complete mine by instinct. Like putting together a puzzle with my eyes closed, my hands somehow know where the next piece will fit, and then the next, and the next. I know this work requires us to draw on unholy energy, and each time we do so the sin is compounded, but I also know each sin is cleansed by a blessing. Just as the sins of imperfect mortals can be redressed through faith, unclean arcane artifices can be sanctified by the priests watching over our work. The machines are necessary for the Great Crusade, and I gladly accept my burden, compounding my own sins indefinitely so others can march to war for the glory of the Creator of Man.

As a child, it frightened me when I first began to make inexplicable things happen. My mother took me aside and told me it was nothing to be ashamed of. It was the will of Menoth, a gift so I might serve him better. She told me no one else needed to know—it was between the Creator and me.

I wanted to believe her. I tried to be worthy of her love for me, to be worthy of Menoth, but even then I knew she was mistaken. I could feel the wrongness of my power, feel the darkness of it coiling in my gut. I could feel it longing to escape and be free, and I knew nothing so wild and uncontrolled could come from the Creator. I knew what I was.

At first I wanted to take my own life, though I knew what waited for me on the other side. I was afraid there was nothing I could do, no way I could serve Menoth. So long as I lived, I would be working against his will.

Instead, I turned myself over to the House of Truth, and the scrutators confirmed what I already knew, what I had always known, but they also showed me what I could be, how I could serve. They showed me how even my curse fit into Menoth’s great plans and gave me a purpose.

When they learned what my mother had told me, I knew they would come for her. I watched as they took her and saw the tears on her face. She didn’t understand, not yet, but I knew she would. She had only wanted to protect me, but she was wrong to do so. No mortal can protect another from the Lawgiver’s judgment. Instead, I would protect her and deliver her from any blame for my sin. The scrutators would help her find her way and restore her obedience. Unlike me, she could be spared.

Sometimes, I am led onto the battlefield. When I see the warjacks, I have a connection to them. I can sense the cortexes inside them I helped create and assemble. I know the men and women who command them are heroes, great champions of the Lawgiver. They can touch the cortexes with their minds and wield awe-inspiring magic. Their power is blessed and delivered to them by the Creator. I am different. I am not a champion. My power comes from a dark and profane source. I am a weapon turned to righteous purpose, but when that purpose is fulfilled, I will still be an abomination. No matter how it is held, a sword with no hilt is dangerous to friend and foe.

On the battlefield I can use my power, the poison that is always inside me. I can turn it loose against Menoth’s enemies. I can make our warjacks stronger or I can simply reach out with my curse and kill. The magic inside me is coiled like a snake, and it feels good to let it strike. Though it is upon enemies of the faith that I loose this power, I know it is proof I am accursed.

The battles are filled with fire and blood and a distant roaring. The mask cuts off the sound, deadens it. The smell of burning flesh and scorched metal is lost in the stench of my own breath. All the sights of the battlefield, the crashing of machines and men, the churning of the sands to crimson mud, are reduced to the two tiny windows through which I view the world. I see only what I need to see, do only what I need to do. I am a tool at Menoth’s disposal, a weapon in the hands of the righteous.

When I was a child I wanted to die, and there are still times I long for death. I pray a bullet will find me or the flames will consume me. I wear my bonds gladly, but they are heavy, and there are times when I look forward to the day when my usefulness ends, so I may finally rest.

Still, I cannot falter. I know the fire can never cleanse me. I know death will not release me. I could not take my life when I was a child, and I cannot throw it away now. It belongs to Menoth, and I cannot die until the Lawgiver reclaims my soul. All my pain I send as a prayer to him. In spite of what others may say, I cannot believe there is any salvation for me in death. How could the Creator accept me into the City of Man, unclean as I am? The nearest I come to grace is letting Menoth wield me and turn everything I am against those who would deny his truth. Even then I will not be forgiven, but I will know, when I finally fall wherever my body is destined to lie, that I was not any worse than I had to be.

REPLACEMENT PARTS

By Darla Kennerud

Northern Llael, 605 AR

Korporal Miloslav Zhabin sprinted the last forty yards to the Spriggan and dove behind the warjack’s bulk as Vanquisher flames blasted the area. Nearby soldiers cried out, engulfed in fire, and he grimaced. Khadoran Destroyers closed on the enemy ’jacks, but the damage was done.

Fourteen—no, fifteen, he thought, automatically adding those Winter Guard to the running tally in his head. It wasn’t his responsibility to keep track of casualties, but he found the counting helped him distinguish one battle from the next. When most of what you saw in any fight was the inside of battered warjacks, the conflicts tended to blur together. Besides, the information often ended up being useful in what was his job: maintaining the great machines in this small portion of the Motherland’s inestimable army.

The Spriggan had hunkered down, and Miloslav could hear the thrum of its grenade launchers readying. The ’jack shifted its weight from one foot to the other as though anxious to get back into the fight. It wasn’t going anywhere yet, though. Its right arm hung uselessly by its side, leaving its oversized war lance more an obstacle than a weapon. The lance was bolted to its hand, so at least the ’jack couldn’t drop it, but that only made maneuvering more difficult.

Craning his neck to examine the ragged hole in the elbow joint, Miloslav noted that two of the bolts had been sheared off and two had fallen out. He automatically ticked off four bolts from the supplies in his many pockets. Replacing the bolts would be straightforward enough, but the elbow’s exposed interior showed significant damage. The main hydraulic line was leaking fluid, and the forward gear mechanism had been knocked completely out of alignment, with several of the gears bent or cracked. That would be harder to fix out here.

Sixteen, he thought as a nearby infantryman took a Skyhammer rocket to the chest and exploded into bloody chunks. He ducked under the Spriggan’s mangled arm and began digging broken gears out of it. The steady stream of leaking hydraulic fluid made it difficult to get a good grip on the parts, but he was used to that.

Eight to ten inches of tubing, a two-inch elbow gear, three lead balancers, a good two feet of heavy-gauge wire, the number 4 midwrench to get at that one . . .

His hands darted in and out of the gash in a blur of motion, yet his muttering was focused and even. He could bring battered ’jacks back to life at remarkable speed, but he didn’t get worked up about it. It was just a job.

The reflex tension line to the elbow snapped. Without hesitating he clipped it, drew a length of wire from one of his chest pockets, and spliced that onto the break. He heard a rocket salvo hit the infantry up ahead.

Maybe twenty, he thought, though at this distance he couldn’t know precisely. He didn’t wish death on his fellow soldiers, but he liked to know where things stood. Like field repair itself, battle was a whirlwind of changing circumstance, and in Miloslav’s experience what helped navigate that storm better than anything else was precise, accurate information.

The only problem with this perspective was that it perhaps boiled experience down too much. Right now he was repairing the Spriggan’s mangled elbow joint; earlier it had been a cracked optical assembly on a Kodiak; before that it had been the haft of a Destroyer’s axe. But the routine was always the same: evaluate from a distance when possible, fight to the warjack and reassess, then do whatever it took to fix the damn thing.

At this point in his career he’d repaired or replaced just about every part of a warjack’s anatomy, many times over. Always under fire. Always urgently needed. Sometimes it was a little harder to bang together a solution than others, and sometimes he had to work under heavy bombardment or in the middle of close combat, but it was all familiar by now. Even the kovniks he’d served under blurred together in his memory.

He replaced the main hydraulic line, then started on the trickier gear-and-piston assembly. He heard the high whine of incoming rocket fire and dove back behind the Spriggan just in time.

The warjack itself wasn’t so lucky. Miloslav’s work wasn’t completely ruined, but the elbow was pummeled by debris, and the two-inch gear he’d been installing was snapped in half. He quickly ran through his mental inventory of the parts and tools he had on hand and came up without a replacement. He grunted. He did have a two-inch wrist gear, but it was half as thick as the ones used in elbows and would never hold up to the stress. He’d just have to go picking.

