Rites of Passage

RITES OF PASSAGE
A WARMACHINE ANTHOLOGY
OREN ASHKENAZI
DARLA KENNERUD
AERYN RUDEL
DOUGLAS SEACAT
WILLIAM SHICK
MATTHEW D. WILSON
Cover by
NSTOR OSSANDN
Illustrations by
TODD HARRIS, VIKTOR TITOV,

AND ANDREA UDERZO
CONTENTS
FOREWORD........................................................................................i
WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS...................................... iii
MAP...................................................................................................vii
THE PRICE OF A GIFT.....................................................................2
MERCY AND WRATH.....................................................................74
ADVANCED TACTICS...................................................................118
ON A BLACK TIDE........................................................................164
A TYROS CRUCIBLE....................................................................215
GYPSYS LUCK...............................................................................291
GLOSSARY......................................................................................371
FOREWORD
With the recent abundance of superhero movies, an interesting
trend has emerged: in almost all instances where multiple movies

about a superhero exist, people seem most drawn to the first
movie in the series. Despite the sequels boasting more action,
bigger budgets, and more stunning visuals, it is still the humble
(by comparison) first moviethe origin storythat we find most
compelling and most engaging.
The reason I think we love an origin story is that it lets us
get to know heroes when they are ordinary people, before they
become larger than life. They suggest that we can become more
than what we are. That each of us can transcend our limits to
become something greater. That despite seemingly impossible
trials or challenges, we can not only overcome them, but in doing
so change from ordinary to extraordinary.
It is this tradition that Rites of Passage follows. Within the pages
of this anthology are the origins of six characters who, though
they dont know it, are about to become great heroes (or villains,
depending on your point of view). They are destined to shape
the futures of their nations, and in so doing, the future of the
Iron Kingdoms itself. These stories set the stage for the journey
these characters are about to take and provide a candid, personal
insight into the very real fears and trepidations each feels as they
struggle to discover their place in the war-torn world of the Iron
Kingdoms. It is our hope that subsequent stories involving these
FOREWORD
characters will be all the richer for getting to know them first and
seeing how each was set upon the path to greatness.
In addition to serving as a beginning for these new characters,
Rites of Passage itself represents an even greater origin story for
Privateer Press and WARMACHINEPrivateer Press hugely
successful WARMACHINE: Tactics video game Kickstarter project
begun with game developer partner WhiteMoon Dreams. For the
first time the adrenaline-fueled action of the WARMACHINE
tabletop game will come to life on the screen. Players around the
world will have the chance to see the world through the eyes of
these young warcasters as they continue the story in glorious high
resolution on their own desktops.
It is with great enthusiasm that we invite you to take part in
Rites of Passage. We hope that once you finish these tales you are
as excited as we are by these characters and look forward to the
stories that are yet to come!
William Shick
Privateer Press Director of Business Development
ii
WELCOME TO
THE IRON KINGDOMS
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 themselvesthe human nations of the continent called
Immorenthe 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 warjacks 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
iv
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
Khadors 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 natures 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!
vi
MAP
THE PRICE OF A GIFT

By Matthew D. Wilson
Early 609 AR
The battlefield raged like a storm.
Lightning arced overhead in long, crackling streaks, drawn from

the heavens by half-mad scientists who could conjure weather and
bend it to their will. Thunder boomed from batteries of cannons and
arcanely charged pistols infused with explosive elemental force. The
earth quaked beneath the iron feet of massive automatons charging
across the landscape, smoke and ash billowing from the steampowered boilers that propelled each machines armored mass on an
unstoppable rampage of destruction.
Lieutenant Allison Jakes stood at the center of it all, but there
was no calm eye in this storm. Every inch of blood-soaked ground
was consumed by the fury of two nations at war and the eternal
consequences of their endeavor to eliminate each other from a world
too small to contain both their beliefs.
Like every soldier at her side, Allison Jakes fought with an intensity
only the promise of death can inspire. In her dexterous hands, two
mechanikally augmented dueling blades flashed in silver arcs around
her, slashing and piercing armor and flesh alike. Her faith-driven
THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON
targets gasped inside their golden helms as white tabards turned red
with blood.
Unlike the rank-and-file soldiers equipped with standard-issue
military hardware around her, Jakes moved with agility and finesse,
clad in state-of-the-art armor crafted by the finest mechaniks and
smiths in Cygnar. Beneath the outer shell of plates painted blue and
white, rune-stamped sheets of precious metals conducted Jakes own
arcane energies to amplify her physical strength and resistance to
attacks.
Such accoutrements as her armor and weapons were afforded to
only the most elite breed of warrior found in the Iron Kingdoms
though often Jakes thought this ironic, as she and those like her
arguably needed these advantages the least. For Lieutenant Allison
Jakes was a warcaster, a rarity among rarities, gifted in the womb
with the talent to manipulate magic and the ability to project her will
through mechanikal constructs.
The ultimate expressions of those machines were self-governing
giants of steel and iron that towered over Jakes and the other soldiers
on the battlefield. Warjacks, they were called: warriors born of forge
and fire, meticulously constructed in factories and granted the
attributes of thought and reason through the fusion of science and
magic.
Even now, Jakes senses were intertwined with the consciousness
of the metal beast that battled beside her, an Ironclad-class warjack.
Jakes was instinctively aware of every strike landed with its sevenfoot-tall quake hammer, cognizant of every blow colliding with its
iron carapace, and in her minds eye she could see every friend and
foe its optical receptors could behold.
Including the man who had trained her for battle.
Girded in gold, he spun his double-bladed staff through an endless
series of energized attacks, cleaving through armor and leaving a trail
of gutted corpses in his wake. If the battlefield was a storm, he was

its epicenter. Jakes needed neither her own eyes nor those of her
warjack to know he was near. This man, a force of nature by any
measure, simultaneously visited ruin upon the flame-bearing fanatics
before him while commanding an army with artistic ease. A cadre of
warjacks linked to his mind executed every silent order with precision
and potency while he directed an array of spells that could transpose
his position on the battlefield as quickly as they could blacken his
enemies with lightning.
For all his deadliness, for all his authority and the force with which
he dominated this chaotic arena, Allison Jakes revered him more
than any man living or dead. To the soldiers on the field, he was
Commander Dalin Sturgis. To Jakes, he was her mentor, an example
every warcaster should aspire to, a model of perfection.
But perfect he was not.
As Jakes glimpsed him through the eyes of her Ironclad, the
commander was suddenly struck by a blur of bronze orbiting the
fist of a massive white warjack by a length of chain as thick as her
leg. The Vanquisher was ten tons of blazing retribution borne on
a twelve-foot frame, and it had come out of nowhere. By the time
its spiked metal sphere completed its second revolution, Sturgis had
disappeared from sight amid the haze of the melee.
Jakes cried out, her concentration shattered at the sight of her
mentors fall, but her voice was swallowed in the cacophony of
metal crashing on metal. She parried the blade of a conscripted
tribesman and disengaged, rapidly weaving her way through the fray
in search of Sturgis. She could sense his presence; their connection
as warcastersmentor and student was as tangible to her as the
swords in her hands. But he was nowhere to be seen.
A voice called to hera sergeant leading a squad of pothelmed trenchers supporting the Cygnaran advance with rifle fire
and strategically placed smoke bombs that concealed them from

incoming fire. But recognition of the voice came too late. A crash just
steps behind her snapped her consciousness back into the Ironclad
in time to realize it had intercepted the attack of a lighter warjack,
shielding her from what would surely have been a lethal blow from
the enemys spiked flail.
She focused power into the Ironclad, guiding its attacks and infusing
them with supernatural strength. Feinting with the massive hammer, it
reached forth and seized the lighter warjack with its unarmed fist, then
twisted with the full force of its hydraulic core and hurled the enemy
jack into an oncoming group of zeal-crazed nomads.
Her flank momentarily unthreatened, Jakes resumed her frantic
search, weaving a spell on the move. Three small, rapidly spinning
rings of glowing runes appeared before her. With a glance, she sent
the runes to orbit the Ironclad. The enchantment supercharged the
machines power plant, pushing the Ironclad beyond the usual limits
of its running speed. Under her telepathic control, it raced ahead,
scouting as she gathered more support.
Mere moments had passed since Sturgis had been struck down, but
before Jakes could reach his location, a wall of blue armor converged
on the Vanquisher like a tidal wave of iron. A spear-wielding
Centurion warjack and two Defender-class warjacks brandishing
electrified hammers reduced the Vanquisher to inanimate scrap
before it could continue its assault.
The Vanquishers destruction filled Jakes with joy, not because
another enemy had fallen, but because she knew her mentor had
not succumbed to the attack. This trio of warjacks was his personal
battlegroup, linked to him just as the Ironclad was linked to her. If
they were still fighting, so was he.
Jakes strained to be heard above the clamor. Commander!
Commander Sturgis!
Before she could take another breath, he appeared before her.

Spiraling rings of luminous arcane runes encircled him, dissipating
before Jakes eyes as the spell-effect that had brought him concluded.
His left pauldron was dented, its rank insignia all but ground off,
and dirt streaked his face. But as far as she could see he was otherwise
unharmed.
Commander. Thank Morrow, Jakes exhaled in relief, invoking
the name of the god she worshiped, as most Cygnarans did.
Sturgis grimaced, not looking at Jakes as he methodically assessed
the situation around them. You left your position, Lieutenant. You
exposed our support units to attack.
Jakes guts coiled into knots. Even in the middle of battle, Sturgis
made time to impart his lessons, and they were never gentle.
I saw you was all she could utter.
If you had found me unable to fight, what would you have done?
he barked. But after nearly a year of his tutelage, Jakes knewshe
believed in the deepest recesses of her soulthat if she fell in combat,
Commander Sturgis would come to her aid.
Understood, sir, she answered in the most confident voice she
could muster, to assure him his point had been received. She was
not placating him; her reply was sincere. By now she knew how he
expected his training acknowledged. There was a correct way, and
there was a way that produced an excess of monotonous instruction
later.
Sturgis eyes glowed subtly as he silently called his warjacks to
his side. Your orders remain the same, Lieutenant. Cover those
trenchers. Make sure nothing gets within reach of our artillery.
He was already stalking toward the thick of the fighting before he
finished his instructions. Stay focused. Thunder follows lightning.
Yes, sir! she returned, before the weight of the commanders
words had sunk in. He was fond of quoting the informal motto of
Cygnars fighting men, though the meaning of the phrase shifted

subtly depending on the context. She had already witnessed her
invincible mentor beaten to the ground and had earned a reprimand
for poor leadership. Only as she ordered the trenchers to reposition
did she realize what Sturgis meant: this battle had just begun.
Fort Falk sprawled along the west bank of the Black River. So
widespread was the stronghold that the hilltop itself could no longer
be seen. Tasked with guarding the vital waterway and the heavily
traveled Kings Highway that paralleled it, the fort dominated the
landscape with its ever-growing series of squat towers and thick
stone walls. It began as a simple border outpost, but as threats to
the Kingdom of Cygnar had grown so had it, making it the largest
military fortification on the nations eastern border.
The 12th Division of the Second Army, nearly thirty thousand
of Cygnars bravest hung their helms inside Fort Falks cavernous
expanse. Recently arrived from the cosmopolitan capital city of
Caspia was Allison Jakes, garrisoned here under the personal authority
of Commander Dalin Sturgis who would complete her journeyman
warcaster training over the course of her first tour of duty.
Barely nineteen years old, Jakes was older than most of the fresh
recruits but young when measured against the handful of remarkable
warcasters famous for leading Cygnars armies into battle. The
explanation for their rarity was a mystery science had yet to decode.
One in a thousand were born with the giftthat extraordinary
ability to shape the worlds unseen magical energies into tangible
form. But only one in a hundred thousand at best could commune
with mechanikathe arcane machinesand were granted the
distinction of being called warcaster.
Recipients of the gift could go years, even a lifetime, before
their innate talent revealed itself, often manifesting in moments of

extreme danger or emotional stress. Jakes power, however, had been
apparent since infancy through the subtle effect her will had on the
environment around her and the electric-blue spark that flared in her
eyes every time she was near mechanika.
Her father, a successful barrister, and her mother, a diva famous for
filling the gilded halls of the Caspian Opera, ensured Jakes enjoyed a
life of privilege, but her childhood was far from carefree. Recognizing
her considerable talent at a young age and possessing a strong sense
of national duty, Jakes parents began her arcane education before she
could walk, expecting her to follow a military career. Private training
in the dueling arts came next, and by the time she had reached the
minimum age for entry into Cygnars Strategic Academy she was an
accomplished fighter and capable spellcaster. At the Caspian branch
of the academy, Jakes was indoctrinated in the military system and
trained to be a shining example of martial leadership. It was there she
first experienced the communion between warcaster and warjack.
And that was also the first occasion in her educational history when
she did not excel.
Jakes chewed her bottom lip, recalling that moment bitterly
while she stood in the center of Fort Falks training grounds. The
quadrangle, wide enough to march a full regiment through in
parade formation, was a constant spectacle of combat drills, physical
conditioning, and pre-deployment assemblies. Jakes had just enjoyed
a sparring session with her commander, the kind of session that left
her basking in the admiration of dazzled onlookers and the accolades
of her mentor. But that glow was snuffed when Sturgis summoned a
trio of warjacks to the patch of paver stones he had chalked out for
her training.
The warjacks lumbered toward them, each step of their heavy
gaits vibrating the ground beneath Jakes feet. Despite being entirely
mechanical, the fluid manner in which they moved made them

seem more like armored beasts than machines. Even the rhythmic
pumping of their pressurized steam boilers projected the appearance
of living, breathing creatures. Responsible for this illusion was the
spherical cortex buried deep within each warjacks iron hull. Though
primitive in its capacity compared to a human brain, this magical
brain gave warjacks lifelike control of their constructed forms. They
could learn and store memories and were even capable of developing
unique personalities. The newest of these three warjacks had been
in service more than two decades, and age had rendered each one a
distinct temperament Jakes had come to know well.
The Centurion carried itself proudly. Jakes knew from experience
that it fought methodically, preferring precise, calculated strikes
over more energy-intensive attacks. The much lighter Lancer was
shamelessly sneaky, a trait rare for its class of frontline fighter. It
eschewed head-to-head combat in favor of ambush tactics, and she
had observed in it a predilection toward petulant behavior. Finally
there was the Ironclad, which Jakes had secretly named Bunker after
its propensity to end up facedown in the dirt. Bunker was Jakes
antithesis in every way, possessing neither grace nor style. And since
the Ironclad had been assigned as her personal warjack, she had come
to regard it as her greatest nemesis.
Sir, Jakes asked, already knowing the answer, should we go
over that last parry-strike combination again? I feel like I could get
through it a little faster. Maybe add a bit of a twist. She pantomimed
the motions with theatrical flourish.
Your speed and form are perfect. Your execution is perfect,
Sturgis stated. Your command of warjacks is not.
Jakes thought that was a gross understatement of her situation. It
had been three months since she had arrived at Fort Falk with Sturgis,
and not a day had passed that they did not train, save for those spent
on patrol or engaged in one of the frequent border skirmishes that

plagued this region. Jakes never grew weary of the exercises, and she
felt her combat skills growing daily. But though the martial arts and
even spellcasting came easily to her, controlling warjacks did not.
Establish your bond, Sturgis told her.
Her nose wrinkled. Bunker again? she asked, instantly aware
that it sounded more like a protest than intended. Sturgis gave her an
odd look. She hadnt shared her nickname for the jack. Uhh... the
Ironclad, right? He didnt answer; the pairing was simply assumed.
It was always Bunker.
The Ironclad tracked her with its expressionless gaze as she crossed
the training area to meet it. Looks like you and me again, she
muttered as she reached for Bunkers chest and stared up into its
amber eyes. The moment her palm made contact, her eyes pulsed
with light and the warjacks eyes flashed blue in response.
She was instantly overcome with the familiar sensation of falling,
not backward, but forward into the warjack, passing through it.
Light and sound faded as the consciousness of the two merged. She
felt Bunkers steam pumping through her veins and its fire burning
within her chest. Her muscles tensed, ready to explode into motion,
and her flesh tightened until it felt as hard as iron. There was no
discomfort, no pain, only a euphoric feeling of power and absolute
invincibility. A heartbeat later, she was staring at her own face through
the warjacks eyes, and then her senses became her own again.
The invisible bond between Jakes and the Ironclad was created at
the speed of thought. Now this walking weapon of mass destruction
would execute her every command... more or less.
I hate you, Bunker, she thought, the pit in her stomach growing
by the moment. The Ironclad replied with a burst of steam from
a pair of vents behind its slotted face grill, and Jakes could feel its
unspoken protest in her mind. Communication between a warcaster
10
and warjack was felt, not spoken, and as on many occasions before,
she was grateful these machines had no capacity for speech.
Lets begin, Sturgis said, stepping backward out of the training
area.
The scenario was always the same: Sturgis would control the
Centurion and Lancer from the sideline while Jakes and her Ironclad
attempted to battle them out of the chalk ring. Success required that
both the Centurion and Lancer be outside the ring at the same time
while neither she nor the Ironclad could leave the circle, and Jakes
had never succeeded.
Jakes drew her training blades; blunted facsimiles of the dueling
weapons custom created for her before she began her tour with
Sturgis. They were mechanikal just as her fighting blades were, but
though they would leave more than a mark on any living opponent,
they werent likely to pierce the iron plating of the armored warjacks.
All the same, the warjacks were strapped with leather sparring pads,
and their own practice weapons were wrapped in burlap blankets
stuffed with wool. To further minimize damage to each otherand
more importantly, to Jakesthe warjacks had standing orders to
pull their attacks in practice, but that didnt make the many bruises
covering her body hurt any less.
Without warning, the Centurion began to charge.
Wait! I didnt say ready! Jakes cried as she quickly sidestepped
out of the way and backed toward the Ironclad for protection.
I didnt ask if you were, Sturgis replied as he paced the perimeter
of the sparring ring.
But you always wait until Im ready! She dropped her right
foot back and adopted a defensive stance as the Centurion wheeled
to face her.
Ready is a relative condition, he said. Before she could reply, he
struck the ground with his training staff and barked, Now focus, Jakes!
11
From the corner of her eye, Jakes saw the blue runes of a spell
ignite around him and braced for whatever he was about to throw at
her. An instant later, a flurry of lightning strikes broke out over the
Ironclad, scorching its protective padding with electricitybut the
magical storm had not come directly from Sturgis.
It was at that moment she realized that both she and Bunker were
watching the Centurion, and neither was paying attention to the
agent of the arcane attackthe shifty Lancer stalking them from
behind. Atop the Lancers armored carapace was mounted a device
called an arc node, advanced technology that enabled Sturgis to send
his spell through it to a target far beyond his normal reach rather
than attack itor herdirectly.
Sensing the threat, the Ironclad turned to meet the Lancer head
on, blocking Jakes attempt to close the distance to it before Sturgis
could target one of them again. Instead, the Lancer charged.
Move it, you lug, she said aloud, catching herself before Sturgis
remarked on her poor habit of speaking to the jack. Take the Centurion!
Untangling herself from Bunker, Jakes whirled just in time to
evade the Lancers oncoming spear. A retaliatory strike from her sword
glanced off its padded shield as she ducked under its backswing. Two
swift steps and a half-pirouette put her in position to ram her dagger
backward into the jacks boiler. It was not a lethal blow, but using
her focus she was able to channel just enough arcane energy through
the blade to send the Lancer staggering forward.
A series of heavy whumps redirected her attention to the
Ironclad. The Centurion easily rebuffed its hammer blows with
a heavy shield, waiting for the precise moment to strike. Get
its spear, she commanded telepathically. Her focused attacks on
the Lancer had momentarily depleted her reservoir of energy,
though, and without her guidance the Ironclad wasnt skilled
enough to attempt such a complex grapple.
12
As the Ironclad wound up for another swing, the Centurion

thrust its spear forward into her warjacks core. An instant later, the
Centurion bashed its shield into Bunkers chin, sending the jack
stumbling backward.
Jakes winced. During her defensive footwork, Sturgis had
maneuvered both the Lancer and Centurion between her and her
warjack, forcing them toward opposite sides of the ring. Bunker
needed her assistance quickly, or it would end up over the chalk line.
You lost track of your warjack, Jakes, Sturgis chastised. Get the
blinders off.
Her lack of situational awareness had been a constant point of
Sturgis criticism. On her own she was more than capable of engaging
multiple opponents, but when controlling a warjack she struggled to
keep her attention on it without leaving herself vulnerable to attack.
Damn it, Bunker! Youre never where youre supposed to be!
She projected her senses into the Ironclad, her mind racing to
find the perfect counterattack that would shift the advantage in this
fight. But the Lancer came about, continuing its assault on her and
breaking her concentration. The best she could manage was impelling
the Ironclad to disengage before it got pummeled to the ground.
Focus, Jakes! Empower your Ironclads attacks! Sturgis called,
urging her to concentrate on the Centurion. But the Lancer
continued to drive her back, increasing the distance between her and
the Ironclad.
Across the ring, she saw the Centurion deliver another measured
blow with its spear, a downward blow across Bunkers back that
forced the Ironclad onto one knee. Another bash with the shield and
Bunker slid backward, its left foot scraping through the chalk line.
The Ironclad dug its right hand into the ground, tearing up pavers to
prevent being shoved from the ring.
Jakes grunted in frustration, knowing it was now or never.
13
But every time she felt ready to focus through the Ironclad, the
Lancer would distract her. She back stepped out of its range and
summoned her will, preparing to commit every bit of her focus to
a perfectly executed offense. Hang on, Bunker. Here it comes, she
said through their telepathic connection, visualizing the Ironclad
launching forward and ramming its armored skull into the face of
the Centurion, a move that would surely turn the tide. If I can make
it work. But that infuriating Lancer would not stop dogging her!
Focus on its attacks! Now! Sturgis voice rang in her ears as the
Centurion repeatedly crashed its shield over the Ironclad, hammering
the warjack down like a nail.
It was all she could do not to scream. Just once, let me get this right.
She needed space, breathing room to focus. Deflecting the Lancers
spear, she backpedaled further out of its range and transferred her
full attention into the Ironclads mind, centering her consciousness
in its space.
And then it was gone.
In mid-step, she realized she had backed away too far, exceeding
the range of her ability to maintain a functional bond with the
warjack. It was as if her head had been shoved under water; their
connection was all but a distant echo in her mind. Without a
stronger connection, she couldnt focus through the warjack, and it
was helpless against the Centurion charged with Sturgis power.
Jakes cursed under her breath and swung her body forward, trying
to reestablish the mental connection, but the Lancer had followed
up, leaving no room to advance. Pitiless, it beat her back with its
shield, sending her stumbling across the chalk line and onto her rear.
And then she could swear it laughed, at least as much as a warjack
could laugh. Steam bursting from its face vents, it banged its spear
on the front of its shield.
A platoon of soldiers marching across the quad appeared to lose
14
their timing for a moment. Faces turned toward her, and Jakes saw
far too much amusement in their expressions.
Her blood boiled. In an instant, Jakes was on her feet, arcane
energy flowing into her blades as she charged at the showboating
Lancer. Sparring blades or not, she aimed to remove its beak-like
head.
Lieutenant Jakes! Stand down!
A wall of stone could not have stopped her more quickly. In the
nine months she had trained with him, Sturgis had never reprimanded
her. Her guts knotted as she fought to contain her embarrassment.
Why do you hesitate? Sturgis asked, no anger in his voice.
She peered at him from beneath her lowered brow, a stray lock of
red hair obscuring one eye. You, uh... you told me to stand down,
Commander, she replied uncertainly. But that jack has it coming,
so if you want me to
You became separated from your warjack because you did not
take control of it. These machines are weapons, just like the swords
in your hands, and they are only as effective as the warcaster who
wields them.
Yes sir, she said softly, casting her eyes to the ground again.
Sturgis walked the short distance to the Ironclad, which had
regained its feet. Lifting the protective padding, he inspected it for
damage. Why didnt you press your warjacks attack when you had
the chance? You could have held the Lancer at bay; it was not your
priority.
Its Bunker. Every time I Sturgis looked back over his shoulder
at her, his expression perplexed. The Ironclad! she clarified. Every
time I turn around, Im bumping into it, like its glued to my back.
And it cant stay on its feet! It falls down every time were in a fight.
Have you seen how mangled its grill is?
Sturgis ran an armored finger over the bronze face grill on the
15
Ironclad, examining its irregularities. This warjack has served me

in over a dozen engagements. Ive seen no flaw in its performance.
Wiping soot off his gauntlets, he walked slowly back to her. When
you fight alone, you are as confident and capable a warrior as I have
ever trained. But you struggle with warjacks like no one Ive known
who possessed the talent for them. Youre hesitant. Unsure. You
neglect your bond.
Jakes stared at his feet, unable to meet his gaze. Its... hard.
Of course it is, he said, laughing. Jakes could count on one
hand the number of times shed heard Sturgis break his characteristic
professional stoicism. Thats why we train. His voice softened and
he spoke gently. Why cant you commit to the warjack, Allison?
He had never called her by her given name. In their military
culture, a soldiers first name was reserved for casual interactions, and
only within the same stratum. And this was Dalin Sturgis, a machine
built for war as much as any warjack shed seen. She admired that in
him and relied on his consistent nature. It was the only thing that
offered her any stability in this violent and unpredictable existence.
But this tiny gesture of compassion, this break in formality, jarred
her sensibilities. It disarmed her, and she suddenly found herself
speaking not to a superior officer or an instructor but to a trusted
confidant.
I just want it to be perfect, she confessed. I need to get it
perfect. Jakes stopped herself, remembering her rank, but Sturgis
only scratched absently at his tightly trimmed beard as he considered
her words.
This need to be perfect, Allison, he said, is a mask for what
youre truly feeling... She swallowed nervously, feeling as if he were
peeling back her armor to expose her beating heart. She knew exactly
what he was going to say, what she felt.
Fear.
16
Since the Kingdom of Llael had fallen to the Khadoran Empire

over four years ago, the Protectorate of Menoth had exploited the
opportunity to wage a bloody campaign across the fractured region.
Recruiting the vast number of faithful beyond their own borders and
exterminating any who failed to answer the call of their angry god,
Hierarch Severius and the high priests of the Protectorate continued
to commit the bulk of the nations military force to their Northern
Crusade.
Fueling the crusade required constant replenishment of
munitions, troops and warjacks across the great distance separating
the Protectorate from its armies in Llael. In an effort to liberate their
Llaelese allies and hinder the growth of the Protectorates fanatical
following, Cygnars military had made many attempts to sever this
supply line, which operated just beyond their border on the opposite
side of the Black River. With each endeavor to blockade the supply
line, Cygnar was met with a larger and better-equipped escort to
safeguard the Protectorates vital cargo. The ongoing conflict had
proven costly for both sides, until finally the Protectorate had
committed what was effectively an entire army to attend the supply
column.
Knowing this, Jakes marveled at her commanders unfolding
plan as a wall of lightning-slinging Storm Knights drove ranks of
Protectorate soldiers before them like cattle. From their hidden
vantage, Jakes had watched as the Protectorate column emerged
from the narrow pass cutting through a rocky gorge that concealed
their northward movement from Cygnaran border patrols. As they
moved into the plains and approached the shallow tributary known
as Caerlys Crossing, they widened their formations to cover ground
faster and reduce the duration of the exposed river fording required
17
for their passage. Jakes had only moments to count the dozens of
warjacks among the Protectorates white and gold battalions before
Sturgis ordered the flare that would spring his trap.
As phosphorous exploded against the murky dawn, unseen
Cygnaran cannons pummeled the bank of the Crossing from the
safety of their camouflaged positions on the opposite side. Instantly,
the Protectorate column halted their progress and its leaders
ordered a retreat from the rivers edge. With the sudden chaos of
communicating a new course throughout their ranks rendering the
column vulnerable, Sturgis struck.
The Storm Lance cavalry led the charge from the armys hidden
location in the foothills above the plains, their voltaic lances scattering
the Protectorate flank with bursts of flesh-searing lightning. Jakes
and Bunker followed Sturgis and his mechanized battle group into
the fray, surrounded by a blue sea of armored knights and trenchers.
Through the forest of bobbing helms and halberds, Jakes could
see another host of warjacks trailing the famed mechanik Captain
Dominic Darius as he tromped across the field in his custom-built
steam-powered suit. Calling the attack an ambush would be like
calling the great Meredius a pond, and like the tidal waves common to
that treacherous ocean, the Cygnarans crashed upon the Protectorate
column, forcing them to flee westward, right into Sturgis snare.
Caerlys Crossing to the north, impassable mountains to the
south, and the Black River to their backs, the Protectorate column
was slowly pushed into the entrapping terrain, just as Sturgis had
predicted in the officers briefing the evening before. But Sturgis was
never one to underestimate his enemies, and his cautionary words
still rang in Jakes mind as the battle raged around her: They will fight
to the last.
The Protectorate met the assault with flame and furor, giving
no ground that the Cygnarans did not pay for in blood. Like wild
18
animals, the packs of zealots fought with even greater fury the
tighter quarters became. The army also included a legion of Temple
Flame Guard with their impenetrable shield walls and at least
two warcasters commanding battlegroups of warjacks. Jakes soon
realized the Protectorate column was not unprepared, they were only
outmaneuvered.
When Sturgis had been knocked down by the Vanquishers attack,
Jakes had feared the worst. Without the commander, the operation
was doomed. Without her mentor, Jakes thought shed never survive
such an engagement. But when he had emerged unscathed, her faith
in his leadership redoubled, filling her with the courage to meet any
adversary so long as it was at his side.
Now, as the full radiance of the sun rose above the mountains behind
them, Sturgis brought the hammer to the anvil. Manned by teams of
trenchers, a score of heavy cannons packed with explosive ordnance
inched forward behind the Cygnaran army. When Sturgis gave the
signal for the artillery to advance, Jakes knew only minutes remained
until the guns would unleash hell upon the entrapped crusaders.
Then hell was unleashed upon Cygnarans.
Even over the clashing blades and clanging warjacks, Jakes heard
the distant herald of fiery death. First a low whistle, the familiar
sound grew louder until it was a high-pitched shriek that rose above
all other clamor.
Incoming! bellowed a trencher.
Jakes cast her eyes to the sky, where a swarm of sparkling
rockets streaked toward the unwary artillery slogging across the
battle-churned field. On the open plain, there was no cover
which was precisely the reason Sturgis had chosen this location
to waylay the supply column. Now, though, Jakes cringed as the
cannon crews dove to the ground, the rockets impacting around
them in ear-splitting bursts.
19
A single missile exploded upon a cannon, detonating its own

loaded shell and shattering the case into iron shards that scythed
through a trio of trenchers unlucky enough to be caught in the blast.
Had the rockets been more accurate, half the artillery and crew might
have been eliminated in a single barrage.
A tangle of smoky black tendrils hung in the air, pointing like a
road sign to the source of the rockets. Squinting, Jakes could see a
cluster of white-garbed soldiers perched atop a ridge near the pass the
Protectorate column had emerged from.
Deliverers! Sturgis shouted as he broke toward Jakes while a
pair of Centurions moved to fill the gap he left behind. Theyve left
a rear guard in the canyon, he told her, indicating the rocketeers
on the ridge. I want you to get up there and knock them off those
rocks. Take Whisker and a section from Fourth Platoon and make
sure not a single deliverer walks away. If we lose our artillery, these
Menites will easily overrun us once they regroup.
Jakes felt the grip of fear around her throat. She knew she was
supposed to respond, but that simple acknowledgement of her
commanders orders would not form on her lips. Sturgis didnt seem
to notice as he beckoned to the nearest trencher sergeant and a frizzhaired stormcaller who had just directed a bolt of lightning at a
Protectorate warjack.
Whisker. Sergeant. Youre with Lieutenant Jakes, the commander
ordered. Before the sergeant could snap a salute and acknowledge
this, Sturgis was gone, rushing back into the broil.
Jakes blanched and stared at the men gathering before her. Almost
four decades older than Jakes, Sergeant Hollings stepped to the
center and regarded her with every bit of soldierly professionalism
he had shown Sturgis.
Gravediggers atcher command, maam, he announced,
using the epithet proudly adopted by the hardened men that
20
comprised Cygnars most frequently deployed fighters.

She yearned to join Sturgis in the battle. By his side she was fearless,
confident in her own combat skills and secure in the knowledge that
her mentors guidance was readily available. Now, he was sending her
in the opposite direction of the conflict with minimal instruction
and an objective for which shed received no specific training. Had
she been left alone with Bunker, shed have been far less daunted; at
least she had finally developed something resembling compatibility
with the warjack. But the eleven faces gazing at her nowtrusted
allies, trained soldiers ready to follow her every directionscared her
more than any enemy on the battlefield. It wasnt her life she feared
for. It was theirs.
Jakes stared straight ahead as if in a trance. In her mind, the world
moved in slow motion as she peered through Bunkers eyes, gauging
the distance between it and their two adversaries. As the Lancer
circled wide, angling for an attack, the Centurion moved across the
sparring ring with its back to the Ironclad while coiling its arm in
preparation for a strike.
Suddenly the padded head of a spear rocketed toward Jakes face,
and her vision snapped back into her own time and space. Dipping
backward reflexively, she swung her body under the Centurions
extended spear and pivoted on her left foot into a three-quarter turn
that ended with both magically charged blades striking the jacks
undefended side. The Centurion careened forward under its own
momentum, just managing to dig the edge of its shield into the
paving stones in time to stop itself from crossing the edge of the ring.
Without pausing, Jakes reached out with her mind to focus
though the Ironclad, spurring the warjack into a charge. Two steps
from the smaller Lancer, Bunker twisted and lowered its shoulder,
21
slamming its massive hull into the smaller warjack and launching the
machine through the air.
Jakes sprinted toward the airborne Lancer, already feeling the
satisfaction of beating the irritating jack. Splitting her focus, she
charged one blade for her assault on the Lancer while searching the
Ironclads vision for her other adversary. To her alarm, she spotted
Bunker about to trample her from behind. You idiot! Youre supposed
to be on the Centurion! Her concentration was instantly shattered,
the link between her and the Ironclad suddenly a confusing blur
of images and sensations. She needed to correct its course, focus its
attack, but all she could think of was getting out of the way.
Throwing her body forward into a roll, she barely missed being
crushed by Bunker just as the Centurion smashed into the Ironclad
from the side. The impact drove Bunkers grill into the pavers, laying
the jack out like a pile of discarded junk. As Jakes regained her feet,
she realized the Centurions attack had actually been meant for her.
Bunker struggled to push itself up off the ground, but the
Centurion drove it back onto the pavers with the butt of its spear.
Using the distraction to her advantage, Jakes rushed the Centurion
from behind and laid into it with a series of focused attacks. When
it turned quickly to defend itself, the massive warjack stumbled
forward and tripped over the bulk of the prone Ironclad, which sent
it staggering over the edge of the practice ring.
Glimpsing the Lancer back on its feet, Jakes quickly hunched
down behind the Ironclad to conceal herself. Holding her
breath, she waited, listening for which direction the Lancer
would move in its hunt for her. As it moved counter-clockwise
around the Ironclad, Jakes crept silently in the same direction,
circling behind the unsuspecting Lancer. With a furious battle
cry, she waylaid the light jack and struck when its weight was
on a single leg between steps, off-balancing it to send it reeling
22
from the ring, nearly tripping into the rising Centurion.

