Ikexcursions-s2vol4

IRON KINGDOMS EXCURSIONS SEASON TWO, VOLUME FOUR

RICHARD LEE BYERS ORRIN GREY JOSH VOGT Cover by

MATT DIXON, ANDREW HOU, AND JAMES RYMAN

CONTENTS

MAP......................................................................................................i WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS....................................... ii HONOR IN DEATH..........................................................................1 RECORD OF VALOR.........................................................................7 THE AMBUSH..................................................................................12 GLOSSARY........................................................................................18

WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

T

he 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

WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

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

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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

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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!

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HONOR IN DEATH BY JOSH VOGT

Corvis, 608 AR

Belgur grinned, chipped tusks shoving out farther as he spotted

the cloaked figure striding down the road toward the graveyard. A steady night rain drizzled over the surrounding tombs, a maze of headstones, marble towers, and crypts Belgur suspected led into fardeeper catacombs than most would imagine. Frigid water trickled beneath his plate armor and chainmail, but he ignored the chill. The cloaked man bypassed the crumbling portions of the graveyard wall that would’ve easily admitted him. Instead, he entered

HONOR IN DEATH • JOSH VOGT

through the main wrought-iron gate with the air of a lord returning to his estate. The hem of his sable robe dragged across the muddy pools swamping the yard, but he ignored the miserable conditions just as Belgur did. He marched past the ramshackle tombs until he stood a mere five paces away from the grave Belgur guarded. As the man stopped, a greenish-blue light cast the shadows into harsher contrast; Belgur didn’t need to look behind himself to know the gravestone wards now shimmered with energy, primed to repel any wicked magics that might be flung his way. Safe within the ward boundaries, Belgur studied his opponent for any new insight. The man held himself with royal poise, his face hidden within a billowing hood. A silver three-pronged crescent on a chain around his neck marked him as a Thamarite, a servant of the dark goddess—one more death-worshipper lurking about Corvis. Belgur knew his foe openly displayed the symbol as a show of power and attempted taunt. The two traded stares for a moment. At last, a breathy sigh slipped out from the hood. The man’s voice was clipped, his words razor sharp. “How many times must we do this, ogrun?” “My contract expires in a fortnight,” said Belgur, “when the moon is full again. Until then, you will not disturb my master.” A sniff. “Your master is dead, fool. He rots in the ground not three steps from where you stand. Whatever arrangement you held with him is no longer in effect.” “You speak in ignorance.” Belgur thumped a fist on his breastplate, where he’d tucked the contract away for safekeeping. He’d memorized it long ago, of course. “I am in service to Lord Dorun Munthulos for a tenure of exactly twelve months, with the option to extend the contract for another six for bonus pay.

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During this time, all my thoughts and strength and skill are wholly dedicated to safekeeping him and his property as well as to the furthering of his ventures and station. No clause mentions the contract expiring should he do so first.” “A technicality. An oversight.” Belgur shrugged a boulder-sized shoulder. “These are the terms I agreed to.” “You should’ve bargained for better ones.” “Perhaps. I will be wiser with my next client.” “Surely the contract isn’t valid beyond death. What is the point of that?” Belgur bashed the blade of his pole arm against his spiked shield. “I am bokur. You do not understand.” “Enlighten me.” “I am bound by honor. I fight so I will be found worthy not just by my master but by my kin. One day, I shall return to my homeland and bind myself to a korune—the one who will lead me and define my purpose for the rest of my life.” Belgur glanced back at his client’s grave. “And my korune shall find me loyal to death and beyond, just as I am now.” “You need to pick better masters. Serving a Morrowan like Munthulos is pathetic.” “He deserves to rest peacefully alongside his ancestors,” Belgur said. “He claimed many Thamarite lives before being killed.” The necromancer stepped closer but then recoiled as the ward lights flared. Belgur suppressed a smile. He doubted they would actually harm the Thamarite—their purpose was to turn aside evil magic, not those who wielded it. The necromancer’s hood shifted, hinting at a sneer. “And so I shall claim his service in death.” The ogrun swiveled the pole arm to aim at the necromancer’s heart. “You will not.”