Miloslav instantly recreated the last half-hour or so of the battle in his mind. At every instance of damage—warjack or human, friendly or enemy—he noted the gear and machinery that hit the ground, adding this list of available scavenge to the list of what he himself carried. Then he saw it: a bit far from his position, but not unreachable, lay a Man-O-War whose skull had been caved in by flying debris. Miloslav could do nothing to help the poor soldier, but that armored suit could certainly help him. A few months ago one of the Man-O-War mechaniks had borrowed a two-inch elbow gear from his field supply, so he knew the armor used something similar. He’d just have to find it.

Miloslav made a run for the Man-O-War. Once there, he disassembled one arm casing, but the gears there were too small. He cursed and moved on to the chest plate, whose bolts were mired in blood. Ten minutes later, he had his gear and had made his way back to the Spriggan, only having to educate one Protectorate zealot of the inadvisability of using his skull to block a mechanik’s wrench.

He pounded the first of the Spriggan’s sheared bolts out of its hole and had the replacement in and tightened in seconds. He started on the other one, letting his hands do the work they knew so well. He didn’t feel the same thrill at every repair that he used to, but he was still damn good at it.

The last time he’d seen his old chief mechanik, at least a year ago now, Miloslav had mentioned that the work just didn’t seem as exciting anymore. “Just part of being an old soldier,” he’d joked, but the chief hadn’t laughed.

Instead, the man had given him a long look and finally said, “Our warjacks give us their all, and we get to crawl around the battlefield doing whatever it takes to keep them in the thick of it. You ask me, that’s plenty exciting.”

Miloslav sighed at the memory as he tightened the last bolt. He watched the ’jack flex its arm and move toward the front lines, then hoisted his wrench to make his way back to the camp.

Heading to report to Sergeant Kovalenko, Miloslav saw the chief mechanik in discussion with their kovnik, who did not look pleased. Kovalenko turned and pointed his direction, and the kovnik nodded curtly and strode away with her junior officers trailing her. Kovalenko stood in place for a moment before turning to meet him. The normally even-tempered man wore a sour expression.

“Is it going that badly?” said Miloslav, glancing toward the departing kovnik.

“You could say that,” said Kovalenko. “Actually, you’d have more of a right to than anyone.”

Miloslav raised his eyebrows but kept his mouth shut. Given time, information would usually come out on its own.

Movement at the forward supply wagon caught his eye: a stooped old woman waving imperiously, and support personnel jumping to fetch additional supplies to add to the load. Behind the wizened figure, a light warjack straightened to its full height and turned its piercing gaze toward Miloslav. It looked like nothing he’d ever seen. Aside from its unusually small size, it had no arms or weapons and was draped with bags and supplies. His blood turned cold as he realized without a doubt that the machine was not looking his direction by accident: he was being assessed.

The woman also turned to peer at him, and his heart stopped in his chest as the pieces came together in his head. The crone, the piecemeal warjack, the overburdened supply wagon—it could all mean only one thing.

Zevanna Agha, the Old Witch, had come to commandeer what she needed from Yanukovich’s army.

Kovalenko stepped next to him and drew a long, shaky breath. “Korporal,” the chief mechanik finally said, “you’ve been reassigned.”

ANSWERING THE CALL

By Douglas Seacat

Corporal Scyro was relieved to put the cold at his back as he entered the barracks. He had to pull hard to close the door against the wind that swept down into Ios from the Rhulic mountains to the north. Three other houseguard soldiers recently finished with their watch were warming their hands around the hearth fire. Six others were bundled up tightly in their bunks.

Before he joined the soldiers at the table he took a moment to properly stow his gear, a habit built from long practice. He unlimbered his heavy rifle and slid it into its slot beside his bunk and set his helmet, pack, and sheathed blade in their places. He only partially extracted himself from his armor, just enough to give him some greater comfort as he sat down at the table. More relaxed now, his mind went as it often did to his wife Rywen, who was in Shyrr. He planned to visit in less than a week and he was impatient for that day to arrive.

He accepted an offered glass of fortified wine from Corporal Nysselle. Just as he started to get comfortable the door slammed open and Sergeant Klyne stepped inside, his expression dark.

“Care for a drink, Klyne?” Scyro asked. Of the soldiers, he was the only one who had not tensed up at the old veteran’s arrival. He and the sergeant had become close in the last few years. Despite Klyne’s intimidating demeanor, Scyro found him personable when off duty.

The sergeant shook his head. “Not today.” He looked to the interior of the barracks. “On your feet, soldiers!” His voice boomed with the volume and clarity of a man who had been barking orders for decades.

Those soldiers in their bunks leapt to their feet, only one stumbling. “At ease,” he told them. “I have news. In less than a week the company will be on the march. We’re being redeployed.”

“Redeployed, Sergeant?” Lynthin asked, his eyes bleary and his expression uncomprehending. He had just awoken, but his confusion was echoed on the faces of the rest. A company bearing their emblem had been garrisoned at Crag Tower for two hundred years, doing their part to fulfill House Dryseth’s obligations to protect Ios’ border. They manned the tower and patrolled a region between Aeryth Dawnguard and the Gate of Storms. Several of the soldiers present, including Scyro, were following in the footsteps of fathers or mothers who had served here. They were the 3rd Houseguard Company of Dryseth, more commonly called the Dryseth of Crag. The tower’s emblem was etched into the rifles and halberds of their mixed company.

“Our venerable Captain Uilyth Dryseth has been tasked by his uncle, Incissar Dryseth, to take the 3rd to join the Retribution of Scyrah in their struggles abroad.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in. “A week from now we will no longer belong to the Homeguard Coalition. We will leave Ios and march into the savage lands to the west, there to fight and die for the salvation of our people and our gods. This should prove a greater challenge than patrolling a border that hasn’t been threatened in four thousand years.”

Several of the soldiers looked excited, even eager, and began to talk among themselves. Scyro felt the blood drain from his face. Scyro pulled the sergeant aside and said quietly, “I had no idea the incissar was a Retribution sympathizer.”

Klyne sighed, glancing over Scyro’s shoulder, but the others were preoccupied by conversation about the news. He said, “A few years ago, it would have been bad politics. With Nyssor returned, everyone’s a sympathizer. Much has changed. Every minor house has been scrambling to show its support, and now that falls to Dryseth. The weight falls on our shoulders.”

“Is the incissar joining us?” Scyro asked bitterly.

“Watch your tongue, Corporal.” The sergeant’s voice had become dangerous. “I won’t have you disparaging our lord in public. Captain Uilyth fights in the incissar’s stead. Where Uilyth goes, we follow.”

“I’m sorry,” Scyro said, abashed. He changed his tact. “Could I be transferred?” He saw the look on the sergeant’s face and added, “Rywen carries our first child, a daughter.” Klyne knew Rywen, who had also been a soldier of the Dryseth of Crag before her pregnancy. “She’s due in two months. I just want to see my daughter born.”

Klyne’s expression softened. Many couples tried for decades before a successful pregnancy, and each such occasion was to be celebrated. Scyro knew Klyne had a family of his own, with two healthy sons. Still, the older soldier shook his head. “I am happy for you and wish your family fortune, but if the company marches, so do you. Exceptions can’t be made.”

Scyro frowned and said, “You’ve heard the rumors. Casualties among houseguard fighting with the Retribution are high. They say the mage hunters use us as cannon fodder!”

“Rumors be damned!” Klyne retorted. He seemed more sergeant than friend. “You know the stakes of this. Scyrah lies ailing. The Retribution is at least fighting to change things. Do you want me to let you sit safely on the border when others are dying for our salvation? I suggest you change your attitude, Corporal.” With that he turned and left.

Scyro looked to his rifle in the rack alongside the others. He was one of the best marksmen in the squad, but he had never fired his weapon in battle, never shot another living soul. He tried to find the piety Klyne spoke of, that willingness to sacrifice himself. All he could think about was his wife’s face and her pregnant belly, rounder with each passing day. He looked at the bright faces around him and felt ashamed. Scyrah help him, but he knew the answer to Klyne’ s last question.