Well done, Lieutenant! Sturgis said as he walked toward her. A
well-executed defense. Excellent reversal. Her heart pounding from
exertion, Jakes hadnt even processed that she had just defeated both
of Sturgis warjacks for the first time.
Thank you, sir, she replied without a hint of pride. Succeeding
at the expense of her Ironclad had sucked any gratification out of her
victory.
That was a risky gambit, but it paid off, Sturgis said, patting the
Ironclads armored shoulder as it labored to right itself. Expensive
as they are, a warjack is a small price to pay for victory or your life.
There had been no gambit, though. Without Jakes direction,
Bunker had thrown itself in the way of what would have been, in
real combat, a lethal attack from the Centurion. All Jakes had done
was use the stalwart warjacks dented wreck for cover. This truth was
more embarrassing than being beaten so handily by the Lancer only
a week before. She needed to come clean.
Sir, she started, unsure how to put the words together, I
didnt... Im afraid that wasnt
Sturgis raised his hand, interrupting her stammering. It wasnt
perfect, Allison, but you achieved your objective. That is whats
important. He circled around the Centurion, checking the fuel
gauge on its furnace before silently commanding it and the other
jacks to return to the armory for repairs. This desire for perfection
has paralyzed you before at critical moments that required action.
Permitting yourself to fail, as you did today, gave you the courage to
grasp victory.
If he could read the confusion in her expression, Sturgis didnt
comment on it. She hadnt permitted herself anything. Fear had
beaten her again, and she knew it. Why didnt he?
Its time for you to start drilling with a squad, he said, hoisting
23
his dual-bladed staff over his shoulder. Youll be leading soldiers

soon. Thats going to make commanding warjacks seem easy, he
added with a wry grin.
Jakes was almost sure the lump that had just formed in her throat
was visible.
Commander Sturgis, she said, walking two steps behind him as
he followed the jacks to the armory, I feel like Ive got a lot more
to learn.
The commander nodded. We all do. The moment you think
youve learned everything there is to know, some hairy northerner or
crazed fanatic will prove you wrong.
I understand. Jakes spoke slowly, fighting to keep from sounding
like a fragile child. But if Im not perfect... If I cant do everything
a warcaster is meant to do, flawlessly, how will you know when Im
ready?
Ready?
You know... ready to lead, she replied.
Sturgis finally paused, turning to face her. The humor was gone
from his expression, replaced by the quiet understanding Jakes had
yet to become comfortable with in a superior officer. No one is
ever ready, Allison. Not for war. Not for the things you will have to
see... or do. But we do what we must, all the same.
She tried to swallow, but the lump in her throat wouldnt budge.
As she had on many occasions since entering the Strategic Academy,
she wondered how this rare talent she was born with had ever come
to be known as the gift.
Maam? There was a pause. Your orders, maam, Sergeant
Hollings repeated. But Jakes was frozen in place, her mind
caving under the weight of her immense responsibility.
24
A new salvo of rockets screamed over the trampled plain and

detonated amid the scrambling Cygnaran artillery crews, shattering
Jakes momentary daze. A series of secondary explosions signaled
a hit on an ammunition crate, but from her position, none of the
crewmen appeared to be caught in the blasts. Jakes knew, though,
that another moments hesitation would cost lives.
Hollings professional regard had turned doubtful; she could see
it in his ruddy face. He eyed her uncertainly. But it was the youngest
of the men before her that broke the brief but uncomfortable silence.
Pardon my speaking outta line, maam, the trencher said,
sighting downfield through the scope mounted on his rifle. He was
the only soldier in his section to have such a scope, she noticed. But
if we can get yonder of those cannons, I can knock them candles off
those rocks, sure as the sarge can whistle Swanny.
To call him a man was to show him the respect his courage as a
soldier deserved, but in every other way he seemed just a boy. His
face was smooth, save for a few blemishes of adolescence scattered
across his cheeks, and Jakes noted that his voice cracked when he
spoke, yet to find its permanent octave.
Its truth, maam, Hollings said, nodding to the boy. Wallys
the deadest eye in Fourth.
Hes positively peerless, Whisker intoned, his obvious overbite
beneath the blank stare of his tinted goggles giving him an almost
puppet-like appearance. Lightning fast, too. Ive seen it myself.
Jakes wore the rank of lieutenant on her left shoulder and the
uniform of a warcaster beneath her armor. The pair of mechanika
blades she carried and the arcanely enhanced armor she wore cost
more than the collective kit of the entire squad before her, and she
had six and a half tons of walking iron at her command. But in
every way, she felt a fraud. To lead these men into combat was to
accept their blood upon her hands should she fail them. To renounce
25
her responsibility was to consign the artillery crewsand very likely

every Cygnaran east of the Black Riverto certain death. And, as
she knew in her knotted gut, there was no choice she could make
that would guarantee the prevention of either.
Gravediggers. Stormy. We need to get those candles off that hill,
Jakes finally uttered, using the soldiers derogatory slang for their fireloving enemy. She drew her hand cannon from its holster and checked
the round, mustering all the bravado she could fake. Growing up the
daughter of a diva had endowed her with some ability to perform,
even when the performance wasnt honest. Whos ready?
Dig deep! The trenchers barked their famous battle cry.
Charged to capacity, Whisker added with excitement.
No one is ever ready, Jakes thought.
She pivoted on her heel, simultaneously sending a mental
command to Bunker to keep pace with her. Double time! she
shouted, ramping into a jog as the squad fell in behind her. Running
straight toward another volley of rockets launched from the deliverers,
Jakes clung to the lessons of her mentor and prayed to Morrow they
would be enough.
But we do what we must.
Sturgis walked across the sparring ring dragging a long, heavy iron
chain. Jakes watched, puzzled, as he anchored one end of the chain
to a tie-down ring on the back of the Ironclad and returned to her
with the opposite end of the chain and a stout padlock.
Put this around your waist, he said, handing her the chain.
She stared at him, even more baffled. I thought jack-hauling
had been outlawed, she said, half in jest. Warily, she accepted the
chain and looped it behind her lower back.
Sturgis chuckled as he secured the loop snugly around her waist
26
with the padlock. The gruesome form of torture involving strapping

a man to a searing hot warjack hadnt been practiced since Cygnars
current king had taken the throne. Youre not being punished, he
said as he located the center of the chain and tied what appeared to
be a twelve-pound shot on the end of a short rope to it.
You want to tell that to the peanut gallery? she asked
incredulously, nodding toward a small crowd of soldiers gathering a
distance from the sparring ring. Im pretty sure I saw one of them
holding a bag of rotten fruit.
This chain Sturgis held it up so the attached cannon ball hung
below his hand represents the maximum range you can control
your warjack. As you get farther apart, youll feel resistance from the
weight hanging here. That will be your signal to close the distance
to the warjack before your mental connection becomes ineffective.
Jakes nodded. Okay. I get it. She grabbed the chain in front of
her and took a few steps backward to get a feel for its weight.
Excellent, Sturgis said, striding to the edge of the ring. Youll
train with the chain on until you can intuitively sense the edge of
your effective range.
She gawked at him. You want me to wear this while were
sparring?
Are you ready?
Youve got to be kid
Very good, he said, cutting her off. He crossed his arms across
his chest, and his eyes flared blue. The Centurion and Lancer both
lurched forward, each adopting its combat posture as it advanced on
its chosen target.
Jakes dropped into a defensive stance as the Lancer stalked
toward her. Jockeying for the best angle, she repeatedly stepped
on the chain, which distracted her from maneuvering and
prevented her from taking the offensive.
27
The Lancer struck with a series of rapid thrusts. Jakes parried the
first and backpedaled out of range, struggling to maintain awareness
of the Ironclads situation. She focused through the warjack to
energize a powerful blow from its hammer that sent the Centurion
reeling toward the edge of the ring. By carefully balancing her defense
and offense she had gained a slight advantage, and she quickly moved
to exploit it.
Keeping the Lancers attention on her, she retreated from it in
a wide arc. Rather than having Bunker follow through with its
attacks on the Centurion, she concentrated her full focus on it and
spurred the Ironclad into a charge on the Lancer. She felt clever as
she sprinted across the ring toward the Centurion; with both of the
other jacks fixated on their retreating targets, theyd never see the
attacks coming.
Through Bunkers eyes she saw the Lancer spin to face it the
moment before impact. With a deafening crash, Bunker slammed the
Lancer with its full force. Grinning, Jakes leaped for the Centurion,
charging her mechanikal sword with arcane energy. Then in midair, the moment before she could land the strike, she suddenly felt
as if shed been torn in half. Flying forward one moment, she was
yanked backward and flung to the ground, pounding the wind from
her lungs. Her weapons clattered across the ground and her armor
sparked on the pavers as Bunkers forward momentum dragged her
across the sparring ring.
Unable to lie on her back because of the cumbersome turbine
that powered her protective power field, she rolled to her front,
supporting herself with one arm as she gasped for air. She could see
the gathered soldiers struggling to contain their laughter.
Sturgis appeared and knelt by her side. Are you hurt?
Still unable to speak, she shook her head. But in that moment,
she wished she could sink into the ground, away from scrutiny.
28
You didnt feel the weight, Sturgis said. You were too concerned
with your attacks.
She nodded, glowering at the soldiers.
Tell me, how many times will you have to get knocked down
before you can sense the edge of your control area? Sturgis face was
stoic. She couldnt tell if the question was earnest or rhetorical.
Wheezing, chest burning, she finally managed to force words
from her mouth. I dont... know. But Ill... try again.
Good. Sturgis grinned and hoisted her to her feet. Is he actually
proud of me? she wondered, unable to read the intention in his
expression or his response. Its not important how many times you
get knocked down. Whats important is that youre willing to get
knocked down.
The deliverers head jerked backward, perforated by a single rifle
round expertly fired by Private First Class Benjamin Wallace. The
mans lifeless body slumped behind one of the several moss-covered
boulders where the rocketeers had taken cover. That was the third
deliverer put down by Wally, who was every bit the sharpshooter his
squad-mates had so glowingly advertised.
It aint nothing really, maam, Wally shouted over the staccato
pop of the squads suppressing fire, never looking away from his scope
as he chambered another round in his rifle. Back in the Westins, I
aint got one o these fancy glasses, and marsh turkeys hide a whole
lot better than these fellas.
Jakes had to smile at the young trenchers endless banter. Shed
learned more about him in the few short minutes theyd been pushing
their way up this hill than she knew about many of the classmates
shed seen every day for two years at the Strategic Academy. The only
son in his family, Wally had five older sisters, and not one could bake
29
a pudding as good as the army cooks at Fort Falk. Sergeant Hollings

had been teaching him letters, at least enough to know how to avoid
the stuff that could blow up. And even though his mother begged
him not to, hed volunteered for the service because he figured any
king good enough for his daddy and granddaddy to die for was a
king who deserved whatever small help he could offer.
At nineteen, Jakes was accustomed to feeling inexperienced in the
presence of the veteran soldiers and officers she encountered daily.
But Wally made her feel as if shed already lived a lifetime. Despite
his trappings as a soldier, she couldnt look at him without seeing a
young boy she needed to shelter.
Another pop from Wallys rifle and another deliverer went down.
Under the constant barrage of gunfire, the deliverers couldnt bring
their cumbersome launchers to bear, and every attempt brought
them a wound or casualty. With nearly half the squad incapacitated,
the survivors changed tactics and began to slowly move back into the
pass, using the large rocks and thick chaparral to cover their retreat.
Sturgis had ordered the threat neutralized, though, and Jakes
resolved to eliminate any possibility that another rocket might
endanger the Cygnaran artillery again. But the labyrinthine pass
ahead was unknown, and she wasnt ready to put her squad at risk if
the deliverers were up to something.
Hold position! she called out as she marched forward with
Bunker at her side.
Sergeant Hollings took a few cautious steps in pursuit.
Lieutenant? he asked, perplexed, Shall I move the lads up to cover
yer advance?
I said hold, Sergeant, Jakes barked back as confidently as she
could manage, quickening her stride. Despite her rank, she felt
categorically unqualified to be giving orders to a man with a military
career longer than shed been alive. I want to check it out first.
30
The trenchers began to fall in behind Hollings, but he held them

back with a wave of his hand. He kept pace with Jakes despite his
portly physique but did not overtly assert himself. Them crags are
twisty, maam, full o crisscrosses and switchbacks. And them bloody
candles are keen on dirty tricks. They dont care a lick for their mortal
skins. He slowed, letting her move ahead alone, adding, You holler
if you need us, Lieutenant.
Jakes kept her shoulders squared and her eyes straight ahead. Be
ready to move on my signal.
Yes, maam! she heard behind her as she neared the mouth of
the canyon pass. Knowing the sergeant and his men would wait
brought her some small sense of relief. She felt no nervousness about
mopping up the remaining deliverers, only about putting the lives of
her squad at risk in a situation she wasnt prepared for.
The walls of the canyon sloped steeply toward the narrow, travelworn pass. Wide enough for ten men to stand shoulder to shoulder,
it provided ample room for Jakes and Bunker to maneuver but
would have been impossible to move an army through at anything
more than a march. Loose boulders and scrub made the terrain even
more treacherous, and the winding gorge cut by eons of wind and
rain prevented any visibility beyond thirty or forty yards.
Jakes slowed her pace, proceeding cautiously. She kept Bunker
close and scanned the area through its eyes as well as her own.
Twenty paces ahead, a deliverer popped up from behind a cluster
of boulders, his launcher spewing fire and flame. The wild shot sent
the rocket flying harmlessly over Jakes head and past the rim of the
canyon, but the surprise made her duck for cover before she realized
neither she nor the Ironclad were in danger of being hit.
The deliverer dropped his launcher and hastened deeper into the
canyon. Jakes fired her hand cannon at his back, but the shot was
wide and the fanatic was out of site before she could load another.
31
She gave chase without hesitation, reloading her pistol as she

ran. She focused on the Ironclad, running it at full steam by her
side, heedless of the uneven terrain. In her haste to hunt down her
attacker, she completely failed to notice she had charged right into
an ambush.
Fire bombs detonated in front of her before she spotted the whiterobed fanatics that had sprung up on either side of the canyons rim.
A dozen, maybe more, lobbed flaming spheres of explosive liquid
into the gorge, each sphere blossoming into an instant bonfire on
impact.
A clay vessel exploded over the armored hull of Bunker, bathing it
in a fiery blaze and showering Jakes with burning shards of shrapnel
and searing oil. Instinctively, she focused on her warcaster armor,
revving the arcane turbine on her back to overboost her power field.
When another bomb detonated at her feet, she felt the intense heat
of the blast, but the flames and shrapnel washed harmlessly over the
blue shroud of arcane energy that flickered around her.
She fired a shot from her hand cannon, grazing a zealot across
his shoulder. Far from lethal, the shot was still enough to cause the
fanatic to drop the bomb at his feet, which immediately detonated,
engulfing him in its flame.
Jakes crouched behind the Ironclad as she hurried to shove another
round in the hand cannon, but the sheer number of adversaries had
her at a severe disadvantage. With no ranged weapon, Bunker was
good for little more than a shield. And with only a cumbersome
single-shot firearm of her own, shed be swimming in flaming oil
before she could possibly neutralize half her ambushers.
Smoke! she heard a familiar voice suddenly yell over another
round of fiery explosions. Glancing backward, she saw Hollings
charging the squad into the canyon.
An instant later, the pop-pop-pop of smoke grenades erupted
32
around her, quickly filling the canyon with a thick white haze that
completely obscured anything more than a few feet away. The smoke
was of questionable protection, though. The bomb-throwing zealots
relied little on accuracy.
Fall back! she ordered as another round of bombs exploded
through the gorge. Take cover!
One trencher howled, singed by the splattering flames as the
squad backed away from their assailants, feeling their way over the
uneven ground.
A blue blur brushed past her elbow, and Jakes could just make out
Whisker, his woolen coat buttoned tightly up to his chin. Even in
the haze, his tinted goggles gleamed, but his stark white mop of hair
blended into the smoke.
Excuse my conduct, Lieutenant. He spoke with a tick, as if
constantly experiencing a mild electric shock. But Im struck with
the notion that this is the perfect atmosphere to demonstrate my
brilliance.
Jakes blinked, her mind balking at the mans puns. Shed heard the
Stormcallers were odd, but she hadnt yet experienced their unique
peculiarity. Brilliance? she asked anxiously, still in retreat.
Positively! he said, grinning widely. He seemed to interpret
her response as some sort of approval. Ahem, he added, tapping
his goggles until Jakes realized he was suggesting she don her own.
Baffled, she covered her eyes with her protective lenses, and when she
looked back again, Whisker was nowhere to be seen.
A moment later the haze flashed like the interior of a
thundercloud, illuminated by a streak of lightning that stabbed
from the sky to the canyons edge with a crackling hiss. An arrested
wail proved the bolt had found its mark; the bone-crunching thump
and explosion of flame that followed confirmed its effectiveness.
Tech-Specialist First Class Armin Whisker appeared to be as precise
33
with his electrical strikes as Wally was with his rifle.

She couldnt see him, but Jakes could hear Whiskers mechanikal
lightning rod charging up to call another strike. Overhead, a zealot
priest chanted in Caspian, the ancient tongue inciting the fury of
Menoths followers. Fire bombs fell around Jakes squad, scorching
the ground and setting the sparse brush ablaze. After a second
lightning strike found its mark, shouts and movement sounded
above. Dislodged by hasty footsteps, the rocks from the steep walls
of the gorge began to crumble and slide into the basin below. The
zealots were descending into the canyon.
Just then, Whisker streaked past her in retreat. Sorry to bolt!
Jakes had only a moment to gape at the strange man before she heard
a mob of footsteps pounding toward her carrying bellowed promises
of the wrath and vengeance the Creator would visit upon Cygnar.
Your command, maam? Hollings shouted.
This was what shed hoped so desperately to avoid: the burden of
her responsibility to keep these soldiers alive. Though she was angry
Hollings hadnt followed her orders, she knew that if he had, shed
already be dead and the squad would carry on their mission anyway.
Ready bayonets! she called behind her as she exchanged her
hand cannon for her dueling dagger.
Thunder follows lighting! A trencher crowed in response. Jakes
couldnt see who it was, but the motto was quickly echoed by nearly
every soldier in the squad. If these men feared for their fate more
than she did, they gave no reason to believe it.
Conserving her focus, she mentally urged her Ironclad forward
while searching the haze through its eyes. As the smoke began to lift,
silhouettes of the approaching zealots became more visible with every
step they took toward her. She spurred Bunker forward, charging his
hammer with her energy. At the last moment, the Ironclad swung
the weapon in a wide arc. The spiked head connected with a zealot,
34
splintering every rib in his chest as it lifted him off the ground and
sent him soaring over the heads of his fellow fanatics. A focused hook
from Bunkers right arm clotheslined another Menite, expelling the
life from his body before he hit the ground.
Skirmish formation! Jakes shouted as she took off at a run.
Moving along the wall of the canyon she skirted past the charging
zealots while carefully keeping Bunker within her effective control
range. She could hear Hollings shouting orders to his section over the
screech of steel bayonets piercing chain mail shirts. And somewhere
within the mob of zealots the priest continued his chant, inspiring a
rage among the fanatics that compensated for their lack of combat
training and physical conditioning.
Sprinting the width of the rocky pass, Jakes positioned herself
behind the mob of billowing linen and flailing clubs. At their
center, she spotted the priest. Her eyes flashed and she could see
the Ironclads eyes answer as it deflected the relentless attacks of the
zealots. She charged forward and spurred Bunker straight toward
her. Jakes scythed through the throng of fanatics with flashing blades
as the Ironclad trampled them under its feet. Together, they crushed
a half-dozen zealots like a vicious vice until only the priest stood
between them. I curse you in the name of Menoth, you who have
forsaken your Creator! he just managed to say before joining his
comrades in death.
Jakes felt the tug on the edge of her consciousness before she was
aware of the weight pulling on the chain at her waist. It had been
a week since she was last yanked off her feet, and the unseen bond
between her and the Ironclad had become far more present to her
senses than the chain had ever been.
Warcaster and warjack moved in perfect synergy, maneuvering
35
around the practice ring with an agility and grace that Jakes could
previously have achieved only when fighting on her own. The chain
posed no impediment; she stepped effortlessly over and around it as
she executed precision attacks against the Centurion. Her focus was
flawless as she increased the power and accuracy of Bunkers assault
on the Lancer. Punctuating a seamlessly fluid combination of attacks,
the Ironclad clamped its fist around the arm of the Lancer and flung
it through the air to crash directly into the Centurion.
Jakes calculated the distance to the heap of sprawling warjacks,
then divided her focus between her own attacks and the Ironclad in
preparation for a two-pronged finishing move.
From nowhere, Sturgis appeared in the center of the arena,
transported in a flash of mystical runes from his position on the
sidelines. Without a word he launched a series of attacks at Jakes,
battling her backward with the twin blades of his mechanikal staff.
Commander! she shouted, parrying his flashing blades. What
are you doing?
He didnt answer but only continued to come at her, driving her
away from the center of the ring.
As Jakes struggled to puzzle out the unexpected change in sparring
protocol while still defending herself, the Centurion and the Lancer
regained their feet and advanced on Bunker. Jakes could see the flash
in Sturgis eyes as he focused on his warjacks. The powerful, precise
blows they landed only confirmed his direction over their attacks.
Inch by inch, link by link, Bunker and Jakes were pushed apart.
She fought with every ounce of her will to close the distance between
them, but the assault from the Centurion and Lancer continued to
drive the Ironclad backward. The chain, pulled taut at maximum
extension, towed her forward into Sturgis whirling blades. She
stiffened her stance, feet sliding over the pavers as she batted his jabs
and slashes aside. She refused to lose her balance or break her focus.
36
Seeing simultaneously through Bunkers eyes and her own, she

divided her focus, preparing for a counterattack that would bring
them closer together. Then, feinting with a thrust toward her face,
Sturgis spun on his heel and sliced his blade through the tightly
drawn chain. The recoil sent Jakes and the Ironclad reeling in
opposite directions, their effective bond severed as quickly as Sturgis
had severed the iron links.
Without Jakes guidance, Bunker swung clumsily at its two
opponents. They were under Sturgis command and were well within
his much-greater control area. Blue energy rippled over their armored
carapaces as together they charged, beating the outgunned Ironclad
to the ground with brutal thrusts and slashes from their spears.
Bunker battled to regain its feet, but the Centurion and the Lancer
were merciless in their attacks, continuing to batter the warjack long
after it had been pushed outside the practice ring.
Jakes rushed forward, desperate to reestablish control of her
Ironclad, but Sturgis blocked her path with his bladed staff. I
dont understand! she shouted. Why are you doing this? Stonefaced, Sturgis offered no answer but only held her at bay as she
watched the Ironclad fall under the avalanche of blows. Finally,
able to resist no more the Ironclad collapsed with a mournful,
metallic groan. Jakes fell to her knees in defeat. Bunker! she
cried out, her voice trailing off even as the flames within the
Ironclads furnace expired.
She gritted her teeth in frustration. Against her will tears welled
and blurred her vision. She angrily blinked them away and demanded,
Why?
You are the engine that drives a powerful machine, one that only
functions when all its components work in harmony. And you have
learned to operate the machine well. Sturgis mentally called the
Centurion and the Lancer back to the center of the practice ring,
37
but Bunker remained motionless, sprawled across the pavers. Until

these last few weeks, you felt you were stronger alone. But now youve
learned what it means to be a warcasterthat the bond you share
with the warjacks multiplies your strength exponentially.
I already understand that, she said through clenched teeth. So
I dont know why you had to go and scrap it.
You needed to understand that although you are weaker without
the warjacks, they are powerless without you. Remember this, and let
nothing ever come between you again.
You defied my direct order, Sergeant!
Hollings stared straight ahead, his doughy body at rigid attention
as Jakes yelled into his ear. Out of respect, she had walked him away
from the other men before dressing him down, but she knew the
entire squad would receive her message in short order. Whether his
dereliction of her command had saved her life or not, she couldnt
allow the impression that she would allow disobedience.
Honest, maam. We only come a-running when we heard yer
signal. Unblinking, he delivered his explanation with every ounce
of deference he would use to speak to the armys most decorated
general. But Jakes knew he was lying.
What signal? she demanded.
He took one too many breaths before answering, a clear indication
that he was covering. The signal you said to be ready for, maam. He
winced, silently cursing himself for not having a better explanation;
she could tell.
In truth, Jakes wasnt angry at all. Though this was not as
exhilarating as communing with the cortex of a warjack, she was
nonetheless forging a bond.
She backed off, giving him some breathing room and softening
38
her tone. Youre lucky no one was killed.

Understood, maam. I take full responsibility for my actions, he
said, showing no sign of relaxing. Permission to speak, Lieutenant?
he asked when Jakes didnt fill the silence.
She glanced sideways at him before turning away to conceal the
smile curling the corner of her mouth. She was quickly coming to
like the sergeant and was amused that a man could be insubordinate,
consummately professional, and charitable all at once. Staring into
the maze of intersecting ravines, she absently kicked a stone over the
edge of a low cliff. Bunker had run the last of the deliverers right
over the edge of the jagged escarpment here, and Jakes could see the
broken body draped over the unforgiving rocks below. Go ahead.
Hollings finally let his shoulders slump, allowing the starched
military presentation of a hardened soldier to fall away. Jakes heard
the words of a man speaking from his heart.
This whole war would be over fore I could name every reason to
love our great nation of Cygnar, but at the top o my list is that me
and every one of the men and women fighting for our king done so
by volunteering. Them reds dont theyre called by their empress.
The candles gotta go by their god. And woe to the poor sod who ends
up serving the Cryxians. Hes forced to fight even after he should be
cold in the ground.
She turned to him and pointed at her left pauldron. You do
know these wings on my shoulder mean I spent two years in the
academy, dont you, Sergeant? Im familiar with those other armies.
Hollings cleared his throat. No disrespect to yer station, maam.
Point is, them lads oer yonder knows the stakes and is ready to face
whatever bloody bastard tries to take a piece outta Cygnar. Every
one o them made a choice outta love for this country, and they
done it without having any special gift such as yerself.
This time Jakes took a moment to answer. I wish I had such
39
courage, she said quietly, eyes on the ground.

Hollings grinned, raising his chin. Maam. Thats wot you gots
us for.
His words comforted her more than she could have ever expected.
She searched for a way to acknowledge his messageto thank him
for the adjustment in her perspective. But all she could manage was
a quick nod before a trencher yelled suddenly from his lookout atop
a mound of boulders.
Colossal!
Bunkers head snapped up, his senses going into full alert.
Spinning on her heel, Jakes looked out over the Crag to see what
looked like a massive pair of golden pipe organs rising over a ridge. A
moment later, the two unmistakable rocket pods of a Judicator came
into view. Three times as tall as her Ironclad and ten times as heavy,
the Judicator stomped through the canyon like a walking fortress.
Them deliverers was a ruse, maam! Hollings shouted, pointing
beyond the Judicator at the mass of Protectorate fighters following
behind it.
Jakes was appalled. They sacrificed those men to mask their
reserves. She crept to the edge of the cliff trying to get a clear view
of the oncoming reinforcements.
They plan to march that thing right up our rear, Hollings said
gravely.
Which means theres another warcaster down there, she added.
A bay of covered ports on one of the Judicators rocket pods
opened, unleashing a salvo of rockets directly at Jakes.
Sergeant! she cried, pushing him ahead of her as she turned
to flee from the cliffs edge. But she was too slow to make her
escape. The rockets detonated on the rocky wall of the cliff,
instantly turning the ground beneath her feet to rubble.
Hollings stumbled forward onto solid ground as the avalanche
40
of rock swept Jakes and the Ironclad into the gorge below. Sharp
boulders rushed up at her from the floor of the canyon. Instinctively,
she focused on her warcaster armor to boost the protective field
surrounding her, but the wind was still knocked out of her as she
bounced off a rock and tumbled toward the broken earth at the base
of the cliff.
The moment before impact, Jakes was struck with that dreaded
sensation of having her head dunked under water. Her bond with
Bunker had been stretched too thin, and she couldnt see where the
Ironclad had ended up. Clambering out from beneath the landslide
of jagged stone, she searched wildly for the jack, but among the
massive boulders could neither see it nor sense his presence.
Then the screech of hydraulics approached and the earth shook
underneath Jakes. Peeking around a boulder, Jakes spotted the
Judicator stomping toward her. She felt a blast of heat as twin plumes
of fire erupted from the colossals chest-mounted flamethrowers,
turning the scrubby foliage before it to ash. Beyond the huge warjack
rose the riled voices of zealots, searching her out.
Cut off from her squad with no sign of her Ironclad, Jakes did the
only thing she could and fled.
Despite the vastness of Fort Falk, its massive population of
garrisoned troops and support personnel made privacy a luxury in
short supply. For the first three weeks after she had arrived, Jakes
had devoted what little personal time she was allowed to seeking
out some small corner of refuge from the endless clamor of wartime
enterprise that filled the fortress.
She had been rewarded with the discovery of a little-used rampart
along the outer curtains west wall. It was a short stretch of battlement
between two turrets, where there was little reason for anyone to
41
cross unless the fort was under siege. From here, Jakes could look
out on the expanse of scattered farmlands, largely untouched by the
war so far, and experience a moment of solitude impossible to find
even in her own quarters. Religious rites were, by Jakes upbringing,
private affairs, and she preferred to make her devotions away from
the interruptions and appraisals of others. Here, atop the crenellated
wall of Fort Falk, Jakes could pray, free of intrusions from soldiers,
cooks, mechaniks, priests, or warcasters.
Jakes removed the leather cord she wore beneath her simple tunic
and looked at the small medallion hanging from it. Not much larger
than a copper farthing, the medallion was crudely stamped with the
image of an outstretched palm receiving a coin. It was the symbol of
Ascendant Rowan, a noble who half a millennia before had sacrificed
her wealth, and ultimately her life, to ease the suffering of the poor
and downtrodden.
She placed the medallion in her right palm and wrapped the cord
around her hand, binding it in place. Resting on her knees, she held
her right hand in her left and dipped the tips of her fingers into the
shallow clay vessel of lily-scented oil she had brought. As she brought
her hands toward her face, she paused to watch the oil drip down her
fingers and over the face of the medallion.
His memory we protect, she said softly, touching her fingertips
to her forehead. His soul we surrender, she continued, placing her
folded hands over her heart. Gentle Rowan, light his path and ease
his burden that his crossing may be safe and swift. Shield his passage,
bless him, and guide him to the eternity of Morrows radiance.
Extending her arms, she raised her open palms to the sky.
This we humbly ask of thee, gentle Rowan, while we endeavor to
honor those who crossed before us.
Finally, Jakes closed her eyes and touched the medallion to her
lips, hanging her head in quiet reflection. It was then she felt the
42
tingle along her spine alerting her to the presence of another who
shared her gift. She did not have to look to know it was Sturgis.
One usually invokes the name of Katrena or Marcus with the
Crossing, not the patron of paupers, Sturgis said, no judgment
implied in his tone.
Jakes rubbed the oil off the medallion and looped the cord around
her neck once more. Katrena and Marcus watch over knights and
soldiers, not paupers.
Who was he to you? Sturgis asked.
She glanced at him, noting that he held an official-looking sheaf
of papers. As she had expected, they were being deployed. What she
hadnt expected was for it to be so urgent hed search the fortress for
her personally.
I didnt know him, she finally said. He was just a boy, a street
urchin from the slums in Caspia. Id never seen him before.
You pray for him often?
Jakes nodded. Every day.
That sounds more like penance.
She gazed out past the battlements, watching the crimson orb
of the sun slowly melt over the uneven horizon. A building had
caught fire. I saw him, trapped in a cellar and struggling to squeeze
through a barred window. But the fire brigade was only concerned
with preventing the flames from spreading to the merchant district.
He was crying, pleading for help, and they just ignored him.
You didnt.
I stole one of their laborjacks. Id had lessons in arcana; Id
even practiced with a steamjack a couple times. She clenched
her eyes shut, recalling the memories all too vividly. I thought
I could help him. I thought I could control the jack. It could
have ripped away those bars so easily.
I understand now, Sturgis said solemnly. He stepped to the
43
battlements and stood beside her, close enough Jakes could feel the
heat emanating from the arcane turbine on the back of his armor.
But you must understand that his death is not on your hands.
Her response was only silence.
Sturgis hung his head. He spoke gravely, clearly no stranger
to such loss. Allison, when you go to battle, soldiers under your
command will die. You must know this.
If Im good enough.. if Im perfect at what I do... maybe there
will be fewer.
We are at war. Will you punish yourself for every death?
She turned to face him, searching his eyes for an answer that
could extinguish the turmoil within her. Her trust in his guidance
was absolute. His wisdom would be her confidence. What do you
do?
He stared back at her, his eyes slightly distant. Behind that thin
veil was pain, but he would not allow such emotions to surface.
Finally he placed the folded clutch of documents into her hand and
walked out the way he had come.
We march at dawn.
Jakes crept through the ravine, careful to keep her head low as she
moved between concealing boulders and scrub brush. One of the
greatest assets afforded a warcaster was the mechanika armor that
enshrouded the wearer with a powerful ablative power field. But that
same armor could also be a bane when stealth was required, for the
steam turbine that powered the field constantly emitted smoke from
its coal-burning furnace.
In her attempt to evade the Protectorate forces, Jakes had cut
the power to the turbine. It was a risky gambit, as cycling up the
turbine took several seconds, and during that time shed be far more
44
vulnerable to attacks than normal. Powering down also produced

a greater disadvantage: the armor became an intolerable burden.
In addition to creating the invisible shield and sending additional
power to the armors arms and legs, the arcane turbine offset the
great weight of the armor and allowed the warcaster to move as if
wearing no armor at all. Though Jakes armor was light compared
to that preferred by some veteran warcasters, the still-substantial
load hindered her movements, slowing her speed and reflexes. The
alternative, however, was to advertise her exact location to the small
horde of bloodthirsty zealots currently searching for her corpse.
The Judicator had lumbered on ahead, setting the pace for the
Protectorate reserves. It appeared to be taking a route that, although
circuitous, would perfectly position their forces to ambush the
Cygnaran artillery on the other side of the crags. Unable to return
the way she had come and blocked by the advancing reserve force,
Jakes could only stay out of sight and hope for an opportunity to get
a warning to her countrymen.
As she crouched behind a tangle of dried brambles, the hairs on
the back of her neck began to stand up, one by one, until her whole
spine tingled with the unmistakable sensation of a warcaster nearby.
Peering through the thicket, Jakes could see a lustrous glow moving
through the canyon. At the center of the light was a young woman,
no older than Jakes, bedecked in magnificent armor and flowing
garments of white and gold. In one arm, she cradled the shaft of a
billowing pennant bearing a Menofixthe crest of Menoth, creator
of Man. In her other hand, she held the source of her illumination:
a golden sword radiating with holy light. Seeing this woman was
enough to take Jakes breath away, even more so because she hovered
above the shoulders of her followers, bound to the earth by a trio of
robed acolytes pulling chains tethered to her waist.
Jakes had heard of this young woman, a mysterious prophetess
45
known throughout the Iron Kingdoms as the Harbinger of Menoth.

Though a white cloth masked her eyes, the Harbinger was said to
possess miraculous vision, and her followers believed that she spoke
directly to their god, Menoth. Gazing upon her was to behold the
will of the Creator incarnate, and her mere presence had converted
entire villages to follow the Menite faith. She was the beating heart
of the Northern Crusade, and though Jakes had been raised under a
different creed, to her the Harbinger was a vision of pure perfection.
The Harbinger was thought by Cygnars military intelligence
to be occupied with expeditions in Llael; that she was here now
was a disastrous turn of events. How could Jakes hope to survive
an encounter with such a supreme force, much less excel as a
warcaster at all? This girl had already led armies to victories against
insurmountable odds. Jakes couldnt even lead a handful of men
through a canyon without getting lost.
Jakes spirits crumbled as she contemplated her complete lack of
options. Her hopeless situation had become impossible. Her failure
would end in tragedy. Yet despite her Morrowan upbringing, she
still felt the draw of the divinity before her. She could not deny the
wonder of this girl, unbound to the earth by the glory of her god.
She could not shake the tingling down her spine and the sensation of
being in the presence of such unfathomable power. And then Jakes
realized that if she could sense the Harbinger, the Harbinger could
surely sense her, too.
As though to confirm this, the Harbinger suddenly raised
her sword, and from over thirty yards away leveled it directly at
the thicket obscuring Jakes from view. The sword blazed with
brilliant light, and the collective eyes of the zealot mob turned
toward Jakes location. The mob surged forward with their
bombs and flails in hand, shouting.
Jakes struggled to her feet under the weight of her armor and ran
46
along the edge of the canyon, searching for any cover that might shield
her. She flipped a concealed switch on the side of her chest plate and
ignited the furnace on her back. Instantly, the steam turbine began to
pressurize, invigorating the arcane turbine with rapid chugs. Electricblue tendrils crackled around her as the runeplates sealed between
layers of steel armor conducted her arcane energy and slowly formed
the invisible shield around her. But still, the weight of the armor
made the muscles in her legs quiver in pain and she winced with
every stride.
Fire exploded in the canyon as the bombs of overeager zealots
were flung too soon and fell far short of her. As she willed the
muscle fatigue from her mind, Jakes felt a tug on the edge of her
consciousness, like a thread being pulled at the hem of a shirt. Three
heartbeats later she felt it again, stronger but still fleeting. It was
Bunker. The warjack was somewhere nearby.
Jakes glanced around as she continued her sluggish flight, but the
tall boulders and sheer canyon walls blocked her view. The Ironclad
was nowhere in sight, and she couldnt hold the connection in her
mind long enough to determine its direction.
She nearly stumbled into a zealot who sprang from behind a
jagged spire of rock, swinging his mace with a vengeful wail. Unable
to dodge under the load of her armor, Jakes twisted clumsily, taking
the impact of the mace across her back. The crude weapon glanced
off the hardened steel but sent her plowing into the baked earth.
She rolled to her side and brought her hand cannon to bear just
as the zealot swung the mace over his head to strike her. Then his
chest exploded beneath white robes and the force of a grape-sized
slug hurtled him backward against the spire, painting the rocks in a
swath of red.
Clambering to her feet, Jakes holstered the pistol and drew her
blades. Her arcane turbine was spinning at full speed now, and every
47
step felt lighter than the one before. More zealots jumped into her
path, but she sliced through them easily without slowing her pace
now that she was freed from the armors load. All this time, she
searched with her mind for the Ironclad. Its presence flickered on
the periphery of her awareness, but for all her concentration, she
could not lock it down.
A pair of shots rang out above her head, demanding her attention.
The Protectorate employed few firearms; Cygnarans must be close
by. Then she spotted them: racing along the rim of the canyon above
her was her squad of trenchers and the white-topped stormsmith.
Moving in a leap-frog pattern, the trenchers ran along the cliff edge,
two at a time stopping to fire on the zealots. Though few of the hasty
shots found their mark, the zealots slowed their advance, allowing
Jakes to increase her distance from them.
The trenchers rifles outranged the hand-thrown zealot bombs, so
Jakes felt momentarily secure in the safety of her squad. Though the
Judicator loomed ahead, she continued to run in the direction of its
movement, hoping to find a pathway up the cliff that would reunite
her with her squad. Too late, she realized the zealots were falling
back, staying out of the effective range of the trencher fire.
The reason quickly became clear as a pair of light Protectorate
warjacks loped toward her from behind their ranks. The first,
a Revenger, carried a long halberd and a hefty mechanikal shield
energized with an arcane force that could repel any attacker that
struck it. Like the Lancer she had trained against, the Revenger was
also equipped with an arc nodereverse-engineered by Protectorate
mechanikswhich made the threat of arcane attacks difficult to
predict. Several paces behind the Revenger trailed a Repenter
nearly identical in design but armed with a wicked flail in its right
hand and a smoking flamethrower in place of its left arm.
Realizing she couldnt outrun the onrushing warjacks, Jakes
48
braced herself for the Revengers attack, hoping to use it to screen

herself from the other warjacks flamethrower. A scant few feet
separated the Revenger from her, yet its attack didnt come. It was
as if the warjack had stopped short before crossing some invisible
linethe edge of the Harbingers control range! Looking past the
jack, Jakes saw the Harbinger, safely outside the effective reach
of the trenchers weapons. Glowing runes appeared, encircling the
young woman as she arched her back and turned her face to the
sky. Jakes couldnt interpret the runes, but she knew the Harbinger
was weaving a spell.
A gout of flame burst from the Repenters flamethrower as it rushed
to the side of its companion jack. A moment later, the arc node
atop the Revenger pulsed with light. Jakes took evasive maneuvers,
dashing to one side and diving to the ground. She rolled over her left
shoulder to right herself in the crevasse between the base of the cliff
and a large boulder, covering herself from the forthcoming attacks.
On the ridge above her, Wally sighted through his scope at the
Harbinger. I gotcha covered, maam, he called.
Her back pressed against the boulder, Jakes peeked around the
edge ever so slightly. The Repenter unleashed a short burst of flame
but halted at the limit of its masters control, still just out of range
to threaten Jakes. She could see the arc node on the Revengers back
flare with mechanikal light and the air before it distort with rippling
waves of heat. What effect that might produce was unknown to her.
The Revenger wasnt looking toward her, though. It was holding
position and staring at the young sniper above her.
Wally! No! Get back! Jakes shouted, waving her arms at him.
Before Wally could pull the trigger, a beam of light projected
through the Revengers arc node, and the trenchers cried out,
recoiling. Jakes gasped as Wally dropped his rifle and arched
backward, engulfed in holy light. Wracked with pain, the boy opened
49
his mouth in a silent scream as he pitched over the edge of the cliff
toward her. Jakes couldnt maneuver in the tight crack between the
rocks. She put up her hands, as much to cushion his fall as to protect
herself from his impact.
Wallys corpse crushed the wind out of her lungs. Jakes choked,
sucking air sharply as she raised the boys head between her hands.
His face was a frozen mask of agony, his eyes blasted completely white
by the Harbingers devastating spell. Morrow, no, Jakes sputtered,
tears trickling down her dirt-smeared cheeks.
The Protectorate warjacks on the other side of the boulder began to
advance. Two pairs of mechanized feet stomped toward her. Despite
being small for warjacks, they shook the earth beneath Jakes with
every step they took. She heard the flamethrower of the Repenter
open up with a roar. The air around her heated instantly, and flames
licked around the edges of the boulder.
Trapped in the crevasse, Jakes knew she had failed. She had
led courageous men to their demise. Her countrymen would be
destroyed at the hands of the merciless Protectorate fanatics, and
Cygnar would crumble beneath the might of their relentless crusade.
She steeled herself for the pain to come and silently prayed Morrow
would find her soul after she crossed.
And then her senses exploded with a euphoric rush of heightened
awareness. She was outside her body, watching the Repenter circle
around the sheltering boulder as it disgorged its flaming essence
into the crevasse. She could see the Revenger just beyond, readying
its halberd to strike her should she emerge from the cover. But
what she felt was power. She felt an inferno raging within a swelling
furnace, hydraulic pistons pumping iron legs, and the mass of an
unstoppable force bearing down on its target. Bunker had found
her, and their connection ignited her will to persevere.
Instinctively, she focused on the arcane turbine at her back,
50
overboosting the force field that surrounded her. She rolled to her
side, clutching Wallys body in front of her as a barricade against
the flames that now billowed into the crevasse. Splitting her focus
between her shield and the Ironclad, she willed the warjack forward
into a dead run, mentally adjusting its vector as it charged toward
her attackers.
Jakes could smell singed leather and burning flesh as the clamor of
the approaching Ironclad filled her ears. She looked through its eyes,
then lowered its left shoulder and aimed for the unwary Revenger.
The impact sounded like a train wreck. Slammed off its feet, the
Revenger catapulted forward and collided with the Repenter. Both
jacks crashed into the boulder, resulting in a twisted, mangled heap
of hydraulics and armor plating.
Jakes slid out from beneath the dead soldier as Bunker followed
its assault with a series of crushing hammer blows energized by her
focus. But the Harbinger was on the move, and again the mob of
zealots surged toward her position.
A familiar voice broke through the commotion. Lieutenant!
Up ahead! A path! Jakes looked up to see Sergeant Hollings on the
ridge above, urgently waving her further into the canyon toward the
lumbering Judicator, which still advanced on its objective.
She set off at a sprint, commanding Bunker to follow. Fleet-footed
zealots intercepted them, but their uncoordinated attacks posed little
obstacle to Jakes or the Ironclad. Flashing blades and hammer strikes
deflected the attackers from their path, and soon Jakes saw Hollings
and the rest of her squad dug in around a ramp of baked earth that
had formed through centuries of rain erosion.
Rifle shots whizzed past her, holding back the pursuing zealots as
she and Bunker climbed the ramp to rejoin the squad. Smoke grenades
rattled down the slope behind them, bursting into a curtain of white
haze that further masked their retreat from the Protectorate forces.
51
We thought yeh was goners, Lieutenant, Hollings said gravely,

extending his hand to help her up the steep embankment.
Wally she started, without knowing what she might say next.
He did what he had to, maam, Hollings said, cutting her off
and quickly leading her away from the ridge. Up here, now. We
found a path that will make it hard for them candles to follow.
Jakes nodded in agreement, promising herself theyd return for
Wallys body when they could. The boy deserved a proper burial,
and that, she could give him. The squad filed into the narrow ravine
with Bunker warily protecting them from any enemies bold enough
to give chase.
Once he was confident there were no pursuing zealots to contend
with, Hollings took up his position next to Jakes as the squad pushed
farther into the twisting notch in the rocky landscape. Im sorry we
botched it all, Lieutenant. Who coulda known they was marching a
colossal on us?
Jakes hiked through the ravine with purpose now. She wasnt
fleeing anymore; she was moving toward an objective. Sergeant, do
you know where this path goes?
He shrugged under the bulky shoulder plates of his reinforced
coat. Not as such, but I reckon its roughly in the direction of the
Crossing.
He was no more finished with his sentence when Jakes spotted
twin columns of black smoke over the rock wall of the ravine.
Bunker, give me a boost. Trenchers squeezed against the walls to
make way for the Ironclad to get to her. The Ironclad bent forward
and extended an open hand. Jakes stepped onto the oversized palm,
gaining enough elevation to see over the edge of the ravine. Not a
hundred yards away, the Judicator continued through the winding
pass toward a hill that would give it a clear firing position on the
unwary Cygnaran artillery.
52
Yeh got a notion of some sort, Lieutenant? Hollings asked.