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“I’d offer you twice what he paid to secure your services, but I fear you’re too honor-blind to even consider it.” “At last the rot-rat begins to understand.” Another sniff. “Such a waste, though not a full one. I’ll add you to my thralls along with your former master. Both of you shall serve me for eternity.” Belgur hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it at the man’s feet. “I tire of your rambling. Bring your minions out of hiding or be gone.” The necromancer spread his arms and the graveyard stirred into motion. A half-dozen risen lurched into view from behind rearing gravestones and middens; the Thamarite’s undead servants looked primarily culled from humans of all cultures and clans. They shambled forward, creating a tightening ring around Belgur. Slack faces and filmy eyes gazed at him from all sides, putrid skin, organs, and bones visible through their rags. Arcane sigils had been gouged into their flesh, loci for the Thamarite’s foul animating power. A couple of fresher corpses bore gleaming swords and maces. They had the grim look of caravan guards, and Belgur wondered if the necromancer had waylaid one recently to supplement his miniature army. He grinned again and adopted a battle stance. Good. A worthier challenge. With a collective moan, the risen attacked. Belgur looked this way and that, seeking the weakest in their number. Previous nights, the necromancer had tested him by sending one or two risen at a time, which Belgur had dispatched with ease. Putting his back to a giant gravestone slab, he became a bastion of violence, slicing and chopping. He bashed one risen aside with his shield and cut a second in half with his weapon. He impaled another on his shield spikes and then flung the corpse off, toppling a fourth. As the risen recovered, he waded into their midst, deflecting blows with his shield before using it to pummel

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his foes away like pebbles before an avalanche. The ground shook, and Belgur turned just as a massive body rammed into him. He staggered, fighting for balance, and a sharp edge slipped past his shield and carved into his arm. Belgur roared, shoving aside the pain as he reared back from the attack. His arm throbbed, but he kept his shield raised enough to deflect a second thundering blow. Once he got a clear look at his new attacker, his blood turned to icy slush. Another ogrun stood before him—dead, with grey flesh, gaping eye sockets, and a missing tusk. The ogrun thrall wore slime-coated armor and held a battered pole arm blotched with rust and stained with Belgur’s blood. Belgur roared again, this time in vengeful fury. The necromancer’s laughter needled his ears. “I control their skill,” he cried. The dead ogrun hacked at Belgur, and he warded off its mindless strikes with savage blows of his own. As he fought to cut it down, the remaining risen converged, forcing him to spread out his attacks. They came on without defense, absorbing strikes that would have felled any living creature. “I control their strength.” The risen leaped in. Belgur struck one aside, but two more replaced it. Cold hands clutched his pauldrons, his shield, and the shaft of his pole arm. Their combined weight started to drag him down into the muck. “I control their very souls.” Belgur trembled, knees threatening to buckle. The risen ogrun stood before him, weapon poised for a deadly thrust. The necromancer’s words came as a fierce whisper. “As I shall control yours.” “Never!”

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The gravestones trembled at Belgur’s defiant cry. He heaved upward, shaking the risen off, and just dodged the ogrun thrall’s stab at his face. He spun, whirling his pole arm with all his strength. The blade sliced through the risen ogrun’s neck. Rusted mail shattered as the head flew away. Belgur stomped a risen’s skull and turned in place, searching for their vile master. He spotted the necromancer skulking in the shadow of a marble monument. A last risen blocked the path between them, but the bokur charged ahead. He smashed the creature to the ground and trampled it underfoot as he bulled forward. The necromancer threw himself back at the last instant. Belgur’s blade struck sparks off stone. He rebounded and pointed his pole arm at the shaken Thamarite. “Deny my honor. I dare you to try.” The necromancer hesitated, one hand twitching toward a dagger at his hip. Then he spun in a flurry of black robes and dashed into the rainy night. The splashes of his receding footsteps faded moments later, and the graveyard returned to its prior repose—though with a few extra corpses. Belgur limped back to his client’s gravestone, breathing hard. He bowed before the marker. “Fear not. You’re safe, master.” For another night, at least. The necromancer would return, and a week yet remained before the full moon and the end of Belgur’s term. Settling in, he inspected the wound delivered by the ogrun thrall’s blade. He grunted in satisfaction. It would make an excellent scar.

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RECORD OF VALOR BY ORRIN GREY

The Fenn Marsh, 607 AR

“Jonhot’s caber must have broken a dozen of those bony shamblers

and crippled the bokor who commanded them.” The speaker was Ganthak, a heavyset trollkin whose chin bristled with a beard of stony growths. “I have never seen a stronger caber thrower in all my years.” “He is strong, indeed, and brave. It’s possible he might one day make a krielstone bearer himself,” Balasar said. “But do we wish to represent only strength in battle?”