They did not notice as he took his sword from his bunk and stepped out the door into the cold. He climbed the stairs to one of the sheltered landings and stood against the railing. He found himself repeatedly sheathing and drawing the blade, a nervous habit he had acquired during long watches. He looked at its edge and considered why he had brought it. The thought of self-harm rose up like smoke—not as a rational plan, but from drowning desperation. If he were to make himself unfit for the march, would he be transferred to another garrison? He pondered the best way to deliver himself a crippling injury that would not be obviously self-inflicted. Here, help was close at hand. Better to hurt himself now than to die in a ditch on human soil.

His hand trembled on the blade as he imagined slicing a gash along the back of his leg. The thought was increasingly tempting. He sucked in a deep breath. He was a soldier of Ios, one of the Homeguard Coalition, not a coward. He thought on what Klyne had said, and again of his unborn daughter. What world would she inherit if Scyrah was gone? He had been raised to believe the Retribution was a fringe sect, radical and irresponsible. But Nyssor was restored. What did it mean?

He felt nothing but dread at the thought of leaving Ios to rush toward his likely end. His mouth was dry with sorrow at the thought of never seeing his daughter. But he also felt a duty to House Dryseth. He heard footsteps on the stairs below him and sheathed his blade. He walked back toward the barracks that would not be his home much longer, uncertain what he would do. He had just days to decide whether he would march from Ios or surrender his honor to see his daughter draw her first breath. Either sacrifice felt too high.

GENTLEMAN’S GAME

By William Shick

Khadoran-Occupied Laedry, Early 606 AR

Colm Tanner pressed himself into the shadows of the narrow back alley and counted silently. Just being on the streets after curfew marked him as a criminal, but beneath his long leather greatcoat, cut in the tight-fitting style favored by the Llaelese, he carried a much more damning truth. Upon the collar of his shirt Colm wore the insignia of a Cygnaran lieutenant magus of the Arcane Tempest. The sigil’s golden luster had been dulled with shoe polish and was pinned on the underside of the collar rather than on top, but no matter—if any Khadoran were to see those markings he’d be arrested at best and shot on the spot at worst. While Colm had abandoned his familiar and far more comfortable Cygnaran dress in order to blend in, he had retained this one homage to his profession. A tricorn hat matching his Llaelese garb was pulled low over his face, obscuring the aquiline features.

Unconsciously, Colm reached up and rubbed the insignia between his thumb and forefinger.

“You know, you really should get rid of those. They’re going to get you killed one of these days,” Remi Arseneau whispered. Colm didn’t miss the friendly jibe within the words.

“You’re more likely to beat me in our gentleman’s game than to see me get rid of these,” he shot back. Before Remi could respond, Colm raised a hand to silence him. The two held their breath and pressed themselves deeper into the shadows as the Winter Guard patrol they’d been waiting for strode past. Colm turned toward his companion and said, “Three minutes and thirty seconds.”

A sly grin crossed Remi’s face. “That’s enough time to blow up two Khadoran command centers. If only the red bastards would put their command buildings next to each other.”

Colm nodded, tugging on the strap of the explosives satchel on his shoulder. “Since they don’t, I suppose we’ll just have to use the extra time for an another drink tonight when I beat you again.” Colm drew his magelock pistol and slipped a rune-inscribed bullet into the breech. “What’s the current tally?”

Remi scowled. “124 to 119, but only because you always get the drop on the guards. It’s an unfair trick you have.”

Colm smiled as he concentrated on manipulating arcane energy through his magelock, causing the runes etched along its barrel to glow pale blue. “If you’d just admit that I’ve won, I’d teach it to you.”

The disgust at the suggestion was evident in Remi’s reply. “Reset the count? Never. I am not so far behind you. This is not just a matter of sport between gentlemen. Were I to bow out now, I would never be allowed back within the hallowed ranks of the Amethyst Rose.”

Colm raised the magelock and took aim directly across the alley, at the lone Winter Guard patrolling the roof of the former noble house now used as a military administrative building. “Suit yourself.” Colm pulled the trigger, but there was no flash or noise as the firing pin pierced the silk cartridge causing the red and black blasting powders to mix and create the explosive force needed to expel the arcane-charged bullet from the barrel. Instead there was a distinct absence of sound as the bullet shot forth and struck the guardsman in the chest. The spell swallowed even the thud of the body hitting the ground.

“125,” Colm said as he reloaded with lighting speed and fired twice more at the pair of soldiers guarding the front door. The same silencing arcane runes encircled the barrel of his magelock with each shot. Just like that of their companion on the roof, both guards’ lives ended without a sound. “And there’s 126 and 127. You’re almost down by ten, Remi.”

“A situation soon to be corrected.” The Llaelese gun mage dashed past Colm, his own magelock in his left hand with runes glowing along the barrel. In his right hand he grasped a mechanikal duelist’s blade whose edge crackled with arcane energy. Like Colm, Remi wore the form-fitting leathers favored by Llaelese duelists. Even when they had fought on the front lines, before Khador had ultimately defeated the Cygnaran and Llaelese forces and conquered much of Llael, Remi had eschewed the traditional black cloak of his order. Before discovering his skill with a magelock, he had been trained as a duelist by some of the best instructors in Merywyn and preferred fighting up close with blade and pistol. In the confined administration building, Colm was certain his friend’s dueling skill would quickly close the gap between their two point tallies.

The pair sprinted across the street and pressed their backs against the door jam. Colm took a deep breath before nodding to Remi and opening the door. Thankfully, the Khadorans in this part of town had become lax in their security measures as their confidence in their control of the district had grown. They rarely locked the doors of high-traffic administration buildings, believing the guards to be more than ample protection.

As the door opened, Remi pushed through, firing his magelock at the Khadoran adjutant manning the desk in the foyer of the building. The shot sounded like thunder in the enclosed space, making Colm grimace. Maybe he would teach Remi that silent rune shot after this.

Before he could consider things any further, a pair of Winter Guard burst through a side door. Arcane fire streaked from Colm’s pistol. The rune shot struck the first Khadoran in the head, and a bolt of lighting arced from his body into his partner’s, burning flesh with a sound like sizzling bacon. As he reloaded, Colm saw Remi charge into a knot of five Khadorans racing down the staircase that led to the foyer. The leader bore the rank insignia of a kovnik. The officer was one of their primary objectives in this raid, and Colm breathed a sigh of relief that the northerner was making it easy for them. Despite the quickly escalating combat, Colm kept a steady count of the time left before the Khadoran patrol would return.

“Two minutes!” he shouted to Remi.

Remi ducked a clumsy axe swing, drove forward into his overextended adversary, and used his momentum to throw the man over his shoulder and down the stairs. Before the man could get up Colm put a bullet in his brain.

“That one counts as mine!” Remi shouted as he ran his blade through the belly of another opponent.

“Thamar’s teats it does!” Colm shouted back. “You want the point, you finish the target. My bullet, my kill.”

“So much for the nobility and honor of the swans,” Remi said as he parried a strike from the Khadoran officer’s saber and fired his magelock point-blank into the man’s chest. “125 to 130. You have the package?”

A commotion from one of the rooms to Colm’s left barely gave him enough time to dive forward and take cover behind the side of the adjutant’s desk before blunderbuss fire ripped through the wooden wall right where he had been standing. Colm waited until he heard the sound of the Khadorans pushing through the door and into the foyer. He then popped out from cover and snapped off a quick shot, using the same lighting bolt rune shot he had used earlier. He had found that particular Arcane Tempest trick to be well suited to tight urban firefights, where opponents often clustered together. The shot took down two of the attackers, but before Colm could fire again he was forced to take cover as a hail of blunderbuss shots tore apart the area around him.

He heard a shout and the distinct report of Remi’s magelock. The blunderbuss fire slackened as the Winter Guard turned toward the new threat. Taking advantage of the reprieve Colm leaned carefully around the corner and saw Remi leap from the stairs into the group of remaining Khadorans. Blade and pistol flashed until the Llaelese gun mage stood alone.