Weve got minutes, at best. We need to move, she replied,
hopping down from Bunkers improvised platform.
We couldnt possibly get word to the commander in time,
Hollings said hopelessly.
Jakes shook her head. We just need to stall it.
That colossal? a trencher piped up incredulously. Barnes hadnt
said a word since Jakes assumed command of the squad, but he seemed
to suddenly find his voice. Then we already failed, Lieutenant.
Exactly, Jakes replied, continuing through the ravine as it
climbed upward. So we already know the worst that can happen if
we dont stop it. She halted quickly to face Barnes and the rest of the
squad. But Id rather fail again than know I didnt try.
Hollings jogged after her as Jakes quickened her pace. You have
a plan you want to share with us, maam?
Jakes stared ahead, her expression resolute. Thunder follows
lightning.
Whisker beamed, twitching ever so slightly as he raised his
lightning rod above his head. A striking plan, indeed!
The quadrangle was alive with predeployment activity as Jakes
exited the officers briefing. Sturgis had just finished presenting the
strategic plan for the forthcoming attack on the Protectorates supply
column to the Northern Crusade. In just three days, Jakes would
experience her first major engagement.
With their various operational roles assigned, the dozens of
officers of Sturgis 29th Brigade spread out through the fort to
complete equipment requisitions and ready the force to move out.
As a journeyman warcaster, Jakes was not attached to a specific
platoon but instead reported directly to her warcaster mentor, which
53
left her available to oversee any task or action he might assign her
during the operation. This also meant her current responsibilities
were light compared to most other officers, her only obligation being
the preparation of her warjack and her personal kit.
Lieutenant Jakes! she heard Sturgis call out behind her. Most of
her time with the commander was spent alone or with no audience
other than the warjacks, so it was always unexpected when he
addressed her formally. He only recognized her rank in the presence
of other soldiers and officers or when he had a particularly stern
lesson to impart.
She spun on her heel, replying with the proper etiquette. Yes,
Commander?
Come with me, he said, I have something I want to show you.
Minutes later, Jakes found herself standing in the middle of the
sparring circle with Bunker and the Centurion facing each other from
opposite ends. The peculiar timing for a lesson was disconcerting
enough, but the fact that she was weaponless and without her armor
troubled her greatly. Her officers uniform was certainly not designed
for combat training.
I wanted to show you this sooner, Allison, Sturgis finally
explained, but you needed to develop your instinct for maintaining
your bond with a warjack first.
Jakes watched as Sturgis held out his hand and closed his eyes
in concentration. Rings of luminescent runes materialized above
his open palm, rotating like interlocking gears. This was the arcane
formula of a spellan image projected by the mind of a spellcaster
as he focused his will and summoned his magic. Like mathematic
equations written on a chalkboard, the runes presented a solution for
harnessing arcane energy and forming it into a specific effect. Jakes
concentrated on the runes, digesting their complex pattern, and held
the image in her own mind until she could reproduce the projection
54
in her own hand.

It makes the warjack unmovable? she asked finally, still parsing
the subtle intricacies of the formula.
I havent racked this spell in a very long time, Sturgis said,
referring to the practice of staying proficient in a specific combination
of spells that could be called upon at a moments notice. A warcaster
could stay battle-ready with only a limited number of spells at any
one time, depending on the strength of their will, and were known
to specialize in certain spells that they found effective in combat.
But it may serve you well.
Jakes frowned. It certainly would have helped yesterday when
you decided to jump into the ring, she said. I wouldnt have let
Bunker get away from me.
Practice it, he replied. With whatever time you have between
now and the mission, learn this spell.
For several minutes, Jakes gazed at the rotating runes, studying
their mystical meanings and unique combination until she
comprehended the formula. Finally, she closed her palm and the
rune circles evaporated. A moment later, the same runes exploded
around her, larger and more intense. With sufficient practice she
knew she could do it much more quickly. She looked at Sturgis with
a cagey smile. All right. Lets try it. The circle of runes expanded
until it included the Ironclad, silently awaiting its orders. Give me
your best shot.
Sturgis nodded. At his silent command, the Centurion belched
flame from its exhaust stacks, lowered its head, and charged.
Lungs burning, heart pumping in his chest, Whisker raced over
the high ground of the Crag as fast as his legs could carry him. Well
accustomed to rapid deployments and the short sprints called for in
55
typical battle maneuvers, stormcallers were rarely put on the front

line, so endurance was not a requisite proficiency for the profession.
It was a detail for which he would be generally thankful on any day
but today. Nonetheless, Whisker denied the exhaustion threatening
to overcome him and pushed on over the treacherous terrain.
From his vantage atop the cliffs, he could see the Judicator no
more than thirty yards to his right, marching on its parallel course
toward the Cygnaran army. Fortunately, the colossals forwardmounted head had not risen above the ridgeline, and it remained
unaware of Whiskers proximity. Even so, the stormcaller kept a wary
eye on the rocket pods, just in case the sealed ports began to open.
Though ponderously slow, the Judicator had a good head start
on Whisker, and the rough ground atop the crags made overtaking
the giant warjack all the more difficult. Had Whisker only needed to
outpace the Judicator, his path would have proven much easier, but
the tech-smiths objective was to head it offhopefully without the
colossal spotting him.
As he neared the Judicator, Whisker wondered if it possessed
the same heavy shielding around its cortex as Cygnaran colossalclass warjacks. Unlike their smaller counterparts, Cygnars colossals
were engineered so that the fragile nerve center was encased within
multiple layers of protection that made the jack invulnerable to the
disruptive side effects of Whiskers weapons. By calling down a bolt
of lightning on a standard warjack, he could momentarily interrupt
the connection between the jack and its controlling warcaster.
This was highly useful for diminishing the effectiveness of enemy
warjacks, but it was useless against Cygnars mighty Stormwall, and
he expected it would be useless against the Judicator as well. Still, he
itched to send a bolt its way, just to see what would happen.
His lightning rod hummed in his hand, and he imagined it, too,
felt the urge to direct a strike onto the massive jack. After all, it had
56
been quite a whileseveral minutes, at leastsince hed last felt the

tingle, and one quick storm wouldnt take that long to gather...
Whisker twitched a little with the sensation of electricity running
down his spine and his thumb inched toward the switch on his
lightning rod. But Jakes words stuck in his mindevery second is
preciousand he stuck to the plan. Soon enough, he would bring
the lightning.
Hollings slowly peeked over a rocky embankment that sloped
down toward the gulch the Judicator had just passed through.
Behind it, the Harbinger and her host of zealots moved cautiously,
alert for the reappearance of the Cygnarans. Glancing left and right,
he confirmed that the rest of his men were in place, then slowly
brought his rifle to bear, bracing it against a small boulder. They
had doubled back behind the Protectorate reserves and now faced
the rear of the column, the last place the larger force would expect
opposition. At least he hoped so.
It was hard to keep his eyes off the Harbinger with her glow like
a summer sunrise and the sparkling gold on her armor that shone
in the light. As much as he loathed the Menites and their merciless,
self-righteous crusade, that delicate lass, too divine to touch her toes
to the ground, didnt look like any enemy hed ever faced. But she
was the enemy, and the mob of rancorous fanatics surrounding her
wouldnt let him forget it.
Sighting down the barrel, Hollings lined up a shot on the
closest zealot and squeezed the trigger. His rifle popped and the
zealot pitched forward. Before the fanatic hit the ground, eight
more of Hollings boys fired into the mob, scattering the zealots
and forcing them to confront their ambushers.
Quickly, the trenchers reloaded their single-shot rifles, pushing
57
rounds into the breeches and locking the barrels before lining up
another shot. Hollings was the third to fire in the second volley. Not
bad for an old gravedigger, he thought to himself, breaking open the
rifle to shove another round in.
The withering fire was taking its toll on the mob of zealots, but
they still outnumbered the trenchers significantly. Commanding
her acolyte attendants to face the attackers, the Harbinger raised her
pennant high and pointed her sword toward the trenchers. Glowing
yellow runes exploded around her, rotating as she summoned arcane
energy and formed it into a magic spell. The runes evaporated,
transferring their glow to the crude maces held by each of the zealots
surrounding her. A second burst of runes spread out from her to pass
through the mob. The eyes of each fanatic sparked briefly before the
zealots charged the trenchers as one.
Fall back! Hollings ordered, reserving the round he had just
loaded into his rifle. Fall back!
One by one, the trenchers retreated from their position,
attempting to evade the oncoming assault. Invigorated by
the Harbingers magic, the zealots covered the ground with
startling speed. They struck with expert accuracy, guided by the
enchantment. Hollings chest tightened as he saw Morison and
Baker overwhelmed, each succumbing to multiple attackers. Barnes
fought back, stabbing with his bayonet as he backpedaled from a
pair of zealots flailing at him. A precision swing swept him off his
feet, but before the zealots could leap on top of him, Hollings
brought his rifle to bear and shot one dead, evening the odds.
Barnes followed with a slash of his bayonet. It wasnt an effective
way to use such a weapon, but it was enough to drive the second
zealot back and buy himself enough space to regain his feet.
The zealots continued to come at them, but the Harbinger held
her position. As Hollings and his men repeated their strategy of
58
fire and retreat, they lured the enraged zealots beyond her ability to
effectively command and support them.
Come on now, lass, take the bait, Hollings uttered under his
breath, plugging another round into his rifle.
The gunfire was Jakes signal to move. Fire it up, big guy, she
said to Bunker, at the same time mentally commanding the warjack
to stoke its furnace to capacity. Shed been holding it in position on
a low idle to suppress its exhaust while they hid from the advancing
Judicator. Now it was time to open it up.
Flames belched from the twin stacks on the Ironclads back and
steam vented from its grill, indicating its eagerness to do battle.
Warjacks werent just built for combat; they craved itno matter
the odds.
Jakes nodded to Bunker, and the two of them scrambled over the
rocky ridge. Just ahead, she spotted Whisker running at full speed
as she and Bunker slid down the slope into the gulch, right behind
the Judicator. The colossal was instantly aware of their presence and
quickly rotated to confront them, both flamethrowers spewing jets of
fire that scorched a thick crescent of earth. Anticipating this reaction,
Jakes and Bunker were already running around the other side of the
Judicator, forcing it to turn in a full circle.
You know were going to get killed, right? she called out to the
Ironclad as they backed away from the Judicator, drawing it through
the gulch toward its original destination.
Bunker clanked in agreement as it positioned itself protectively in
front of her. Looking past the Ironclad and the great colossal beyond
it, Jakes could see the Harbinger and her swarm of zealots further
down the gorge, preoccupied with the ambushing trenchers.
The Judicator lurched forward and blasted the ground before
59
them with its flamethrowers. Though they kept their distance, the
flames reached just far enough to splash over Bunker, charring the
raised surfaces of its armor. Unable to feel pain, the mechanical
Ironclad registered the damage as merely superficial.
As Jakes hoped, the Judicator appeared to be preserving its payload
of rockets for other targets and hadnt yet opened the ports on the
massive shoulder-mounted pods.
Just give it a little more space, Bunker, she said to the warjack,
shielding her eyes from the blazing inferno. Keep it coming this
way...
Then the Judicator stopped. Fire erupted from the twin rows
of exhaust stacks on its back, and steam burst furiously from vents
throughout the colossals hydraulic system.
Oh, hell! Its going to charge! Jakes shouted, trying to assess the
best way to dodge the towering construct in the narrow canyon. But
then it took a step back.
Damn it! Shes reining it in! Jakes yelled just as the Judicator
took another tentative step backward. Farther down the gulch, Jakes
could see the Harbinger moving toward the retreating trenchers.
Weve got to stop it!
Spurring Bunker forward, Jakes took off at a sprint. Splitting
up to circle around opposite sides of the Judicator, they managed
to take it off guard just long enough to avoid the flamethrowers.
As she ran, glowing blue runes flared around her as she focused a
spell into existence. It was the spell Sturgis had shown her only three
nights before, and at his directive, she had spent every spare moment
perfecting her ability to cast it.
Focusing her will, the circle of runes grew larger, spreading out to
encompass Bunker as the warjack rejoined Jakes on the other side of
the Judicator. A faint blue nimbus surrounded them both, connected
by a barely visible cord of light.
60
Steady now, she said, sticking close to the Ironclad while

keeping it positioned between herself and the colossal. Its about to
get rough.
The Judicator wheeled and swiped at Bunker, but the spell
heightened the Ironclads reflexes and it deftly ducked the colossals
wrecking-ball-sized fist. Bunker counterattacked with a combination
of hammer and fist attacks. Every blow landed true, rending armor
from the Judicators massive legs, but even energized by Jakes focus,
the Ironclad could not cause enough damage to affect the colossals
performance.
Roaring mechanically, the Judicator surged forward in an
attempt to push through the Ironclad, but the arcane power of
Jakes enchantment held Bunker in place. In the narrow gorge, the
Judicator had no room to maneuver around them and was held fast,
blocked by the unmovable Ironclad.
Blazing light flared in the Judicators eyes, and Jakes knew the
Harbinger was focusing on the enormous warjack. Stretched between
controlling the Judicator and protecting her zealots, she had to guide
the colossal back to her or risk interrupting her connection with it.
This is what Jakes was counting on. There was no hope of defeating
the titanic machine, but if she could separate the Judicator from its
controller, she might stall it long enough to get a warning to Sturgis.
Im sorry, Bunker. This is going to hurt, Jakes said, cringing as
she saw a wave of energy ripple down the Judicators arm.
The Ironclad turned its right shoulder into the energized strike
just as the colossals five-ton fist crashed into it. Metal rent and caved
under the crushing blow, contorting Bunkers right arm into a useless
hunk of iron and steel. Pressurized steam spewed from hydraulics
sheared from their couplings, and rivet heads burst from their bucks.
Still, the Ironclad didnt budge, its feet arcanely cemented to the
ground by Jakes spell.
61
Jakes mind reeled in agony for the warjack. Though the Ironclad
possessed no sense of pain, it was keenly aware of its condition and
the crippling blow shocked and enraged its primitive consciousness.
It roared from within its armored hull and shook its head side to side
furiously. Huddled behind the jack, Jakes trembled, hoping her own
connection would hold out just a little longer.
Leaning on his lightning rod for support as he trudged up the
hill, Whisker heard the crash in the canyon behind him. Though it
was loud enough to rattle his bones, he dared not waste a second to
look back. Either Lieutenant Jakes was making good on her plan, or
theyd all be dead shortly. He preferred the surprise, either way.
He gripped the cramp in his side, wobbling with dizziness, his
senses swimming. If hed had to deliver his message verbally, he
would have never been able to get the words past his sputtering
coughs. Fortunately, that wasnt his mission.
Cresting the top of the hill, he could see the battle raging in the
valley below. Clear lines had been drawn, the field controlled by one
or the other army in various places, depending on the concentration
of warjacks and the presence of a warcaster. Though the Protectorate
force remained on the defensive and continued to take heavy
casualties under the artillery fire, their intertwined layers of protective
wards and arcane resistance had ensured their defeat would be slow
and costly for the Cygnarans.
Whisker eagerly thumbed a switch on his staff and the silver
gyrosphere at the top began to spin on its vertical axle. Light pulsed
within the small storm chamber, energizing an array of mechanikal
coils that curved around the sphere. Whisker grinned with excitement
as glowing blue tendrils sizzled around the apparatus. A grey brume
materialized in the clear sky above, rotating in a spiral like a flat
62
cyclone. It coalesced into clouds, thick and dark: a miniature storm

crackling with electricity.
From a clasp at his waist, Whisker removed a device that looked
like an oversized pocket watch. On its face, an arrangement of gauges
and meters twitched and spun chaotically. But to the storm smith,
the meteorospex communicated a sublime level of information about
atmospheric quality, electrostatic accumulation and the conductivity
of surrounding elements.
Every storm hed ever summoned was delightfully unique, but
after only a brief glance at the face of the spex, Whisker calculated
an incomprehensible convergence of elements and with his lightning
rod summoned a lightning bolt to strike the ground fifty feet away,
directly in front of him.
In seconds, the gyrosphere had recharged the manmade storm
hovering above him, and Whisker called a second bolt, this time
closer to his own position.
The third bolt struck, quite intentionally, exactly one foot in front
of the stormcaller. His shock of white hair instantly straightened into
a frizzy cloud over his head, and his lips parted to reveal his gleaming
white overbite.
Electrifying! he said, ticking rhythmically. Again!
The warcaster-monk known as High Allegiant Amon Ad-Raza
had not given ground easily, but Sturgis finally had him on the run.
Amons arcane ability to navigate warjacks through the harsh terrain
had made him the likely choice to lead the supply column through
the Crag. Sturgis had anticipated this and prepared by requisitioning
every stormcaller available in Fort Falks garrison. His strategy
depended on their disruptive capabilities to mitigate Amons wellknown effectiveness for commanding large numbers of warjacks in
63
battle. The strategy had proven out but had cost Sturgis two warjacks
in the process, and he found himself wishing for more stormsmiths
at his disposal. The sudden burst of consecutive lightning strikes
behind his force reminded him why he was currently a smith short.
Ordering his ranks of Stormblades to press their attack, Sturgis
paused briefly, confused by the repeating series of lightning strikes
that seemed to be concentrated on the hill directly to the rear of
his artillery. Using a small collapsible spyglass taken from his belt
pouch, Sturgis spotted Whisker alone on the hill, calling one bolt
after another. Though stormcallers were notorious for being a
little madeven unstableSturgis knew instantly that this was a
calculated attempt to draw attention.
Without Sturgis strength, the Cygnaran force risked losing their
hard-fought gains in this battle. But his instinct compelled him.
Quickly, Sturgis summoned a nearby trencher. Get this message
to Captain Darius: Hold the line. You have command.
The trencher snapped his hand to his helm, then ran off like a
shot.
Blue paint cracked, curled, and blackened as the Judicator doused
Bunkers armored carapace with flame. Jakes huddled low in the
Ironclads shadow, overboosting her power field while intermittently
patting out flames that ignited her cloth or leather. She spoke to
Bunker, soothing the battered machine like one might comfort an
ailing loved onea loved one with no hope of pulling through. Just
hang in there, Bunker. Stay with me. Im right here.
With a clang, a glancing blow from the Judicator bent one of the
Ironclads smokestacks awkwardly to the left. The next two punches
missed their target as Bunker narrowly ducked under one and barely
managed to partially deflect another with its hammer.
64
Thats it! Jakes urged. Just a little longer.

Then the Judicators eyes flared, and Jakes knew the Harbinger
still had control of it. Rippling with arcane energy, the colossal
pounded its fist down on Bunker. Bunker shifted to the side but
refused to give ground. The fist, nearly as tall as Jakes, smashed into
the Ironclads left leg, caving it inward. The smaller warjack vented
steam in a mechanical moan as its knees buckled and it shifted its
weight to the undamaged right leg.
Still, the Judicator had not gained ground toward its controller.
Blue runes continued to encircle Bunker and Jakes. Her physicsdefying spell kept the warjack rooted in place; so long as it did not
fall, the colossal would not pass.
Glancing back down the canyon, Jakes could see her trencher
companions leading the zealots farther away, increasing the distance
between them and the Judicator.
Just a little longer, she whispered. Though it might cost her a
warjack or even her own life, Jakes would soon make the Harbinger
choose: her mission or her men.
Using their range to their advantage, Hollings and his soldiers drew
the zealots through the canyon. The Harbinger continued to infuse
the fanatics with her faith-fueled power, but by the time those within
her area to affect reached the trenchers, her holy enchantments had
expired. From there, skilled Cygnaran marksmanship and bayonet
strikes thinned their ranks.
Dig deep, Gravediggers! he bellowed before firing another
shot. The challenge inspired his men, and many responded with
their own battle cries. More importantly, it kept them together
as a cohesive unit, tied to Hollings by the sound of his voice.
Private Hammond had fallen, but Hollings was fairly certain hed
65
seen the man crawl to cover and hoped his wounds were not fatal.
His boys were hard as nails, and it took more than a rusty club to
put one down. Even with the high casualties they were inflicting
on the zealots, though, the diminishing squad of trenchers was now
six against dozens. Then the Harbinger appeared to have reached
her limit of her mens suffering. She called her zealots back to her,
declaring their valor and righteousness and denigrating the Cygnaran
dogs as unworthy of their attention.
Too soon! Hollings thought. Even from here, he could still see
Lieutenant Jakes and the Ironclad jamming the massive colossal up
in the canyon, just as shed said she would. But if his men couldnt
pry the Harbinger out of range of the Judicator, the sacrifice of the
lieutenant and her warjack would be for nothing.
Plugging another round into his rifle, Hollings called out to his
men. Gravediggers, prepare to charge! He snapped the breech
closed, secured the lock, and yanked back the firing pin. After silently
counting off the necessary seconds to be sure every man was locked
and loaded, Hollings gave the order. Charge!
The squad sprinted forward, every trencher firing on the run.
Zealots fell before them, and others braced to receive the assault.
The Harbingers patience finally broke. She cried out to her
acolytes, spurring them forward through her haphazardly arranged
followers toward the onrushing trenchers. With an explosion of
glowing runes, a pillar of light engulfed her, illuminating the ground
in a circle around her. The pillar grew, expanding a shimmering wall
of brilliance that passed harmlessly through the zealots. But poor
Olson, who had outpaced the other trenchers, ignited like parchment
held to a flame the moment he ran into the glowing veil.
Hollings didnt have to call off the charge or give the order to
retreat. The remaining trenchers halted mid-stride, shielding their
eyes from the intensifying light, and bolted back the way they had
66
come. Hollings heart ached for Olson and his other fallen lads, but
as he turned his back on the Harbinger, he knew she had finally
taken the bait.
One moment, the Judicators eyes were blazing with white light.
The next moment, they dimmed to the dull glow of a warjack without
a master. The Harbinger had moved too far, and her connection with
the Judicator had been stretched too thin. Jakes might have shouted
for joy if Bunker hadnt been mangled beyond recognition. Now she
just had to make sure the connection wasnt reestablished.
Leaping from behind the Ironclads battered hull, Jakes raised her
hand cannon and fired a shot straight up into the colossals grill. The
shot barely scratched the massive warjacks finish, but it was enough
to distract the machine as Jakes took several quick steps toward the
top of the hill, luring the colossal away from the Harbinger.
As she moved, Jakes wove a spell to increase the warjacks speed.
The runes that had encircled Bunker evaporated as Jakes cast the
newer spell.
Come on, you junk heap! she yelled to Bunker. Youve still got
one good leg. Move! Focused on the warjack, Jakes impelled it with
her spell to follow her, much faster than it appeared capable of in its
damaged state.
The Judicator swiped at the Ironclad but only managed to graze
its boiler from behind. The Ironclad stumbled forward, giving the
colossal a small gain in distance.
Wheeling one hundred and eighty degrees, the Judicator set the
ground ablaze under the Ironclad. Jakes fired another shot from
her hand cannon, nailing the Judicator just above its eye. Pick on
someone your own size, you whitewashed pile of scrap! she shouted.
With earth-shaking footsteps, it pursued.
67
The Judicator moved cautiously, as if apprehensive. All the fury

and battle lust of a warjack was there, but it seemed reserved or
confused, torn between conflicting directives.
With Bunker limping toward her, Jakes put another round in her
pistol. Dont be shy! Show us what else youve got! Another futile
shot at the Judicator and the colossal accelerated its pace, huffing
steam and belching smoke and fire from its stacks. And then, much
to Jakes consternation, the silos on its shoulder-mounted rocket
pods snapped open.
Too much talking, Jakes! she said to herself, breaking into a run
while focusing on Bunker to keep the warjack moving.
A salvo of rockets burst from the Judicators launch tubes with a
hiss. But without the guidance of its warcaster, the wildly inaccurate
missiles detonated around Jakes and Bunker, missing them with all
but the heat from their blasts.
Jakes grunted in relief at the close call and risked a look back
over her shoulder just in time to see the Judicators eyes flare with
the contact of its warcaster. The Harbinger had reestablished control
over the colossal. Jakes heart fell into the pit that opened in her
stomach.
And then her world exploded with thunder.
The Judicators head jerked to one side as a cannon round impacted
its armored skull. Three more shells pummeled it in rapid succession,
shearing armored plating off its giant steel skeleton.
Searching ahead for the new threat, the Judicator had no time
to react before two squads of mounted storm knights charged over
the crest of the hill, their electro lances crackling with energy. The
Storm Lances electrified assault scorched its hull as their mechanika
weapons sheared armor off its frame, dealing the colossal a blow
that damaged systems throughout its structure. The giant warjack
staggered back, fighting to maintain its balance and reorient itself.
68
Through the smoke spewed by its erupting furnace, the

Judicators eyes flickered, flashing brilliantly despite the severe
damage. The Harbingers connection was still strong. The colossal
was still a threat.
Focusing on the Ironclad, Jakes commanded it to face the
colossal and attack with every ounce of rage still stirring within its
broken frame. Snorting furiously, Bunker spun as Jakes channeled
energy rippled down its arm, igniting the head of the quake
hammer with a blazing blue aura. With a single, mighty swing,
the Ironclad buried the hammer in the Judicators core, sending
a shockwave through the fractured hull that devastated whatever
active systems remained.
The colossal reeled backward, metal screeching and groaning as it
toppled over. Rock shattered under the weight of its wreck crashing
to the ground, a smoking mountain of twisted steel and iron.
Finally, its eyes went dark.
Jakes ran to Bunkers side and put a hand on its mangled arm.
You did it, she said. The Ironclad turned its head to see her and
clanged softly in response.
Two crews of trencher cannoneers pushed their heavy guns over
the crest of the hill, while the Storm Lances circled back, arranging
themselves in a defensive line across the gorge. Beyond them,
Jakes could see the Harbinger and her remaining cohort of zealots
mustering for their next move.
The tingling sensation down her spine alerted Jakes to a new
presence. She turned to see her mentor materializing right behind
her, the glowing runes of his spell still circling around him.
Sturgis looked from Jakes to the crippled Ironclad to the wrecked
colossal, then back to Jakes again. This was unexpected.
Jakes eyes narrowed. Whatthat we ran into a colossal, or
that the colossal is a wreck?
69
An air of urgency still surrounded Sturgis. He spared no time for

banter. Are you fit to fight?
Better off than Bunker here. Did I mention the floating prophet?
Jakes said, pointing at the Harbinger and her cohort.
Well summon a mechanik for your warjack at once, Sturgis
said, moving up to the line of Storm Lances for a better look at the
Protectorate reserves.
Jakes had to jog to keep up with him, her nose wrinkling in
irritation at the commanders matter-of-fact demeanor. I dont
think shell be a threat anymore. Not today.
Explain, he said, peering through his spyglass at the Harbinger
and her zealots.
Shes a perfectionist, sir. Even as she spoke the words, the Harbinger
raised her banner and signaled her cohort to withdraw into the Crag.
Just then, Jakes spotted the trenchers climbing over the rim of the
canyon to rejoin her. They had circled around the Harbingers force,
crossing the high ground to avoid another encounter. Jakes grieved
silently when she saw only six returning, with oneHammond, she
thoughtbeing carried by two of his squad-mates.
Good, Sturgis said, stowing his spyglass, I need you back on
the front line. We have a battle to finish. With a silent hand gesture,
he ordered the Storm Lances to move ahead and began striding back
in the direction of the Cygnaran force.
Yes sir, Jakes said wearily, taking a labored breath before trotting
after him. She jerked her head at Bunker, signaling him to come
along even as she wondered if the crippled jack could make it to a
mechanik before its motivators gave out.
Thunder follows lightning, Allison, Sturgis said, his stoic tone
momentarily replaced with warmth. You can count on it. Always.
Jakes lifted her chin confidently and fell into step beside her mentor.
I know.
70
In the grey light before dawn, Jakes picked her way over blackened
rocks and the smoldering remains of two white-and-gold warjacks.
Hollings and three of his squad lingered nearby, vigilantly scanning
the surroundings despite the hours that had passed since the few
Protectorate survivors had fled the area.
Making her way behind the boulder that had shielded her from
the Repenters flamethrower, Jakes knelt down next to the charred
body of Private Benjamin Wallace. Gently, as if the boy were only
sleeping, Jakes lifted his head and removed one of the bronze military
identification badges from around his neck.
With a silent nod from Hollings, two of the trenchers placed
Wallace on a makeshift litter and set off on the long hike out of
Caerlys Crag.
Jakes dropped the small metal disk into a pouch at her waist that
contained several more just like it. She tilted her head back, blinking
rapidly in a futile attempt to dispel the tears welling in her eyes. She
walked briskly past Hollings, looking away to conceal her emotions.
Double time, she said softly.
Though she knew the trenchers were at least as weary as she was,
returning to Fort Falk was, for her, a matter of particular urgency.
She would need a great deal more time for her prayers tonight.
71
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Matt Wilson has worked in the hobby game industry since
1995 as a concept artist, illustrator, art director, and game
designer and has even managed to get a little writing done in
there as well. After working for several game companiesfrom
the smallest startup to the largest corporationMatt founded
Privateer Press in 2000 as an opportunity to create expressions
of his own original property concepts.
Since that time, Matt has created multiple worlds, designed
several games, and produced over a decades worth of successful
products, including the award-winning WARMACHINE and
HORDES miniatures games, the Iron Kingdoms RPG setting,
digital fiction through Skull Island eXpeditions, and the nearfuture science fiction trans-media property LEVEL 7. Matt has
gathered numerous awards and other accolades for the products
produced by Privateer Press. Today, he is Privateers owner and
Chief Creative Officer, overseeing the creative development of
every aspect of the company.
MERCY AND WRATH

By William Shick
Leryn, Early Spring 608 AR
Initiate Tristan Durant looked upon the faces of the ragged group
that stood assembled in the small square that lay within one of the
Morrowan slums built beyond the main walls of Leryn. All were
bundled as best they could manage against the chill of the stillfading Llaelese winter. Though he stood before them, it was not
he who held their attention, but another priestly initiate whose
thunderous baritone rang out across the square, saying, You have
all submitted to worship of the Creator, and from his Temple you
are granted protection and the essentials of life, which we have
come once more to bestow upon you.
Initiate Bayden Riyan delivered the proclamation from atop
one of the supply carts that the Protectorate priests had brought
with them from the Temple of Cleansing. The trio of carts bore
sackcloth and simple provisions that were to be provided to
the people by the Sul-Menite Temple. Though Bayden was the
same age as Tristan and had been inducted into the Sul-Menite
priesthood at the same time, he delivered the churchs rhetoric
with a fiery confidence that belied his years. Tristan admired how
easily Bayden had adapted to the Sul-Menite faith, which was
MERCY AND WRATH WILLIAM SHICK
different in many respects from the tenets they had learned as

Llaelese Menites.
Yet despite this act of generosity, many among you have voiced
dissatisfaction. Like spoiled children you snub your noses at gifts
to which you have little right. Bayden fixed a fierce stare upon his
audience. You say that these gifts are not enough, that your flesh
suffers the harshness of the cold, that your bellies ache with hunger.
I tell you, these discomforts pale compared with the torments that
await you in Urcaen should you find yourselves deemed unworthy
to enter the City of Man. The hellish winds of Urcaens spiritual
wilds will flay the flesh from your bones. Your hunger pangs will be
brutally eclipsed by the torment of being consumed and endlessly
digested within the roiling guts of the Devourer Wurm.
Bayden turned and motioned toward the upper level of Leryn,
a city built in three concentric circles, where a mighty cliff face
dominated its eastern side. Each section was ringed by a massive
stone wall erected to defend against invasion. The center ring, once
the wealthiest, had been given over entirely to the Temple of Menoth
and its priests, military officers, and associated temples and armories.
This great city, now the seat of the Protectorate of Menoths holy
Northern Crusade, perfectly represents what awaits the faithful in
Urcaen. At its summit are the rewards that can be earned through
true faith and obedience to Menoth. Your bare faith has earned you
a place within Menoths protection, but only true faith will see you
worthy of being welcomed within the walls, there to receive his full
blessings.
Bayden waited for several moments, letting his last words hang
over his mock congregation. Finally, he opened his arms, palms
facing up, giving the people before him the sign that they could come
and claim their weekly allotment of provisions. Come, and receive
the gifts of Menoth and his Temple, unworthy of them though
75
you may be. As the people lined up, other robed acolytes who had
accompanied Bayden and Tristan from the Temple of Cleansing
began distributing the supplies.
Though Baydens words rang true to his ears, Tristan could not
shake a feeling of deep discomfort as he regarded the sallow-eyed
people, their faces and bodies lean with hunger, who were barely
sustained by the meager provisions the Temple provided. Tristan had
assisted in the distribution of goods to the faithful during his priestly
training, but he had never been assigned to this newer refugee
settlement established outside the city walls. The sight of these people
brought back painful memories of the days when his family had been
forced to flee their farm and make their way to Leryn in the face of
the Khadoran Empires invasion of Llaeland of the faces of the
other families who had fled with his own during that terrible time.
He wondered if Bayden, himself a refugee from a Llaelese village that
had fallen prey to Cryx, shared any of his thoughts. These were their
countrymen after all, if not adherents of their faith.
So, are you enjoying your first visit to this nest of unbelievers
and castoffs? Baydens voice snapped Tristan from his reflection,
answering that question.
It gives me much to think about. You are blessed to be chosen
for such work, brother, Tristan replied, sincerity evident in his voice.
Bayden scoffed. I would rather have received the calling with
which Menoth has blessed you. This battlefield is far from the
glory I desired to earn in Menoths name when the Harbinger
saved me from the depredations of Cryx. You shall fight heathens
at the front of the armies of the faithful. You shall rain holy fire
and righteous vengeance upon all who refuse to bow before the
Creator. Bayden turned and fixed Tristan with his fierce stare.
Why did you insist on coming today? You have been excused
from these duties in light of your imminent warcaster training.
76
Tristan thought for a moment about Baydens question. He wasnt

sure that he could truly explain why today, of all the days since he
had been removed from distribution duties, he had felt compelled to
accompany Bayden to these outer slums. He had always found great
fulfillment in seeing to the needs of the people and providing for both
their spiritual and physical needs. During his time as a refugee, he
had often quoted passages from the Canon of the True Law to others
among his party. Though his father had scoffed at his piety, telling
him that words were a poor replacement for true succor, Tristan had
seen the light that his preaching had brought back to the eyes of the
downtrodden and hopeless. He had felt the spirit of Menoth flow
within and through him.
Realizing Bayden was still waiting for an answer, Tristan simply
told the truth. Because Menoth wished it.
Baydens brow furrowed, but he said nothing. The pair turned
back to observe the line of people in silence for several minutes. As
he watched the acolytes carefully distribute the paltry amount of
foodstuffs to each person, Tristan became acutely aware of the weight
of a cloth pouch attached to his belt, which contained a healthysized loaf of bread and a hunk of aromatic cheeseleftovers from his
morning allotment of food from the Temple.
It seems so little for these people to subsist on, Tristan said.
They receive what gifts their faith earns them, Bayden replied
matter-of-factly.
Tristan thought once more of the ample food offered to priests
during mealtime at the temple. He had heard that the Northern
Crusade had to be frugal with its provisions in order to support its
army so far from Protectorate heartlands, but he had never seen the
priests suffer. As an initiate, he benefitted from this preferred treatment
as well. Certainly, it seems that we could provide more, he said.
This suffering is good for them. The hunger in their bellies, the
77
rough cloth upon their skin. Trials like these lead people to learn the
rewards that devotion to Menoth brings. Bayden looked at Tristan
once more. For those who are open to his message, at least. He
sighed. At first, we saw many convert and abandon their worship of
Morrow to fully embrace the Creator. I fear there is little hope left
that these might be redeemed. They remain unmoved despite the
lessons of suffering we use to forge their faith.
Tristan scowled at Baydens boast. He could not help but wonder
how many of those who had so readily embraced the Creator had
done so simply to quiet the rumbling in their stomachs.
Tristan watched as a gruff-looking man came up to the acolytes to
receive his allotment. Their eyes met, and Tristan once again felt the
weight of the food pouch at his waist. He thought once more of his
time as a refugee. Perhaps a different tack is needed, then. A farmer
must often water his crop if he wishes it to bear fruit.
Tristan moved toward the man who had caught his eye as he
made his way away from the supply carts. Sir! Wait for a moment.
The man turned and assumed a glowering look upon recognizing
Tristans priestly attire.
What do you want, priest? I have taken no more than the scraps
you have provided.
Tristan kept his expression warm. I wish only to speak with you.
The man scowled. There is nothing I wish to talk with you
about.
Tristan nodded toward the Radiance of Morrow that hung about
the mans neck. Openly wearing such a symbol might have caused him
problems inside Leryns walls, but it was tolerated here in the slums. I
disagree. I believe there is plenty for two men of faith to speak about.
Tristan unhooked the food pouch from his waist and unfolded the
cloth wrapping. Come, break bread with me and let us discuss faith.
The mans face remained stern, but Tristan could see the desire in
78
his eyes as he looked at the food. What is your name, priest?