RECORD OF VALOR • ORRIN GREY

Balasar was a trollkin of notably fewer years than Ganthak, but he was considered by all present to be wise beyond his age. His eyes were a strange clear blue, and his gaze had a way of looking deep into whomever it fell upon. “When that tentacled horror became enraged and threatened the walls of the village, we all saw Kolor leave the rest of his Fennblades and put himself between the monster and our kin until reinforcements arrived. I am told he perished from his wounds, but he made the creature pay dearly for his life, and the walls were not breached. Such sacrifice is surely as worthy of recording as Jonhot’s strength.” The assembled trollkin all nodded at Balasar’s words. The battle was over, and the dead and injured had been dragged from the mire surrounding the village walls. Night was falling. Torches burned on tall stands all over the village, and guards stood atop the walls, gazing out into the darkness as the survivors busied themselves with the work that came in the aftermath of war. Many trollkin warriors still sat around the feasting tables, gorging themselves so their wounds would heal quicker. Young trollkin and pygs ran to and fro, bearing platters of food to the warriors or carrying away plates that had been emptied. In the rounded huts surrounding the perimeter, craftsmen worked to repair damaged weapons, honing nicks from blades and replacing broken hafts. The four scribes stood around the krielstone, which rested now in the lee of the village’s kuar platform where Gargosh, its bearer, had left it. Gargosh himself had gone to rest after joining the other warriors in feasting. He was the strongest trollkin any of the assembled scribes had ever known, capable of wrestling a bison to the ground with his bare hands. He was the only trollkin in the village who could bear the heavy krielstone into battle. The scribes had eaten at the beginning of the feast, healing the minor injuries they sustained during the fighting. While the other

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warriors rested and replenished themselves, preparing for their next battle, the scribes had the honor of recording the exploits of today’s conflict so future generations of trollkin would know the heroism and sacrifice of those who had fought this day. With that honor, however, came the duty of choosing which deeds were recorded on the stones. Krielstones were few and precious and space on their rune-carved surfaces was sacred to both Dhunia and the kriels—it could not be spent carelessly. The scribes took their duty seriously, and it had become their custom to gather around the sacred stone and debate amongst themselves which feats of prowess and valor would be immortalized on its surface. “Balasar is right. Sacrifice is as important as strength, but it is not only the fighting that we should remember.” The speaker was Jata, the only female in their number. Her skin was paler than that of the others, making her look like an albino sorceress in the dying light. “There was a moment when that blackhide grabbed Kurn in its jaws and rolled him into the bog. I know you all remember it as well. There was blood and muddy water flying everywhere, and when the gator came back up, its jaws dripping gore and its eyes staring hate, I think we all felt doubt. Though there are no cowards among our kith, I believe we all felt outmatched in that moment, that our cause was a hopeless one. If the mightiest of our troll brothers could not survive, what hope did we have? In that blackhide’s eyes, all of us saw our doom.” The nearest torch spit and crackled, and for a moment a flare of light threw Jata’s face into contrast within her hood, her eyes shining. “Then we all heard it: Tassar’s call, rolling across the battlefield, reminding us who we are, reminding us of the blood that flows in our veins. Grips tightened on weapons then, and we all remembered we are the children of Dhunia, and nothing has ever come easy to us in this life. We remembered the sacrifices of our forebears, and we all

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knew we would stand our ground this day and fight to the end—our enemy’s or our own.” Again the other scribes nodded as each of them remembered the moment Jata described. It was the duty of the stone scribes to record the history of the trollkin for future generations, but fell callers like Tassar reminded them of their people’s glory in the heat of battle, in the moments when they needed it most. The trollkin were brave and proud, but their position remained a desperate one. Many were dispossessed, forced from their homes and into the wilds by encroaching human armies and threatened even in the desolate places to which they had retreated by gatormen and other horrors. Losing hope was easy in such a place, and a reminder of the pride and fortitude of their people was always welcome. “I think we are all in agreement that Tassar’s role in the battle was instrumental,” the remaining scribe said. His name was Masdun, a trollkin even older than Ganthak, and his skin was the grey of brittle stone. “Nor did his contribution end with his inspiring call. I saw at least three gatormen die on his blades. My recommendation, however, is something else. Not a feat of valor in battle but something equally worthy of our consideration. “When the gatormen attacked, Brolas and Holdar preserved the bison while the rest of us fought. They moved them out of harm’s way so the long riders would have mounts in later battles. Before the battle had even begun, Tumbrog and the other skinners had already gathered the meat we feasted on to help heal our wounds. The best of our weaponsmiths forged the blades we used in battle, our scouts spotted the enemy, and Bendek and his pygs scavenged the powder we used in our guns. Those who serve off the battlefield have little chance for honor and valor, but while we fight to preserve the lives and safety of our village, they preserve our hope. Without hope, we have nothing to fight for. I think