“130 to 132. Your lead is slipping,” Remi said as Colm stood and brushed splinters from his coat.

“And yet it’s still there.” Colm lifted the explosive satchel from over his shoulder. “Shall we?”

“Yes, let’s give that patrol something to liven up their night. Then it seems the drinks are, once again, on me.”

GLOSSARY

Aeryth Dawnguard: One of the major fortifications of Ios, home to House Nyarr and their Dawnguard. Located in the farthest northeastern point of Ios, the forces here coordinate the defense of northern Ios. One of the first buildings erected in Ios after the arrival of the refugees from the Empire of Lyoss.

Agha, Zevanna: Also known as the Old Witch of Khador, Zevanna Agha is a legendary being said to have roamed the north for centuries beyond number, existing even in the ancient days when Menoth walked Caen and gave rise to humanity.

Amethyst Rose, Loyal Order of the: A storied martial organization in Llael whose members are gun mages originally sworn to that nation’s crown. Many of its members served as royal protectors, but the organization was officially disbanded after the death of Llael’s last king. Its members persisted and met in secret, still devoted to their original oaths. After the Fall of Llael, most of the order’s surviving members became part of the Llaelese Resistance, working from the shadows against Khadoran interests.

ancestral guardian: An exalted ancestor whose sacral stone is placed in an armed statue that it can animate to enter battle alongside skorne warriors. It employs empty sacral stones to recover those slain in battle, who will become revered companions, an honored but lesser caste of exalted.

Anvil of Conquest: A Khadoran medal awarded to a soldier who has played a key role in a major victory in recognition of the brutal casualties inflicted upon an enemy. Each recipient must have accounted for more confirmed kills than any other soldier in his unit.

Arcane Tempest, Militant Order of the: A branch of specialized and highly trained gun mages who serve in the Cygnaran Army after being trained at the Tempest Academy.

arcanist: Any of a variety of skilled practitioners of magic in western Immoren, particularly those who make the study of magic their life’s work, such as the Greylords Covenant of Khador.

archdomina/archdominar: The rank reserved for the skorne leader controlling multiple houses among the pre-Empire skorne, or one of the tors (territories) in the Skorne Empire. Archdomina is female; archdominar is male.

Army of the Western Reaches: The Skorne Empire’s invading arm and the largest and most effective armed force ever raised by the skorne. All houses are required to contribute forces to the army, which is led directly by Supreme Archdomina Makeda. In the west, the army has established itself in the Bloodstone Marches with a number of garrisons and forts.

Artificers, Sul-Menite: Comprised of thousands of individual workers, from unskilled laborers to exceptionally talented and specialized craftsmen, the Sul-Menite Artificers see to the Protectorate’s war industry. Creating and arming warjacks stand among this organization’s highest priorities.

Balaash, House: One of the greatest skorne houses before the Skorne Empire was unified, which subsequently ruled the empire under Supreme Archdomina Makeda.

bane thrall: A cunning and versatile variety of thrall found among the undead armies of Cryx. Banes are tormented spirits drawn from an enigmatic realm of the afterlife called the Void that are then placed within the rune-inscribed corpse of a soldier. They are perpetually shrouded in a cold, preternatural darkness that siphons away light and is inimical to living flesh.

Blackwater: A port city on Scharde, the main island of Cryx, that both facilitates trade with the criminal element of the Iron Kingdoms and serves as a safe haven and resupply point for raiding pirates.

blighted: A state of supernatural corruption and transformation, both physical and mental, that results from prolonged proximity to a dragon. Each dragon’s blight is unique and may manifest in its own way.

blood witches: Among the most vicious of all Satyxis, blood witches are masters of a primal magic fueled by slaughter. These female warriors wield curved swords known as blood razors, which serve as a focus for the witches’ vile and powerful magic, enabling them to turn turn their victims’ blood against their own allies.

bloodgorgers: Blighted trollkin of the Scharde Island kriels with a reputation for brutality that is extreme even among the Nightmare Empire. Bloodgorgers are often employed as shock troops in Cryxian landing parties.

Bloodstone Marches: A large, barren geographical region between the Bloodstone Desert and western Immoren that is occupied by tribal Idrians, farrow, and the Skorne Army of the Western Reaches.

bog trogs: Fish-like humanoid amphibians native to any of the vast bogs and swamps of western Immoren. Bog trogs often must compete with gatormen for food and other resources. In many areas these primitive creatures have been subjugated and forced to fight alongside the physically superior gatormen.

bokor: Fearsome gatorman necromancers and shamans who use potent fetishes and occult trinkets to wield power over the forces of life and death.

Bottomton: An island town and smuggler’s refuge in the Meredius founded by an exiled Rhulic pirate named Joln Rockbottom, after whom it is named. While the town lacks a formal government, Rockbottom is considered its defacto mayor.

Brisbane, Markus “Siege”: A major and warcaster in the Cygnaran Army with a long and highly decorated service record. Nicknamed “Siege” after earning a reputation for demolishing enemy fortifications.

bushwhacker: Term sometimes applied to pyg allies of the trollkin who are outfitted with modified rifles and employed as advance scouts of the united kriels.

caber: A pillar of heavy wood or stone that can still be lifted and thrown by a single individual, employed either for sport or as a weapon. Cabers are thrown as a show of strength in contests employed by some Thurians in Ord or northwestern Cygnar as well as by many trollkin kriels. Massive stone cabers have been adopted as weapons of war by trollkin kriels, where they are hurled to crush enemies.

Caen: The physical world containing the continents of Immoren, Zu, and so on. Sometimes contrasted as the material world as opposed to the spiritual world of Urcaen.

Calder: The largest and brightest of Caen’s three moons. Its cycle is used as the basis for the duration of months for the calendars used in western Immoren. When people refer to the phases of the moon they are generally speaking about Calder. See also Artis and Laris.

Captain’s Island: The largest and most populous island of Five Fingers, holding the center of government as well as the office of the Lord Governor and the headquarters of the Fingers Watch.

Cataphract: A respected upper warrior caste in skorne society, comprised of a skilled and physically capable minority which learns to master heavy armor and special fighting formations. Several traditions of Cataphracts exist, each utilizing different weapons and fighting formations.

chain blade: One of the signature weapons of mage hunter assassins of the Retribution of Scyrah, composed of a long chain with weighted blades on either end, one of which is larger than the other.

Clockers Cove: A port city at the mouth of the Murkham Riveron on the Gulf of Cygnar reputed to be a haven of scoundrels and privateers. It is also a center of legitimate commerce and includes several notable machine shops, shipwrights, and gunwerks.

cortex: The highly arcane mechanikal device that gives a steamjack its limited intelligence. Over time cortexes can learn from experience and develop personality quirks. Cortexes are usually installed inside the central torso of a steamjack where their delicate inner workings are well protected.

Crag Tower: A defensive fortress along the Iosan border with Rhul, between the Gate of Storms and the Aeryth Dawnguard, garrisoned by the houseguard of House Dryseth.

Creator, the: See Menoth.

Cryx: An island kingdom of necromancers, undead, and pirates off the southwest coast of Immoren; also known as the Nightmare Empire. Cryx and its ruler, Toruk the Dragonfather, have no problem sacrificing their soldiers in one battle to set up a greater victory elsewhere.

Cygnar: A southern kingdom ruled by King Leto Raelthorne and bearing the Cygnus on its flag. Generally considered the most prosperous and technologically advanced of the Iron Kingdoms.

Dawnguard: A martial order of heavily armored warriors in Ios headquartered in Aeryth Dawnguard and commanded by House Nyarr, with roots stretching back to the ancient Lyoss Empire.

Destroyer: A Khadoran heavy warjack built on a Juggernaut chassis and armed with an executioner axe and an arm-mounted bombard cannon. Entered service in 537 AR.