Tristan Durant, and I am only an initiate. Yours?
I am Arnauldt, he said at last. He motioned around to several
people watching the exchangeand the food Tristan had revealed.
I am not the only one in need of conversation.
Tristan smiled. Any who wish to sit and speak of faith, I welcome
to join us. I am happy to share what gifts Menoth has bestowed with
all who will listen to his word.
For a moment Tristan thought Arnauldt was about to rebuke his
offer, but at last he relented and said, Very well. Let us sit and hear
what you have to say.
As Tristan went with Arnauldt and a small flock of others who
had decided that the food he had to offer was worth the price of a
few words, he could not help but feel satisfaction. He was sure that
it would take many visits to deliver this dubious flock to Menoth
after all, the journey to the Creator took many steps along a difficult
pathbut Tristan looked forward to every single one.
79
Late Summer 608 A.R.

Tristan regarded the courtyard of the Temple of Cleansing through
eyes that were not his own. He was vaguely aware of a thin sheen of
sweat beading across his brow. He realized that he could actually see
himself standing within the courtyard in the corner of his vision. The
experience caused a momentary sensation of vertigo, and he had to
fight to maintain his connection with the warjack, through whose
eyes he currently saw the world.
Now concentrate. Feel the divine power of Menoth within
you. Use his gifts to guide the warjack. As you are an extension of
Menoths will, so is this machine an extension of yours. The voice of
Tristans mentor, Hierophant Ashad Dibir, sounded strangely distant
despite the fact that he stood not three feet away.
Tristans lips moved as he silently intoned a prayer to Menoth,
the invocation helping him to concentrate on his connection with
the powerful warjack. Through that connection, Tristan could feel
the strange pulse and rhythm of the machines cortex, once-impure
mechanika that had been blessed and consecrated by priests of
the Protectorate, within his own mind. It was like listening to the
heartbeat of another living creature. He willed it to move toward
the practice targets, reveling in the sensation as the iron construct
strode forward, each step striking the ground with a sound like
thunder. As the warjack stepped within range of the targets, Tristan
focused his will to begin the assault. Divine power welled within
him and initiated the warjacks strikes, and Tristan felt the expansion
of steam-powered pistons and the thrum of servos and gears that
made up the muscles and sinew of the sanctified construct as if they
were part of his own body.
His task completed, he commanded the warjack to return to him
80
before allowing his consciousness to slip back into his body. Despite
months of training, he had to fight back the wave of dizziness that
accompanied the transition. Perhaps more unsettling was the fact
that he could still feel the warjack at the periphery of his mind; he
had to be careful not to allow this secondary perception of the world
to overwhelm him. At times it was hard enough managing just the
sensations that assaulted his own body. The machines subtle-butpersistent mental presence was not unlike the experience of knowing
you had forgotten something important but could not remember
what that was.
You continue to improve, the hierophant said. Work remains
to be done, but your progress is promising.
Tristan bowed humbly, causing the warjack to bow slightly as
it responded to his unconscious suggestions. All thanks to your
teaching and Menoths guiding hand.
The hierophant inclined his head slightly, and though his face was
hidden beneath his priestly mask, Tristan could sense his approval.
If it were possible to make humility a sin, you would be the one to
do so. There is no shame in acknowledging your strengths. It is your
faith that earns you Menoths favorand it is you who controls the
Creators gifts.
Point taken, Hierophant Dibir; you honor me. Tristan did not
feel entirely worthy of the praise, all the same. He still struggled with
his lessons, and sometimes it was difficult to see the daily progress.
Ashad clasped Tristan by the shoulder. Come. Precept Yorrin will
be waiting to begin the days martial lessons with you.
The morning sun shone down onto the courtyard at the center
of the Temple of Interdiction. The golden rays would be some of
the last of the quickly fading Llaelese summer. Tristan soaked in
their pleasant warmth as the pair made their way to the martial
practice yard on the other side of the massive temple complex.
81
The sensation made him think of all the tasks he would normally
be responsible for on his familys farm. The end of summer was
actually one of the easier periods of the year. Food was plentiful,
and everyone enjoyed a respite before the hard work of the harvest
began and the harsh realities of winter set in. He felt a pang as he
thought of the family he had left behind when he had entered the
Temple nearly one year ago.
But those days were long past, ended by the occupation of Llael
by its longstanding enemy, Khador, and then by the arrival of the
Protectorate of Menoths Northern Crusade. Tristan realized with
surprising longing that it had been nearly three years since he had
tilled the earth alongside his family. As Khadors army had rapidly
overrun Llaels defenses, Tristan and his family had fled with so
many others to the perceived safety of Lerynthus trading in the
hard life of a farmer for the harsher life of a refugee. Yet even Leryns
seemingly inviolable walls had offered little protection from the
northern aggressors. As hard as the winters had been for Tristan and
his family, they were nothing compared to the winter that followed
within occupied Leryn.
The Canon of the True Law, however, taught that Menoth
demands man to suffer so that he may learn the strength he
needs to serve the Creator in Urcaen. Tristan and his family had
persevered, and, as if in answer, Menoth had delivered them with
the arrival of the Protectorates Northern Crusade. Tristan had
been there to witness the arrival of thenGrand Scrutator Severius.
He watched as the Khadoran leaders willingly opened the gates of
Leryn to him, knowing him to be Menoths will manifest upon
Caen. And Tristan had watchedboth awed and terrifiedas
the famed High Executioner Servath Reznik unleashed Menoths
vengeance against Koldun Lord Volkh Lazar when he refused to
bow before the word of the Creator. Flames had consumed the
82
Greylord, burning him alive while he hung on the wrack.

Initiate. The soft voice of Ashad shook Tristan from his
reflections just beyond the training ground. Though Ashads face was
hidden behind his golden mask, this close the elder Idrians eyes were
still visible beneath. The two locked gazes, and Ashads deep-brown,
gold-flecked eyes stared with unsettling intensity into Tristans paleblue orbs as if taking careful measure of his students soul. Menoth
will that your morning prayer has cleansed your soul for the days
trials. You must trust that the path you walk is the one he has chosen
for you. No matter how difficult the journey.
Tristan looked quizzically at his mentor, unsure of the reasons for
Ashads sudden concern for his piety. I do not fear the challenges he
places before me. I know he has provided me the gifts to overcome
them. Menoths will guides me today as all days, Hierophant.
Ashad nodded as if satisfied with the answer. As he guides us
all. Tristan felt Ashads hands upon his shoulders as the elder Idrian
straightened him. Remember this.
Tristan nodded in acquiescence. He had never doubted the path
he walked. He had known all his life that he was meant to serve
Menoth. Since his youth Tristan had been able to see the signs, visions
and dreams from the Creator that guided him and commanded his
actions. Those signs had led him to the door of the Menite priest
who served his farming community, prompted him to learn to read
and write so that he might absorb the Canon of the True Law, guided
Tristan and his family to Leryn, insisted he be at the city gates to
witness the arrival of the Northern Crusade. It had been there Tristan
realized it was the Sul-Menite faith in which Menoth wished Tristan
to serve. It had been Menoths will that his father had denied his
joining the priesthood in his youth.
Master and student made the last leg of the walk to the practice
circle where Precept Yorrin waited.
83
Initiate, Yorrin said as he bowed in greeting. Despite the fact

that Yorrin was by far Tristans senior in both experience and length
of service, even the lowest priestly rank demanded the veteran
Flameguards deference. May Menoths strength be with you for
todays lessons. The precept extended Tristans bladed staff toward
him.
As Tristan grasped the soft leather-bound haft of his weapon, he felt
a familiar warmth rush through his arm. His hand tightened around it
instinctively at the feeling, and Tristan summoned a small portion of
his divine might and channeled it into the holy weapon, with which
he enjoyed a mystical bond. The staff had been forged by the Vassals
of Menoth, every hammer blow upon its red-hot steel consecrated
with the prayers of a Menite priest. It had been tempered in Menoths
Fury and blessed by Visgoth Ark Razek himself. Even the soft, supple
leather wound about the handle was inscribed with passages from the
Canon of the True Law. It was a weapon worthy of the Creatora
weapon Tristan knew in his heart he was not yet worthy to wield.
Are you prepared? Yorrin asked, hefting his own spear and
assuming a fighting stance.
Tristan nodded, grasping his weapon in a two-handed grip and
leveling the bladed end toward Yorrin as the precept had taught him.
Tristan worked to calm his mind, clearing it of all distractions. The
almost-meditative state Ashad had taught him to connect with and
to use to control warjacks also served perfectly for martial combat.
Yorrin attacked with a shout, his spear striking like a viper. Tristan
used his own weapon to deflect the strike and dashed to the left, away
from Yorrins spear. The Flameguard precept anticipated the move
and spun around, swinging his spear in a whirling arc toward Tristans
exposed head. Tristan barely had time to bring his own weapon up to
block. Pain shot through his arm as the weapons connected and the
force of Yorrins blow drove him off balance. Yorrin was upon him in
84
a flash, his spear flashing in a flurry of lightning-fast strikes. It took

all Tristan had to ward off each attack. In no time, his muscles began
to burn and he felt sweat pouring down his face from the exertion.
Sensing the flow of the fight slipping from him, Tristan took a
chance and rolled past Yorrins last strike and into the precepts guard.
Here Tristan had the advantage, as his own weapon, which was more
akin to a halberd than a spear, could be used in a chopping or slashing
attack. Tristan felt a surge of adrenaline as he used the momentum of
his spin to sweep the butt of his weapon across Yorrins legs, knocking
the precept to the ground.
Tristan leveled his weapon at the downed precept. Again?
he asked, between heavy breaths. Though he was proud of his
accomplishment, no hint of it showed in his voice. Tristan knew his
victory was possible only because of Yorrins teaching and the divine
gift with which Menoth had blessed him. Without them, Yorrin was
by far the more skilled warrior.
Yes, a baritone voice rang out, its gravity causing Tristan to
shrink involuntarily. But this time you shall face me.
Terror, primal and instinctive, gripped Tristans heart. He knew
that voice. It belonged to the same man who had meted out Severius
judgment to Koldun Lord Volkh Lazar.
Tristan looked up and felt a shiver run down his spine as his
eyes took in the awe-inspiring figure of High Executioner Servath
Reznik. The man stood nearly half again as tall as Tristan, the mighty
pauldrons of his heavy, ornate armor reminding Tristan of the
steeples of the grandest Menite temples. Two great smokestacks rose
from his back, sending wisps of ash-gray smoke twisting into the
air above his towering form. A series of chains about his waist held
gilded scroll tubes and brass incense canisters similar to those Tristan
had seen hanging from Sul-Menite wracks. Despite that imposing
panoply, however, it was the massive broadsword upon which Reznik
85
rested his right hand, its leaf-like dual points driving into the earth,
that dominated Tristans attention. To his amazement, the sword was
as tall as the warcaster who wielded it, a fact that seemed impossible.
But then nothing about the man who stood before him seemed
possible.
He watched the huge warcaster heft the mighty sword, an act that
seemed to require barely more effort than lifting a feather, and stride
into the circle.
High Executioner, do you really believe that necessary? Ashad
asked.
Tristan turned, eyes blinking in shock at the lack of surprise
in Ashads voice. He slowly realized Ashad had known the high
executioner would be here today.
You believe him to be ready for the next stage of his training,
Hierophant. I wish to test that assertion. Tristan detected no derision
in his reply to Ashads question; the high executioner simply wanted
to put Tristan to his own evaluation.
I will not hold back, Initiate, and I will not tolerate you doing so
either, the imposing warcaster said.
Tristan nodded, his hands tightening in a white-knuckle grip
around his blessed weapon as he moved into a fighting stance. The
first attack came without warning, the executioner moving faster
that Tristan would have thought possible given his massive frame
and heavy plate. Tristan desperately tried to dodge the attack, but
the warcasters reach was far too great; his staff was nearly ripped
from his grasp as the mammoth sword connected with it. Tristan
tried to move with the momentum of the blow, but his stumbling
maneuver left a clear opening. Before he could recover, his opponent
was there. Though frantic effort alone, Tristan raised his weapon in
a last-second parry.
The strength behind the high executioners attack thundered
86
through Tristans body, making his arms sting before going numb.
Too slowly, Tristan tried to respond to the onslaught, but he knew
he was desperately outmatched. Pain lanced through his leg as the
flat of the warcasters blade struck him, knocking him onto his back.
Fighting to ignore the bolts of agony that lanced through his leg,
Tristan forced himself to his feet. No sooner had he resumed his
fighting stance than Reznik was on him again. Stars exploded across
his vision as the pommel of the high executioners blade crunched
into his jaw, knocking him once more to the ground.
Tristan tasted the coppery tang of blood as it mixed with the dirt
in his mouth. Head swimming, he fought his way unsteadily back to
his feet. He resumed his fighting stance, drawing upon the last of his
inner reserves to gather himself to meet the next attack.
He did not have long to wait. The executioners sword flashed in
his sight, and Tristan felt his weapon torn from his numbed hands.
He had little time to worry about the loss as a mailed fist slammed
into his chest, catapulting him off his feet and sending him sprawling
once more into the dirt.
Blackness crept into his vision as he fought to find the wind that
had been knocked out of him; his head rang and his jaw ached. With
great effort, he rolled onto his hands and knees. He silently called
on Menoth for strength and tried to push himself to his feet despite
the pain and disorientation. He almost got his hands off the ground
before he collapsed, his body simply giving out as his lungs burned
for breath.
Stay down and it all ends, Initiate, the high executioner said.
His voice showed no sign of exertion from their duel.
Tristan wanted to do nothing more than stay down, to simply
let unconsciousness take him and end the agony wracking his
body. But he remembered the executioners orders: hold nothing
back. Clarity cut through the haze of pain like a ray of sun through
87
morning fog. Very slowly, Tristan rose to his feet through the
torment.
Reznik stood before him. Though Tristan could not see the mans
face behind his helm, he could feel the eyes of the high executioner
upon him. He could feel the weight of their judgment. Tristan tensed
for the next blow. But the warcaster simply stood there, still as a
statue. Finally, he said, I hope your faith in Menoth is stronger than
your sword arm, Initiate. He paused as if considering something
before continuing. Your real training begins tomorrow.
With that, he turned to go. Tristan refused to let his body collapse
back onto the dirt until the only sight that remained of the warcaster
was the thin trail of smoke issuing from his armor.
Tristan walked slowly through the halls of the Temple of
Cleansing, every movement lighting his nerves afire from the beating
Reznik had given him. He desperately wanted nothing more than to
collapse on his bed and pass into the black void of sleep. Yet, however
much his body desired it, other matters required his attention. Step
by painful step, Tristan made his way to one of the many chapels
scattered throughout the Temple of Cleansing. Pushing his way
through the heavy, ornate doors, Tristan was instantly greeted by the
heavy scent of holy incense and the tang of the rich unguents that
were used to sanctify the skin of the faithful. Tristan looked about
the room, the familiar sights and smells helping to ease the pain that
tormented his bodythough it was the turmoil within his soul he
felt most acutely in the moment.
Tristan did not fear pain. The Canon of the True Law stated that
suffering was simply another way in which Menoth shaped men into
worthy servants. No, what Tristan truly feared was that he would find
himself unworthy of the great gifts Menoth had bestowed upon him.
88
His only desire was to serve his gods will; nothing else mattered.
He could not, however, shake the doubt that lingered in his mind
in the aftermath of his beating. Despite all of Tristans preparations
despite his fervent beliefReznik had stripped away everything he
thought he had mastered. It had been all too simple for the faith
gained through steadfast prayer and the combat skill achieved
through continual instruction to be undermined by one fateful
altercation. The reliable, focused connection he usually enjoyed with
the divine power within him had been drowned out by the physical
agony that pulsed ceaselessly in his body.
Worse was the echoing doubt that had resurfaced within his soul
about the path the Temple had chosen for him. When he had finally
mustered the resolve to leave his family behind despite his fathers
stern objections, Tristan had resolutely maintained that the decision
was a reflection of Menoths will. His conviction had made the
heartbreak of his fathers condemnation and the tears of his sisters
bearable.
The lessons passed on by the Sul-Menite priests during his
indoctrination had resonated with Tristan. Even as a young man,
he had believed something to be lacking in the execution of faith
among the Llaelese priests he had spoken to. It was too loose, too
much based on individual interpretation of the Canon of the True
Law. Such disorganization of belief was not indicative of the Menoth
Tristan knew from his holy readings. It was not fitting of the Creator
of Man, who had bestowed such awe-inspiring gifts as the wall, the
flame, the sheaf, and the law.
The Sul-Menite faith seemed to have resolved all these
incongruences. Yet, though he completely subscribed to SulMenite doctrine, he still found himself questioning much about
what the priestsand Menothhad chosen for him. Questions
his first meeting with Reznik had only put into more stark relief.
89
He heard a familiar voice behind him. You look terrible, brother.

Tristan turned to face Bayden, the action causing him to wince.
Speaking through a flare of pain in his bruised jaw, Tristan said, As
terrible as my flesh looks, it is my resolve that I fear has taken the true
beating today. I wonder if I am up to the task set before me.
I have always admired the constancy of your faith, my friend.
But I understand your meaning. This was not where I believed my
path to lie. When the Harbinger herself arrived at my village, at the
head of a mighty host of the Northern Crusade set to deliver us from
the Cryxian horrors, I felt the faith within me stir like never before. I
was not alone. I know you have never seen her, but believe me when
I tell you that to behold her countenance is to look upon a fraction
of Menoths divine being. A sorrowful smile crossed Baydens lips
as he continued. She chose me, Tristan. She looked deep into my
soul, despite her blindness, and she chose me. She believed I might
have the spark. You have no idea what that was likethe pride I felt
to believe that Menoth might have chosen me to be one of his rare
warcasters.
Tristan looked at his friend in surprise. He had always known
Bayden yearned to be a warcaster, to bear the same gift that he
himself had. But he had not known the Harbinger had marked him
as a potential for that path.
Bayden continued. I was not the only one, of course. She marked
fifteen who might have the potential; of three she was certain. I was
not one of the three, but still I hoped. One of those special few, Leon,
was a friend of mine. He was sent south to train to be a warcaster like
you. Others have joined the Choir. He paused again, turning his
eyes to the Menofix that rested at the front of the chapel. Though I
held Menoths grace within me, he did not see fit to bless me with the
spark. I was denied the chance to save others as the Harbinger had
saved my village, to visit righteous vengeance upon those who dared
90
act against Menoth and his faithful. Instead, I learned that my path
was to be one of the Creators simple priests, to tend to the spiritual
needs of his flock.
Bayden turned to look into Tristans eyes. Despite his story, Tristan
saw neither jealousy nor judgment. I look at you, at the way your
faith pours from you and into others such that even nonbelievers are
seemingly humbled by it. And I wonder how I might ever succeed at
the calling Menoth has for me. My heart still burns for battle, to join
the Great Crusade on the front lines, even though I know that is not
the role chosen for me. I think I would be happier on your path.
Tristan could hear the longing in Baydens voice as he spoke of battle,
of being a warcaster.
Menoth tests us all. Happiness does not strengthen the soul,
Tristan said. Now he was the one to gaze at the Menofix. I have
always felt so sure about the road Menoth wished me to walk...
His words hung in the air, his doubt unspoken.
Bayden placed a hand on his shoulder. You are not alone,
Tristan. We all question our paths; this is the lesson the Creator has
taught me. How can we not? But we must remain confident that the
difficulties Menoth places before usdoubt, fear, disappointment
are there only to be overcome by our faith. And in so doing, we
become better servants of his will, even if servitude is not what we
wished for ourselves.
Tristan nodded at the wisdom of his frienda man whose only
desire had been to stand where Tristan stood now, and who in turn
stood where Tristan wished to be. Tristan bowed his head and said a
silent prayer of thanks to Menoth for his guidance.
Though his doubt remained, Tristan resolved to endure whatever
his path would bring in service to the Creator.
91
Tristan knelt in prayer to Menoth as he awaited the arrival of

the high executioner. He shifted his jaw unconsciously, a dull ache
reminding him of the previous days encounter. The pain that
remained was a shadow of what it might otherwise have been: after
he had left the chapel, Ashad had sought him out to mend many of
Tristans physical injuries through the use of his own divine skills.
Had he not, Tristan was sure he would not have been physically able
to rise for his first day of training. The hierophant had warned him,
however, that such intervention would not occur again unless at the
direct command of Reznik. Tristan had inferred from their brief
conversation, and his own brutal interaction with the warcaster, that
the high executioner would never issue such a command.
He looked out toward the sky, the three moons slowly fading
from view as the first hint of the mornings sun began to paint the
coming dawn. He knew Menoth had set him upon this path. And so
Tristan would serve until he could serve no moreor until Menoth
summoned him to a new calling.
The sight of Reznik approaching the practice field shattered his
introspection. The warcaster was flanked by two towering warjacks,
their eyes glowing with power, thick black smoke churning from
their bronze-capped smokestacks. Each stood more than twice as
tall as Tristan. He recognized the one to the executioners left as a
Vanquisher, a massive flame belcher in its left hand and an enormous
morning star in its right. The warjack to the right showed a similar
profile, but whereas the Vanquisher was produced in numbers for
war, this warjack was a singular, holy tribute to it. Its right hand
brandished the same morning star as the Vanquisher, but its left bore
a gleaming sword inscribed with words in an ancient alphabet Tristan
did not recognize. Even without being bonded to this warjacks
cortex, he could sense its presence: Scourge of Heresy, Rezniks
personal warjack, truly outshone the stories hed heard of it.
92
As the trio approached, Tristan noticed they were not alone. A

group of acolytes, each bearing a bundle wrapped in holy cloth,
followed just behind. Tristan felt curiosity stir within his mind as he
tried to determine what they might be carrying.
He bowed in respectful greeting as Reznik arrived. High
Executioner, may Menoths grace look upon you today.
Reznik did not bother to acknowledge the greeting, instead
motioning to the acolytes behind him. Today is the last day you
arrive unprepared for war, Reznik said. At his signal, the men
bowed and hurried forward toward Tristan. As they unwrapped
their bundles, realization struck him: each acolyte carried a piece of
warcaster armor. His warcaster armor. Starting now, you will wear
this armor at all times, except when I let you sleep.
The acolytes tugged at Tristan as they fitted him with his new
vestments, appointing him for war. Tristan soon noticed, much
to his consternation, that the armor had seemingly been made for
someone broader than he: it didnt fit. As the acolytes cinched the last
of the straps to the limits of their tightness, Tristan finally said, Your
forgiveness, High Executioner, but this armor seems ill fitting. I do
not see how I will be able to properly fight within it.
Then you must grow to fill it.
Tristans brow furrowed slightly at the response, but he said
nothing. Instead, he focused on adjusting to the sensations of his
new armor. The weight in particular pressed upon Tristan in a way
he had never expected. In fact, thinking back to how easily Reznik
had moved during their battle, he was now even more impressed
by the warcasters strength. His awe was further magnified by the
fact that his own armor weighed only a fraction of the full plate the
executioner wore as naturally as a second skin.
An acolyte worked behind Tristan to stoke the boiler that powered
the armors arcane turbine. As the fire began to burn fully, Tristan
93
felt heat upon his back even through the heavy insulated robes that
protected him. His arcane sense tingled as the armor came alive.
Without warning, Reznik struck at him with a mailed fistand
Tristan was blinded by an intense flash as his warcaster armors power
field absorbed the blow. Though he remained unharmed, Tristan
could feel a decrease in the energy projected by the armor.
Just as your warjacks and blessed weapon are instruments of
your will, so too is your armor. But where the former embody your
wrath, the latter represents your life. If you hold any hope of serving
Menoths will upon the battlefield, you must learn to use each as
naturally as you use the physical gifts the Creator bestowed upon you
at birth. Rezniks fist struck again. This time Tristan heard a crack.
An actinic smell assaulted his nostrils as the armors power field failed
and Rezniks fist thudded into his breastplate, knocking him back.
And it seems that is a small hope, indeed. Tristans ears burned at
the criticism.
Reznik motioned to the Vanquisher behind him. This machine
has faithfully served the Protectorate for almost one hundred years,
first as a Crusader before it was baptized for war in a new form. I tell
you this now so that you know that if it fails in the days ahead, it will
not be due to its incompetence.
The high executioner placed his hand upon the venerable
machines crimson cowl for a brief moment before turning back
toward Tristan and motioning him forward. Connect with it so we
may begin.
Sweat poured down Tristans face, and his breath came in ragged
gasps. The oversized armor he wore felt as if it were crushing him;
his legs and arms burned from exertion; and the blessed weapon
in his hands felt as though it were made of lead. But the physical
94
exhaustion was nothing compared to the intense mental fatigue he

currently endured.
He barely avoided another strike from Precept Yorrin as he tried to
guide his Vanquisher in battle against Scourge of Heresy, controlled
by Reznik. The powerful warjacks dueled in the ring adjacent to the
one in which Tristan and Yorrin fought. The sound of the titanic
warjacks clashing overwhelmed everything else. The hiss of pistons,
the whine of hydraulics, and the endless clangs of steel upon steel
were like nothing Tristan had ever heard. He tried to focus his mind,
to find the state of calm Ashad had taught him to harness his inner
divine power, but such peace eluded him in the cacophony of battle.
His attention divided, Tristan found himself unable either to defend
himself or to guide his warjack to victory. It was all he could do to
keep each of them from being completely knocked out of the fight.
A flash of his power field announced that Yorrin had once again
scored a hit against him. Knowing its protection was the only thing
preventing the precept from finishing the fight, Tristan channeled his
power into the field to restore it. But it was too little, too late. As he
concentrated on the task, his defense broke and Yorrin was upon him
again. The precept knocked away his weapon before driving into his
guard and shouldering him into the ground. Tristan groaned as he
felt the point of Yorrins spear press lightly into his neck. Thats the
fourth time today, Initiate. And in half the time as before.
Tristan did not have the strength to reply. He simply nodded
before slowly and painfully rising to his feet. He looked over to
Reznik, who stood inscrutable, as always. Tristan did not need
to hear the high executioners next command. He well knew the
price of losing and began his run around the temple. He would
have only ten minutes to make the mile-long circuit, and then they
would begin again. So it had gone for more than a week since his
training began. Each day, from sunup to well after sunset, Reznik
95
had pushed Tristan to the point of absolute physical and mental

breakdown.
Tristan had made the mistake of looking at his body in a mirror that
morning. He had barely recognized the black-and-purplesplotched
figure that had stared back. He knew today would only add to the
mosaic of bruises and welts that already decorated his body.
Every muscle fiber screamed with each pump of his legs as he
forced himself to make the circuit around the temple. He recited
the Canon of the True Law in order to numb his mind to the agony,
having memorized most of its holy passages during childhood nights
on his familys farm. He scoffed as he suddenly thought of harvest
and how he had been convinced it was the hardest labor of his life.
At this moment, he would gladly have performed the entire harvest
himself for just one days respite from Rezniks grueling instruction.
Lungs heaving, Tristan saw the practice ring come into view
as he made his way around the last leg of the run. The shapes of
his Vanquisher and Scourge of Heresy loomed within the ring.
The burning of his chest gave way to cold dread as he saw a figure
standing in the center of the arena. Even from that distance, there
was no mistaking the armored bulk of Servath Reznikor his
intent. Tristan had barely stood up to him upon their first meeting.
In his exhausted condition, he did not know how he would possibly
survive. Silently, he prayed to Menoth for any scrap of strength, but
he received nothing beyond the physical agony that coursed through
his body in response.
Tristan wheezed and coughed. The flush of his face was like an
inferno. He fought to catch his breath and straighten himself as he
came to a stop within the ring before the high executioner.
Why do you refuse the Creators will? Reznik asked.
The question hit him harder than any blow he had suffered so
far. I do not, High Executioner, he stammered.
96
Yes, you do, Reznik said. It is for that reason you continue to
fail.
No! Tristan cried, panic settling within him at Rezniks grim
proclamation. I live only to serve the Creator.
Then why do you fight him? Rezniks voice thundered, causing
Tristan to shrink reflexively. It was the first time Tristan had ever
heard the warcasters voice stray from its stoic baritone. Answer me,
Initiate!
Tristans mind was frantic, but he could not answer Rezniks
question. He did not believe the high executioner was right. I
dont... Tristan whimpered.
Reznik unhooked his sword from its place on his back. Then
prove it. Only by letting go, by allowing his will to truly flow through
you, will you prevail. You cannot think. You cannot concentrate. You
must simply do as the Creator wills. As the executioner raised his
sword, the pure steel caught the reflection of the setting sun, causing
the blade to turn blood red.
Reznik moved with the same incredible speed as before, his sword
slashing through the air in a silver blur. Tristan was rocked back by
the force as he blocked the attack, his legs lacking the strength to
hold him steady. Feebly he struck back, trying to prevent Reznik
from dominating the flow of the fight.
Reznik simply smacked Tristans blade away with an open hand.
Do not think. Do not try. Give yourself over to the power with
which Menoth has blessed you. Or I will send you to him!
Tristan tried to muster the strength to fight back, but his mind
felt numb. He fought to harness the concentration required to tap
into Menoths divine power within him, but it eluded his grasp. He
could feel his body failing. He heard Reznik shout at him, but the
words were lost to his ears. He realized he was going to die. He was
not worthy of the great gifts Menoth had bestowed. No man was.
97
As the realization hit him, he finally let go.

His mind freed of the effort of trying to harness and control the
power within, Tristan suddenly felt the true depth of it for the first
time. It flooded through him, imbuing his body with newfound
strength. He saw the world through both his own eyes and the eyes
of his warjack. He felt the cortex of the powerful machine instantly
and it was ready for war.
He was at once the warjack and himself. The Vanquisher began
responding to his mental impulses effortlessly, his consciousness
finally free from the restrictions he had put on it before. What was
more, Tristan remained aware of himself and of his own personal
duel with Reznik. It was as if he could sense everything around him
with newfound clarity, like a candle flaring to life in the dark. He
continued to balance his arcane power between his personal defense
and his Vanquishers duel with Rezniks jack. He realized in that
moment Reznik and he were as equally matched as they would likely
ever be.
Tristan felt the warjack battle shift as his Vanquishers massive
blazing star began striking with accuracy and speed that had been
lacking before. The sudden reversal put Scourge of Heresy off
balance, and Tristan could actually feel the executioner reach out to
his warjack to try to swing the conflict back in its favor.
In that moment, Tristan saw his opening.
Sidestepping an overhanded strike from Reznik, Tristan thrust his
staff forward in the brief moment the warcaster was overextended
both physically and mentally. He instinctually poured his power into
the weapon, lending it accuracy and power.
The bright flash of his blade striking Rezniks power field
temporarily blinded him, and he heard the sound of steel scraping
steel as his weapon connected with the high executioners holy
armor. Tristan stood dumbfounded, his eyes locked on the gouge
98
upon Rezniks armor where the blade of his staff rested. Slowly, he
looked to the executioners helmed face, which also gazed at where
Tristans weapon had struck him.
As the realization of what he had done hit him, Tristan quickly
withdrew his weapon, his mind reeling. He began to stammer out an
apology, but a raised hand from Reznik silenced him. Your lessons
for today are over. Meditate on what you have learned and prepare
for greater trials tomorrow. Reznik hooked his sword upon his back
and made his way from the practice field, Scourge of Heresy close
behind.
Tristan stood mute as he watched Reznik disappear from view.
Though he did not doubt the truth of the warcasters words, he
struggled to comprehend that more difficult days awaited him.
Unconsciously, he grasped at his connection with the Vanquisher,
the feel of the machines cortex strangely soothing. He could sense
that the massive warjack was waiting patiently, almost eagerly, for
his commands. It yearned to serve his will. The thought sparked
something deep within Tristan as he felt a new kinship for the
venerable machine. Holding tightly to the connection, he walked
over to the jack, the agonies of his body momentarily forgotten.
He reached up and gently placed a hand on the machines cowl,
focusing his mind on the Vanquishers cortex. Tristans pale-blue eyes
stared straight into the fiery embers that were the warjacks eyes. The
pair held the gaze for several moments in silence. Finally, Tristan
lowered his head and began reciting his favorite passage from the
Canon of the True Law:
Man might seek to find respite in earthly pleasures and distractions,
But he will find these things are meaningless.
Man might seek to surround himself in comforts bought by wealth
But he will find these, too, are meaningless.
All life is suffering, for without suffering life is meaningless.
99
This is as Menoth wills. Through suffering is born strength.

Only through strength can one serve Menoth.
Only through service to Menoth,
Made possible by the strength granted by suffering,
Does Man find meaning.
As Tristan finished the recitation and opened his eyes, he noticed a
faded inscription along the warjacks massive pauldron. He squinted
but could not immediately make out the worn symbols in the dim
light. Slowly and with great care, he traced his fingers along the lines.
He finally recognized them as ancient Caspian.
Aegis of Faith. The name suits you. Tristan smiled as he withdrew
his hand.
He once more regarded the machine that had tirelessly served
Menoth for nearly a century without complaint or question. How
many times had it pushed on despite mangled servos, grinding gears,
or leaking hydraulics inflicted by Menoths enemies? Looking into
the great warjacks eyes and feeling the pulse of its cortex within his
mind, Tristan felt humbled as he saw Menoths lesson before him.
Tristan patted the warjacks cowl and whispered a silent prayer of
thanks to Menoth for the revelation.
As he made his way back to his quarters within the temple, he
was faintly aware that his armor no longer felt as burdensome as
it once had.
Reznik was true to his word, as Tristans training only intensified
over the next several days. The high executioner pushed Tristans
mind and body to limits the initiate had never known existed,
moving him out of the training fields and into full combat practice
exercisesthough in Tristans opinion, there was very little practice
about it. As his control over Aegis of Faith had increased, Reznik
100
had introduced a second warjack to the young warcaster, a light

warjack known as a Repenter. The challenge of controlling two
independent cortexes had not been as difficult as Tristan had
expected. The hardest part was learning to draw upon the divine
power within himself. Though he felt his connection to that power
grow stronger every day, he was all too aware of his limits. Despite
the executioners intense training regimen, Tristan doubted he
could effectively manage a third warjack. When he had confided
those thoughts to Ashad, the hierophant had smiled and told him
his power would grow in time.
For the first time in nearly two weeks, Tristan did not find himself
on the practice field dodging skyhammer rockets or hearing the
deafening clang of warjacks battling. He was to receive a day of rest,
as Reznik had been summoned to attend the vice scrutator at the
central temple.
Tristan still wore his warcaster armor, as Reznik had ordered,
while he walked through the familiar slum outside the walls of Leryn
that he had visited with Bayden so many months ago. During his
initial training with Ashad, Tristan had made weekly visits to speak
to the people over offerings of food he had brought from the temple.
Though both Bayden and Ashad had tried several times to convince
him of the futility of his actions, Tristan had only redoubled his
efforts within the Morrowan neighborhood until his training with
the executioner began to consume all his time. He felt a familiar
sense of peace fill him now as he finally returned.
Thought maybe you had given up on us, priest, a gruff voice
called out to him.
Tristan smiled and waved to the man in greeting, Never, Arnauldt.
Menoth has simply seen fit to keep me busy with other endeavors.
Arnauldt raised a bushy eyebrow quizzically. Is that so? Something
less strenuous than preaching to us blasphemers, I hope.
101
Spreading the word of the Creator is far from strenuous, my

friend. Indeed, it fills me with strength.
Arnauldt patted his stomach. Menoths words may be enough to
sustain you and your ilk. But his words do little to fill us common
folk.
Tristan reached into a satchel at his waist and drew out a wrapped
loaf of hearty, dark bread. Menoths words sustain the soul; his gifts
allow us to sustain our bodies. You cannot take the gift and spite the
giver and continue to expect reward. To hope to benefit from one,
you must show reverence for the other.
Arnauldt scoffed. Your fellows seem content to keep most of his
gifts to themselves even when around those who qualify as believers.
Selflessness and servitude such as yours do not seem to have a place
in the Temple.
Tristan kept his expression neutral, but inside he had to admit
Arnauldts words echoed his own thoughts on the topic in a way that
made him uncomfortable. He smiled and said, If that were true,
Arnauldt, how could the Temple ever accept me? I know in my heart
that Menoth guides my actions. He wishes me to be here. He desires
that I show you the path of righteousness through word and deed. To
show you the truth of eternal rewards if you will submit to his will
and word. Tristan placed a hand on Arnauldts shoulder. You close
your soul to him and yet seek to judge him. But if you were to open
yourself entirely to his will, you would see the truth of my words.
Tristan looked intently at Arnauldt for a moment before
withdrawing his hand. While he still maintained hope his words
might one day find purchase in these people, he knew the possibility
to be remote. Still, Tristan felt deep within his soul that Menoth had
a purpose for him here. And so here he was.
Initiate Durant! I suspected I would find you here. Ashads voice
rang out from behind. He was adorned in full priestly attire and was
102
accompanied by a pair of Exemplar bodyguards.