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that is as important, and as worthy of recording, as any great deed of valor in battle.” As Masdun finished his speech, even Ganthak bowed his head at the wisdom of his words. After a moment of silence, Balasar reached out and placed the palm of his hand on the surface of the krielstone. The others hesitated for a moment and then did the same. Beneath their hands, the krielstone felt warm and solid, reassuring, strong. “Our times are changing,” Balasar said, his words measured and slow, as if he were giving each one careful thought before he spoke it, “and our people must change with them. There was a time when the valor of our kin could be measured in the blows of hammers and axes, when the greatest warriors among our people were also our greatest heroes. Great heroes still walk among us, but today every trollkin must be brave, and everyone must sacrifice if we are to have any hope. If we are to survive this age, it will be as one people, united. We would do well to remember that. It is my vote that Masdun’s story should be the one that finds a place on the stone.” Standing in the dying light, their palms flat against the sacred stone, every scribe nodded.

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THE AMBUSH BY RICHARD LEE BYERS

The Thornwood Forest, 608 AR From the corner of his eye, Dragash glimpsed the spike vine coiled around the ironwood’s trunk, and he shifted his arm to keep the thorns from snagging his sleeve. It annoyed him that it took any sort of conscious effort to slip through the trees. He’d mastered his woodlore hunting in the Scarsfell Forest, but that expanse of oaks and conifers wasn’t choked with briars and brambles like the Thornwood was.

THE AMBUSH • RICHARD LEE BYERS

Still, he and the skirmishers under his command—fellow Kossites in patched, motley garments of brown and green with elk-horn bows in hand—were managing. He sometimes had trouble spotting the nearest of them, even though he knew where to look and what to look for. The Kossites were advancing more stealthily than the supply convoy on the narrow, overgrown trail. Axles squeaked and cargo thumped as the mule-drawn carts bumped along. Armored in breastplates and pauldrons worn over greatcoats, fur hats on their heads, and blunderbusses in their grips, the Winter Guard soldiers escorting the food and ammunition were nearly as noisy, blathering as they eyed the vegetation to either side. Looking but seeing nothing of significance. Dragash felt a twinge of contempt. That in turn made him irritated with himself; he wasn’t scornful by nature. He was reflecting an attitude common among the regular soldiers of the 2nd Khadoran Army, who often disdained their Kossite brothers-in-arms as a rabble of “undisciplined rustic oafs.” Dragash had heard Sergeant Padorin, the escort’s commander, call them that very thing, not caring if any Kossite was close enough to overhear. Padorin’s contempt was such that he hadn’t wanted Kossite skirmishers shadowing the convoy, even though two others had vanished and the need for fresh supplies was urgent. He took it as implied disparagement of his own men’s capabilities. Thankfully, Lieutenant Szetka had overruled him. Dragash was confident he and the other archers would see this convoy to the half-built wooden fortress that was camp. It was probably Cryxians ambushing the supply carts—scouts had sighted the shambling undead thralls in the area—and though the creatures were hardy, they weren’t quick or observant. A