Devourer Wurm: An ancient and terrifying primal god of natural chaos, hunger, and predation described as the great ancient enemy of Menoth. Also called the Beast of Many Shapes, the Devourer is said to exist in every beast that hunts other living things as well as natural destructive phenomena such as lightning, earthquakes, floods, and wildfires. In some myths, the Wurm is seen as the male embodiment of nature, while Dhunia is the female embodiment. Viewed by Dhunian races as their divine father.

Dhunia: The primal goddess of fertility, the seasons, and nature and thought by her adherents to be embodied by Caen itself. Her worshipers are primarily gobbers, ogrun, and trollkin but also include some wilderness races like the farrow. In some myths, Dhunia is seen as the female embodiment of nature, while the Devourer Wurm is the male embodiment. Viewed by Dhunian races as their divine mother.

Doleth Island: The Five Fingers island where Scion Bolis achieved his dark ascension. Considerable funds were later spent to sanctify the island, and the Church of Morrow in Five Fingers was subsequently built there by royal decree. Despite these efforts the island is more commonly known as Dicer’s Isle or Bolis Isle.

Doloven: The eleventh month of the standard calendar of the Iron Kingdoms. This month is called Martus in the Protectorate calendar and Sigmon in the Rhulic calendar.

dracodile: A vicious and powerful reptilian ambush predator that dwells in swamps and marshes.

drake: A family of large reptilian predators comprised of various sub-species, drakes are superficially resemblant yet unrelated to dragons.

exalted: Honored skorne ancestors who are deceased but preserved on Caen in sacral stones. This is a state every skorne aspires to achieve by acts of valor. Very few skorne become exalted, primarily only renowned members of the warrior caste. Extollers can occasionally communicate with the exalted.

extoller: A highly respected skorne spiritual caste responsible for burial rites, including preserving the most honored skorne in sacral stones after death. Extollers are skilled in mortitheurgy but practice this art to preserve, honor, and communicate with exalted ancestors. Extollers replace an eye with a crystal oculus so they can see spiritual essence.

farrow: A boar-like race inhabiting the wild areas of Immoren, notable for their intelligence and sophisticated tool use as well as the capacity to learn the languages of other races. Scavenging and raiding are vital aspects of farrow culture, which has provoked frequent conflict with their neighbors.

Five Fingers: An Ordic port city known for its gambling, criminal gangs, and smuggling trade, also known as the “Port of Deceit.” The city occupies the mouth of the Dragon’s Tongue River in the Bay of Stone where the river is split into five channels, or fingers, by the islands.

forest mauler: A large and fierce predator commonly referred to as the Thornwood mauler, though it is also found in a number of other wooded areas, including the Scarsfell Forest. Maulers are quadripeds with a thick, rough hide and an unusual snout and are known for their incredible sense of smell.

Gate of Storms: A massive fortress of House Issyen that exists to defend the Iosan border from Rhul or any other threats from the north and garrisoned with a large contingent of troops since the foundation of Ios.

gatormen: A bipedal, intelligent reptilian race resembling their namesake. They are among the most formidable warriors in western Immoren, as few can rival their raw killing power; even unarmed gatormen are fearsome due to their strong jaws and flesh-ripping teeth. They dwell in a variety of remote swamps, marshes, and riverbanks.

gobbers: A diminutive race of inquisitive, nimble, and entrepreneurial individuals that has adapted well to human cities. Most gobbers stand around three feet tall. Gobbers are known to have undeniable aptitude for mechanikal devices and alchemy.

gorax: Hulking, primitive creatures with long arms ending in oversized claws. Their faces are distinguished by protruding jaws filled with fangs suited to tearing through flesh and bone alike. Gorax are known to appreciate the taste of human flesh, and some prefer it over all other fare.

Great Fathers: The divine pantheon of the Rhulic people who are regarded by Rhulfolk as their actual and literal progenitors. Each of the ruling Stone Clans of Rhul is named after one of the thirteen Great Fathers.

Grenadier: A Cygnaran light warjack that is armed with a mattock and an integrated grenade launcher and is frequently deployed to accompany units of trenchers. The Grenadier entered service in 605 AR.

Greylords Covenant: An exclusively Khadoran arcane order whose members engage in a wide variety of occult research and mechanikal fabrication to advance Khadoran interests, including work on military weaponry, cortex production, and national security. Members of this organization are referred to as Greylords and are versed in ice-based magic.

gun mage: An arcanist capable of channeling arcane energy into rune shots fired from magelock pistols.

High Shield Gun Corps: A corps of highly disciplined and well-trained Rhulic soldiers notable for their heavy armor, broad shields, and carbine rifles and headquartered at the Rhulic fortress of Hammerfall. In order to provide its members with combat experience, and to provide their sponsoring clans with foreign coin, the High Shields are regularly rotated into mercenary service.

hoksune: The Hoksune Code is the most important philosophical credo of the skorne warrior caste, originally set down by Vuxoris the First Exalted. It emphasizes how one is only truly alive in battle. Honor is found in fighting perfectly and fearlessly in the face of certain death, an inevitability one must simultaneously accept and defy.

Homeguard Coalition: The sizable fixed army of Ios tasked with defending that nation’s borders. The Homeguard Coalition is led by the Five Great Military Houses but also includes soldiers drawn from hundreds of lesser houses. These forces have seen their numbers diminished in recent years as many houses have opted to commit some or all of their military resources to the Retribution of Scyrah.

houseguard: Sworn to one of the noble houses, houseguard soldiers are rank-and-file soldiers making up the majority of the armed forces in Ios. In recent years increasing numbers of houseguard have been committed to the Retribution of Scyrah as a sign of support from ruling nobles. Most of the houseguard serve as halberdiers or riflemen and are trained to employ combined arms tactics.

immortals: A skorne statue containing the soul of an exceptional soldier who died in battle, preserved in a sacral stone by ancestral guardians. Immortals are themselves armed for battle and fight in units alongside a house’s living soldiers.

incissar: A title denoting the leader of a noble house within Ios. Incissars are also the ranking military leaders of their house armies, regardless of whether they actually direct their soldiers personally.

Ios: An isolationist nation east of Llael and north of the Bloodstone Marches founded long before the nations of men by survivors of a destroyed empire called Lyoss. Ios is inhabited by a long-lived elven race that has suffered a gradual decline and now faces an imminent cosmological catastrophe.

kapitan: A military rank for a commissioned officer in the Khadoran Army, ranking above lieutenant and below kovnik.

Khador: The northernmost and largest of the Iron Kingdoms, encompassing large expanses of frozen wilderness. Its people are proud of their military traditions, and it has a reputation for aggressive expansionism.

kith: A trollkin extended-family group within a larger kriel. Members of a kith are typically closely related by blood.

koldun lord: The highest-ranking members of the Greylords Covenant that is regularly engaged in the field. Koldun lords are the third-highest rank overall, subordinate only to obavniks and to the high obavnik arbiter.

korporal: A military rank for a junior non-commissioned officer in the Khadoran Army, ranking above privat and below sergeant.

kovnik: A military rank for a commissioned officer in the Khadoran Army, ranking above kapitan and below kommander. This rank encompasses a broad range of responsibility.

kriels: The most important divisions of trollkin culture and the equivalent of a trollkin tribe or clan, varying greatly in size but always comprising several kiths, which are often (but not always) related. Members of the same kriel share the same quitari pattern on their clothing.

lacerator: Crafted to elicit pain and flay flesh from bone, the lacerator is a long whip comprised of bladed discs and wielded by Satyxis raiders.

Laedry: The second-largest city in Llael, considered the center of Llael’s Umbrean culture and population. A prosperous and industrious city, Laedry was built in 328 AR in the old Umbrean style as a means to honor its people and the loss of the ancient city of Korska, which was razed by the Orgoth.

Lake Scarleforth: A vast lake south of Ios and east of the Glimmerwood that lies within the territory of various trollkin kriels.

Laris: One of the three moons of Caen, larger than Artis and smaller than Calder.

Llael: Once the smallest and easternmost Iron Kingdom but largely conquered by 605 AR in the Llaelese War. Llael has since been divided between Khador, the Protectorate of Menoth, and the Llaelese Resistance.