Hierophant. Tristan turned and bowed in greeting to his
mentor. Though he kept his voice level, Tristan felt anxiety grip him.
Something important had made Ashad track him down here in the
outer slums of the city. How might I serve Menoth?
Ashad looked about the slum. His presence had not gone
unnoticed, and many of the slums inhabitants looked on curiously
from windows and doorstops. I bring word from the high
executioner. He is to march northwest with an interdiction.
Tristans brow furrowed. So who will take over my training?
No one. You are to march with him.
Tristans eyes went wide at Ashads words. He felt his heartbeat
quicken.
Your training is not yet complete, the hierophant continued.
Therefore, you must go where he goes until he deems you ready.
The army marches at dawn. Ashad put his arm on Tristans shoulder.
Come, there is much to prepare.
Tristan nodded, but his mind was numb as he struggled to process
the sudden turn of events. He had always known he would one day
fight in the battles of the Protectorate, but he had never thought it
would be so soon. He turned to Arnauldt. Im afraid this may be
goodbye for some time, my friend. May Menoth guide you.
A scowl crossed Arnauldts face, and Tristan expected to hear some
biting remark. Instead, the man said, Menoth watch over you as
wellif he knows whats good for him.
Menoth will see my path follow his own indisputable will,
whether that is to victory or to my final place in the City of Man.
Farewell, Arnauldt. Consider our discussion today. His goodbye
said, Tristan turned and made his way to war.
103
A rapid chattering of gears was accompanied by the soft screech

of metal upon metal as the sunburst ballista prepared to loose its
explosive payload against the walls of Bridoche. A heartbeat later,
a series of explosions sprayed rock and dust everywhere as multiple
sunburst payloads impacted the stone wall. The thunder was quickly
replaced by the steady clank of gears that heralded another volley.
Other sunburst crews followed suit.
Tristan stood in silent vigil, Aegis of Faith and Repenter by his side,
watching as the Protectorates artillery hammered at Bridoche. The
walls obscured much of the towns interior; ironically, the only sight
that stood out clearly was the great Menofix of Bridoches temple.
The sight of it made Tristan feel uncomfortable, as he realized the
violence he might be forced to inflict upon members of his own
faith. His conscience struggled with the implications of it all. He
looked up at the blade of his staff, its razor-sharp edge gleaming in
the midday sun. He had never taken a life before. He wondered if he
would be able to do so now.
According to Ashad, however, these people had rebelled against
the temple and murdered Scrutator Justarius, who had been charged
with overseeing the town. Such blasphemies could not be allowed
to go unpunished. But despite the horrendousness of their actions,
Tristan couldnt help but wonder why the people of Bridoche would
have committed such a heinous crime. They had to have known
retribution would be swift, so close was the town to Leryn and the
seat of the Northern Crusades power.
Reznik had given Lady Rachelle Ariesthe former Llaelese noble
of Bridoche and alleged organizer of the coupa single chance
to open the gates and face Menoths judgment. She had refused,
perhaps believing Bridoches walls might somehow protect them
from Rezniks wrath. It was a ridiculous hope, especially against
someone like the high executioner. Nothing on Caen could prevent
104
Reznik from fulfilling his holy duty. Of that Tristan had no doubt.
Another round of explosions shook Tristan from his thoughts, and
he gazed at the crumbling wall through the eyes of his battlegroup as
well as his own. His warjacks greater height provided unique views
of the standoff being waged between fortification and siege engine.
The outcome was never in question; indeed, Tristan could already see
the wall beginning to fail.
Before another volley could be unleashed, however, a shout went
up from the gatehouse. Looking up, Tristan saw a flag being waved
furiously. Reznik lifted a mailed fist, halting the sunburst crews, and
stepped forward, motioning Tristan to follow. Tristan moved quickly
to catch up with the longer strides of the executioner, his warjacks
close on his heels.
Reznik did not wait for the flag bearer to speak. Your walls are
about to fall. I give you this one last chance: open the gate, deliver
Lady Aries and her conspirators to us, and have all others remain in
their homes to await Menoths judgment. Do this and many might
be forgiven. Refuse and all will be found guilty.
Tristan felt his mouth go dry as he waited for the mans reply. He
prayed furiously to Menoth for the people of Bridoche to take the
high executioners offer. His heart hammered in his ears as the silence
stretched on. Reznik stood inscrutable, as always.
Finally, Tristan heard the low rumble of machinery. A wave of
relief flowed through him as the gates of Bridoche slowly ground
open. There beyond them, standing proud and stalwart before the
executioner and his pupil, was the distinct figure of Lady Aries.
Her voice rang out strong and clear. Enter then, High Executioner,
and prove Menoth is as merciful and just as he is wrathful and
terrible.
105
Lady Rachelle Aries sat with exceptional poise despite being

confined within the town jail while awaiting her execution. Tristan
experienced a small spark of admiration for this woman. No matter
her crimes, she had willingly given herself over to Menoths justice in
order to spare her former people Rezniks wrath. It was further proof
that even the greatest heretic might find redemption. He stepped
forward and offered her a cup of water. She waved it off without
even looking at him. He was about to turn to leave when her voice
stopped him.
Tell me, warcaster, am I to be executed without trial? Without
the chance to defend my actions? she asked. Where is Menoths
righteousness in that?
Tristan paused for a moment and then asked, Do you deny you
orchestrated the overthrow and murder of Scrutator Justarius?
It was not murder. It was justice. He was a fraud. A villain. His
black soul deserves to be consumed by the Devourer.
Tristans brow furrowed. Intrigued, he moved closer to the bars
of her cell and peered down at her. What do you mean? Scrutator
Justarius was appointed to his position with the approval of the
hierarch himself. He was a servant of Menoths will.
A bitter, cold laugh issued from Lady Aries lips, and she fixed him
with an intense stare. Behind her deep-brown eyes Tristan discerned
a fierce spirit and a razor-sharp intellect. Justarius served no one,
man or god, but himself. He used his holy mantle to take whatever
he wantedmoney, food, property, women. Few refused him, and
those who did... She paused for a moment, revealing pain in her
eyes before she looked away. He always received what he desired.
Whether it was offeredor not.
Tristan struggled to comprehend the implications of her words.
He wondered if it might be a lie, some attempt to stay her execution.
As much as he wished to disbelieve her, however, deep within he felt
106
the truth of her words. He could see she had resigned herself to her
fate. She had no reason to lie to him now.
His thoughts racing and insides churning, Tristan hastily excused
himself and left her cell. He had to discover the truth. He could not
believe such vile actions could stem from one of Menoths chosen
servants. It disgusted him. Yet his thoughts strayed to his recent
conversations with Arnauldt, and his mind wondered.
No, he thought, Arnauldts harsh criticisms had always stemmed
from his inability to grasp the truth of the Canon of the True Law. Of
the need for suffering and toil in Menoths name under the watchful
guidance of his priests. This was something else entirely.
Tristan spent the next several hours speaking to anyone who would
talk to him. Many were terrified at first, but through great effort
and reassurance of their safety Tristan was able to piece together the
truth. By the time night finally overcame the last rays of the sun,
Tristan had his answers, and they shook him to the core.
Armed with his findings, he sought out Reznik, who had taken
up temporary residence within Bridoches temple. The warcaster
remained in his full plate even at this late hour, though his armors
boiler was cold in order to protect the interior of the temple from
any smoke damage. The high executioner was speaking to a woman
dressed in the armor and trappings of a Daughter of the Flame. He
saw her hand the executioner a gilded scroll tube. Tristan waited
until the unfamiliar woman had finished her conversation with him
and left the temple before approaching.
I have wondered where you were today, Reznik said without
looking up from the parchment he had pulled from the scroll tube.
High Executioner, I have important information concerning the
events that led to the murder of Scrutator Justarius, Tristan said.
His reading complete, Reznik carefully rolled up the scroll and
placed it back in its container before hooking it to his waist. He
107
stood in silence, clearly waiting for Tristan to continue.

It has become clear to me that Scrutator Justarius had fallen from
Menoths grace. He abused his station and divine powers to become
a tyrant over this town. He indulged in all manner of physical vices,
and as a result, crippled Bridoches ability to effectively lend aid to
the holy work of the Northern Crusade. The actions of the people
were motivated by his sins. Tristans voice quivered with anger. The
sheer power of the emotion surprised him. If he felt this way, he
could barely imagine the holy wrath that would come from Reznik
at the news.
There was a pregnant pause, and Tristan braced himself for Rezniks
passion. Instead, when the executioner finally spoke, his voice was as
calm and level as always. You overstep your bounds, Initiate. It is not
our place to judge the actions of one of Menoths most holy servants.
Only scrutators can make such judgments of one of their own. Perhaps
they will find Scrutator Justarius wanting, perhaps not. But such
decisions do not change our current course. There is no mitigation for
the sins of these people as instigated by the Lady Aries.
Tristans eyes went wide and he felt his mouth drop in shock
at Rezniks words. But the proof is all around. And she was not
immune to his craven desires. They only acted
Enough! Rezniks voice boomed, shaking the rafters of the
temple and causing Tristan to shrink. Your words come perilously
close to heresy. You have neither the divine mandate nor the wisdom
to judge even the lowliest scrutator. Their word is the law of Menoth
as decreed by the hierarch himself. Until a scrutators mask covers
your face, you will defer to their holy caste or you will find penitence
upon one of my wracks!
Now it was Tristans turn to be silent. He fought to make sense
of what was happening. He prayed to Menoth for guidance, but
no answer came.
108
Taking his silence for acquiescence, Reznik continued. At dawn

tomorrow, I will fulfill my righteous mandate by executing Lady Aries
and her primary conspirators. Then I will take a portion of our force
and leave for Riversmet. He tapped the tube upon his waist. I have
additional heretics to seek there. You will remain here and oversee
Bridoche until the temple in Leryn can appoint a new scrutator.
Tristan felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Youre
leaving me here? But what of my training?
Your training with me is complete. You know all you need. The
rest is in Menoths hands and your own. Reznik dismissed him with
a wave. Now leave me. There is much to prepare for tomorrow.
Though questions and thoughts flooded his mind, Tristan bowed
and left.
Nearly three days had passed since Reznik had left Bridoche in
Tristans care. The high executioner had taken nearly half of the
interdiction with him on his mission to Riversmet. Considering that
the town was under Khadoran control, Tristan hoped those forces
would be enough to ensure the executioners safety.
Before his departure, Reznik had executed Lady Aries and her three
primary conspirators, all of whom were high-ranking officials within
Bridoches government. Tristan felt a pang of guilt as he thought of
that cold morning. He had forced himself to watch Rezniks sentence
carried out to the last. Lady Aries had accepted her fate with dignified
stoicism, using her last words to call for Menoths forgiveness and
beseeching her people to seek not revenge but strength to rejoin his
Temple. The only mercy was that Rezniks blade was quick.
Replacing the fallen officials had been a tall task. Tristan, after much
prayer and contemplation, had decided to pardon the subordinates
who had also been arrested as conspirators, provided they agreed to
109
step into those vacant roles and show proper contrition for their part
in the coup. Ashad had strongly urged Tristan against this mercy,
but Tristan assured him Menoths will guided his actions. He did
not, however, confide in Ashad the truth he had uncovered about
Justariusnor the guilt he felt at Lady Aries death.
While he was doing his best to govern, Tristan found himself
far more interested in healing the spiritual and psychic wounds of
Bridoches citizens following their mistreatment under Justarius.
He spent much of his time walking the streets, speaking with the
people and assuring them life would return to better daysso long
as they continued to be faithful and dutiful servants of Menoth and
his Temple.
He had embarked on one of those excursions with Ashad, who
insisted on accompanying him nearly everywhere, when the boom
of a massive explosion shook the quiet morning, followed quickly by
the tremor of an avalanche. Tristan ran toward the sound, heedless
of Ashads cries to halt. His heart raced as the cold realization of
where the sound had originated from hit him. Sure enough, as he
approached the portion of the wall that Reznik had bombarded, he
was greeted with naught but rubble and the heavy pall of gray dust.
Shattered scaffolding from the repair effort Tristan had initiated
jutted from the debris like jagged bones.
As shocking as the destruction was, it was the sight of the bloodied
and mangled bodies of the innocent townspeople who had been
caught in the collapse that horrified him. He looked about for some
clue as to the cause of the collapse, though his unconscious mind
already knew what he would find: this was no accident.
The faint alchemical smell of burned Menoths Fury and the
scorch marks upon the wall confirmed his suspicions. Someone
had deliberately brought down the wall. But why? And who?
He did not have to wait long for an answer. A group of holy zealots
110
quickly appeared, two of them dragging a man Tristan recognized as

one of the lesser conspirators he had pardoned days ago.
The man was covered in minor burns, his hair singed and his eyes
wild. He struggled and fought to no avail against the iron grip of the
zealots who restrained him. Tristan looked at the priest who led the
zealots, awaiting an explanation.
We saw this man fleeing the area right before the explosion and
pursued him, the priest said, pausing as he surveyed the carnage
about him. It seems that Menoths hand has shielded us today and
delivered us this heretic.
Tristan barely heard the mans words as he pushed past him, his
pulse pounding in his ears. He grabbed the former conspirator by his
collar and shouted, Why? Why would you do this?
The man looked at him, hate clear in his eyes. To save us all from
the likes of you! To spare us from Lady Aries fate!
Tristan ripped the man from his captors grasp and threw him to
the ground, toward the crushed forms buried in the rubble. You
call this saving them? Tristans voice cracked with pain as he looked
at the sight again, his voice catching in his throat. What could you
hope to gain by doing this? he asked, his voice cooling to cold rage.
When the man said nothing, Tristan hauled him from the ground
and slammed a mailed fist into his jaw; the force of the blow sent
him sprawling back to the earth. Answer me!
The man choked out a laugh through the blood filling his
mouth. Lady Aries knew the Temple would seek vengeance for
what wed done. So she made a choice. She chose to give Bridoche
back to the Khadorans.
Revelation flashed through Tristan like lightning. Thats why
you refused us entrance until the last moment. You hoped the
Khadorans would arrive to drive us off.
Yes. And rid us of the corrupt and evil predations of your
111
priesthood. He spat, a massive gob of blood hitting the ground and

splashing upon Tristans armored boot. They didnt arrive in time
to save Lady Aries, but they will be here soon. I gave them what she
promised. An open door.
Disgust and scorn filled Tristan at the mans words. Your actions
will result in the deaths of countless innocents.
Better to die than to suffer at the hands of your kind.
The man suddenly leapt at Tristan, armed with a dagger he had
pulled from beneath his tunic. Before he could get within striking
distance, however, one of the zealots lunged forward to intercept the
attack. Tristan watched the man go stiff as the traitors blade pierced
his body. The remaining zealots were upon the traitor before he could
withdraw his blade. They savagely beat him, breaking his wrist and
snatching away the weapon.
Tristan felt his rage ignite into white-hot fury as he turned to
confront the beaten and bloody traitor. Fiery runes began to
swirl about him as he raised his hand, and Menoths divine wrath
immolated the heretic in purifying flame. The man screamed as the
holy fire consumed his impure flesh. The sound jarred Tristan from
his fury, and he suddenly realized what he had done. This was how
he was to take his first life: not in battle but in righteous judgment.
Tristans head swam as he regarded the scene around him. His
rage was quickly replaced by a wave of guilt. His actions had caused
this tragedy to befall the innocent people of Bridoche. First Justarius
and now this. His decision to grant mercy had led to more death,
more pain. From suffering came strength, but what strength could
come from this? He had been a fool.
He saw Ashad leaning over the zealot who had saved him from
the traitors assassination attempt. After a moment, the hierophant
lifted his head and looked at Tristan. You need to speak with this
man, Initiate.
112
Can you heal him? Tristan asked.

Ashad simply shook his head and stood up to make room for
Tristan.
Tristan nodded and went over to the man. He could see a crimson
stain spreading across the mans robes, like a blood-red flower
blooming in the morning sun. As he got closer, he at last saw the
mans facethe coverings having been removed by Ashadand his
entire body was seized by shock. There in front of him was Arnauldt.
Arnauldt, Tristan said, fumbling for words, How...
Your words... Arnauldt wheezed, struggling to speak. Your
actions... You showed me the true light of Menoth. I... I tried to
ignore it, but it was inescapable. Every day you came... his voiced
trailed off into a whisper, though his lips still moved. Tristan lowered
his ear to Arnauldts mouth and listened with all his might. You
said the Temple is more than one man... but it was one man who
brought me to the Temple. Never forget that.
Tears stung Tristans eyes as he felt Arnauldts last breath upon his
ear. He looked down at the man who had challenged him, who had
scoffed at his faith and argued with him back in Leryn. Confusion
tore at him as a multitude of thoughts and emotions coursed through
him. He felt paralyzed. For the first time in his life, he felt... lost. He
tried to pray, but the words were torn apart by the tempest within his
soul. And what prayers he could find received no answer in return.
A hand upon his shoulder pulled him from the stormy waters
that threatened to drown him. He turned to see Ashads golden mask
staring back at him. I cannot hear his voice, Ashad, he said softly.
Tristan, Menoth speaks to you now. Your faith has always granted
you the power to see his signs. Well, even I can see the one before you
now. Calm the storm of your emotions and you will hear him.
Tristan breathed deeply and fought down the turbulence within
him. He looked about and his eyes beheld the death and destruction
113
brought about by one fateful decisionand the willing sacrifice

given by another in Menoths name. He realized all men were fallible,
prone to their own baser instincts and desires. Only Menoth the
Creator was infallible. Possessed of such knowledge, Tristan knew
he must maintain constant vigilance and strive to discover Menoths
true desires, all while understanding that no mortal, not even he,
would ever perfectly know his gods will. Only through faith could
such a task be accomplished.
When Tristan gave no voice to his revelation, Ashad spoke again.
This day was meant to teach you the dangers of mercy and the
need for righteous punishment. Menoth guided you to deliver his
judgment to this heretic. But todays trials are not done. You must
prepare to lead us into battle, where you will exact the same vengeance
that he has taught you today.
Tristan listened to Ashads words, but they rang hollow in his ears.
Despite that, he felt resolve swell within his chest as he surveyed
Menoths true message before him. Ashads declaration served only
to reinforce the truth of what the Creator had sought to teach him
this day. His old mentor was right about one thing: Menoths trials
for Tristan were far from over.
The line of Protectorate defenders was arranged strategically across
the main road that led to Bridoche. Even at reduced strength, the
interdiction was still an impressive military force. Ranks of Temple
Flameguard made up its core along with a heavy contingent of holy
zealots, whose lack of formal military training was made up for by
the fervor of their faith in the Creator. Reznik had also left behind a
quintet of sunburst ballistae and a unit of deliverers, whose portable
rockets could wreak havoc among light armored infantry like the
Khadoran Winter Guard. But the heart of the army was Tristan
114
and his battlegroup. Ashad assured him he was ready, inexperienced

though he was, so long as his faith remained unshakable. Menoth
would grant him the strength to achieve victory.
The only major point of contention about the battle plan was
Tristans decision to meet the Khadorans in the open. Ashad had
suggested they should meet them in the breach of Bridoches wall,
but Tristan had overruled him. He was not willing to risk any more
innocent lives. Fighting the Khadorans in the confines of the city
might have allowed them to bottleneck their enemy, but the collateral
damage would have been unacceptable. Though his eyes had been
opened by the saboteur, Tristan maintained faith that the majority
of the people of Bridoche were still faithful servants of Menoth who
deserved his protection.
Besides, his scouts had reported the approaching Khadoran force
was of equal strength to the Protectorate contingent. They had come
to garrison a willing city, not to drive away an enemy force. Tristan
was confident they could win the day without endangering the
towns population any further.
As the first Khadorans appeared, Tristan raised his hand and gave
the signal for the sunburst crews to unleash their explosive payloads
into the enemy. The chattering of rapidly releasing gears and the
whistle of bolts sailing through the air ended with several flashes
of light followed shortly by rumbling explosions. Tristan could see
bodies tossed up by the force of the blasts, limbs and torsos flying
in opposite directions. He steeled himself against the sight of death
and carnage, knowing it was Menoths will. He would not wantonly
slaughter, but neither would he shrink from meting out death upon
those who threatened his flock. He understood now that there was
a time for mercy and a time for wrath. And today, he would be the
vessel for Menoths holy wrath.
115
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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 withaliens, 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.
ADVANCED TACTICS
By Oren Ashkenazi
Korsk, the Druzhina, Winter 605 AR
espite a fire roaring in the brazier, cold air seeped into the
advanced tactics room of the Druzhina. Idly, Kadet Andrei Malakov
wondered if the brick and stone had been designed that way on
purpose. Some of his classmates shivered around him, clutching
furs and thick winter cloaks closer, teeth chattering. Malakov
smiled thinly to himself. If they could not concentrate in a cold
classroom, they would be useless on the battlefield.
A circular table took up the rooms center, draped with a map
of Cygnars northern-most province. Tiny lead figurines in red
represented the Motherlands forces, matched by their opponents
in blue. Some twenty kadets tried to concentrate on both the battle
map and their instructor at the same time. Most were third- or
fourth-years, but a few like Malakov were younger, having earned a
place through high marks.
Kapitan Yulia Kernesky loomed over the opposing armies, facing
the kadets. She was tall and thin, her weathered features as hard
as though carved from stone. She wore only a light coat over her
officers uniform. The sword at her hip was unadorned, its hilt worn
ADVANCED TACTICS OREN ASHKENAZI
from use. The enemy is advancing Stormclad heavy warjacks toward

your center, she barked, pointing at one student in the front row.
Kadet Utkin, what is your response?
The young woman, shivering from the cold like many others,
bit her lip and studied the battlefield with desperate eyes. Malakov
watched her, noting the uncertain expression and nervous hand
twitches. After a painful pause, she pointed to a raised area north
of the Cygnaran line. I would move my Field Guns to this hilltop.
That way
The kapitan cut her off. You would move your Field Guns to
that hilltop, what, Kadet? She did not move except for a slight tilt
of her head, but the younger woman recoiled.
Sorry, maam! Utkin corrected herself. I would move up the
Field Guns, maam, and concentrate fire to slow and whittle down
the Cygnar jacks before they close the distance. She stood ramrod
straight under Kerneskys eye, sweat beading on her forehead despite
the chill. Malakov shook his head from a row behind. Such an
obvious mistake, and it would have cost her dearly with a real enemy.
A passable answer, the kapitan said. She crushed the triumphant
smile on Utkins face with her next words. If one were a beginning
first-year. She scanned the other kadets faces. Can anyone point
out her mistake and demonstrate the correct course of action?
The other kadets were silent. Malakov waited a few moments
until he judged the mood to be right. Maam, he said in a loud,
clear voice. The hill is exposed to Cygnaran cavalry. He indicated
a small group of blue mounted figurines. Our Field Guns would be
annihilated before they could fire a shot.
Kernesky nodded, though her expression did not change. Very
good, Kadet Malakov, she said. What would you do instead?
Malakov made a show of moving closer to the table and examining
the pieces, though he had determined his answer as soon as Kernesky
119
had first presented the situation. He put a hand to his chin in a

contemplative gesture until every eye in the room was fixed on him.
I would deploy Man-O-War shocktroopers to take the brunt of
the assault. He stood back and waited for the kapitans follow-up
question.
He did not have to wait long. Shocktroopers might hold the
Stormclads back for a time, Kernesky said, her eyes narrowing just a
touch, but they do not have the strength to destroy them.
Malakov struck. They dont have to destroy the Stormclads,
only hold them long enough for these Juggernauts to move into
position. He tapped the lead models representing Khadors most
common warjacks. After the battle itself, this would work in our
favorStormclads are some of the most expensive jacks in Cygnars
arsenal. We would lose a few suits of steam armor, but they would
lose valuable storm chambers and high-grade cortexes. We might
even be able to salvage some after the battle.
The other students let out their collectively held breath. Kernesky
nodded. Acceptable. It is important for a commanding officer
to assess not only the success of a battle but also its longer term
ramifications. A loud whistle pierced through the Druzhinas halls,
announcing the end of the class period. The kapitans voice drowned
out the sudden murmurs from her students. I expect all of you to be
able to make such observations by the start of our next class.
Malakov allowed himself a moment of silent pride before gathering
up his books and papers. The other kadets would remember this until
at least the next class, and by then he would be ready to impress them
again. Most of them were older than he was, and it had taken many a
sleepless night of studying to qualify for the advanced tactics class by
his second year. He intended to make sure they all knew he deserved it.
Youre fortunate the kapitan favors you, said a smooth voice
beside him. Malakov looked up and saw Stephan Petrichenko falling
120
into step beside him. Stephan was taller than Malakov and slender,
with unusually red-tinged hair beneath his kadets cap. He grinned
at Malakov.
Malakov raised an eyebrow. What leads you to that conclusion?
Well, Stephan said as they separated themselves from the mass
of other kadets streaming out of classrooms. She didnt point out
that a clever Cygnaran general would have placed his Hunter light
jacks to pick apart your Juggernauts from range before they could
make it into position.
Kadets flowed around Malakov as he stopped and imagined
the battle map. He had to concede, however grudgingly,
that the upperclassman was right. That would have entailed
a considerable risk, exposing them to these uhlans. But if
supported properly, perhaps. The general would have to be a
shrewd Cygnaran. He started forward again, angling toward
a branching hall. His mood darkened as he further considered
the engagement in his mind. If we were willing to make some
jacks engineered specifically for speed, they wouldnt be so
vulnerable to being outflanked.
Stephan clapped him on the shoulder. Dont let the kommandant
hear you questioning our warjack doctrine, or youll be put to latrine
duty no matter how well he knew your father. The upperclassman
shrugged. Anyway, commanded by the right warcaster, our jacks
can always get where they need to be. Malakov reached the side
hall and turned down it, breaking away from the busy foot traffic.
Stephan called after him. See you in the yard?
Malakov nodded. Shortly. Theres something I need to take
care of first. He hadnt missed the upperclassmans implication
that, as a warcaster in training, he should be learning how
to maximize the strengths of Khadoran jacks rather than
complaining about their shortcomings.
121
He heard Stephan laugh. Dont be late, or no amount of favor

from Kapitan Kernesky will save you.
Malakov ignored the jibe and kept on his course. Soon he was
exiting through a side door of the main building, heading toward
a smaller structure. The frigid wind howled and blew snow flurries
around him in the finest tradition of a Khadoran winter, but Malakovs
coat was proof against the cold, and he only pulled his collar higher.
This part of the Druzhina campus, near the dormitories, was
almost deserted. Most students would be taking this short break
before yard exercises to drink something hot or to compensate for a
missed breakfast. Malakov had more important tasks on his mind.
Even so, he noted a handful of figures scurrying into and out of
the dormitory building with books in hand. Without staring, he
committed their faces to memory. It was useful to know who was
lagging behind in their classwork.
At last he reached the kadet post office, shaking snow off his coat
before going inside. The room was warm, dry, and deserted except for
the attendant with whom Malakov exchanged an automatic greeting.
Rows of letter boxes lined the walls, some placed so high they were
accessible only with a ladder. In theory they were arranged alphabetically,
but kadets from more powerful families could always find ways to have
their boxes moved to a lower shelf. Those few kadets with no family
connections to speak of sometimes did not get one at all.
Malakov found his box just a little higher on the wall than
was comfortable to reach. He unlocked it and withdrew a letter
bearing the Trevanik family seal. Most would have retired to
the dormitories to read private correspondence, but Malakov
understood that a living space shared with nearly a hundred other
kadets would give far less privacy than an empty post office.
He broke the wax seal and opened the letter. The normally elegant
hand of Levanid Trevanik was cramped and difficult to read in places.
122
Andrei, my friend,
I apologize for the tardiness of my response. Things have
been difficult. As far as I know, not a single adult member of
my family is present in Dorognia at the moment, and there are
certain issues of managing the estates that require a Trevaniks
personal attention. With my mother and siblings traveling
constantly, those decisions are sent to me, though I shall not
be made Great Prince for some timeif at all. I take on such
duties gladly, but combined with my responsibilities to the
Third Border Legion, they have taxed me.
But why am I afraid to write of what actually troubles me?
Avoiding the issue will not make it less real. You have heard
of my fathers disgrace by now, I am sure. I receive news of his
trial from my family every day, and there is nothing I can do.
Even now, my mother and siblings travel to the home of every
great noble in Khador, using every bit of influence they have to
help Father. They will never give up hope, no matter how slim,
that his life can be saved.
I know he is not an evil man. Smuggling cortexes to the
Protectorate was an act of faith to him, something that both
served Menoth and weakened our enemies in Cygnar. It is an
act I can understand, if not condone. No doubt I would find
myself on trial as well if such sentiments reached Section Three
in the wrong context. I only wish I had found out what my
father was doing before they did. I could have stopped him
without this public spectacle.
Enough of my troubles. I have no doubt you will do well in
your academics and exercises this year. The man I know could
not do otherwise. I was pleased to hear your investments into
heavy rail manufacturing have borne fruit. Many believed
that industry could expand no further, but the need for reliable
supply lines to the front has proven them all fools.
Your friend,
Levanid Trevanik
123
Malakov folded the letter carefully and tossed it into the brazier. It
would not do to keep such correspondence on his person, and there
was nowhere discreet enough in the dormitory. He had been told of
Great Prince Trevaniks trial; it had been the talk of the academy. It
meant Levanid would inherit far sooner than expected, though there
was the risk of his title being revoked permanently. It also meant
Levanids father was going to be executed for treason.
Malakov took out a silver pocket watch and glanced at it. He had
no time to send a response; he had spent too long reading the letter
already. He dropped a few coins before the attendantit always paid
to be on good terms with the mail staffand hurried outside. It
would not do to be seen running for the yard, but this side of the
Druzhina was empty enough for Malakov to risk lengthening his
stride.
The starting whistle had not yet sounded when he reached the
group of several dozen kadets milling about their equipment lockers
beside the training yard. Malakov kept his pace steady and measured.
There was a careful art to pressing through a crowd, and Malakov
had learned a cold stare could entice the weak-willed to move aside
more efficiently than brute strength could.
Malakovs locker was located in the academy armory, a low
building with thick walls and heavy steel doors. The structures
interior echoed with the clangs and whistles of heavy machinery.
Furnace heat enveloped Malakov in sharp contrast to the subzero
outdoors, and smoke filled his nostrils. Most of the armory
was taken up by a dozen students in the heavy metal plates of
Man-O-War armor. Grizzled mechanics fastened hoses to the steampowered armor and shoveled coal into waiting hoppers.
Stephan hefted the grenade launcher of a Bombardier, steam
hissing from the pipes across his arms. He gave Malakov a nod before
going back to his work, checking over the weapons trigger assembly
124
and ammunition feed. The underslung chain blade roared to life

when he tested the controls.
Malakov returned the nod without stopping. He walked quickly
to his equipment locker, noting with irritation that the three other
warcaster kadets for the days exercise had already arrived. They
were in the process of donning their warcaster armor, assisted by
attendants with interchangeable faces. Malakov put them out of his
mind. Absolute focus was necessary if he did not want to be the last
of them ready on the yard.
The armor inside his locker was well cared for, but nothing could
disguise its age. Minor dents and scrapes covered the surface, hidden
only by a thin veneer of red paint. Malakov brought out the armor,
then stood back to let a waiting attendant fill the hopper with coal
and the boiler with water.
Satisfied, Malakov donned the chest and torso pieces with
practiced speed. The same attendant stood close by, assisting with
straps and buckles that were out of arms reach. Malakov nodded to
the man, who took up a long match and lit the small firebox.
Warcaster armor was expensive, and the Druzhina recycled the
few suits in its arsenal, trying for a best fit. Kadets with sufficient
wealth might commission new armor, but otherwise they had to
wait until after graduation and promotion. This suit of armor
had been designed for someone shorter and wider. It pressed in
at Malakovs shoulders and left too much room at the waist. He
grimaced and bent to attach the leg coverings. He saved the arms
for last, knowing they would limit his mobility the most. When
the last piece was in place, he flicked on the switch to start the
arcane turbine. That much worked as good as new, and his power
field hummed to life around him as steam rushed from the boiler.
He adjusted a dial to keep the turbine at low power, just enough to
offset the armors weight, so as not to flood the armory with smoke.
125
He looked around in satisfaction. The other second-years were

still fastening the last buckles on their armor or trying to start their
turbines. One kadet had made the mistake of starting with his arm
pieces, and now he struggled to fasten on the rest of the armor.
Malakov dismissed the others from his mind, taking up his training
sword in one hand. The weapons edge was blunted, and it carried
just enough basic mechanika so he could channel his will through
it. With his other hand he slid a training pistol into its holster at his
waist. It was loaded only with wax shot, enough to sting and bruise
without causing real damage. Additional ammunition went into a
leather bandolier, each wax round marked with yellow paint so it
could be not be confused with the real thing.
With all preparations finished, Malakov walked out onto the
training yard. He moved more easily with the power field active,
but the armor pressed painfully into his shoulders. He pushed the
discomfort aside, determined to bear it. His investments might be
able to buy him a good coat and a better letter box, but new warcaster
armor would be outside his means for some time.
The yard itself was a square of ground divided into lanes about
a hundred paces long. Poured concrete obstacles dotted each lane:
walls nearly the height of a man and trenches that could break a
kadets ankle. Malakov knew there would be more than just static
targets waiting for him. Exhaust smoke rising from the yard hinted
at the tests he would face. A set of benches sat behind heavy netting
on one side. A number of instructors and senior students took their
places to watch, the former to assess and the latter to study for tests
of their own.
Across the yard from the spectator benches lay a separate
course with higher concrete barriers and deeper trenches. A
team of five kadets in Man-O-War armor strode out to the
second course with Stephan in the lead.
126
Malakov was the first of the warcasters in training to emerge, and

he felt Kapitan Kerneskys calculating gaze on him from the spectator
benches. Outside the armory stood a row of bulky laborjacks. Thin
wisps of black drifted from their smokestacks, and their relatively
simple cortexes awaited command.
The training sergeant acknowledged Malakov with a sharp salute.
Kadet Malakov, choose your jack.
Malakov nodded and made a show of inspecting the waiting
machines, though he had already made his choice. There were
important officers among the spectators, after all, and he wouldnt
want them to think he was selecting a machine arbitrarily.
Two of the laborjacks were armed with heavy, blunted axes.
The left fist of each jack was empty to simulate the capabilities
of a Juggernaut warjack. A third carried a light bombard, its wax
shot a substitute for the explosive rounds fired by the sought-after
Destroyer. Of course, any of the massive weapons could be deadly if
turned against a human, so all jacks used for training had locks put
in place to prevent them from attacking one of the kadets.
Malakov settled on the fourth jack, a machine with no weapons
besides its heavy fists. He did not see the lack of a weapon as a
deficiency; the fists opened up broader tactical options. He could also
see the machine was missing several armored plates in less vital areas,
making it lighter and therefore marginally faster. A small risk, but
he wanted speed. He indicated his choice just as the other warcaster
kadets were emerging onto the yard, their armor finally donned and
active. The sergeant raised an eyebrow and shrugged. Your choice,
Kadet.
Malakov reached out with his mind to touch the jacks cortex. It
responded slowly to his mental commands, taking one ponderous
step forward after another. He allowed himself a moment to imagine
what it would be like to command the more advanced cortex found in
127
a warjack, what it would be like to control a machine that responded

to his thoughts like an extension of his own body.
Thundering explosions broke Malakov from his thoughts. On the
edge of his vision, he saw Stephan and the other Man-O-War kadets
firing their grenades at heavy concrete targets, quickly reducing them
to rubble. Malakov suppressed a surge of jealousy. The right to train
with real military equipment would be denied him another year at
least.
The other warcaster kadets chose from the remaining laborjacks.
The training sergeant lined them up, one to each lane. There were
no shouted instructions, for they knew what they had to do: deal
with each test in their path and reach the end before the others. The
sergeant raised his starting pistol. Begin!
Malakov commanded his jack into a full run while he jogged
a few paces behind. The hulking machine surged over the first low
wall with ease, barely slowing when it broke away large chunks of
concrete as it went over and through. Malakov struggled to follow
suit. The armors ill-fitting shoulders made it painful to pull himself
up, and he landed in a heap on the other side.
The first test awaited them: a Winter Guard jack marshal in
training standing beside a laborjack of her own. The woman looked
surprised as Malakovs machine cleared the barrier without breaking
its stride. Malakov sent the mental command to attack before he was
even back on his feet. Part of his consciousness shifted to the jacks
point of view, and he guided its heavy fists to their target.
The older student shouted her own command to attack, but too
late. The delay of a verbal signal was too great. Malakovs jack bore
down, striking with both fists. The opposing jack reeled from the
impact, trying to keep its footing. Part of Malakovs mind saw the
damaged jack rush forward as his own machine head-butted it,
driving the enemy to the ground, where it struggled to rise.
128
Malakov stood upright now, and he rushed the older student, who
was urging her jack to its feet. Malakovs blade swept his opponents
rushed parry aside and dealt a stinging blow to her unarmored
shoulder. She tried a counter-stroke, but Malakov sidestepped and
struck again, this time landing a blow above the knee and the greave
that protected it.
The Winter Guard warcaster stumbled and held up her hands in
surrender. Malakov nodded and withdrew his weapon. He spared a
quick glance at the womans laborjack, noting with satisfaction that
it would need significant repair before it could be used again.
When Malakov cleared the next barrier, four men in the light
armor of the Winter Guard Infantry rushed him at once. They
carried blunted hand axes and had blunderbusses strapped across
their backs. Malakov knocked the first man down with his opening
blow and dodged the second. These men had no jack of their own,
which meant he could not use his against them.
The third and fourth men were backing off, raising blunderbusses
to their shoulders. Malakov darted forward and grabbed the
second man, who was still off balance from his earlier strike. The
blunderbusses fired. Malakov smiled as the second man groaned,
two heavy wax shots thudding into his back. He released his grip and
drew his pistol as the shooters were reloading. A wax round brought
down the third man. Malakov reloaded and switched targets, but
instead of firing, his pistol made only a single click.
Malakov dropped the pistol and charged. He slashed with his
sword, striking the last mans blunderbuss half a second before it
went off, knocking aside the barrel so the shot discharged over his
head.
Recoil and the force of Malakovs swing combined to send the
blunderbuss thudding to the ground. The weapons owner dived for
it. Malakov raised his hand and focused. Glowing runes burst into
129
the air around him, and a knife-edged wind rushed toward the fallen
blunderbuss. The spell cut through metal and wood, severing the
weapon neatly in two.
Malakov shoved past his last opponent while the man was staring
at his destroyed blunderbuss. The next test was a complicated obstacle
course of high walls and bent rail track. The obstructions were small
enough for him to weave between, but his jack had more difficulty
and moved at a snails pace. Malakov stood at the far end and focused
on a new spell. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he formed the runes.
The spell was difficult, and he had difficulty implementing it quickly
in combat despite having practiced for weeks.
After a few seconds, the runes burst into existence around the
jacks feet. Spurred on by this magic, the machine increased it speed
beyond anything it could achieve under its own power, enabling it
to clear the last obstacle with a few long strides. Pushed past their
limits, the servos in its legs made a grinding hiss as it came to rest,
but Malakov noted that so far the damage was superficial.
The final stretch was open ground all the way to the finish line,
where another training sergeant waited. The four lanes merged here,
and Malakov realized he was only a few paces ahead of the other
second-years. The kadet on his right, a stocky woman with the
calloused hands of a farmer, exploded out from her lane and charged
at him. Her jack raised its blunted axe, bringing it down on his
machine.
Malakov had just enough time to register the impact of the
other kadets jack on his own before the woman was on him,
sword raised high to deliver a crude but powerful stroke. He
met her strike with his blade and mentally commanded his jack
to retaliate against the other machine. From the corner of his
eye, he saw the last two kadets likewise engaged in combat. His
opponent struck with great force, driving him back. He tried a
130
quick counter, but the armor constricted him, making it easy for
her to dodge.
She swung at his legs again with more raw strength than refined
technique. Malakov fought to control his frustration. He could feel
the power of her strikes all the way down his arms when he parried,
but she lacked speed and precision. He should have been able to
outmaneuver her, but the ill-fitting armor slowed him down.
The other kadets jack struck again, crushing an arm of Malakovs
machine. The warcaster herself attacked in the same moment.
Malakov cursed as his power field depleted itself absorbing the blow.
He had been unprepared for the swiftness of the attack, and he was
wasting time. He pulled his concentration from his own machine,
leaving it to fend for itself. It was too badly damaged to win, and
Malakov knew there was only one way left to finish this fight. He
had to defeat the other kadet before his jack could no longer fight,
or hed be forced to forfeit.
Before his opponent could fully recover from her last attack,
Malakov charged forward. Expecting him to be on the defensive
with his jack so badly damaged, she was unprepared and fell
back under the assault. He focused all his will into his swords
primitive mechanika, striking again and again to overcome her
power field.
With a final surge of energy, Malakov swept her sword aside
and held his own blade to her throat. She raised her hands, and
her jacks arms fell to its sides. Malakov turned in time to see one
of the two remaining kadets standing just across the finish line.
He wanted to shout in frustration. He could not stop himself from
replaying the fight in his mind, noting every point at which the illfitting armor had slowed him down, cost him precious seconds. After
a moment, Malakov managed to put on a veneer of civility, saluting
the sergeant and even shaking hands with the winning kadet.
131
Across the yard, Stephans revving chain blade was tearing through
another laborjack painted the blue and gold of Cygnar. He nodded
to Malakov, but the young warcaster was too frustrated to return
the gesture. He waited only as long as he had to for the sergeant
to dismiss them, then stormed back to the armory. He removed
his armor as quickly as he could, determined to spend as little time
around the other kadets as possible.
Outside, Kerneskys voice stopped Malakov dead in his tracks. I
expected you to win, Kadet Malakov.
He turned to face the stony expression of his instructor. Give me
armor that fits, Kapitan, and well see.
Malakov might have imagined it, but for a moment he thought
one corner of her mouth turned up. So you say, Kadet. She swept
past him, back toward the Druzhina proper, turning at the last
moment to look back at him. Dont bring your foul mood to the
meeting tonight. We have important matters to discuss.
Malakov performed adequately in the rest of his classes for the day.
He meant to send a letter to Levanid, but that would mean either
telling him of the days unacceptable events or deliberately choosing
not to tell him, and he found himself unwilling to do either. He met
with Stephan just long enough to confirm the time and place of the
meeting then went about his business.
When the last class let out, Malakov returned to his dormitory
and changed. Many of the other kadets were shedding their uniforms
for civilian clothes so they might let off steam in the less reputable
parts of Korsk.
Malakov removed his well-tailored military coat and put on a
nondescript brown jacket. Instead of joining the crowd heading
out for carousing, he moved quietly toward an unused storage
building. He had become quite practiced at this, and none of
the other kadets seemed to notice his disappearance.
132
Stephan met him at the buildings side entrance, also wearing