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stealthy, maneuverable band of Kossites was well suited to the task of surprising and slaying them. Dragash realized that except for the noise of the convoy, the ranks of ironwoods and poplars ahead seemed very still. He chirped like a finch: two notes, a pause, and then two more. Then, under his breath, he cursed. The birdcall should have alerted Padorin to prepare for trouble. Without being obvious, the sergeant should have directed his troops to ready their weapons. As far as Dragash could tell—the trees and brush obscured his view of the convoy—Padorin wasn’t doing anything of the sort. Either the idiot didn’t recognize the signal or he’d peered ahead, spotted nothing untoward, and decided the Kossite bumpkin had gotten alarmed over nothing. Thank Menoth the skirmishers were capable of making faster progress than the carts. If there was an ambush up ahead, the Kossites could determine as much before the convoy blundered into the trap. Dragash stalked forward, and his men did the same. They had the brains to recognize the signal. Advancing, they skulked farther away from the path to make sure they came up behind the ambushers. The Kossites on the far side of the trail would be doing the same thing. Dragash couldn’t see them, but he’d known many of them since childhood and trusted them implicitly—trusted them to make short work of the foe. He glimpsed a couple of those foes crouching behind vine-choked poplars, and some of his confidence deserted him. They weren’t lumbering corpses. They were living women clutching javelins, with hide quivers on their backs and bucklers fitted with long animal claws on their forearms. Their gender, weapons, and general look of savagery suggested

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they were Tharn bloodtrackers. Dragash had never encountered the Tharn women before, but they were reputedly fearsome adversaries. Their terrible gods granted them uncanny speed and senses as keen as a beast’s. For all the skirmishers’ woodcraft, the bloodtrackers might well have detected them already if they weren’t so intent on the trail. Dragash stepped out into the open. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable, but he had to be certain his men could see him. He gestured for everyone to move farther back. The bloodtrackers might possess certain supernatural advantages, but they couldn’t throw javelins as far as bows could shoot arrows. Greater distance should make the most of that advantage even against foes who could charge with lightning speed. The tradeoff was that the Kossites would have more trees to shoot through, but their marksmanship was up to the challenge. Dragash’s pulse quickened as he and the others maneuvered. The slightest sound might alert the enemy. That sound never came, and when the skirmishers had advanced far enough—any farther and they’d lose sight of their targets—he signaled for a halt. Then the breeze shifted. The bloodtrackers whipped around. Each fixed her gaze on one of the skirmishers. Then, faces contorted in fury, they dashed forward. Though he’d had some notion of what to expect, Dragash was appalled by their speed—and their numbers. There were more than he’d initially imagined. He and his comrades shot, their shafts whistling through the air. The Tharn sprinting at Dragash twisted aside, and his arrow missed. He nocked another, loosed, and she dodged again. Another bounding stride, and she cast a javelin. He threw himself behind a tree, and the weapon thudded into the other side. As he looked back around the tree, he was snatching another

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missile from its quiver, and so was she. Her hand was faster, but his arrow was shorter than her javelin, and he was ready first. He loosed, and the shaft pierced her chest. She fell, but two others were charging behind her. He shot one through the belly, and then the other rushed in close enough to drive her clawed buckler at his face. He wrenched himself aside and put the tree between them, buying time to ready his axe. She darted around the tree and tried again to stab him. He sidestepped and cut at her head. She whipped up the shield to catch the stroke, and he spun the axe down on the riposte, chopping her leg out from under her. She toppled, and he buried the weapon in her spine. Panting, he paused to see how the rest of the battle was going. It was difficult to tell. There was too much brush in the way, and whatever was happening on the far side of the trail was obscured. But it looked like the skirmishers were winning. Meanwhile, down on the path, blunderbusses banged. Alarmed by the sounds of combat, Padorin’s soldiers blindly fired their short-range weapons into the greenery. Dragash snorted and shook his head. Then, off to the right, a Kossite screamed. An instant later, chanting sounded. Dragash peered in that direction. The shadows were deep there, and they seemed to have taken on a reddish tint. Dragash had heard of bloodweavers, Tharn witches who prowled the shadows and practiced vile blood magic. He knew in his gut one was working with the bloodtrackers. He imagined her sneaking from archer to archer, butchering one after another, using their blood to empower her foul magic, and knew he had to intercept her. He nocked an arrow, and, his mouth dry, stalked in her

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direction, but he still couldn’t spot her. He loosed anyway, but there was no outcry to indicate the arrow had found its mark. The shadows swallowed him. It felt dark as night. No, darker. His fear welled up, but he pushed it back down. Nocking another arrow and turning slowly, he looked, listened, sniffed, felt for any hint as to the bloodweaver’s location. He caught a coppery whiff of blood. He jerked around. Notched blade poised to gut him, a murky figure was just a stride away. Dragash fired, and the arrow punched through the bloodweaver’s neck. She fell down, out of the shadows that had been concealing her, thrashing out her death throes. The bloodweaver was a gaunt woman who’d smeared herself with gore, staining her skin a mottled red. The skirmishers soon disposed of the remaining bloodtrackers. Then Dragash led his men on a scramble around the convoy to its other flank. His comrades had prevailed here as well. Scar-faced Stoyan gave him a grin. “What now?” Dragash smiled back. “See to the wounded. I’m going to take Padorin on a little stroll and show him all the dead Tharn. He needs to see what we ‘undisciplined rustic oafs’ just did to save his civilized ass.”