Llaelese Resistance: A militant organization dedicated to freeing Llael from Khadoran occupation, led by a group called the Resistance Council, an eclectic groups of notable Resistance leaders, former Llaelese nobles, and even one prominent member of the Church of Morrow. The Llaelese warcaster Ashlynn d’Elyse serves as marshal of the Resistance armed forces, which includes many mercenaries loyal only to coin. The most dedicated and imperiled members of the Resistance operate secret cells inside every occupied city.

Lyliss: Nis-Scyir of Autumn, Lyliss is the Iosan goddess of swift and merciful death, patron of assassins, and a member of the Iosan Divine Court. Currently counted as one of the Vanished.

mage hunters: Iosan killers who act on the belief that human magic is responsible for draining the life from the Iosan gods by hunting down and eliminating human arcanists. Mage hunters comprise the core membership of the Retribution of Scyrah sect. There is a broad spectrum of agents, soldiers, and specialists that refer to themselves collectively as mage hunters, each with their own weapons, combat duties, and roles within the organization.

magelock: The signature weapon of a gun mage. Only the costly and difficult-to-fabricate steel alloys of these weapons can withstand the arcane stresses created by rune shots.

magus: The third arcane rank in Cygnar. An individual who has completed his journeymanship is promoted to magus and becomes an acknowledged member of their particular arcane specialty. Few arcansists receive ranks higher than this.

Makeda, Supreme Archdomina: Supreme Archdomina of the Skorne Empire after overthrowing the Conqueror (Vinter Raelthorne IV), whom she had previously served as archdomina of the Army of the Western Reaches. Also leader of House Balaash, that house’s greatest leader since Vaactesh, her grandfather. Sister of Akkad, younger daughter of Telkesh.

Man-O-War: Term usually referring to Khadoran heavy infantry or their signature steam-powered armor. There are several categories of Man-O-War troopers, identified by their weaponry, training, and battlefield role.

mechanik: One who builds, maintains, and repairs mechanikal equipment such as steamjacks.

mechanika: The fusion of mechanical engineering and arcane science. Mechanikal weapons and tools are those employing mechanikal components to augment their basic function or add new functionality.

Menoth: The primal god credited by his worshipers with the creation of aspects of the world itself, including the division of the water from the land, the ordering of the seasons, and most importantly the creation of humanity. Menoth’s gifts to humanity included fire, agriculture, masonry, and the written word in the form of the True Law, his divine commandments. Menoth’s worshipers are known as Menites.

Mercarian League: A wealthy and politically powerful merchant consortium headquartered in the Cygnaran city of Mercir but having branches in many cities across the Iron Kingdoms and an outpost on the continent of Zu. The Mercarian League has its own well-armed fleet and mercenaries and has been involved in a longstanding trade war with House Mateu of Ord. It owns a number of subsidiary companies.

Mercir: The southernmost Cygnaran coastal city, home of the Mercarian League.

Merywyn: The capital of Llael as well as the largest and most prosperous city in that kingdom. Before the surrender of Llael, Merywyn was the center of government and the seat of the Llaelese throne. After 605 AR the city became the headquarters of the Khadoran occupation army and government.

necrotech: Both an arcane technology representing the fusion of mechanika and necromancy (sometimes referred to as necrotechnology) and the term for those who practice this black art. A necrotech is an undead mechanik and necromancer of Cryx versed in creating a variety of weapons and machines as well as repairing warjacks in battle or creating explosive scrap thralls from corpses and the remains of destroyed ’jacks. Necrotechs are responsible for much of Cryx’s war industry.

New Larkholm: A port city in the duchy of Thuria and an important center of trade along Cygnar’s western coast. In defense of its own trade interests, the Mercarian League maintains a large mercenary force in the city.

Nyss: A race of nomadic hunters, sorcerers, and priests who are cousins to the Iosans and who once claimed the Shard Spires of northern Khador. Their numbers were decimated by the emergence of the Legion of Everblight, and the few surviving non-blighted Nyss are scattered as refugees or isolated bands, mostly in the north.

ogrun: A large and physically powerful race renowned for great strength, honor, and loyalty. Most ogrun are citizens of Rhul, though they can be found throughout the Iron Kingdoms and are also present in the Scharde Islands serving Cryx.

Ord: The small and resource-poor kingdom on the western coast between Khador and Cygnar, respected for its formidable navy. Ord has defended against Khadoran incursions with varied success in several border wars since the Iron Kingdoms were founded. Ord has become a haven for mercenary companies profiting on the wars of other nations.

Order of the Wall: The name of an ancient Menite martial order whose members trace their origins to Priest King Valent of Thrace. These holy knights obey a distinct code and are singularly dedicated to the protection of the faithful.

Orgoth: A fearsome race of men from an unknown continent to the west across the Meredius who invaded western Immoren and enslaved it for centuries. The Orgoth were driven from Immoren in 201 AR.

paingiver: A versatile skorne caste of assassins, spies, beast handlers, and interrogators, the most proficient of whom apply the principles of mortitheurgy to their arts. The ancient tradition is rooted in the philosophies of Morkaash. Currently recognized as a skorne house led by Lord Assassin Morghoul.

paladin: See Order of the Wall.

Praetorians: The backbone of the skorne warrior caste, soldiers of several fighting disciplines who serve their houses by following the hoksune code. Most Praetorians practice sword mastery, but others employ polearms and shields, while others subjugate and control ferox steeds to serve as cavalry.

primus: A senior skorne officer rank utilized by those who lead a decurium, the largest division of a cohort.

Protectorate of Menoth: A southeastern theocracy dedicated to the god Menoth and established in 484 AR at the end of the Cygnaran Civil War. Though it did not exist at the time of the Corvis Treaties, the Protectorate is considered the fifth Iron Kingdom.

pygs: A distinct species of trolls that are smaller than trollkin but capable of creating whelps like full-blood trolls. Those pygs living near trollkin have demonstrated they are reasonably intelligent, capable of using language and emulating trollkin culture. They are also capable of using a variety of weapons, including firearms, with considerable proficiency.

reptile hound: Large, vicious lizards native to the Bloodstone Marches that hunt in packs and are valued among the skorne for their ferocity and aggressive temperment.

Retribution (of Scyrah): A militant religious sect once outlawed in Ios that seeks to avenge the imminent doom of the goddess Scyrah by killing human arcanists, whom they hold to blame.

revered companions: Skorne preserved after death but counted below true exalted in esteem, generally soldiers who died in major battles in the proximity of ancestral guardians or extollers. Many become immortals for their house.

Rhul: The northeastern dwarven nation bordering Khador, Llael, and Ios. Dwarves of Rhul, a tenacious and skilled race that has long traded with the nations of man, are referred to as Rhulfolk. Rhul is also home to a sizable population of ogrun who have fully integrated into Rhulic culture.

rune shot: The specially crafted rune-inscribed bullets into which gun mages channel their arcane energies.

sacral stone: A piece of pure obsidian or spiritually receptive crystal that has been enchanted by mortitheurgical rites known to extollers to attract and preserve a soul before it passes beyond Caen, a process called exaltation. Fragments of sacral stones can be separated from the original and contain power that can be harnessed by weapons and armor.

Satyxis: A horned, blighted race of the Scharde Islands that is entirely female, infamous for their blood magic and inventive cruelty.

scrutators: A specialized caste of Menite priests tasked to enforce the True Law. In some communities scrutators serve as judges and executioners who police their congregation. In the Protectorate of Menoth, scrutators comprise an inner circle of clergy and are seen as the ultimate protectors of the faith, subject to few limits and no oversight except among their own number.

Scyrah: The Nis-Issyr of Spring and once one of the Iosan Divine Court. Scyrah was the only god to return after the Rivening, becoming the primary goddess of Ios. She dwells in the fane in Ios’ capital, Shyrr, where she rests in wakeless slumber. The Retribution worships her as a goddess of war as well as spring.

sea dogs: A term sometimes adopted by or applied to the motley crews of sailors from diverse backgrounds who are often found serving aboard both pirate and privateer vessels along the Broken Coast. While not all sea dogs are pirates, they are generally thought to be.