plain clothing. They nodded to each other and stepped inside. Light
shone under the door of an interior room, far from any windows.
A man stood watch just inside the door. In the dim light Malakov
recognized him as Valise Gregov, a third-year kadet he occasionally
saw in the halls. Stephan and Malakov nodded to him, and he swept
them inside before closing the door. Lanterns burned around the
room, and a furnace in one corner kept the nighttime cold at bay. A
table and thirteen chairs were the only other furnishings.
Nine men and women waited inside. Most of them Malakov
knew from the Druzhina: five kadets and two instructors. The last
two, a man and a woman, were civilians from Korsk. They had
attended regularly as long as Malakov had been present, and he
believed them to be trusted agents of significant merchant-princes
known as kayazy, who maintained financial arrangements with the
other members. He, Stephan, and Gregov brought the number to
one fewer than there were chairs. A door on the far side swung open,
and Yulia Kernesky stepped inside. Then they were thirteen. Now
that were all here, Kernesky said, I call this meeting of the Free
Coin Society, Druzhina chapter, to order.
They took their seats, Kernesky at the head of the table, Stephan
and Malakov on either side. Malakov could sense hostility from some
of the others at his close proximity to their leader, even though he
had attended half a dozen such meetings. That the others could not
see the value he brought was their own loss. They were all men and
women of means, either from their own fortunes or through family
ties, but they hung on Kerneskys every word. She commanded here,
and most of the others contended fiercely for her favor.
The two kayazy agents seemed more at ease. They gave Kernesky
their attention when she spoke, but their expressions bespoke respect
for an equal rather than complete devotion. One of them, a round-
133
faced man who went by Solov, rapped his knuckles on the table,
requesting leave to speak. His suit had the understated elegance of
significant wealth. Kernesky acknowledged him with a nod.
We have it from reliable sources that a new law will soon be
put before Great Princess Gravnoy in Gorzytska, Solov said. It will
require any new iron mines be approved by someone with the rank
of count or higher before excavation can begin. I dont need to tell
you how much damage that would do to the arms industry, at a time
when Khador needs a steady supply of steel more than it ever has.
Malakov knew enough to guess at the potential fallout. Khadors
economic bureaucracy was already a tangled web. Adding the
requirement of permission from a high-ranking noble would create
shortages that could be ill afforded.
Disbelieving murmurs sprang up around the table. A
marksmanship instructor named Marina Kovpak spoke up. You cant
be serious. Blaustavya would never allow it. It goes against everything
hes accomplished. Several others voiced angry agreement.
Kernesky silenced them all with a look. Save your outrage. This
would not have been brought to our attention if it did not require
action.
Indeed, said the woman seated beside Solov. Malakov knew her
only as Anna. Its true the great vizier would be opposed to such a
damaging law, but he cannot be everywhere. Great Princess Gravnoy
is intent on consolidating power in her domain, and many of her
closest advisers have worked to convince her this law will help. Of
course, all it will really do is line the pockets of a few well-positioned
nobles. She paused for breath. Needless to say, the law would
severely endanger the worth of several key investments in Gorzytska.
Malakov listened carefully. The money he had put into Gorzytska
steel was the largest factor in keeping his family out of financial ruin.
Kernesky reasserted her control of the meeting. Then the solution
134
is simple, if challenging. Gravnoy maintains her power through a vast

network of political alliances, much of which stretches outside her
lands. If we apply pressure to those she depends on, the law can be
made very unappealing. She looked at Solov and Anna. However,
I doubt we can accomplish such a task alone.
Indeed, Solov said. Other chapters are working toward the
same goal. No one wants to see the nobility gain more control in
Gorzytska. This time there were murmurs of agreement. A plan had
been put forth, and the men and women around the table bent their
minds to the task of choosing who among Great Princess Gravnoys
allies would be the most tractable.
Malakov remained silent except to give solicited advice. He was
as interested in watching the Free Coins work as he was in the final
result. He was still appraising just how influential this group truly
was. So far, he had been surprised and impressed. What he had
expected to be a trivial society of wealthy sons and daughters of the
middle class had proven to be something more, with powerful and
far-reaching allies. Most of those around him did not possess a drop
of noble blood, yet they casually discussed manipulating individuals
who had been born to rule. When Kernesky asked what resources
were available, the sums suggested were more than some landed
viscounts would see in a year. Even Stephan and the other kadets
were generous for the cause, likely promising funds drawn from
families with little idea of how it was being spent.
Malakov paid the same close attention he did in his classes.
Learning how the Free Coins operated could be as important as any
military training to someone who intended to become a person of
influence. This was the new Khador, a nation ruled by coin instead
of through the prestige and blunt politics the nobles were used to.
What of the Trevanik family? Stephan asked, catching Malakovs
attention during a lull in the conversation. Gravnoy owes them
135
many favors, and Boris Trevanik is in a particular position to need

our help.
Malakov looked hard at the upperclassman; he did not like being
manipulated, and this smelled of it. Stephan must know of Malakovs
friendship with Levanid Trevanik, the man next in line for rulership
of Dorognia. If he wanted an introduction, he should say so.
Kernesky shook her head. No. Well give no help to a traitor like
Boris Trevanik.
Perhaps his son, then? Anna said. She looked thoughtful. The
young mans position will be vulnerable when he takes his fathers
seat.
Malakov considered speaking up. Being part of the Free Coins
had benefited him a great deal, but he did not completely trust Solov
or Anna. Should he risk revealing his connection to Levanid?
Kerneskys next words made a decision unnecessary. Perhaps, but
we have already been here longer than we should. Some of us will
be missed soon. Malakov looked at his pocket watch in surprise,
noting several hours had passed. Kadets would be returning from
their night out soon, and he would be missed if he were not among
them.
Kernesky stood. We shall speak more of this another day. Until
then, I call this meeting to an end. Good fortune be with you all.
Malakov awoke early the next morning, intent on responding to
Levanids letter before the day truly began. The Free Coins meeting
was fresh in his mind, but he pushed it aside. Their next meeting was
not for more than a week, and he had more immediate concerns.
The post office was as empty in the predawn hour as it was during
the break between classes. Out of habit, Malakov checked his box
before settling in to write. He was surprised to find another letter,
136
also sealed with the Trevanik crest. He opened it quickly, curious

what would cause his friend to send a second message in such quick
succession.
Andrei,
The verdict arrived this afternoon, after I had sent the
previous letter to you. My father is to be executed. I knew this
to be unavoidable, but it is definite now. There is nothing I, my
family, or even the other Great Princes can do to save him.
I have been assured by a letter from Great Vizier Blaustavya
that I will become great prince in my fathers place once
everything is sorted out, and I know that will be a relief to my
mother. There were rumors Dorognia would be permanently
given over to a regency.
I still believe my father is a good man. I only wish I could
have stopped him without dragging my familys name through
the mud.
I have duties to attend to, but these words needed to be said.
Keep watchful, my friend.
Levanid
Malakov read the letter twice. It made his problems seem
small. How would he feel if his sister were convicted of such
a crime and her fortune came to him? Would he continue to
trumpet her patriotism as Levanid had his fathers? He could
not help noting Levanids inheritance was now secure. A man
on his way to a great princedom, even a tarnished one, was a
powerful friend to haveunless, of course, he were somehow
implicated in his fathers crimes. As unlikely as Malakov thought
the possibility, it troubled him nonetheless.
137
He sat down at one of the small writing desks and put pen to
paper.
Levanid,
I have no words to alleviate your grief. I will not waste your
time with empty comforts, except to say I agree; this was not a
matter to be dragged before the eyes of all. If I or my family can
assist in the days ahead, we shall. My sister holds your father in
high esteem, whatever his crimes, and she will not hesitate to
honor my offer.
Andrei
He looked at the drying ink. It was a shorter letter than he
had intended to write, but now was not the time for extended
correspondence on day-to-day life at the Druzhina. He folded the
letter, placed it within an envelope, sealed it, and pressed a few more
coins than were necessary into the clerks hand. A little insurance
always helped to make sure a letter reached its intended destination.
Malakov could not help but dwell on Levanids letter over the
next three days. He reminded himself that it was not his fight, that
Boris Trevanik was receiving the justice he deserved, but still the
situation ate at him. No further letters came from Levanid, but that
was not in itself surprising. In winter it could take weeks for mail to
travel even short distances.
Other kadets seemed to take Malakovs sour mood as evidence
he was brooding over what had happened on the training yard,
and they avoided him even more than usual. Stephan, too, kept
his distance, for which Malakov was grateful. He did not mind the
138
upperclassmans company, but Stephan was not someone he allowed

himself to confide in. Levanid had been one of the few.
It wasnt until the third day that Malakov even saw Stephan,
as Kerneskys advanced tactics class was the only one they shared.
Malakov had already gone through classes on history and geography
that morning, subjects he had no difficulty with. Children of families
like his were steeped in the exploits of Khador and the Khardic
Empire from an early age, and anyone serious about expanding their
finances had to have a good knowledge of western Immorens lands.
It was after the second class, during the few minutes of downtime
kadets were allowed, that Stephan approached him.
You look preoccupied, the red-haired upperclassman said. I
hope you arent still thinking about what happened at the training
yard.
Malakov shook his head. Personal business.
I understand, Stephan said with a nod. He lowered his voice.
I thought I should let you know Kapitan Kernesky is organizing a
field training exercise. Both of us thought you could make good use
of the experience, something to give you an edge in your third year.
Malakov studied Stephans face. He was holding something back,
or hed have been more direct. I am honored the kapitan thought
of me, he said cautiously. Something did not go as planned? The
idea of a real exercise outside the Druzhinas walls was more than
tempting, but it paid to be careful.
Stephan spread his hands. Im afraid Kapitan Kerneskys request
to have you assigned was denied by Kommandant Azarov, on the
grounds that only third-years and higher may attend field exercises.
The kapitan thought an exception could be made for someone with
your marks, but the kommandant wouldnt budge. The two of them
havent always gotten along, Im afraid.
Malakovs jaw clenched in frustration. What was the point in
139
telling him he had been denied an honor he had not known about? He
could not stop himself from imagining the advantages of beginning
his third year with field experience under his belt. At the very least
it would ensure no one remembered his failure in the training yard.
Ill speak with the kommandant, Malakov said after a moment.
He served with my father. I can make him see reason. He spoke
with absolute confidence, as if the outcome were assured, although
inwardly he felt some doubt as to whether he could persuade the
man, who could be stubborn. Where is the exercise planned to take
place?
Fort Talosk, with the Third Border Legion, Stephan said.
Something to give us kadets a real idea of active military life without
too much danger. He smiled and slapped Malakov on the back.
Wed love to have you with us. Good luck.
Malakov let the upperclassman walk away. The Third Border
Legionwhere Levanid was stationed. Was it a coincidence?
Unlikely. Kernesky was too deliberate for that. They meant to
convince Levanid to allow them further access to the resources that
would soon be part of his domain, and it would be easier to secure a
meeting if Malakov were there.
Some of Malakovs frustration faded, replaced by calculation as he
analyzed the situation. Kernesky, Stephan, and the Free Coins had
been useful to him. They had helped increase his financial holdings
severalfold, and they would hand him the keys to greater power once
he left the Druzhina. He did not like being treated like a cog in their
plans, but the prospect of field training in his second year was too
valuable to pass up. He could also ensure Levanid benefited equally
from whatever deal the Free Coins intended to strike.
The whistle signaling the start of the next class sounded. Malakov
walked through the crowd of other kadets, making sure his face
projected confidence. All this would be moot if he could not convince
140
the kommandant to send him on the training expedition. That was

what he needed to focus on.
Malakov went straight to his dormitory after the days final class.
The kommandant had agreed to his request for a meeting, and he
intended to look presentable. He donned his best uniform and
shined the kadet insignia on the collar. He shaved and even brought
out the ornate saber given to him as a going-away gift by his father.
It was a weapon passed down in his family for generations, and
each new owner left some mark on it. Engravings commissioned
by Malakovs grandfather adorned the silver hilt, and patterns on
the sheath commemorated every major battle his family had fought
in. Malakov had no illusions the saber was a better weapon for all
the decoration; its blade was plain steel like any other sword, but he
understood the value of appearances.
Kommandant Fedir Azarovs large office bore little in the way of
decoration. A Khadoran flag hung across most of one wall, and an
impressive fireplace blazed orange. The rooms only other notable
feature was Azarovs formidable desk, a construction of iron and
dark hardwood that looked to belong more on a battlefield than in
an academy office. The kommandant was a big man, whose black
hair and curly mustache were starting to go grey. His well-fitted
uniform showed a soldiers physique. He did not rise from his desk
when Malakov entered, but he smiled and his voice was welcoming.
Kadet Malakov. I expected you might come see me. Sit down. He
took a bottle of vyatka from his desk and poured two glasses.
Malakov sat and took one of the glasses. Thank you,
Kommandant. They toasted the empress health and drank the
burning liquid. My father sends his best wishes, Malakov said
after the alcohol had been given a moment to settle.
141
Azarov poured another drink for both of them. Malakov only

sipped at the glass this time. The kommandant did not seem to
notice. I have not heard from him in some time. How is he? Civilian
life keeping him busy?
Malakov nodded. Now more than ever, sir. He spends more and
more time preparing my sister to lead the family.
The kommandants mouth turned up in a bittersweet smile. It
seems all men our age do is make preparations for the days we are
no longer around. I hope hes teaching her how to defend the family
lands as well as how to administer them. Too many nobles spend all
their time trying to emulate the kayazy.
Malakov wondered if Azarov understood exactly how important
financial power was to maintaining a strong family. You can be
sure, Kommandant, Katya is learning the sword as much as the pen.
The only reason she isnt enrolled in the Druzhina is that Father
wanted to oversee her training personally. If Malakov felt a twinge
of resentment, he kept it out of his voice.
She has a good teacher, then, Azarov said, finishing his glass.
Your father was an impressive officer. Has he ever told you about
our encounter with Rhulic mercenaries on the road to Hellpass?
No, sir, Malakov said. It was a lie, of course. His father never
missed a chance to regale the family with stories of war, and the
Rhulic engagement was a favorite. Malakov let the kommandant
tell the story, recounting the avalanche that nearly wiped out both
forces and how they were eventually left to fight against the dwarves
with nothing but half a dozen Winter Guard infantry and a pair of
damaged Berserker warjacks.
It was a good story, one Malakov might have enjoyed if he had
not heard it a hundred times already. He kept careful track of the
kommandants drinks while slowly sipping on his own. Eventually
the battle against the dwarves wound down, ending in a glorious
142
victory for Khador, as it always did. What Malakov found more

interesting was how the kommandant told the story, with longing in
his voice. This was a man who missed his days in the field. That was
something to work with.
Azarov slowly emerged from his reverie. He coughed and took
another drink. Some of the fire was gone from his voice when he
spoke again. Of course, that was the old days. Youll no doubt have
stories of your own after you graduate.
Malakov seized the opening. Actually, sir, my career is why I
wanted to talk to you. He waited a moment, just long enough to
give the kommandant time to wonder at his meaning. It would
mean a great deal to my family if you allowed me to go on Kapitan
Kerneskys training exercise.
Understanding and anger dawned in the kommandants eyes,
clouded only somewhat by alcohol. Ah. The reason for your visit
becomes clear. That would be highly irregular, Kadet Malakov. Those
slots are reserved for upperclassmen for a reason.
I understand that, sir. But if you would, please hear me out.
Malakov knew this was delicate, as the man might be touchy after
feeling imposed upon. My marks are higher than those of half the
upperclassmen who are going. Also, I have already qualified for the
kapitans advanced tactics class a year early. She has every confidence
in me. I would not ask you for this favor if it were not important.
Classroom training is just not enough in itself.
The kommandant frowned, and the seconds ticked by. Malakov
began to wonder if hed made a mistake.
When Azarov spoke next, irritation colored his voice. Ive already
given my reasons to Kapitan Kernesky. Coming to me directly doesnt
change them. You overstep your bounds here, Kadet. My friendship
with your father does not give you leave to ignore the rules.
Malakov could see his chance slipping away. In addition to his
143
admonishment of Malakovs actions, Azarov had said Kerneskys

name in a way that told Malakov he shouldnt mention the kapitan
again.
Sir, I wasnt sure if I should say anything, but Ive noticed some
of the first- and second-years... He trailed off, as if hesitant to
reveal what was on his mind.
Spit it out, Kadet Malakov, the kommandant snapped.
Theres a feeling among some of them that the first two years here
dont matter, so long as they scrape by, Malakov said, pleased at the
smoothness of his fabrication. They feel the only training that really
counts starts in the third year. I thought that by letting someone like
me on a field exercise, you could show good performance has its
rewards.
Azarovs voice rose. If any kadets at the Druzhina are not fully
applying themselves, they will regret it. We do not suffer laziness
here.
Anger was not the reaction Malakov had hoped for, but he could
work with it. I agree, sir. The graduates of this academy will be the
ones to defend our nation from our enemies. It sickens me that not
everyone takes the responsibility as seriously as they should. It was
not wholly a lie. He could think of several kadets who would prefer
a night out in Korsk to hours of study.
Give me names, Malakov, the kommandant said. He was
incensed by the idea of students neglecting their work under
his watch. Malakov hoped he could channel those feelings in the
direction he needed.
I will, sir, Malakov said, if you think that is the best way to
handle the problem. He rushed ahead, not giving Azarov time to
fully consider what he was saying. Some could be made examples
of, but that would anger their families and cause trouble for the
academy. Sending me on the field exercise might have more impact.
144
Azarov gave Malakov a considering look. How so, Kadet?

Malakov knew he was at the end game. Show them what their
lack of effort costs them. Any of them could have been in my place, if
theyd properly applied themselves. They are a competitive group by
nature, and it will eat at them and remind them of what they might
have done.
The kommandant was quiet for a few moments. Finally he said,
There may be some truth in what you say, though I do not approve
of your impropriety in presenting it to me as you have. Still, boldness
has its place in command. Ill send the authorization to Kapitan
Kernesky in the morning.
Malakov flushed with victory but kept his expression neutral.
He managed a restrained nod. Thank you, sir. He waited for a
dismissal.
The kommandant stood. You were friends with Levanid Trevanik
before he graduated, yes?
Malakov nodded, caution again taking over. Yes, sir. I was hoping
I might see him during the exercise.
The kommandant nodded. Shame whats happening with his
father. None of us knew, and then suddenly Section Three has all the
evidence they need to execute a great prince. A shame. He shook his
head. But it shows even the mighty are subject to the reach of the
great vizier, a reminder some in the capital may have needed. That
will be all, Kadet Malakov.
In the hallway outside, Malakov shook his head to clear it.
Something about what the kommandant had said, or perhaps the
way he had said it, made him uneasy. This was a victory. He hurried to
the post office and sent a hastily written letter to Levanid, informing
him of the upcoming exercise and expressing the hope they might
have a chance to meet. He had difficulty falling asleep that night.
145
Arranging logistics for the field expedition took the better part
of a weekfar longer than Malakov would have preferred. There
were authorizations to be signed, supplies and equipment to be
requisitioned, and class schedules to be rearranged to make the
operation come together.
A crowd of third- and fourth-years had already gathered at the
Druzhina rail station by the time Malakov arrived on the day of their
departure. He had not slept well the night before; in fact, hed barely
had time to gather his gear before rushing out of the dormitory in
a manner he swore never to repeat. Hurrying about did not befit
someone with Malakovs aspirations.
Stephan caught him at the crowds edge, relief evident on his
face. We were starting to think you werent coming. This waythe
kapitan wants a word. Malakov allowed himself to be led around
the other kadets and toward a private car near the end of the train.
Weapons and equipment, including several suits of Man-O-War
armor, were being loaded into the freight cars ahead of it.
The cars interior was plainly appointed: a wooden table, several
chairs, and a few sleeping bunks comprised most of the furnishings,
except for a freestanding armoire that looked entirely out of place.
A map of western Immoren hung on one wall beside the Khadoran
flag.
Kapitan Yulia Kernesky stood waiting for them, arms crossed. She
wore the minimal amount of decoration required for an officer of her
rank; indeed, her uniform barely distinguished her from a rank-andfile soldier. Malakov and Stephan saluted.
Kernesky returned the salute. She nodded to Malakov with the
hint of a smile on her face. Good job with the kommandant. Its
good to see effort and hard work rewarded. She looked to Stephan.
146
Youll be leading the Man-O-War kadets on maneuvers. This is your

chance to practice officer duties. Make it count.
Yes, maam! Stephan said, enthusiasm unmasked in his voice.
Kernesky looked back to Malakov. I understand Kapitan
Trevanik is a friend of yours. No doubt he can make introductions
for you that will be beneficial after you graduate.
Her latest mention of Levanid only reinforced Malakovs
suspicions. He was more certain than ever that the two of them
wished to exploit his friendship. He straightened and looked
Kernesky in the eyes. I understand the opportunity youve given
me, maam, but I have to know: what do the Free Coins want with
Levanid? He watched her face for a reaction, but it remained cold
and expressionless.
Stephan looked at Malakov. What makes you think we want
anything with him?
I have ears, Stephan, Malakov said. You brought Dorognia up
in the meeting, and within weeks we are going on a field exercise to
the fort where Levanid is stationed? Is it a coincidence all of this is
happening when his father is on trial for treason?
Stephan opened his mouth to say more, but Kernesky cut him off
with a shake of her head. We do not lie to our own, Stephan. She
turned to Malakov. It is true. We do seek a meeting with Kapitan
Trevanikone that can benefit all of us, and our mutual friends.
Malakov had hoped she would say exactly that, but he did not
allow relief to override caution. If that is the case, why not tell me
from the start?
If it were my decision alone, I would have, Kernesky said. She
spoke in the same tone she used to command attention from her
students. But the Free Coins act together, and it took me some time
to convince the others of the opportunity Trevanik presents.
Malakov kept his eyes locked on the kapitans. Opportunity?
147
Yes, Kernesky said. Its no secret the Free Coins hold little
affection for great princes, who work for their own ambitions more
than they do for the good of the nation. Boris Trevaniks crimes
demonstrate that clearly enough, but Levanid is still young. With
our help, he can become a true patriot. I had to persuade the others
it was worth the risk to bring him into the folda process that will
go much more smoothly if you speak on our behalf.
Malakov considered the kapitans words. Levanid would have
a hard enough time overcoming his fathers disgrace; perhaps
the support of the Free Coins would benefit him. He nodded. I
understand. Please know that my suspicion was fueled only by my
concern for my friend.
Kernesky nodded. Malakov turned to go, but the kapitans voice
stopped him. A moment, Kadet Malakov. She moved to the
armoire. Your recent trouble in the training yard was unacceptable.
No member of the Free Coins should fight in substandard armor.
She opened the tall doors to reveal a shining new suit of warcaster
armor, its bright-red paint still unblemished.
Malakov stared. The armor looked like it been tailored for him,
with wide shoulders and a slim waist. A mechanikal sword hung
beside it, hilt and blade measured precisely to match his preferred
length. All together it must have cost a small fortunefar more than
he could have afforded before graduation. He looked from Kernesky
to Stephan and felt stirrings of genuine gratitude. Thank you, he
said at last.
Kernesky indicated the armor with one hand. The Free Coins
reward loyalty, Kadet. Remember that.
The train from the Druzhina arrived at Fort Talosk without delay
or mishap. Kadets spilled onto the station platform in a rush, eager
148
to stretch their legs after the nonstop journey. Malakov waited for
the press of bodies to clear before stepping out. It took some effort to
contain his excitement. This was the first field exercise of his career
and the first chance to try out his new armor, which was currently
being offloaded by cargo attendants.
The last few students flowed around him, some looking at the
fort and others glancing curiously in Malakovs direction, wondering
what a second-year was doing on the expedition. Kapitan Kernesky
stepped onto the platform a moment later, her voice bringing the
kadets to attention. You represent the Druzhina, she barked, her
address drowning out everything else. Remember that. Any among
you who embarrass the academy will answer to me. The kadets
expressions made it clear she did not need to threaten anything more
elaborate. She turned on her heel to greet the party of officers and
men stepping onto the platform.
To his surprise, Malakov recognized the stocky form of Kapitan
Levanid Trevanik at the partys head, his rank insignia and Khadoran
Anvil shining in the afternoon sun. Levanid exchanged salutes with
Kernesky and turned to examine the assembled students. Well, he
said in a clear voice, you all look ready to defeat any textbooks we have
lying around. Some of the soldiers behind him snickered. But well
soon fix that. My sergeants will take you to your barracks and prepare
you for tomorrows exercise. He inclined his head toward Kernesky.
You heard Kapitan Trevanik, she said. Dismissed!
The kadets broke up immediately, streaming off the platform
under the watchful eyes of waiting sergeants. Levanid marched
up to Malakov and enveloped him in a bear hug. Andrei! By
the Lawgiver, its good to see you, he said. Pay attention over
the next few days, and you might just graduate. He laughed,
but it was the strained laugh of a man trying to convince the
people around him that everything was all right.
149
Malakov wondered if anyone else around Levanid had noticed

the haunted look in the kapitans eyes. When I graduate, Malakov
said to his friend, it will be because I learned exactly what not to
do from you. He said it with a grin; now was not the time to ask
Levanid about his troubles. I wasnt expecting to see you so soon
after we arrived.
I wouldnt have missed it, Levanid said, stepping back.
When I heard you were coming, I requested to be in charge of the
exercises, and the other officers were more than happy to let me. He
winked. Seems they dont find the idea of babysitting a bunch of
schoolchildren appealing.
Levanid was acting as cheerful as Malakov had ever seen him;
indeed, an uninformed observer would not have known this was a
man whose father faced death. Before Malakov could say anything
more, Kapitan Kernesky approached them, Stephan right behind
her. Malakov cleared his throat. Levanid, I believe you already know
Kapitan Yulia Kernesky, and this is Kadet Stephan Petrichenko.
Levanid shook their hands. A pleasure, he said. He turned
to Kernesky. Im interested to see what your students can do
he nodded to Stephan and what this years upperclassmen
have learned since I graduated. Now, if youll excuse me, I have
preparations to make. Well talk more later, Andrei.
Kernesky watched the younger kapitan stride away toward the
fort. I was his instructor barely more than a year ago, and now he
speaks to me like an equal. I wonder if hell see me as a subject once
hes assumed his full title.
Levanid gives respect where it is due, Malakov said. He is not
the sort of man to let a title blind him to someones worth.
Kernesky shrugged. Perhaps. At least you understand there is
more to a subject of the Motherland than her birth. She paused as
if lost in thought, then said, Come. We have work to do.
150
The first day of training focused on familiarizing the Druzhina

students with the terrain around Fort Talosk. They marched from
one landmark to another through the dense forest and rolling, snowcovered hills. Malakov saw little of his friend; Levanid was occupied
from the moment they stepped onto the field until it was time
to retire. Kernesky stayed close to her students, making sure they
followed all orders exactly.
Combat drills, which occurred in the evening, included tests
of swordsmanship and shooting. Malakov was delighted by how
easily he struck and parried in his new armor, with none of the
movement restrictions to which hed grown accustomed. That day
also brought his first opportunity to link his mind with a warjack, an
old Juggernaut with one arm missing. Even in its damaged state, the
jack responded to his mental commands with speed and precision
unmatched by the laborjacks in the Druzhina. Clearly designed for
combat, the machine seemed to anticipate his commands before he
issued them.
It wasnt until the next morning that he had a chance to speak
with Levanid again. His friend met him just after breakfast while
the other kadets were being organized into units led by experienced
soldiers from the fort garrison. Are you ready for some real training
today? Levanid asked.
Malakov nodded. Under whom will I be serving?
Levanid laughed. No one. Come. He led Malakov through
one of the forts side entrances to a large field where soldiers were
escorting a Kodiak warjack into position at the center. You will serve
as commander today. Your goal is to reach that jack and activate it.
Malakov did not question that he had been chosen for leadership
over any of the older students, given that he was a warcaster in
151
training. Something did, however, arouse his curiosity. Who will be

my opponent?
Levanid grinned. Me, of course. Thats the whole point, isnt
itfor kadets to learn from real officers? He clapped a hand on
Malakovs shoulder. Dont worry, I wont embarrass you too much
in front of your instructor.
From anyone else, the jab would have elicited an angry retort
from Malakov. Now he merely snorted. Well see. They started to
turn back toward the fort when Malakov put out his hand to stop his
friend. Levanid, we havent spoken about your father since I arrived.
If theres something you need to say, I am here to listen.
The mirth fled from Levanids face. Thank you, my friend. He
will be gone soon, and with luck, my family can move past this
event. Moisture glinted in the corner of an eye, but his face remained
impassive. They wont even give him the dignity of a private death.
Its to be a traitors execution, in the capital square. He shook his
head. Theres nothing I can do. Nothing anyone can do. All my
familys influence, and we couldnt even delay the execution. He
gave a short, bitter laugh.
Malakov stood close to his friend. Silence hung between them
until he finally broke it. Your father did what he thought best for
Khador. That is how we must remember him. He did not also
say Boris Trevanik had brought his fate upon himself by putting
his religion before his patriotism; Levanid already knew that. All
Malakov could do was shift his friends focus. What happens now is
your choice, Levanid. His crime is not yours.
Levanid nodded and squared his shoulders, in moments resuming
the mantle of a confident officer. Report to your men, Kadet Malakov.
He walked away, leaving no question that the conversation was over.
152
Malakov strode onto the training field in his new armor, still
reveling in the way it fit him like a second skin. The arcane turbine
canceled out the weight perfectly, and the joints moved so smoothly
it was easy to forget his limbs were encased in metal. The training
field was more than twice the size of the Druzhina yard. It featured
uneven terrain under the snow, with ravines and small hills nearly
hidden under a blanket of white. The walls of Fort Talosk rose to
Malakovs right. On the fields far side, he could see Levanids soldiers
moving to their starting positions.
Officers and enlisted personnel from the fort lined all sides of the
field. Officially, they were there to observe the exercise. Unofficially,
watching a bunch of Druzhina kadets shoot at each other was likely
the most exciting entertainment theyd had in months.
Malakov turned to survey his own command, ignoring resentful
looks from several of the older students. They were organized smartly
into units, their training weapons loaded and ready for use. The wax
rounds were marked with bright yellow paint to clearly differentiate
them from real ordnance. Stephan stood before the other Man-OWar kadets, and he saluted when Malakovs eyes passed over him.
Kapitan Kernesky stood on the field with them, her evaluating gaze
fixed on Malakov.
The young warcaster nodded with approval. They looked like
soldiers, ready to give their lives for the Motherland. We take the
field today for the Druzhinas honor, he said, and for the honor of
Khador. We shall make them both proud. A cheer went up from the
assembled kadets, even those who had appeared bitter just moments
earlier. Malakov relaxed his tone and described how each unit would
deploy to reach its objective. He pointed to Stephan. Your Man-OWars will stay in reserve until the last possible moment, when our
opponent is at his most committed. Understood?
Stephan nodded, solemn determination reflected in his face.
153
Kernesky nodded with approval from where she stood observing. The
particulars resolved, Malakov led his troops out to the field where the
opponent waited. He could feel the Kodiaks cortex on the edge of
his awareness. The massive warjack stood ready, black wisps drifting
up from its smokestacks. Kernesky followed just behind Malakov,
where she would have the best chance to document his performance.
Snowflakes fell from an overcast sky, just enough to make the foot
soldiers shiver and to elicit steam from Man-O-War boilers. A group
of mechaniks stood behind Stephans squad, each laden with belts of
training ammunition.
Malakov surveyed the opposing force, which was arrayed much
as he expected: Winter Guard infantry deployed in front and heavier
infantry, like Man-O-War soldiers, arranged in back. Levanid stood
closer to the front than Malakov would have in his place. Within
moments, both forces were in position. A sergeant on the sidelines
raised his starting pistol and fired.
The front ranks of both forces aimed their weapons and pulled
the triggers. Wax flew through the air, striking hard enough to leave
angry welts where it hit skin. Those struck had to leave the field as
casualties of war. Levanid easily countered the first and second attacks
that Malakov sent forward, ordering his men into cover, where they
made much harder targets.
Raising his voice to order a third attack, Malakov noted with
irritation that Stephan had drawn farther ahead than he was supposed
to, exposing the Man-O-War bombardiers in his squad to heavy fire
from Levanids soldiers. Two of the Man-O-Wars had already turned
and headed for the sidelines, having been struck enough times to be
considered destroyed.
Malakov shouted for Stephan to retreat, but the upperclassman
was too far away to hear. Instead of falling back, it looked like Stephan
was taking his squad closer to Levanids front line, motioning for the
154
attending mechaniks to bring more ammunition. Malakov tried to

maintain his composure. If he lost his Man-O-Wars because of this,
winning the battle would become impossible. He had to get closer so
they could hear his orders.
Form up around me! he shouted to the soldiers closest to him.
Were going forward. They hurried to obey, arranging themselves
in close ranks. Any earlier malcontent the older kadets felt toward
him had vanished in the heat of battle.
What are you doing, Kadet? Kerneskys voice cut in from
behind him.
Malakov did not look back. Stephan has advanced too far. Im
going to bring him back.
If you advance now and are eliminated, Kernesky said, you lose
the engagement. Better to accept Stephan as a loss.
Malakov shook his head. He was confident he could stay out of
enemy fireand arguing with Kernesky was wasting time. He wasnt
even sure why the kapitan was giving him unsolicited advice. Perhaps
she sought to test his resolve as a commander. We go forward, he
said and turned away.
Twelve kadets formed a wall in front of Malakov as he pushed
across the snowy ground. Three were hit as Levanids soldiers reacted
to their approach. Malakov counted his losses and kept advancing.
He shouted for the kadets on either side of him to maintain their
positions; the last thing he needed was for them to panic under fire.
He was vaguely aware of Kernesky following behind.
Farther ahead, Stephan had his visor up and was yelling at a
nearby mechanik. Malakov could not hear the words, but it looked
like he was demanding more ammunition. The upperclassman was
now very close to Levanid and the Kodiak that was their objective.
Stephan! Malakov shouted. Get back before you cost us the
battle! The two remaining Man-O-Wars under Stephans command
155
trudged off the field as Malakov watched in mounting frustration.