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GLOSSARY blackhide: Giant, bipedal crocodilians that dwell in deep swamps and marshes. Gatorman warlocks often utilize blackhides as beasts of war, making good use of the creatures’ ferocity and blood thirst. Blackhides can grow to considerable size, with adults reaching upward of sixteen feet in length. bloodtrackers: Female Tharn armed with javelins and clawed bucklers and feared for their martial skill and savagery. Like other female Tharn, when bloodtrackers transform they become swifter and more agile rather than adopting the hulking forms that male Tharn do. In their bestial form, bloodtrackers call upon the Devourer Wurm to add lightning swiftness to their attacks. bloodweavers: Female Tharn devoted to the Devourer Wurm who practice ritualistic magic fueled by the blood of their enemies. Bloodweavers work their magic through a sacral blade fashioned from bone, horn, or tusk. bokor: Leaders and shamans in gatorman culture who often wield powerful necromantic magic. The bokor is often a combination of priest and mystic and may lead his tribe in the worship of the reptilian god Kossk as well as other powerful spirits drawn from their swampy environment.

GLOSSARY

bokur: Young ogrun seeking to earn a reputation and prove their value by serving as bodyguards to a potential korune—a lord or leader to whom the ogrun swear unending loyalty. Bokur status may last for years or even decades, during which time the ogrun travels broadly, braving many dangers and risking his life to protect his clients. Bokur seek to prove their commitment to those they serve but reserve their ultimate loyalty for the one they will eventually accept as korune. fell callers: Trollkin possessed of powerful booming voices they employ in battle, either by raising them in song to rally trollkin warriors or by using them to deliver devastating sonic attacks. Fell callers are often called the sons and daughters of Bragg, the legendary progenitor of their bloodline. Fennblades: Trollkin warriors armed with great hooked swords whose fighting tradition originated with the Fenn Marsh kriels. Their signature weapon and fighting techniques are difficult to master and require long hours of practice and considerable discipline. krielstone: Massive stones inscribed with the names and deeds of heroes and revered as sacred monuments by trollkin. The largest krielstones are placed at sites important to Dhunia or at noted ancient battlegrounds. Smaller stones are sometimes carried into battle, serving as portable reservoirs of spiritual energy that can be tapped to protect trollkin warriors. kuar: A tall platform structure at the center of a trollkin village that serves as both a dueling ground and a central meeting place.

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GLOSSARY

long riders: Trollkin warriors mounted on powerful bison and armed with long cavalry axes. Most long riders originally hailed from kriels in large, open areas, such as northern Khador, as cavalry traditions were mostly unknown among southern trollkin. This has recently changed as many northern warriors have joined the southern United Kriels movement, bringing their mounts and fighting traditions with them. shambler, swamp: Humanoid undead created by powerful necromancers from the corpses of those who died in swamps and marshes. Swamp shamblers lack any intelligence beyond a few flashes of memory and are largely mindless creatures slaved to their creator’s will. Bog trogs are frequently raised as swamp shamblers by gatormen bokors.

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ABOUT THE AUTHORS Richard Lee Byers Richard Lee Byers is the author of almost forty fantasy and horror novels, including a number set in the Forgotten Realms universe. A resident of the Tampa Bay area, the setting for many of his horror stories, he spends much of his free time fencing and playing poker. Friend him on Facebook, follow him on Twitter, and read his blog on Livejournal.

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.

Josh Vogt A full-time freelance writer and editor, Josh Vogt has sold stories to Paizo’s Pathfinder Tales, Grey Matter Press, the UFO2 and UFO3 anthologies, Intergalactic Medicine Show, and Shimmer, among others. He writes for a wide variety of RPG developers, and his debut fantasy novel, Forge of Ashes, is available as of April 2015. You can find him at JRVogt.com or @JRVogt. He’s a member of SFWA as well as the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers.

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