Searforge Commission: An organization created by the Rhulic Clan Searforge that coordinates the actions of Rhulic mercenary groups and assigns forces to escort trade shipments through hostile territory.

Section Three: Khador’s intelligence kommand section of the Ministry of the Great Vizier, responsible for gathering information on foreign powers and monitoring both internal and external threats to preserve the empire. Its agents perform similar work and sometimes cooperate with the Prikaz Chancellery of the Greylords Covenant.

Shae, Phinneus: A notorious pirate warcaster and captain of a ship called the Talion, Phinneus Shae became a pirate after a mutiny aboard the Mercarian League ship Exeter. He is actively hunted by agents of the Mercarian League, which has placed an exorbitant bounty on his head.

Shyrr: The capital city of Ios and home to the central fane, or temple, where the goddess Scyrah dwells and is attended by her highest priests.

Sinari: An originally nomadic ethnic group whose origins are lost to prehistory, the Sinari have darker skin tones than most other groups in western Immoren. While there are still some who still identify as Sinari and live in small communities scattered along the western coast of Immoren, over the centuries many families of this ethnicity settled and integrated with the local populations. There are a number of Thurians, Tordorans, and Khards who may have once been Sinari but who no longer self-identify as such.

Skirov: The name of both the ethnic majority of the Skirovnya volozk in northern Khador and of the principal city of this region, which is the largest northeastern Khadoran city.

skorne: A race originating from eastern Immoren that crossed the Bloodstone Desert and Bloodstone Marches to make war on the west. The product of a harsh and brutally strict culture, they seem bent on the conquest of the Iron Kingdoms. The Skorne Empire boasts a highly disciplined and versatile army that employs a variety of enslaved beasts to fight alongside their soldiers.

Skyhammer rockets: Simple yet long-range rockets delivering an explosive payload and which are notorious for being both powerful and inaccurate.

soul: In the cosmology of Caen, every member of any sentient race possesses an immortal soul composed of spiritual essence that encapsulates their identity, free will, and potential. Souls can be interacted with and manipulated by occult practices, an aspect of necromancy. Usually souls eventually cross to Urcaen after death, although Dhunians are instead reincarnated.

Spriggan: A Khadoran heavy warjack armed with a shield, lance, and shoulder-mounted grenade launchers. Entered service in 602 AR.

swamp gobbers: Clever and hardy diminutive gobbers found in bogs and marshes, particularly in the eastern Thornwood and the Widower’s Wood outside Corvis. There is no physiological distinction between swamp gobbers and those dwelling in cities, so the term is cultural and descriptive.

swamp troll: Large, dangerous creatures capable of striking foes at a surprising distance with their sticky, elongated tongues and of swallowing a man-sized creature whole. These trolls often accompany trollkin kriels living near large marshes and other wetlands that serve as the swamp troll’s natural habitat.

swans: Term sometimes applied colloquially to refer to the people of Cygnar, particularly members of the Cygnaran Army or agents of its government. So called because of the Cygnus as Cygnar’s national symbol and prominently featured on Cygnaran military uniforms.

Talion: The pirate frigate owned and commanded by Captain Shae, the Talion features forty deck guns, three towering masts, and a powerful double-paddlewheel steam engine. In the charter agreement, the original crew of the Talion entered into a promise of mutual support and a vow of vengeance against the Mercarian League.

Thamar: One of the Twins, sister to Morrow and a goddess who was once mortal but who ascended to divinity through occult study. Also known as the Dark Sister, Thamar is a widely despised god who emphasizes self-interest, self-empowerment, subversive acts, and freedom from the restraints of conventional morality. Her followers, called Thamarites, worship in secretive cults. Though no cohesive organization connects these groups, they exist in every major urban center of the Iron Kingdoms.

Tharn: Savage, man-eating humanoid tribesmen who inhabit the depths of the Thornwood and are feared for their ferocity and their ability to transform into a bestial form as a blessing of the Devourer Wurm. While legend holds that they were once human, they are no longer viewed as such, nor do they identify themselves as such.

Thornwood: A large forest that became part of Cygnar during the Corvis Treaties and served as a significant geographical barrier along its border shared with Khador. The Thornwood has a reputation for being untamed and dangerous, home to trollkin kriels and Tharn tribes as well as gatormen and other beasts. The forest was seized by Khador in late 607 AR, but they had difficulty securing its interior, largely due to interference from Cryx.

thrall: An undead creature assembled from body parts that have been enchanted by laying glyphs of power on the bones and flesh. Thralls can vary widely in power, the simplest of which are not intelligent. Even intelligent thralls do not have free will.

Tordor: An ancient human kingdom renowned before the Orgoth invasion for its great fleet. The descendants of these people are referred to as Tordorans and comprise the majority culture of Ord. Families of noble bloodlines are called High Tordorans and make up the most powerful land-owning nobility of that kingdom, including the royal line.

trenchers: The second-most numerous infantry of the Cygnaran Army, trained to dig in and defend ground. Typically armed with heavy rifles, hazer smoke grenades, and, of course, their entrenching tools.

troll: A large, strong, and brutish creature possessing limited language and inclined toward violence motivated by hunger. Trolls are widely considered by humanity to be monsters, since trolls eat humans without hesitation. They are often referred to as “full-blood trolls” to differentiate them from the trollkin, to whom they are distantly related.

trollkin: A hardy and intelligent race that live both in their own communities in the wilderness and within cities of man. Distantly related to the more savage and monstrous trolls, trollkin have a distinct appearance with colorful skin, usually blue in hue, and with quills instead of hair and rock-like calcified growths on various parts of their bodies. They possess a complex and rich culture, including their own written language. Most trollkin worship the goddess Dhunia.

tuath: The basic tribal unit of Tharn, each tuath is ruled by a great warrior sometimes referred to as a chieftain, king, or athaor.

uiske: A distinctive and potent liquor distilled from roasted barley and water.

Umbrey/Umbrean: A once-extinct ancient kingdom that stretched across what was once southeastern Khador and western Llael, recently reunited as a volozk of the Khadoran Empire under Great Prince Tzepesci.

Urcaen: A mysterious cosmological realm that is the spiritual counterpart of Caen. Most of the gods reside here, and this is also where most souls spend the afterlife. Urcaen is divided between protected divine domains and the hellish wilds stalked by the Devourer Wurm.

Vanquisher: A variant of the Protectorate’s Crusader warjack that is armed with a flail known as a blazing star and a flame belcher cannon that fires cannonballs filled with Menoth’s Fury. Entered service in 598 AR.

Venators: Members of the skorne warrior caste, but of lower standing than Praetorians or Cataphracts, since they kill at a distance using reivers, a tactic that goes against the Hoksune code.

Void: This term is used both for the emptiness between Caen and Urcaen from which undead banes are thought to arise and for the unknown place where skorne souls are doomed to go to after death if not preserved in sacral stones. These two cosmological locations are not thought to be the same.

volozk/volozkya: The primary political and geographical division of Khador, similar to the provinces or duchies of other kingdoms. Volozkya is the plural. Each volozk is governed by a great prince and is divided into counties governed by counts.

vyatka: A strong liquor usually distilled from potatoes that is common in Khador and exported across the Iron Kingdoms.

warjack: A highly advanced and well-armed steamjack created or modified for war. Some warjacks use power sources other than steam and are not technically steamjacks but are still referred to as such as a matter of custom.

white mane: Elder warriors among the Tharn, revered for their combat prowess. Given the violent lives led by the Tharn it is a mark of distinction when one of their number reaches this age, and each white mane is looked to by their people with both fear and respect.

Winter Guard: The largest group of soldiers within the Khadoran Army representing the rank-and-file infantry. Unless they serve in some other capacity, nearly all male and many female Khadoran citizens are conscripted into the Winter Guard for a single compulsory tour of service. Guardsmen undergo brief but intensive military training and most are equipped with relatively simple and inexpensive gear.