Still, the upperclassman didnt respond. Something looked wrong,
and it took Malakov a moment to realize what it was: Stephan had
clearly been hit sufficiently to take him off the field, yet he remained.
Some of Levanids soldiers glanced at him in confusion. Stephan
finally succeeded in getting a new belt of ammunition from the
mechanik, who immediately fled as he was hit by more wax shots.
Malakov pushed through the remaining kadets who protected
him. The battle was already lost, and hed be damned if he was going
to let Stephan get away with breaking the rules so blatantly. What
was the man thinking? His power field flared around him, deflecting
a volley of wax shots. Stephan was having difficulty loading his next
shot. His hands were shaking, but Malakov couldnt see why.
Kernesky suddenly appeared in front of Malakov, her cold eyes
stopping him in his tracks. Thats far enough, Kadet, she said.
Youve endured several hits. The battle is over.
Tell that to Stephan, Malakov retorted. This was no mere loss;
it was a disaster. Looking past Kernesky, he saw the upperclassman
finally succeed at loading a new grenade into his launcher. He raised
the weapon and took aim at Levanid.
Dread rose in Malakovs mind. Levanid looked in his direction,
a confused expression on his face; he wasnt paying Stephan any
attention. The upperclassman sighted the launcher, his own
countenance a mask of fear and determination. He bore the look of a
man searching for the conviction to perform a difficult act. Malakov
realized with sudden horror that the grenade he had loaded was not
marked yellow.
Malakov acted instinctually. Kernesky was still in his way; he
would never get around her in time. Instead, he reached out with his
mind to the inactive Kodiak, ordering it to run. The jack obeyed,
its heavy boiler propelling it across the field with thundering steps.
156
Stephans hands were steady now as he adjusted the launcher for

an arcing shot. Malakov raised his hand, and runes encircled the
Kodiaks legs, magically urging the jack to even greater speed. It
barreled toward Levanid, who was only just beginning to realize
what was happening.
Stephan fired. Instead of a wax training round, an explosive shell
detonated against the Kodiaks heavy armor, leaving a deep pit. Even
with the enormous machine in the way, the explosion knocked
Levanid and the men around him off their feet. Malakovs friend lay
in the snow, trying vainly to rise, his side covered in blood. The noise
of mock combat quickly ceased, and the training field went eerily
silent.
Stephan turned to look at Malakov, eyes wide with surprise.
Malakov drew his sword and pointed at the stunned upperclassman.
He tried to kill Kapitan Trevanikarrest him! He could hardly
believe the words even as they left his mouth. And get the forts
doctor down here. Officers on the sidelines were already ordering
their men forward even as the kadets, armed only with training
weapons, backed away.
Malakov turned his sword on Kapitan Kernesky. You tried to
stop me; you knew about this. Kernesky narrowed her eyes, then
drew her own sword and attacked with startling alacrity, a viperquick strike lightly penetrating his power field to hit the armor at
his waist. He shook off the glancing blow and lunged forward, ready
to cut her down, when the joints of his armor froze. He landed in a
heap, barely able to move.
You were clearly unready, Kernesky said regretfully. We acted
to secure the future of Khador, a future run by those who earned
what they have. We will achieve our goals eventually. Two nearby
kadets tried to grab her, but the kapitan lashed out expertly with
the flat of her sword, sending them reeling awayone with his nose
157
shattered. As Malakov struggled to stand, Kernesky ran past him and

out of his field of vision. He heard shouting, but he could not turn
his head far enough to see where she had gone.
Malakov noticed movement through the Kodiaks eyes. Stephan
charged toward the machine, even as confused soldiers closed in on
him from several directions. They clearly did not understand what
had happened, only knowing a skirmish had broken out among
students of the Druzhina. Malakov directed the Kodiak to meet
the upperclassmans charge. Stephan raised his chain blade, and the
weapon roared to life. It bit deeply into the jacks armored torso,
throwing up a shower of sparks. Malakov commanded the Kodiak
to attack, but the blows were clumsy: the jack was still hamstrung
by imperatives not to harm any exercise participant, and Malakov
had neither the time nor the attention to force its full compliance.
Stephan swung his weapon again, nearly striking the Kodiaks head
and scoring another deep gouge.
Stephan, enough! Malakov shouted as two kadets heaved the
warcaster to his feet. Kerneskys abandoned you! You cant succeed.
Stephans expression had become one of manic determination.
You could have been one of us, Malakov, he shouted. He brought
the cutting blades down with all the power of his Man-O-War armor,
further shredding the Kodiaks metal hide.
The Fort Talosk soldiers had formed a protective knot around
Levanid. They advanced slowly on Stephan, but they were armed
only with blunderbusses and sidearms, still trying to end the
confrontation without a fatality. The other Man-O-Wars also moved
forward but not quickly enough to intercept Stephan if he made it
past Malakovs jack.
Malakov sent as much of his will as he could muster into the
Kodiak. He was suddenly in two places at once: a crippled suit of
armor and an eleven-ton warjack. The reality of attacking another
158
person with a machine under his control felt very different from the
theory, and he hesitated.
Stephan stepped back and chambered another grenade into his
launcher. Malakov gritted his teeth. He had to stop Stephan from
taking another shot. The Kodiaks arms came up as if they were
Malakovs own and then crashed down with brutal force, tearing a
deep hole in the heavy Man-O-War armor. Stephan screamed and
staggered back, blood and steam leaking from the rent in the armor
where jagged metal had pushed into his side. Malakov did not relent.
The jacks next blow knocked Stephan to the ground and pinned his
weapon against his chest, crushing both the cutting blades and the
grenade launchers barrel. He ordered the Kodiak to pause, its other
fist raised above Stephans head.
Surrender, and answer for your crimes! Malakov shouted,
mustering enough strength to force his obviously sabotaged armor
to take a step forward. He felt Stephan try to struggle against the
Kodiaks unwavering strength, but even Man-O-War armor could
not contend with the might of a heavy warjack.
A look of peace came over Stephan, and he stopped struggling.
Malakov began to feel the rush of victoryuntil the injured
upperclassman pulled the trigger on his damaged grenade launcher.
From the eyes of the jack, an immediate vantage point he suddenly
regretted, Malakov watched powerless as the explosion blossomed
right in front of him, destroying one of the Kodiaks hands and
flinging shrapnel in all directions. Most of the soldiers and kadets
had backed out of harms way, but a few went down in the blast, with
Stephan at the epicenter of the detonation.
Events moved quickly after that. Officers from Fort Talosk took
command of the situation, making sure the wounded were treated
and no other would-be assassins were hiding among the kadets. When
Malakov asked what had happened to Kapitan Kernesky, he learned
159
she had slipped away in the general confusion by taking advantage of

her rank. Soldiers continued to search for her, but to no immediate
result. They had, however, caught a mechanik trying to fleethe
same one who had handed Stephan a belt of live ammunition during
the training battle.
Malakov was helped out of his armor by his fellow kadets. He didnt
need to look at the remains of Stephans Man-O-War. Once was enough.
Malakov stayed close to Levanid in the forts infirmary. None
of the kapitans wounds were mortal, for which Malakov offered
thanks. After two days, Levanid finally became cognizant enough to
be briefed on what had transpired. Malakov told Levanid about the
Free Coins, about the involvement of Yulia Kerneskyeven about
his own role. I saw them as a means to advancement, he finished.
I never thought they would go so far.
You figured it out in time, Levanid said. He groaned and lay
back in the infirmary bed, trying to keep weight off his injured side.
Im thankful for that, at least. He paused for breath. Kernesky. I
still cant believe it. I took classes from her at the Druzhina. Id pay to
be there when Section Three catches up with her.
They must have been the ones who exposed your father, Malakov
said quietly. Everything was too convenient for it to have happened
otherwise. Not even those closest to your father knew what he was
doing, and they had the most to gain by exposing him. A week after
his trial, and they try to kill you. They meant to end your linea
training accident, with live ammunition slipped in by mistake.
Thats quite a leap, Levanid said, a catch in his voice brought on
by grief or painor both.
Malakov shrugged. The mechanik your men captured may be
able to confirm some of it; if not him, then Kernesky when she is
160
located. Knowing the truth will be a side benefit of bringing down

the Free Coins.
Yes, Levanid said. But it wont change anything. My father was
guilty, no matter who exposed him. The words sounded brittle, and
the pain beneath them had nothing to do with his injuries. They both
lapsed into silence for a few minutes before Levanid had the strength
to speak again. You said there were more of them? This group?
Malakov nodded. Yes, at least ten more at the Druzhina and in
Korsk, and other chapters elsewhere. Ive already sent Kommandant
Azarov the names of those who serve at the academy. They have
powerful friends, of that much Im certain. Tracking them down
may prove difficult.
If they have as much influence as you believe, Levanid said,
they will be dangerous. Well have to take precautions before you
return to the Druzhina, in case anyone seeks retribution.
Let them try, Malakov said. He was angry, but purposeful.
They used me. Ill expose every damned one of them if I can. I
intend to keep the sword and armor they gave meonce I ensure
that there are no more surprises, of course. If they come for me, Ill
turn their gifts on them.
Levanid laughed weakly. Thatll give them pause, Im sure. He
raised the arm on his good side to clasp Malakovs hand. I wont
forget what you did for me today, Malakov. My family wont forget.
Malakov squeezed his friends hand. Rest, Levanid. Ive taxed
you too much already. He paused and then added with a smile,
You may be a great prince soon, and when I graduate, I will be a
kovnik. Eventually, I will be premier. Between the two of us, Im sure
we can help maintain the greatness of Khador and its army.
Is that a vow? Levanid asked. He shook his head with a smile
and said, Never surrender your ambition, Andrei. I know it will see
you through, no matter what your future brings.
161
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Oren is a Privateer Press employee and an aspiring writer. He
endeavors to play WARMACHINE, though his friends will
attest that he does not play it very well. Khador is his faction of
choice, and he has always loved the Man-O-War heavy infantry,
because few things are cooler than steam-powered armor
that can cook the wearer alive if something goes wrong. His
previous work is made up primarily of short stories, and he once
wrote a radio play, which he considers to be something of an
accomplishment in the 21st century.
ON A BLACK TIDE
By Aeryn Rudel
Part One
Blackwater, Late Summer, 605 AR
iakos watched the Scythe limp into port like a great, wounded
beast. The thick ironwood planks of its hull were shot through
in many places, and the ship sat lowtoo lowin the water. Its
main mast was gone; only a cracked six-foot stub remained where
the massive beam had once stood proud and straight. Rigging and
torn sails lay in a tangled snarl on the decks. The ropes had soaked
up blood leaking from dozens of broken bodies, turning them pink
so they looked like great heaps of intestines. The paddle wheel and
the steam engines that powered it were intact; otherwise, Aiakos
surmised, the Scythe would be at the bottom of the Meredius.
Thats Bloodbrines ship, Dasko said, pointing his dirk at the
lumbering pirate galleon. Shot to hell and gone, looks like.
Aiakos nodded. Just like Baros said. Hes headed for our pier.
He took a few steps down the pier as the Scythe came to a stop and
the few men on her deck cast hawsers to waiting sailors on the
pier. Once the ship was moored, its surviving crew began to shuffle
down the gangplank. Every one of them bore some injury, mostly
ON A BLACK TIDE AERYN RUDEL
deep cuts and bullet wounds, the mark of pistol and cutlass.
That he is, Dasko said. Baros had good information. Thatll
earn him a few more coins.
Aiakos glanced back at the gang leader, who was now worrying a
bit of meat from his teeth with the point of his knife. Behind Dasko
twenty of their best lads waited, clubs and knives in hand. He and
Dasko had run the Quay Slayers for the last five years. Theyd both
joined the gang as a means of survival. Aiakos had been forced onto
the brutal streets of Blackwater at eleven, Dasko at twelve. This was
the way of things in Cryx. Once a child was deemed old enough, he
was forced to fend for himself. The only real way to avoid death was
to join one of the countless street gangs and learn to be as vicious and
cruel as everything else in Blackwater.
What remained of the Scythes crew had now disembarked, and the
captain himself, Grivus Bloodbrine, was making his way down the
gangplank. Captain Bloodbrine was tall, gaunt, and hollow-cheeked.
His clothes, although of fine make, were spattered with blood and
scorched, and he cradled one arm against his chest, bloody bandages
shrouding the limb completely.
Aiakos made his way down the pier, pushing through the line
of injured sailors leaving the Scythe. Bloodbrine saw him coming
and put his good hand on the heavy pistol shoved into his belt.
This was how most people greeted Aiakoswith suspicion and an
expectation of violence. Aiakos was large and strong, and hed earned
a reputation as a formidable fighter: relentless, uncompromising,
and brutally skilled. He approached the captain slowly, his own
weaponsa whalers harpoon balanced over one shoulder and a long
flensing knife at his hipat the ready but not overtly so.
And who might you be? Captain Bloodbrine called out.
I am Aiakos, second in the Quay Slayers. Youre moored on our
pier, Captain.
Bloodbrine smiled. Is that so?
165
It is, Aiakos said. But your ship is in bad shape, so were

willing to let you remain here and offer you our protection.
What would I need protecting from? Bloodbrine asked, tapping
the butt of his pistol with one finger. Behind the captain another
member of his crew had come down the gangplank. She wore closefitting leathers and carried a brace of pistols across her chest. She held
a gaff pole in both hands, its blade hooked and gleaming. Unlike the
other members of the Scythes crew, this woman bore only superficial
signs of combattorn clothing and a few scrapes. The fact that she
was uninjured meant either shed avoided the fighting or she was very
good at it. By the way she carried herself, Aiakos assumed the latter.
Aiakos here says were on his pier, Nyra, Bloodbrine said as the
woman came up beside him. What do you think of that?
Nyra stared at Aiakos with cold, appraising eyes, her plain face
unreadable. Pay him what he wants. Someone has to watch the ship
while repairs are made, she said simply, then pushed past Aiakos.
My first mate says pay you, Bloodbrine said. He smiled sourly.
But what if Ive got twenty fighters waiting in the hold to protect
whats mine?
Aiakos glanced up at the decks of the Scythe and quickly counted
thirty bodies; there were likely more in the hold. Bloodbrine was in
a bad position and vulnerable. The pirate captains were certainly a
notch up on the food chain over the street gangs, but any wounded
beast was likely to attract scavengers. Aiakos took the risk, weighing
his words carefully to imply the threat. You dont, or some of them
would be with you now. Well make sure the shipwrights do their
work without interruption while you fill out your crew.
Bloodbrine grimaced and then spat. He knew his vulnerability was
obvious, and in Blackwater that meant he was prey. How much?
Twenty gold crowns a day, Aiakos replied. Ill take todays
payment now. He held out his hand.
166
Bloodbrine shook his head and dug into one of the pouches
hanging from his belt. He pulled out a handful of gold coins and
shoved them at Aiakos, who dropped them into his own pouch.
Good, Aiakos said. Have someone here with the next payment
tomorrow at the same time.
Do you think you could keep them off the ship? Bloodbrine
nodded at something over Aiakos right shoulder. He turned and saw
a trio of awful figures moving down the pier. The necrotechs were
bulbous, fleshy things upon a tangle of metal spider-like legs. They
moved toward the Scythe, a small mob of shambling thralls in their
wake. The undead masters of necromechanika were always on the
lookout for fresh supplies. Word had obviously reached them that
the Scythe was, for the moment, a floating abattoir.
Aiakos suppressed a shudder as the necrotechs approached. The
undead were part of everyday life in Blackwater, but most of the
living tried to stay out of their way lest they, too, be considered raw
materials for the flesh foundries. Some in Blackwater saw undeath as
a way to accumulate power and rise in station; certainly the armies
and navies of Cryx contained powerful undead, not to mention the
almost god-like power of the lich lords who controlled everything.
To Aiakos, though, the thought of surrendering breath and blood for
the cold eternity of undeath was abhorrent. Worse yet was that many
were thrust upon that path unwillingly, robbed of their free will to
serve as mindless and disposable cannon fodder.
No, Aiakos said and stepped out the way of the necrotechs and
their thrall servitors. The rotten stink of their passing made his eyes
water and his gorge rise. They always take what they want.
Bloodbrine watched the necrotechs clamber aboard his ship, their
spidery legs making a dull metallic clacking noise as they scuttled
across the main deck. The shipwrights will be here tomorrow, after
theyvehe jerked his head toward his shiptaken what they want.
167
Thralls had already begun to drag the dead from the Scythe, leaving
bloody smears across the pier. Many of the corpses were in various
states of dismemberment, as the necrotechs cut away the burnt and
mangled pieces, leaving the choicest bits intact.
Aiakos nodded, then turned and walked back to Dasko.
Bloodbrine remained, watching the necrotechs with a scowl. Aiakos
felt a twinge of sympathy for the captain, a well-known and powerful
pirate now forced to stand by and watch the real power in Blackwater
take what it wanted from him.
What did he say? Dasko said as Aiakos approached.
He agreed. Twenty per day, Aiakos replied.
Dasko smiled and rubbed his hands together. The lads were
hoping for a bit of sport, but Id just as soon have the money without
a fuss. Hand it over.
Aiakos dug the coins from his pouch, counted out his cut, and
passed the rest to Dasko without a word.
We talked to a few of Bloodbrines men as they passed, Dasko
said. Hell be looking for replacements. Theyre gathering at the
Black Hold. Should be quite a spectacle.
Aiakos nodded. Pirate captains looking to replace men lost in
battle often announced their intentions and gathered potential
recruits into one of the many fighting pits around Blackwater.
There, the poor and desperate would fight one another, sometimes
to the death, for a chance at a life at sea. Crewing a pirate vessel was
not exactly easy work, but the chance to get off Blackwater and at
least have the opportunity to amass wealth and prestige was often
considered enough to die for.
Aiakos was no stranger to the fighting pits. He fought regularly,
both to earn extra coin and to keep his battle skills honed. His
many victories only enhanced his reputation among the Quay
Slayers and the rival gangs they often battled.
168
Ill meet you there, Aiakos said and walked past Dasko. He
turned and looked at the Scythe. The ship was swarming with activity
as more thralls arrived to cart away the dead. Beyond the ship was the
Meredius, its waters stretching to the horizon in a flat, grey expanse.
To Aiakos the sea looked like a blank slate, pure and filled with untold
possibilities. He turned back to Blackwater, grimaced, and pressed on.
The Black Hold was packed with bodies and filled with the stink
of sweat and cheap grog. The Hold was one of the largest and oldest
arenas in Blackwater, and it sat below the squalor of the city in a
massive natural cavern. Its fighting pit was also quite large: eighty
feet long and forty feet wide.
Look at those idiots, Dasko said beside Aiakos. Theyd pushed
their way to the front, ten feet from the edge of the pit, and were looking
down at some fifty men and women armed with an assortment of
makeshift weapons. Real weapons werent allowed, so the combatants
held clubs, belaying pins, even boat oars. Half are like to get beaten to
death, and the other half wont last a month aboard Bloodbrines ship.
Viger and Baros are down there with them. Bloody fools.
Aiakos brows rose at the mention of two of the Quay Slayers
better fighters. He quickly scanned the pit and found both. Over
seven feet tall, Baros stood out like out a greatsword among daggers.
Vigersmall, rat-faced, and very, very faststood beside him. It
was obvious the two planned to fight together rather than against
one another. Baros gripped a boat oar, a suitable replacement for the
heavy maul he normally carried in combat. Viger had replaced his
twin cutlasses for a pair of belaying pins of roughly the same size and
weight as his swords.
Theyll be difficult to replace, Dasko said. Baros especially.
For all his strength and size, hes a smart son-of-a-whore.
169
Aiakos looked across the pit to where the owner of the Black
Hold, Halder Morrid, stood with Captain Bloodbrine and his first
mate. Halder was a veteran pirate who had also survived a stint in the
Cryxian Navy. He was old now, but still ruthless and deadly. Halders
guards, six hulking black ogrun, stood around their employer and
his guests, keeping the rabble at bay with clubs and drawn daggers.
You all know why you are here, Halder called out, his deep,
scratching voice rising over the din of the crowd. The Black Hold
quieted and a crackle of electric anticipation ran through the throng
of cutthroats and gutter rats. The men and women in the pit looked
up at Halder, and Aiakos could almost smell the fear rising from the
arena floor. So Ill turn this over to Captain Bloodbrine, and hell fill
you on the necessaries.
All eyes were now on the tall pirate captain, and the only movement
in the crowd was the bet takers gathering their slips and hurrying
to turn them in. These recruitment fights were intensely popular in
Blackwater, not just among those hoping to earn their place on a
pirate crew but to a veritable sea of moneylenders that stood to make
a profit on the rampant betting that sprung up around them.
I need twenty fighters, Bloodbrine said. Im not looking for
sailors. Most of you lot dont know port from pox anyway. I need
men who know their way around knife, sword, and pistol. If thats
youhe grinned, revealing straight yellow teethshow me!
There was silence for a moment, and Aiakos felt the adrenaline
thrill of impending battle crash through him and everyone standing
in the Hold. As he thought it might, the fighting began with Baros
and Viger. No one in the fighting pit was a stranger to violence, but
none was as intimately familiar with it as the two Quay Slayers.
Boras, seven feet of muscle and callous, held a twelve-pound boat
oar fully eight feet long. The thing was far too heavy to be used as a
weapon by most, but Boras swung it like it was made of paper and
170
glue. Seconds after Bloodbrines announcement, the massive ganger

turned, brought his oar up in a two-handed grip, and cracked the
skull of a swarthy Scharde standing behind him. Every set of eyes in
the Hold watched the Schardes body fall. Then the entire pit erupted
into a sea of violence.
Hah! Dasko cheered. Not exactly subtle, our Baros.
Aiakos said nothing but watched intently as Baros and Viger
began carving their way through the tangle of cutthroats and ruffians,
shattering limbs and cracking skulls. They had a good system. Baros
swung his oar in a wide arc, dropping men like slaughtered cattle,
while Viger waited patiently beside him. Any man that made it past
Baros reach found himself facing Vigers twin clubs.
Aiakos turned his attention to Bloodbrine. The captain and his
first mate were standing very close to one another, talking intently.
Bloodbrine pointed and nodded, and Aiakos knew instantly what he
was pointing at. Baros and Viger were making a strong case to join
Bloodbrines crew.
Those two, the captain called out. Tall one and two sticks! In
response, two burly black ogrun armed with shields and boarding
axes hopped down into the arena and began making their way toward
Baros and Viger, likely to escort the first of Bloodbrines chosen from
the melee.
The crowd was getting wilder as combatants fell stunned,
unconscious, and in a few cases quite dead. Cheers and catcalls filled
the Hold, and the bet takers wove through the packed bodies like a
score of hungry rats. A few more fighters were chosen by Bloodbrine
and escorted from the pit by the Holds ogrun.
Watching the battle filled Aiakos with a sensation he hadnt felt in
years. Excitement, surelybattle always brought his blood upbut
there was something else. The promise of what hed been lacking
among the Quay Slayers. Hed been second-in-command of the gang
171
for years, but in recent months he had resented it, and Daskos orders,
more and more. Had Dasko done anything to deserve his respect,
it might have been different. He had begun to think about killing
Dasko and taking control. The main reason he hadnt yet was that
there was no challenge to it, and once he was in control it wouldnt
matter. Hed become the leader of the Quay Slayers, but nothing
would really change. Even the lowest pirate raider had a freedom no
gang leader could boast, to steal a life for themselves, as much as their
ambition, cunning, and strength allowed. What he saw below was
opportunity. He saw a way forward.
Aiakos hands balled into fists at his side. He carried only a dagger
on his belt, but that could be remedied. He glanced around and
saw what he was looking fora man standing at the edge of the
pit had a saber sheathed at his hip. The man wore the red sash and
green leathers of another prominent gang in Blackwater, the Blight
Knives. The ganger was intent on the fighting below and oblivious to
Aiakos as he pushed through the crowd behind him. Aiakos slid up
behind the man and pushed his dagger into the mans kidneys with
his left hand as he yanked his victims saber from its scabbard with his
right. The man turned, eyes wide with pain and fear as he wrenched
Aiakos dagger free in a spurt of crimson. Aiakos lashed out with a
booted foot and kicked the man backward, over the edge of the pit.
He followed, leaping over the edge and onto the sand below. Aiakos
landed, cat-like, in a crouch. His victim had fallen badly. The man
lay on his stomach, his neck turned at ghoulish angle.
A ragged cheer went up from the crowd behind Aiakos. What hed
done was unexpected and viciousalways popular in Blackwater.
What in Toruks name are you doing?! a shout rose over the din,
and Aiakos looked back to see Dasko standing at the edge of the pit,
his face filled with mixture of rage and shock.
What I should have done years ago! Aiakos shouted back. He
172
turned away from the leader of the Quay Slayers. He wont retain that
title for long. It was Aiakos that had kept Dasko in power; the gang
leader would find a knife in his guts before the week was over.
Hed landed in a place where the fighting was thin; most of it was
across the pit, directly beneath where Bloodbrine stood. Aiakos raced
forward, largely ignoring the small knots of combatants in his path.
He was armed with real weapons. They werent, and most got out of
his way. He was prepared to cut down any who didnt. His targets
were clear: Baros and Viger. They had been deemed worthy to join
Bloodbrines crew; he would prove himself worthy by killing one or
both of them.
The two former Quay Slayers were standing directly below
Bloodbrine. The black ogrun escorts hadnt reached them yet, and
the other combatants were giving them a wide berth.
Viger saw Aiakos first, and the little mans eyes went wide. He
shouted something that was lost in the din, but Baros turned in
Aiakos direction, bringing his oar around in front of him.
There was a man and a woman standing together outside the
reach of Baros and Viger, obviously gauging their chances against
the two. They stood in Aiakos path; despite his saber and dagger,
they must have thought him an easier mark than Baros and Viger.
They were both armed with belaying pins, but the woman, lankhaired and hard-featured, clutched a long gutting knife she must
have hidden on her person. The crude weapons told Aiakos these
two were likely fishermen with limited skill in battle. He was right.
The fisherman to the right lunged forward with his belaying
pin in a clumsy overhand swing. Aiakos checked the blow with his
saber, slammed a boot into the mans knee, crushing the joint with
a satisfying crunch of cartilage, then drove his dagger into the mans
throat as he folded forward over the shattered leg. He ripped his
dagger free, letting the man fall to the sand and rushed the second
173
fisherman, the woman with the knife, who was slowly backpedaling
as she realized she was grossly overmatched. The woman wasnt
paying attention to what was behind her and had wandered into
Baros reach. The oar coming down on the back of her skull made a
hollow thump, and Aiakos was splattered with warm, red wetness.
He didnt bother to wipe the blood from his face, and stepped
forward over the twitching body of the fisherman. The fighting had
slowed, and the area around Aiakos, Viger, and Baros had all but
emptied. This was a fight no one wanted to miss.
Thats cheating, brother, Viger said, eying Aiakos saber and
dagger even as he dropped his belaying pin and snatched the
fishermans fallen knife to replace it. Theres room for all three of us
on the Scythe, Im sure.
Boras stood behind Viger, looming over him, the head of his
massive oar dotted with clots of blood, hair, and bits of bone.
The giant was silent, and he simply stared at Aiakos, his dark eyes
intelligent and knowing.
Maybe, Aiakos said and glanced up to where Bloodbrine and his
first mate were clearly watching them. Bloodbrine made a shooing
motion with his right hand, and the black ogrun escorts who were
approaching stopped some twenty feet from where Aiakos stood.
But I have to prove myself worthy of the Scythe, and we both know
killing a fisherman isnt enough.
And killing your brothers would be enough, I suppose, Viger
said with a frown. I was hoping the three of us would board the
Scythe together. But have it your way. The little mans right leg
lashed out, kicking the sand and sending a plume of grit directly into
Aiakos face.
Aiakos turned his head to keep the sand out of his eyes and cursed
himself for getting too close. He heard Baros heavy footsteps as the
man rushed toward him, and he dropped to his belly. The whoosh
174
of the oar passing through the air above him said hed made the right
decision. He rolled forward, slamming his body into Baros knees.
It was like rolling into a stone wall, but the big man staggered back,
giving Aiakos time to spring to his feet.
Baros had already recovered; for all his size the man was quick.
He drew his oar back over his head, obviously intending to smash
aside Aiakos defenses with brute strength. Aiakos didnt give him the
chance. He flipped his dagger up into the air, caught it by the blade,
and hurled it at Baros. He couldnt miss such a large target from so
close, but he got lucky and the dagger skewered Baros throat, the
black hilt standing out from the giant gangers neck. The wound
wasnt immediately mortalAiakos had seen men survive worse
but any man with a knife in his throat is apt to lose his focus. Eyes
wide, Baros let the oar fall to the sand and reached up to grab the
dagger transfixing his windpipe.
Aiakos charged, saber leading. He slammed into Baros and
rammed the point of his sword up and under the mans rib cage,
driving the blade thorough gut, lungs, and heart. As the blade went
in, Baros drew in a choked, bubbling gasp and staggered backward.
Aiakos yanked the blade free as Baros pulled away. He was still wary
of Viger, although so far the smaller man had done nothing but
watch.
Baros sank to his knees, one hand fumbling at the dagger in his
throat and the other trying desperately to hold his guts in. He failed
on both accounts and finally pitched over onto his back and lay still.
Aiakos approached Baros corpse slowly, watching Viger. The ratfaced man stood silently, ten paces away. Aiakos reached down and
pulled his dagger free from Baros throat, flipping it up into a saber
grip in his left hand. He then approached Viger.
You got lucky with that dagger toss, Viger said, bringing his club
and knife up into a guard position, one held high and the other, low.
175
Baros would have splattered your brains across the sand otherwise.
Maybe, Aiakos conceded as he began to circle left, away from
the knife Viger held in his right hand. No two-sword fighter was
equally skilled with both hands, and Aiakos knew Viger favored his
right. But youve been in this business long enough to know that
lucks as good as skill sometimes.
True. But luck wont save you now. Im better.
Lets see about that, Aiakos said and charged. He made it three
steps before a single loud report split the air. The bullet kicked up
dirt in front of him, stopping him dead in his tracks.
Thats enough! Captain Bloodbrine called down and shoved
his pistol back into his belt. I need both you fools. Now climb
out of there.
Aiakos took a step back and lowered his weapons a fraction.
Across from him Viger shrugged and did the same.
Now to get out, Viger said.
Aiakos nodded, turned, and saw that the remaining men and
women in the pit were closing in, their faces pinched with fear and
the hope of still being chosen. Taking down Aiakos or Viger would
almost guarantee them a place on the Scythe. He wasnt worried about
Viger for the moment. Captain Bloodbrine had made his desires
plain, and neither he nor Viger would jeopardize their position with
a pointless duel.
Aiakos smiled. He hadnt felt so filled with purpose in his
entire life, and he wasnt about to lose that feeling. He sprang
forward, blades leading. There wasnt enough flesh, blood, and
steel on Caen to rob him of what hed earned.
176
Part Two
The Meredius, Spring, 606 AR
Aiakos stood at the Scythes gunwales and stared out over the
Meredius, which lay flat and blue and endless. He could do that
now without wanting to heave his breakfast into the water. The first
month aboard Bloodbrines ship had been torturous. Sea sickness
was a thing hed only heard about, having never left the islands
of Cryx, and hed never understood the misery of the condition.
Luckily, he wasnt called on to do much while they were under way.
He wasnt a sailor and spent most of his days in his berth with the
other boarding skirmishers, many of whom had been taken aboard
at the same time as Aiakos.
His condition had drawn much derision from the Scythes
proper crew, but he wasnt so sick that he couldnt beat a man half
to death. He chose his target well, a junior seaman named Yarrik
thatd had joined the crew along with Aiakos. Yarrik was generally
disliked, largely because he had a reputation as a cheat in the
frequent card games played by the crew. It made him the perfect
choice. Aiakos had broken both Yarriks arms and fractured his jaw
after the man had jokingly threatened to push Aiakos overboard
as he hung over the gunwales puking. Bloodbrine had been angry,
and Aiakos had tasted the bosuns lash for his transgressions.
Yarrik, unable to work, had been thrown overboard. Dead weight.
It had been a worthwhile gamble. The rest of the crew had let
him be after that, and hed finally gotten his sea legs and plenty of
opportunity to use them. The Scythe had been prowling the Ordic
coast for the last six months, picking off lone merchant vessels
and filling the hold with plunder.
177
Bloodbrine didnt like to sink a ship if he could avoid it and would

generally immobilize his far weaker prey with volleys of chain shot
from the Scythes twenty-cannon broadside. This was usually enough
to shred rigging and splinter the main mast, leaving the target ship
dead in the water. This was when Aiakos and his fellow skirmishers
proved their worth.
A disabled ship would be grappled, drawn close, and then Aiakos
and twenty others, often led by the Scythes first mate Nyra Bloodbrine,
would storm across planks and ladders thrown out to bridge the two
vessels. These were never easy fights. The sailors aboard these ships
knew they would receive no quarter and fought like cornered rats.
Still, it was a chance for Aiakos to prove his mettle, and he was always
the first over the gunwales. Hed taken to fighting with a shortened
whaling harpoon and a cutlass, using the harpoon to pull his enemies
close so he could finish them with a thrust from his sword.
Aiakos had participated in eight boarding attacks and had killed
more men than any of Bloodbrines skirmishers, save one. Viger, his
former brother among the Quay Slayers, had also taken to the work
of a pirate with skill and vigor. Each kill the man tallied, each piece of
loot he presented to Captain Bloodbrine, was a thorn in Aiakos gut.
That Vigers skill in battle eclipsed his own was insult enough, that he
was obviously well-liked by the crew and by the captain was all but
intolerable. He couldnt simply kill Viger. The man was skilled and
wary, and even in the chaos of battle he would likely sense an attack.
Worse yet, Viger had gained the captains approval, and his death, if
it were linked to Aiakos, could have serious repercussions.
The thought of being bested by Viger gnawed at Aiakos, and he
turned and scanned the deck for his nemesis. The former Quay Slayer
sat on a pile of rope and was sharpening one of his cutlasses with
slow, methodical movements. The rasp of stone on steel was audible
over the din of the waves and crew, and it scratched at Aiakos nerves.
178
Viger must have sensed Aiakos staring at him, and he looked up and
smiled. Viger was an ugly man with pinched features and small, deepset eyes. His smile showcased a mouthful of very white teeth, some of
which hed filed into points, enhancing his verminous appearance.
Good fight, that last ship, eh, brother? Viger said and sheathed
his newly sharpened cutlass.
Viger still insisted on calling Aiakos brother, as if they were still
in the Quay Slayers. It was yet another thing he hated about the man.
Yes, it was, Aiakos said. He picked up his harpoon from where it
sat against the gunwales and crossed the deck. You fought well. The
compliment tasted like poison on his tongue, but it was true. Viger
was one of the deadliest men with a blade hed ever met.
Viger stood, still smiling. The little mans head barely reached the
center of Aiakos broad chest. You as well, he said. Just like in
Blackwaterwe were the best of them. We still are.
Aiakos frowned. He couldnt tell if Viger was being sincere. It
didnt matter. Aiakos wasnt looking for friends, and he wasnt
looking for allies unlikely to help him rise above his current station.
Viger was simply a problem that wanted fixing, an obstacle to be
overcome, whether the little man realized it or not.
Ship astern! came a sudden cry from above.
Aiakos looked up to where the seaman stationed in the crows
nest atop the main mast was pointing out over the sea. Many of the
crew rushed to the poop deck to get a better look at the ship behind
the Scythe. Aiakos, curious as well, shouldered his way through the
crowd of sailors to get a better view. Viger followed.
Captain Bloodbrine stood against the ships railing with his
daughter and first mate Nyra beside him. He was looking through
a brass spyglass, a deep frown on his face.
Blackship? Nyra said, one hand on the pistol on her hip.
Aye, the captain said. A big one.
179
A chorus of whispers broke through the ranks of sailors on the

poop deck. Blackships were the largest and most heavily armed ships
used by the Cryxian navy. It was said they were the former vessels of
the dreaded Orgoth and enchanted with their black magic. There
were tales of blackships that could create fog, call down the winds to
fill their sails, even disappear from sight. Worse yet, they were often
captained by those who had the lich lords favor.
Shut your bloody mouths! Nyra turned and bellowed at the
crew. Back to work. Now.
The poop deck cleared of sailors in moments, leaving only
Bloodbrine, Nyra, Aiakos, and Viger. Nyra glared at the two
skirmishers but said nothing and turned back to the captain.
Do we run?
Hah! Bloodbrine spat. Run where? You see the smoke coming
off that thing. Its got two paddlewheels and is running at full sails
against the wind. Shed catch us easily.
Then what do we do? Nyra said.
We stay right here and see what she wants, the captain said with
a shrug.
And what if thats to take whats in our hold? Aiakos said,
drawing another glare from Nyra. The captain, however, turned
and gave Aiakos a sickly grin.
Then she takes it, and we hope she doesnt send us to the bottom
of the Meredius just for spite.
Morbid Angel was the biggest ship Aiakos had ever seen, an onyxhulled leviathan bristling with cannons. It completely dwarfed the
Scythe. As the huge ship pulled alongside, its black sails blotted
out the sun and cast Captain Bloodbrines vessel into deep shadow.
Thick smoke that smelled of death, the stench of burning necrotite,
180
belched from the blackships stacks, and its twin paddles churned
the sea into white froth.
Captain Bloodbrine had been right. There was nowhere to run,
no possible way this mammoth ship would not find and destroy
them. The captain stood on deck, dressed in his finest coat, hat,
and boots. They looked like they hadnt been worn in decades. Nyra
stood beside him, along with most of his officers. The captain had
ordered his crew to stand behind them, in full battle dress, to meet
the captain of the Morbid Angel.
It was clear Captain Bloodbrine recognized the blackship, as did
many of the crew. Aiakos had heard tales of blackships commandeering
Cryxian pirate vessels to aid them in their inscrutable goals. There
were also tales of blackship captains simply boarding ships, taking
what they wanted, and then killing the crew and turning them all
into undead thralls. It was clear Scythe was going to be boarded.
What wasnt clear was whether that boarding would be a civilized
meeting or a bloodbath.
The blackship hadnt fired on them, and its crew was visible on
the deckscores of sailors and skirmishers as well as the crab-like
iron bodies of bonejacks and helljacks. The sight of these machines
stirred something within Aiakos. Hed never seen one up close, and
he was intensely curious about how they operated, how they were
controlled. He had heard rumors they enjoyed killing for its own
sake, but did they actually think for themselves? He secretly hoped at
least one would be among the boarding party.
A heavy boarding ramp was lowered from the Morbid Angels
deck to the Scythes, and Captain Bloodbrine ordered a handful of
sailors to secure it to the deck. He was obviously betting on the
boarding party having something else in mind beside seizing his
ship and killing his crew.
The boarding ramp stood empty for a moment, the iron and
181
wood bridge creaking loudly as the two ships it connected rose and
fell with the waves. Then a tall figure appeared and began moving
down the ramp.
Axiara Wraithblade, Aiakos heard Nyra, who was standing
directly in front of him, whisper to her father.
The captain nodded but said nothing.
The name of Admiral Axiara Wraithblade was well known
to any Cryxian pirate. A powerful and ruthless Satyxis warrior,
Wraithblade commanded the entire raider fleet in the name of the
Dragonfather. She was both a skilled naval captain and a ruthless
sea pirate in her own right.
Axiara came down the boarding ramp followed by a
pair of hulking black ogrun, each armed with a formidable
blunderbuss and boarding axe. Behind these two brutes came
a pair of bonejacks, their tusked skeletal heads marking them
as Deathrippers. The bonejacks were following the shouted
commands of a human man behind them, a jack marshal.
Finally, a score of Axiaras skirmishers followed the bonejacks.
Each had the look of a seasoned fighter, and Aiakos knew that it
if it came to blood, these cutthroats alone could likely kill most
of Bloodbrines men by themselves, to say nothing of the ogrun,
the bonejacks, or Axiara herself.
The admiral stepped off the boarding ramp and onto the main deck
of the Scythe. She wore a short black coat with polished silver buttons,
grey trousers, high black boots and a loose muslin shirt. Her face was
long, with thin lips, high cheek bones, and large almond-shaped eyes
the color of freshly spilled blood. A pair of spiraling horns rose from
Axiaras head, sweeping backward, and adding a full foot-and-a-half to
her already impressive height. She was armed with a straight-bladed
sword with a black hilt sheathed at her waist and a heavy pistol on her
left hip, its wooden butt covered in spiraling green runes.
182
Admiral Wraithblade, Captain Bloodbrine said. He removed his