Wurm: See Devourer Wurm.

zealot: A volunteer force of the Protectorate of Menoth’s military composed of untrained citizen combatants eager to combat the enemies of the Sul-Menite faith. Before entering battle they are often armed with incendiary devices and simple hand weapons.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Larry Correia

Larry Correia is the New York Times bestselling author of the Monster Hunter International series, the Grimnoir Chronicles trilogy, and the military thrillers Dead Six and Swords of Exodus. He has been a finalist for the Campbell award and the Julia Verlanger award and won an Audie Award for Hard Magic. He is published by Baen Books. A former accountant, military contractor, firearms instructor, and machine gun dealer, Larry now lives with his wife and children in the mountains of northern Utah, where he has moose in his yard.

Erik Scott de Bie

Erik Scott de Bie is a speculative fiction writer and game designer, probably best known for his work in the Forgotten Realms setting, including his signature Shadowbane series. He is the author of the Shadow of the Winter King, first in the epic World of Ruin fantasy series from Dragon Moon Press. Erik lives in Seattle where he is married with pets. Find him at erikscottdebie.com, facebook.com/erik.s.debie, and twitter.com/erikscottdebie.

Orrin Grey

Orrin Grey is a writer, editor, and monster expert who was born on the night before Halloween. He’s the author of Never Bet the Devil & Other Warnings and the co-editor (with Silvia Moreno-Garcia) of Fungi, an anthology of weird fungus-themed stories. He plays Gatormen whenever he can, and his website is at orringrey.com.

Darla Kennerud

Darla Kennerud is the Editorial Manager for Privateer Press. Her epic poem The Kalmieri appeared in No Quarter, and she has written fiction included in several successful games as well as WARMACHINE and HORDES. Along with her husband, in her free time Darla enjoys teaching her two children to embrace the ways of geekery, be it through playing games that don’t include rules on the box lid, turning normal conversations into mock operettas, or creating reference charts of monster abilities.

Aeryn Rudel

Aeryn Rudel is the Publications Manager for Privateer Press. When not wrangling Skull Island eXpeditions projects, he contributes fiction to the Iron Kingdoms setting and writes WARMACHINE, HORDES, and RPG articles for No Quarter magazine. He is also a notorious dinosaur nerd (ALL theropod dinosaurs had feathers!), a rare polearm expert (the bec de corbin is clearly superior to the lucerne hammer), and has mastered the art of fighting with sword-shaped objects (but not actual swords). Aeryn lives in Seattle with his wife, Melissa, who has demonstrated near superhuman tolerance to her husband’s nerdery.

Michael G. Ryan

Michael G. Ryan is the editor-in-chief of No Quarter at Privateer Press. He has worked in the gaming industry for nearly 20 years and has published short fiction for a number of different settings, most recently the Iron Kingdoms. In the last year, he has pursued a personal rediscovery of short stories, returning to the classic works taught in junior high, high school, and college. After rereading nearly 300 stories, he has determined that O. Henry didn’t get enough credit and Henry James was a verbally bloated windbag. His wife, Janell, and his son, Harrison, agree—mostly to avoid discussing it for the sixteenth time.

Douglas Seacat

Douglas Seacat is the Writing and Continuity Manager at Privateer Press, where he has oversight over narrative fiction and continuity for the Iron Kingdoms. He started freelance writing for Privateer Press in 2001 after an unlikely series of events best left in the mists of the past (and now covered by a detailed non-disclosure agreement). Doug spends most of his work and free time living vicariously in the Iron Kingdoms through fiction and games. His spare time is occupied reading all manner of science fiction, fantasy, and historical fiction, playing computer games, and participating in weekly pen-and-paper RPG sessions. Occasionally the Seacat Signal is lit by those discussing Iron Kingdoms content and he is called upon to shed light on topics as varied as the existence of rum in the Iron Kingdoms and whether gobbers and trollkin are mammals.

William Shick

William Shick is the Director of Business Development for Privateer Press, who, in addition to his regular job responsibilities, has the good fortune to contribute fiction the world of the Iron Kingdoms. Married with two young sons, he spends his time at home with aliens, monsters, police officers, robots, and more, all converging on the living room floor in high adventures befitting the most epic of summer blockbusters never able to be told.

When not writing about the characters, warjacks, and dangers of the Iron Kingdoms or saving the world from the living room floor, William spends his free time routinely adding to his ever-growing collection of WARMACHINE and HORDES miniatures, playing board games, and enjoying a nice dirty martini in the company of his loving wife.

Howard Tayler

Howard Tayler writes and illustrates Schlock Mercenary (schlockmercenary.com), co-hosts the Hugo Award winning Writing Excuses podcast with Brandon Sanderson, Dan Wells, and Mary Robinette Kowal (writingexcuses.com), and writes fantasy, horror, and science fiction in such free time as remains. He lives with his wife (and business partner and fellow writer) Sandra and their four children in Orem, Utah. He plays Trollbloods, Circle Orboros, Minions, Mercenaries, and Cygnar, but not nearly so often as he would like.

Iron Kingdoms Excursions: Season One Collection

Copyright © 2014 Privateer Press

This book is printed under the copyright laws of the United States of America and retains all of the protections thereof. All Rights Reserved. All trademarks herein including Privateer Press®, Iron Kingdoms®, The Witchfire Trilogy, Monsternomicon, Five Fingers: Port of Deceit, Full Metal Fantasy, Immoren, WARMACHINE®, Forces of WARMACHINE, WARMACHINE High Command, Steam-Powered Miniatures Combat, Convergence of Cyriss, Convergence, Cryx, Cygnar, Khador, Protectorate of Menoth, Protectorate, Retribution of Scyrah, Retribution, warcaster, warjack, HORDES, Forces of HORDES, HORDES High Command, Monstrous Miniatures Combat, Circle Orboros, Circle, Legion of Everblight, Legion, Skorne, Trollbloods, Trollblood, warbeast, War Room, Lock & Load, Steamroller, Hardcore, Iron Gauntlet, No Quarter, Formula P3, Formula P3 Hobby Series, Bodgers, Heap, Infernal Contraption, Infernal Contraption 2: Sabotage!, Scrappers, Grind, Skull Island eXpeditions, SIX, Dogs of War, Exiles in Arms, Iron Kingdoms Excursions, The Warlock Sagas, The Warcaster Chronicles, and all associated logos and slogans are property of Privateer Press, Inc. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form without written permission from Privateer Press. Duplicating any portion of the materials herein, unless specifically addressed within the work or by written permission from Privateer Press, is strictly prohibited. In the event that permissions are granted, such duplications shall be intended solely for personal, noncommercial use and must maintain all copyrights, trademarks, or other notices contained therein or preserve all marks associated thereof.

First electronic printing: September 12th, 2014

ISBN: 978-1-939480-73-6

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Table of Contents

- MAP

- WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

- STEP OUTSIDE

- By Larry Correia

- MOUTHS TO FEED

- By Howard Tayler

- A HERO’S END

- By Aeryn Rudel

- FAILURE TO IMPRESS

- By Douglas Seacat

- BEFORE DEATH, RETRIBUTION

- By Erik Scott de Bie

- STRAIGHT SHOOTER

- By Aeryn Rudel

- THE LAST HUNT

- By William Shick

- MURDER IN THE HONOR FIELDS

- By Larry Correia

- BOUND FOR HOME

- By Michael G. Ryan

- CALL OF THE CABER

- By Howard Tayler

- RAIDERS IN THE NIGHT

- By William Shick

- TONGUE-TIED

- By Aeryn Rudel

- SCRAP ANTE

- By Howard Tayler

- THE WORTHY

- By Larry Correia

- WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY

- By Orrin Grey

- REPLACEMENT PARTS

- By Darla Kennerud

- ANSWERING THE CALL

- By Douglas Seacat

- GENTLEMAN’S GAME

- By William Shick

- GLOSSARY

- ABOUT THE AUTHORS