hat and bowed. The formality looked odd on him. I welcome you
to the Scythe. I am Captain Bloodbrine. How can I be of service?
Axiara glanced around the deck and smiled. Her teeth were very
white. Aiakos was reminded of a sharks gaping maw just before
it bites. Captain. Ive been told you have a good crew here, she
said. Her voice was low, scratching, almost strained, as if it were
unaccustomed to anything beyond shouting orders and screeching
battle cries. You have fared well in these waters.
We have, Admiral, Bloodbrine said. Were making for
Blackwater with a full hold. Youre welcome to anything
If I wanted what was in your hold, Captain, I already have it,
Axiara said, cutting him off. Behind her, the two bonejacks shifted
their clawed feet on the deck, the green luminance from their
furnaces glowing brighter. Aiakos noted their agitation with a thrill
of interest.
Bloodbrine swallowed and nodded. Aiakos had never seen him
like this; the captain was terrified. Of course, he said. How can
the Scythe be of service to you?
Axiara took a step forward, towering over the captain. A
word, Captain Bloodbrine, she said, smiling, predatory again.
In your cabin.
Bloodbrine nodded. It was clear he had absolutely no choice.
This way, Admiral, he said and moved off toward the poop deck
beneath which his small cabin lay. Axiara nodded to the two ogrun
shed brought with her and then followed Bloodbrine. Aiakos
watched them disappear into the captains cabin and wondered if
Bloodbrine would ever come out again.
An hour later, Bloodbrine emerged unscathed from his cabin.
183
Axiara and her men returned to their ship soon after, and the
Scythe was under way again, following behind the Morbid Angel.
They had changed course and were headed northeast, back toward
the coast of western Immoren. Bloodbrine hadnt said where they
were going; hed simply ordered the crew to set sail and follow
Axiaras ship. Hed then returned to his cabin, while Nyra made
sure his orders were carried out.
They soon rendezvoused with two additional pirate ships, both
smaller than the Scythe. They had watched Axiara board each in turn,
no doubt giving them the same orders: follow the Morbid Angel. Both
ships had obeyed. What choice did they have? Aiakos had heard of
both of them, Gutter and Iron Wave, although he didnt know their
captains or crew.
Their change of course and the addition of the two pirate vessels
elicited many rumors among the crew of the Scythe, but Aiakos paid
them little mind. When he went to his berth he simply ignored
their fearful whispering. Axiara hadnt destroyed them and she was
obviously using them for some purpose. That meant opportunity. If
he could somehow gain her notice and prove himself useful to her,
she could be a powerful benefactor.
Lying in his berth, Aiakos listened to the conversations of the
other skirmishers around him. They were afraid. He was not. They
had nothing to offer but their lives, and to someone like Axiara that
was hardly a precious commodity.
Hours later, the bosuns whistle pulled Aiakos from the light sleep
hed drifted into. He was out of his berth, weapons in hand, and
on his way to the main deck in minutes. The rest of the skirmishers
followed suit.
On deck, Aiakos found Nyra Bloodbrine waiting for them. She
wore a shirt of chain links beneath her long coat and gripped her
favorite weapon, a gaff-hook with a blade as sharp as a dragons fang.
184
Ill be leading you lot in a combined boarding action with men

from Wraithblades crew, she said without preamble. Youll fight
well or youll die.
A boarding action against what? Viger said. Nyra favored him,
and she allowed the question.
Were chasing an Ordic merchant vessel, the Viper, and its
escort, she said. When we find them, Gutter and Iron Wave will
deal with the escort while we board the Viper, kill the crew, and take
what Axiara wants. What she wants is the captain of this ship. Alive.
Understood?
Nods all around. No one was foolish enough to defy the dreaded
Satyxis admiral.
Aiakos look out over the forecastle and saw the backside of the
Morbid Angel some hundred yards ahead. The big ship was moving
under sail only, likely so the Scythe could keep up. The Gutter and
Iron Wave followed behind her.
Wait in the hold until we catch the Ordic ships, Nyra said.
Dismissed.
They didnt have to wait long. Shouts from the crows nest
pulled Aiakos from his berth and on to the deck. Theyd found
the Viper and its hulking war galley escort. The Viper was large
and looked like a refitted war galley itself.
The Ordic war galley was heavy and slow but well armed. Its
cannons soon sounded, belching smoke into the air. Cannonballs
fell into the water around the Scythe. Two smashed into her, but at
this range they barely made a dent in the hull.
Gutter and Iron Wave changed course and drove straight at
the Ordic war galley, their own cannons firing as they went. The
smaller pirate ships had little chance in an open sea battle against
their Ordic enemy; they would have to get close and board the
war galley if they were to survive.
185
The Scythe and the Morbid Angel moved away from one another so
they could come at the Viper from two directions and hit it with two
broadsides, one from either side. The Ordic vessel turned toward the
Scythe, possibly thinking it could take out the smaller Cryxian ship
and then escape. Cannons flashed, and the Scythe was enveloped by
the broadside. Cannonballs and grape shot raked the deck, cutting
down sailors and splattering gore into the sea. Aiakos kept his head
down, ducking into the wide stairway leading into the cargo hold.
The Scythe survived the fusillade, allowing the Morbid Angel to
move into position and blast the Viper with a forty-cannon broadside.
Axiaras cannons had been loaded with grape and chain shot, and
Aiakos watched the Ordic ships masts and rigging all but disappear
in a hail of smoke and fire. Their prey couldnt run, and it was time
for Aiakos and his fellow skirmishers to do their work.
Gutter and Iron Wave had succeeded in grappling the Ordic war
galley but had taken a pounding in the process. Aiakos knew Gutter
especially was doomed; she sat far too low in the water, and the sea
was likely flooding in through her wounds, soon to drag her down
to the bottom.
Scythe and Morbid Angel pulled alongside the crippled Viper,
weathering a few more blasts from her cannons in the process. The
cannon fire faded as grappling chains were cast from the Cryxian
vessels and the Ordic ship was reeled in and pinned between them.
The bosuns whistle sounded, and Aiakos bounded up from the
hold, Viger and the rest of the Scythes fighting men behind him.
Nyra was waiting for them as boarding ramps slammed down onto
the Vipers main deck, and rifle fire from sailors aboard the Scythe
and the Morbid Angel picked off enemy sailors trying to cast them
off. Aiakos watched as the Morbid Angel deployed a type of boarding
ramp called a crows beak, a massive ramp with armored sides tipped
with a three-foot-long iron spike on its bottom. When the crows
186
beak came down, the spike slammed through the deck of the Ordic
vessel, holding the ramp in place. Aiakos saw the coal-black forms
of helljacks surging along the ramp soon after. One of them turned
toward him, and he felt... something, some connection, just for an
instant. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he could
feel its eagerness and its hunger for the kill.
Go! Nyra shouted, waiving her gaff-hook toward the Ordic
ship. Aiakos charged forward, cutlass in his left hand and his harpoon
cocked over his shoulder with his right. He was not armored, relying
on speed and ferocity to keep him from harm.
Aiakos hit the boarding ramp and began moving across it. Viger
was right behind him, then Nyra, then the rest of the fighters. The
ramp was some twenty feet long, giving the desperate crew of the
Viper time to pepper them with pistol and rifle fire as they crossed.
Bullets whizzed by and Aiakos crouched low, moving crab-like
toward the enemy ship. Behind him a muffled scream told him one of
the boarding skirmishers had been hit. Hoping it was Viger, he quickly
glanced backward and saw that, to his immense disappointment, the
former Quay Slayer was still moving behind him.
They reached the gunwales of the Ordic vessel and Aiakos
sprang up and over. His harpoon skewered the first Ordic sailor he
encountered as the man raised a pistol, and he cut down another
with his cutlass as he yanked the harpoon from the corpse of the first.
Gunfire sounded from all around, and Aiakos crouched behind
a mass of tangled rigging to get his bearings. Behind him Viger,
Nyra, and the rest of the skirmishers were storming onto the
deck. Theyd come aboard amidships on the main deck, slightly
closer to the forecastle deck than the stern. Directly across from
them skirmishers, black ogrun, and a pair of helljacks had crossed
from the Morbid Angel and were engaging what looked like a
large majority of the Vipers fighting crew.
187
It was clear to Aiakos that many of the Ordic fighters were hired
mercenaries and not mere sailors. They wore light armor, all of a
similar type and cut, and their weapons were of good quality. In
addition he saw a pair of Buccaneers, warjacks common on mercenary
ships, moving swiftly from the forecastle to engage the helljacks from
the Morbid Angel.
Viger moved up beside Aiakos. His cutlasses were smeared
crimson. Nyra crouched down behind them and waved the rest
of the Scythes skirmishers forward. They moved swiftly across the
main deck, breaking into smaller groups of two or three as they
encountered enemies.
Aiakos nodded, but he wasnt ready to move yet. He wanted to
see what the helljacks could do. Both were Slayers, towering black
machines with metal talons and spiraling horns. Black smoke rose
into the air from their stacks, and the Cryxlight from their furnaces
pulsed brighter as they moved to intercept the Buccaneers. The
smaller warjacks would be no match for helljacks, but they and a
score of the Ordic fighters were keeping the Morbid Angels boarding
party pinned down.
Most of the Ordic sailors and mercenaries seemed to be on the
quarterdeck or battling the boarding party from the Morbid Angel.
The quarterdeck was behind them, and Aiakos saw most of the
mercenaries there were armed with long rifles. They were picking
out targets and firing with impunity, and they seemed to be targeting
Axiaras men instead of the helljacks. One of the black ogrun went
down under the hail of bullets, and Aiakos saw the Slayers jack
marshal take one in the arm. The helljacks would be far less effective
without his direct guidance.
Nyra was rising, obviously about to rush off and fight her way to the
Morbid Angels men. Aiakos reached out to pull her back down again
but found the point of her gaff-hook at his throat before he could.
188
Wait, he said, pushing aside the hooked blade and pointing to

the quarterdeck. Those mercenaries are more of a problem at the
moment. If we engage them, the Morbid Angels men and helljacks
can clear the main deck, while we move up to the poop deck. Thats
where the captains likely to be anyway.
The three of us take ten men? Viger said. Thats fools talk.
Aiakos bristled at the admonition but said nothing.
These mercenaries are well armed, but theyve likely never seen
action like this, Aiakos said. Theyll fall backand well cut them
down.
Nyras eyes narrowed. We can take them, she said. I dont like
the idea of Axiaras men finding what she wants before us,
Viger glared but nodded. He would do as ordered.
Okay, Nyra said. She popped up from her crouch, pulled a pistol
from the brace across her chest, and fired. One of the mercenaries on
the quarterdeck went down clutching his throat, blood fountaining
through his fingers. Lets go.
They raced across the main deck, bullets whizzing by their head or
kicking up splinters at their feet. They hitting the bulwark beneath
the quarterdeck, and Nyra reached up with her gaff hook and yanked
one of the mercenaries standing above her off his feet. He tumbled
forward and fell the eight feet to the main deck, and Viger took his
head off as he was struggling to rise.
The men above them turned their attention away from the
Morbid Angels fighters to this new threat. Ordic marines and
mercenaries on the main deck had spotted them as well, and pistols
and blunderbusses were turned in their direction.
Aiakos didnt give the mercenaries on the main deck a chance
to fire. He sheathed his cutlass, then leapt up to grab the lip of the
quarterdeck with one hand and pull himself up and over. There
he sprang to his feet, knocked away a rifle thrust into his face, and
189
shoved his harpoon into the belly of the woman behind it. Ahead
of him eight men with rifles were packed into the tight confines of
the quarterdeck. Even as they swung their firearms in his direction
he ripped his cutlass from its scabbard and charged forward. Several
fired but missed, and he used the weight of his body to smash into
their formation, sending them staggering back. This forced their
rifles up, and two more discharged harmlessly into the air.
Behind him, Aiakos heard Viger and Nyra mounting the
quarterdeck. The mercenaries had dropped their rifles and were
pulling hangers and pistols. Aiakos whirled into them, thrusting
and slashing. Viger was soon beside him, cutlasses blurring silver
and crimson. Nyra fought along aside them, her gaff hook darting
between Aiakos and Vigers attacks, ripping flesh or snagging men
and pulling them forward into Aiakos harpoon or Vigers blades.
As hed suspected, the mercenaries had no taste for this type of
battleclose, ugly, and brutal. He, Viger, and Nyra killed eight of
them in the span of a minute, easily turning aside their desperate
attacks.
Aiakos turned and saw that one of the Slayers had broken away
from the combat farther across the deck. The helljack was moving in
their direction as it chased one of the Buccaneers, driving the smaller
warjack back with ripping strikes from its claws. It was the same
one hed felt a strange connection to before the boarding action had
begun.
Aiakos raised his harpoon to strike down another mercenary, then
staggered backward as his head exploded with something that was not
quite pain. An immense alien presence filled his consciousness, and he
saw through eyes not his own. The blurry form of an Ordic Buccaneer
rose up before him, and he instinctively raised his hands to defend
himself. Great black iron clawshis clawssnaked out and slashed
into the Buccaneers hull, ripping huge gashes in the metal.
190
Aiakos! The voice cut through the vision, and Aiakos again saw
what was truly before himan empty quarterdeck littered with
bodies. He still felt the presence in his mind, powerful and strange.
Nyra grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. What is wrong
with you? she shouted into his face.
He shook his head and looked to where the Slayer was standing
over the battered wreck of the Buccaneer. The helljack was staring at
him, the green luminosity of his eyes oddly compelling.
Come, Aiakos thought and instantly the Slayer surged forward in
his direction. Kill, he urged as it reached a trio of Scythe skirmishers
battling four Ordic mercenaries. The helljacks claws slashed forward,
cutting a mercenary in half. It lowered its head and skewered another
with its horns. Aiakos felt everything it did. He felt its claws sink
into flesh, felt its raw hatred and eagerness as it tore the life from the
living creatures around it. He was connected to it.
A single mercenary had broken away from where the second
Slayer was still battling the remaining Buccaneer. Aiakos watched
the man raise a blunderbuss in his direction. There was no time
to duck or move aside: he would be shot. He saw the gun buck
against the mercenarys shoulder, the plume of flame and smoke that
disgorged form its barrel, and then a massive black shape appeared
in front of him and the heavy slug pinged harmlessly off the Slayers
hull. The great helljack had seemingly been aware of his danger and
deliberately intercepted the path of the bullet meant for him.
Nyra stepped away from him, her mouth agape. She knew what
had happened, just as he did. The helljack had responded to his
thoughts. That knowledge filled him with a heady mixture of fear and
excitement. One word was suddenly etched into his mind, and with
it he saw power and prestige suddenly within his reach. Warcaster.
Aiakos reached out and touched the mind, the cortex, of the
Slayer. He pushed his will into the great machine. It was difficult,
191
like trying to think straight after being well and truly drunk. But he
did it, pierced the ephemeral layer of the Slayers savage, primitive
thoughts and bound it to his will. He sent it across the deck to aid
the first Slayer, which was still locked in combat with the mercenaries
and the remaining Buccaneer on the main deck.
The raiding parties of the Morbid Angel and the Scythe were
galvanized by the Slayers actions and fell upon their enemies with
renewed vigor. The main deck was soon cleared of Ordic fighters,
leaving the ship quiet for the moment.
Aiakos crossed the main deck, urging the Slayer to fall in behind
him. It obeyed, and all eyes were upon him as he moved to the wreck
of the other Buccaneer, destroyed by the other Slayer, the one Aiakos
did not control. Bereft of direct guidance, the helljack attacked the
nearest enemies at random and was given a wide berth by the human
pirates on the deck. Beneath the smashed Buccaneer was the body of
Axiaras jack marshal.
Youre running that thing, arent you? Nyra said, coming up
behind him, skirting around the hulking form of the Slayer.
Yes, he said simply.
He saw Viger crossing the deck toward him, a worried look on his
face. He, too, understood what had transpired. Aiakos reveled in his
rivals realization. He was a warcaster, and that meant his worth was
far greater than anything Viger could aspire to. He knew he could
have the Slayer reach out and tear Viger to pieces, and the knowledge
was intensely satisfying. He refrained. It would gain him nothing.
This battle was already won.
Aiakos noticed the fearful stares of the Cryxian pirates around
him, and he soaked in that fear. They knew what he had become.
They knew his worth.
Lets find the captain, he said.
All moved to obey.
192
Aiakos stood on the main deck of the Morbid Angel, Captain Ilvio
Torun on his knees before him. Theyd found the Ordic captain not
in his cabin but in the hold, surrounded by his best fighters. The
man had acquitted himself well and had fought valiantly against
overwhelming odds. But the Cryxian pirates were too many, and
Aiakos Slayer only made the battle in the hold shorter, bloodier, and
more certain. Theyd killed the Ordic crew almost to a man, leaving
Captain Torun alive, although the man had been badly beaten trying
to fight his captors.
The Ordsman had not begged for his life, had not promised them
whatever it was Axiara wanted from him. Aiakos had some inkling
of the horrors that awaited the man. In Cryx, torture had been
refined into an art. Agony could be extended and heightened with
the application of certain dark magic. The fact the man went to his
fate so stoically was deserving of some respect. But in the end, he was
a means to an end, a way for Aiakos to gain Axiaras favor.
The Satyxis admiral stood across from Aiakos, flanked by a pair
of black ogrun. Around her stood the crew of the Morbid Angel,
their eyes fixed on Captain Torun. Besides Aiakos himself, Captain
Bloodbrine and Nyra were the only representatives from the Scythe.
There were no representatives from the Gutter or the Iron Wave. Both
had gone to the bottom of the Meredius along with the Ordic war
galley, all hands lost.
Axiara strode forward, reached down, and placed one longfingered hand beneath the Ordic captains chin. She raised his
head and stared into the mans eyes. We have much to talk about,
Captain, she said and smiled. Aiakos found himself wondering
if she wasnt going to take a bite out of the man. Captain Torun
returned her stare but said nothing.
193
Take him to Graxus, Axiara said as she motioned to one of the

black ogrun behind her. The brute strode forward, grabbed Captain
Toruns wrists, and unceremoniously dragged him away.
Now, then. Axiara turned her gaze on Aiakos. I hear you are to
thank for delivering the captain to me.
I am, he said simply, choosing to be direct and truthful.
Axiara nodded. I also hear that you have a certain rare gift. Tell
me why this talent of yours was not known to me before.
Again Aiakos chose the truth. Because I did not know it existed,
Admiral, he said. It came upon me in the heat of battle.
I have heard of such things, Axiara said evenly. Then it was you
who controlled the Slayer after Yaskas was killed?
Yes, Aiakos said.
Did you know you had a warcaster among your crew, Captain
Bloodbrine? Axiara asked, turning her attention to the Scythes captain.
No, Bloodbrine said. I would have told you.
She was testing them, Aiakos was sure. Axiara had lost men in
the battle aboard the Viper, and if an important resource had been
hidden from her, one that would have reduced her losses, someone
would pay.
Axiara stared at both of them for a few moments. Her crimson
eyes moved across Aiakos and Bloodbrine, searching. Finally, she
turned to Aiakos. You will join my crew. Gather your belongings
from the Scythe and report back immediately.
Aiakos heart raced in his chest. To serve aboard the Morbid
Angel under the command of a powerful Cryxian admiral elevated
his station immensely, and the opportunities it might present were
boundless.
Axiara turned to Bloodbrine. Kalghur will accompany Aiakos
and choose men to replace those I lost in the battle. She pointed
to one of the black ogrun behind her.
194
Of course, Bloodbrine said. Aiakos could see the muscles in

the captains jaw clench. Hed taken losses as well, and now his own
fighting force would be cherry picked, leaving it even weaker. Seeing
a man such as Bloodbrine humbled and acquiescent, with no other
choice but to obey an order he despised, gave Aiakos a sense of
longing and boldly underscored what it was he truly wanted. He had
no need for loyalty or friends. He didnt want respect or reverence
from those beneath him.
He wanted their fear.
195
Part Three
The Meredius, Spring, 606 AR
The cargo hold of the Morbid Angel was part abattoir and part
laboratory. Bodies and pieces of bodies hung from hooks in the

ceiling along with bits of machinery, black hoses, and strange runescratched plates of metal. A hazy cloud of smoke filled the tight
quarters and made breathing difficult, but then the master of this
blighted place had no need to breathe.
The necrotech was called Graxus, and he moved through the
oppressive gloom of the hold like a fat spider, trundling through the
maze of hanging corpses on eight thin metallic legs, black plumes
of smoke drifting up from the short stack jutting from his back.
His body was huge, corpulent, and covered in necromechanika that
presumably sustained his abominable existence.
Aiakos was here only because hed been ordered by Axiara. She
felt his weapons and armor were unfitting a warcaster and had sent
him below to speak with Graxus, who would outfit him with more
appropriate gear.
She was right, Graxus said, his voice a breathy hiss like air
leaking from a ruptured hose. The necrotech scuttled closer, and
Aiakos curled his hands into his fists and willed himself not to
flinch away from the bloated creature. You are a choice specimen,
boy. Im quite impressed with your limbs, primarily. Strong and
supple; they will tolerate much enhancement... when the time
comes.
I have no need of your enhancements, Aiakos said, forcing
the words through jaws clenched in disgust. I need weapons and
armor. The admiral said you could provide them.
196
Graxus reached up and ran one clammy hand across Aiakos upper
arm. A pity. Such good pieces.
Aiakos did flinch this time, drawing back. Weapons and armor,
he repeated.
The necrotech nodded his swollen head, the twin optical lenses
in his doughy grey face swiveling up and down. Very well, the
necrotech said. Ill just need to get some measurements.
Graxus moved close enough to touch Aiakos again. The stench
rising off the necrotech was a mixture of rotting meat and the pungent
mineral odor of burning necrotite. The necrotech reached out with a
collection of spidery metal limbs jutting from his back, each tipped
with a blade, clamp, or other apparatus. He ran these appendages
over Aiakos body, muttering to himself in a language Aiakos could
not understand. The feel of those cold metallic limbs on his flesh
was indescribably awful, and he wanted to yank his cutlass free and
hack Graxus apart. Yet he stood, unmoving, while the necrotech
took his measurements. He endured it because it was just another
obstacle to overcome. In the end, it was nothing but a few moments
of unpleasantness for a possible lifetime of power and prestige.
After a span of minutes that seemed like hours, Graxus pulled
away, his metallic legs clacking softly against the bloodstained wood
of the cargo hold. What weapons do you favor, boy? he asked.
Aiakos drew in a deep breath and unclenched his fists. Harpoon
and cutlass, he said.
The necrotech nodded. I can accommodate that, he said.
Ill need two days. You can go.
Aiakos turned and moved swiftly to the staircase leading up to the
main deck. The salty smell of the Meredius clashed with the stench
of Graxus laboratory and then overwhelmed it as Aiakos climbed
out onto the main deck.
He was shaken, though he knew none of the Morbid Angels crew
197
going about their tasks around him could detect it. A creature like
Graxus had chosen to become what he wasunliving and eternal.
Many in Cryx sought similar enhancements. He found the very
idea appalling. Certainly the undead had their place, but he had no
desire to join their ranks.
Aiakos moved through the sailors around him and climbed to
the forecastle. He stood against the railing and watched the Morbid
Angels bow slash through the Meredius. The salt spray felt good and
his skin, and for the moment it washed away the fear hed felt in
Graxus laboratory.
The reason the Morbid Angel and the Scythe had attacked the
Ordic vessel was still unknown to Aiakos, but he heard Captain
Toruns screams drifting up from Graxus abattoir the night after they
taken the Ordic ship. Axiara obviously obtained the information she
sought, as the Morbid Angel changed course the next morning.
The Scythe was still following behind the Morbid Angel, Captain
Bloodbrines fate now tied to Axiaras will, his crew reduced to little
more than a skeleton crew to replace the blackships losses. One of
the crew members moved from the Scythe to the Morbid Angel was
Nyra Bloodbrine. Aiakos was glad to have a familiar face on board,
and he didnt see her as a threat to his station. She was a good fighter,
but he was a warcaster now; they were on different paths, and there
was no reason why she would get in his way. She hadnt spoken to
him since boarding; in fact, she seemed to be avoiding him.
Nyra was reunited with her father three days after the attack on
the Ordic ship. He was called to the Morbid Angel for a meeting with
Axiara and her senior crew. Aiakos had been summoned to the same
meeting, where he was sure Axiara would reveal the information
shed gotten from Captain Torun and how they were going to use it.
198
Axiaras cabin was large as such things went but contained few
creature comforts. It was dominated by a large round table upon
which a map of the coast of western Immoren had been spread.
There were no chairs, and with the only possible place to sit being
Axiaras bunk; everyone remained standing. Chests for the admirals
few belongings were shoved under the bunk, and two racks for
weapons and armor were affixed to the wall.
Aiakos noted the others in the cabin: Axiara herself, her first
mate Kalghur, Captain Bloodbrine, Nyra Bloodbrine, and the
bloated, spider-like necrotech Graxus, much to Aiakos displeasure.
Thankfully, the necrotech was producing only a trickle of black
smoke from his stack and paid him no mind. The Satyxis admiral
didnt waste time with pleasantries.
Captain Torun has been very forthcoming, she said. He
has given me the location of a key Ordic munitions depot with
warehouses just south of Berck. Within this depot are eighty royalweight cannons of the highest quality. Axiara pointed to the port on
the map spread out before them. They wont be there for long. We
have a limited window of opportunity.
Royal-weight, Bloodbrine said, nodding approvingly. Thats
quite a haul.
Aiakos, too, was impressed by Axiaras announcement. Many
Cryxian pirate ships and even those within Axiaras raider fleet
were outfitted with plundered weapons. Cryxian foundries were
occupied crafting helljacks, not guns. Royal-weight cannons were
the heaviest and most accurate ordnance the mainland navies
employed, making this a significant prize even for so accomplished
a raider as Axiara.
Yes, Captain. It is, Axiara said. I have good reason to refit the
Morbid Angel.
Going so near Berck is dangerous, Admiral, Nyra said, stepping
199
close to the table and the map. They all knew it to be the home of
the Ordic Royal Navy.
Axiara nodded. The depot itself is well guarded, with a dedicated
garrison of soldiers and warjacks. Being so close to Berck, they believe
themselves safe from an attack by sea, shielded by their navy; if we
strike quick and hard we can take what we want before they organize
their forces.
Nyra shook her head. Maybe, she said. But theres a lighthouse
here, she jabbed her finger down on the map. We always give it a
wide berth. Its garrisoned by the military. Theyll see us coming and
sound the alarm. Well be facing every soldier and sailor in Berck
before we can get those guns back aboard our ships.
Axiara turned to Kalghur. Is this lighthouse a problem? she
asked.
Kalghur was massive even by ogrun standards, and he was
hunched over to avoid slamming his head into the ceiling. His voice
sounded like boulders rolling down a mountain, low and terrible.
Maybe, he said. Depends on how quickly anyone reacts to the
alarm. We might smash through anything they send.
Might, Axiara said. Thats not good enough.
Then we take out the lighthouse before you arrive, Aiakos said.
Graxus turned to Aiakos, his fleshy face split in wide grin. Our
infant warcaster has an opinion, he said. By all means share it.
Axiara turned to Aiakos. What do you mean?
Give me two helljacks and Ill disable this lighthouse, kill the
men within it, and make sure the Scythe and the Morbid Angel get
to the depot unseen.
Foolishness, Axiara said. Youve been a warcaster for exactly
four days. You overestimate your abilities, boy.
Maybe, Captain Bloodbrine said. But hes served on my ship
for six months, and Ive seen him on enough boarding parties to
200
know hes quiet and quick. I dont know much about warcasters, but
I know a killer when I see one. He might pull it off.
Aiakos did not feel gratitude for the praise. He felt suspicious.
Why would the captain help him? Perhaps Bloodbrine thought his
own chances of survival were better if Aiakos did as he suggested.
Is that so? Axiara said. If you fail, the port will be on alert
before we arrive. I would be very displeased if that were to happen.
Give me what I need, and I wont fail, Aiakos said.
Axiara stared at him for a moment, her eyes flat and hard. Very
well, Aiakos, she said. Ill give you the helljacks. She stepped
toward him and one hand shot out, snake fast, and caught Aiakos
chin. Her grip was exceedingly strong, but Aiakos did not flinch or
pull away. She brought her face close to his. If you do fail, make sure
you die in the attempt.
Aiakos stood on the forecastle of the Morbid Angel. The blackship
was drifting, its twin paddles silent, its powerful necrotite-fueled
engines shut off. The Meredius was a flat sheet of glassy black
stretching to the east. The coastline was visible, but just barely. They
were three miles off the depot port. He could see the lighthouse in
the distance, its rotating beacon a small sun of bright yellow against
the night sky.
The barely audible hum of his newly acquired warcaster
armor was comforting, as was the power field around him. In his
right hand he gripped another gift from Graxus: a multi-tined
mechanikal harpoon attached to a long length of chain wrapped
around his forearm. The weapons runeplates glowed a subtle
green and blue. Attached to his left vambrace he had a long,
serrated bladenot a cutlass like he was used to, but the blade
was similar, and its use would largely be the same.
201
Despite the sense of strength the new weapons and armor gave him,
they were nothing compared to the heady power he felt within the
cortexes of the two massive helljacks behind him. Crab-like, with black
iron shells and huge, crushing claws, the Leviathans exuded menace
and the promise of death. For the moment they were his, bound to his
will and ready to receive his commands. He could sense their primitive
eagerness to do what they were built to do: destroy life.
You have four hours, Axiara said. She stood between the
helljacks, one hand resting on the hull of a Leviathan. If the light
goes out, well know you succeeded. If not, well know you failed,
and Graxus will be very happy to see you again. He says youd make
a powerful thrall.
Aiakos suppressed a shudder. Becoming a mindless puppet to a
creature like Graxus and being forced to endure centuries, maybe
millennia, of servitude with just enough of his former self remaining
to understand how far hed fallen was the most awful fate he could
imagine.
The light will go out, Aiakos said.
Then go, Axiara said before turning and walking away.
Aiakos turned to the Leviathans and took a deep breath. Hed
never controlled two helljacks at once. He imagined his thoughts
and will as two identical harpoons flashing out to penetrate the
Leviathans cortexes. Into the water, Aiakos commanded, the words
in his own mind crystallizing the command in the Leviathans
necromechnikal brains. The helljacks did nothing at first, but then
the command seemed to take hold and they moved swiftly to the
edge of the forecastle, clambered over the gunwales, and dropped
into the water twenty feet below. They had been designed for aquatic
service and could survive full immersion without danger of drowning
their furnaces.
Aiakos followed the helljacks. He dropped through darkness and
202
hit the water feet first. The shock of the cold sea nearly made him
gasp and swallow water as he went under, the weight of his armor
and weapons dragging him down. He kicked savagely and swam to
the surface.
Come to me. Again he split his thoughts in two, and for one
disorienting moment he saw through the eyes of both helljacks at the
same time, a strange double vision that made his stomach churn. He
pulled back as one of the Leviathans surfaced near him and grabbed
hold of its armored carapace. To the shore. He felt the helljacks legs
churning the water, and the two of them began moving toward the
blazing beacon of the lighthouse. He saw the second helljack moving
swiftly alongside them. Aiakos estimated theyd reach the shore
within an hour.
The warmth of the Leviathans furnace radiated through its hull
and dispelled the chill of the water. Aiakos let his mind join more
deeply the helljacks cortex as they swam, trying to feel its weapons
as though they were in his own hands, although the anatomy was
strange and off-putting. The motion of the water combined with the
dizzying sense of being in multiple places at once created a nausea
that he had to push down. But then he was able to sense the use of
its claw and its spiker, to gain a sense for employing them in battle.
It was difficult, like sorting through the memories of some strange
being whose mind and senses were utterly foreign to him. Still, when
he reached the shore he would be ready, and nothing would keep
him from his goal.
Aiakos and his helljacks reached land faster than hed anticipated,
emerging on to the narrow rocky shore beneath the base of the
lighthouse in half an hour. The Ordic tower was fifty feet high and
constructed primarily of gray stone. There were no windows and the
203
stone had been reinforced above the waterline with sheets of rusting
iron, giving the entire structure a slightly reddish tint. It stood upon
a narrow spit of land that wrapped around the depot port. The Ordic
troops would primarily be inside the structure, but there were bound
to be guards outside as well.
The lighthouses lantern was bright enough to dimly illuminate
the shore below, allowing Aiakos to pick his way up the rocky beach.
His dark armor and the blackened hulls of the helljacks melded
seamlessly into the shadows.
The helljacks followed behind Aiakos, navigating the rocky terrain
easily. The shore was fifteen feet or so below the lighthouse, its base a
stones throw from a short cliff. An easy climb, but it meant passing
from shadow into the brighter area around the structure, where there
was far more danger of being seen.
Stay, Aiakos commanded the helljacks. He then hefted his harpoon
and glanced up at the cliff. It was a daunting leap, fifteen feet at least.
Graxus had told him his armor would enhance his strength, and hed
made a habit of vaulting over the gunwales of the Scythe to catch
enemies unaware, but this seemed impossible.
Aiakos crouched low, feeling the thrumming power of his warcaster
armor building in the big muscles of his legs. He drew in a breath and
leaped. His breath exploded outward in surprise as his legs propelled
him high into the air, well up and over the lip of the cliff. He landed
heavily but managed to turn his landing into a tight roll to deaden
the noise. He smiled, thrilled with his newfound abilities, but wasted
no time reveling in them. On his belly he crawled to the base of the
lighthouse, then stood, placing his back against the stone, and waited.
He listened for voices and searched the gloom for the firefly glow of
a lantern headed in his direction. There was nothing. Either he was
between patrols or the soldiers felt safe inside their remote bastion and
watched the sea instead of the scant area below them.
204
Aiakos circled left, toward what he hoped would be the entrance.

He moved slowly, stalking as he had once done through the streets
of Blackwater, a predator silent and invisible. While he moved he
kept his mind in constant connection to the helljacks waiting on
the shore below him. He could feel the presence of the Leviathans
fading slowly from his mind as moved farther from them. He had
received no instruction on how to command the great machines,
but he had surmised there was a finite limit to the range at which he
could control them.
Soft voices just around the curve of the structure halted him. He
couldnt understand what was being said, but the unhurried rhythm
of the words did not translate to alarm. Aiakos crouched low and
slowly leaned to the left so he could see beyond the curved wall. He
was close to the entrance to the lighthouse, a broad set of double
wooden doors reinforced with iron plates. The doors stood slightly
ajar and in front of them stood two men. The guards wore hardened
leather breastplates and helmets and carried swords and shortbarreled carbines. They had their rifles slung over their shoulders and
were standing close to one another talking.
The eyes of the guard facing Aiakos went wide as he burst around
the curve of the wall, sprinted forward, and hurled his harpoon. The
guards were only fifteen feet away and his cast was true. The heavy
spear struck the Ordic soldier in the throat, and Aiakos jerked the
chain trailing from the weapon as he rushed forward. The guard was
yanked into his companion, knocking him backward and directly
onto Aiakos forearm blade as he came up behind. The guard gasped
as three feet of steel penetrated his kidneys and liver. Aiakos knocked
his feet out from under him with a savage kick, stifling his scream. The
first guard had fallen to his knees and was trying desperately to pull
the harpoon from his throat. Aiakos grasped the weapon and pulled
it free, its heavy barbs ripping through flesh and nearly decapitating
205
the Ordsman. Aiakos dealt with the second guard, gasping at his feet
and trying to crawl away, with a savage stomp to the back of his neck.
Bone cracked and the Ordsman stopped moving.
The attack had been swift and virtually silent, but there were
more soldiers inside. Aiakos reached out with his mind and felt the
presence of the two Leviathans . . . barely. He summoned them,
urging them to move quickly, and the two great machines clambered
easily up the cliffside beneath the lighthouse and soon came around
the curve of the tower, their furnaces blazing with Cryxlight.
Aiakos knew he was outnumbered, but the helljacks and the
element of surprise likely gave him an edge. He didnt waste either
advantage. He ran forward and pulled the sizable double doors open.
Before the guards could react, the Leviathans scuttled through. There
were six guards in the bottom of the lighthouse, a space some thirty
feet around. There were no furnishings, just racks for weapons on
the walls. A wide spiral staircase rose into the upper levels of the
structure.
The cannons on the Leviathans left arms sounded, throwing
half a dozen six-inch spikes at the shocked guards. Aiakos poured
his will into the two helljacks, pushing them to fire their cannons
quicker and with more accuracy. Five of the guards fell dead from
the initial assault; the sixth, whether through skill or sheer luck, was
missed entirely. The Ordsman, a young man with sure and quick
hands, unslung his rifle with a single smooth motion and aimed it
at Aiakos. The Leviathans cannons were quiet, using steam to throw
their missiles, but the guardsmen rifle would be like the crack of
doom inside the stone confines of the lighthouse, alerting anyone
above to their presence.
Aiakos brought his harpoon up and channeled his will, sharpening
his senses and adding power to his cast. The harpoon sailed from
his hand as the guardsmans finger curled around the trigger of his
206
carbine, crossed the room in a blur of steel, and missed. The heavy
tines struck the stone wall behind the soldier, but the sound was lost
in the thunder of gunfire.
The shot smashed into Aiakos power field, blossoming harmlessly
in a shower of green sparks. The Leviathan closest to the guards
scuttled forward and caught the Ordsman up in its huge pincer. The
man opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a syrupy
grunt and a gout of blood as the Leviathan neatly cut him in half.
Aiakos looked at the staircase leading higher into the tower. It
was far too small to support the Leviathans. No alarm had sounded,
and as he pulled his harpoon free of the wall and bounded toward
the stairs he allowed himself hope that the guards upstairs were still
unaware what was happening.
He was up the first section of stairs with no more than the tiniest
scrape of steel on stone. He had become adept at moving quickly and
quietly in the streets of Blackwater, and his armor was light and made
little noise. Additionally, hed learned to turn its boiler down low to
reduce the amount of smoke its necrotite-driven furnace produced.
Still, the noise from the guards shot must have been heard.
The next level of the lighthouse was a simple galley with a cook
stove, pots and pans hanging from racks, and a pair of large tables
with chairs. It was empty. He continued up the stairs, wanting to
run as fast he could go but holding back for the amount of noise it
would make.
He was nearly at the next level, his head cresting the floor of a
sizable room filled with bunks, racks for weapons and armor, and
small chests. It, too, was empty, but the staircase leading up to
lighthouses lantern was not. Coming down the stairs was a large man
with a ruddy face and a thick beard. He wore leather armor with steel
pauldrons as well as steel at the elbows and knees. He carried a hand
cannon in one hand and a drawn short sword in the other. His armor
207
and the way he moved spoke of both rank and experience.

Aiakos and the Ordic man stopped and stared at each other,
neither moving. Aiakos could not believe his luck. The shot in the
bottom level had not compelled the lighthouse commander to
sound an alarm; complacency or disbelief had instead moved him to
investigate the disturbance.
The spell was soon broken, but the Ordsman reacted first. His
hand cannon came up and unleashed thunder and smoke. Aiakos
power field flared, but the powerful charge of the hand cannon was
enough to penetrate. The bullet struck Aiakos shoulder, and sharp
pain followed by tingling numbness raced down his left arm. He
staggered back a step from the force of the shot.
The Ordic commander turned to flee and made it three steps
before Aiakos could bring his harpoon up and throw. Throwing
uphill and off balance robbed him of strength and accuracy, but his
cast was good enough to strike the Ordsmans ankle as he sprinted
up the stairs. The man howled in pain as the harpoons tines gouged
his flesh and he fell forward onto the stairs. Aiakos didnt bother
trying to pull the man closer with the chain trailing from the end
of the harpoonthe tines had not sunk deeply enough. Instead, he
bounded up the stairs, raising his forearm blade despite the tearing
agony from his wounded left shoulder.
The Ordic commander kept a clear head and rolled onto his
back, bringing his short sword up in time to knock Aiakos thrust
askew and lashing out with the butt of his hand cannon to smash
the heavy pistol into Aiakos knee. He hardly felt the blow through
his armor and lashed out with a heavy boot to catch the Ordic man
under the chin, rocking his head back and dazing him. The mans
short sword dipped, and Aiakos plunged his own blade into the
mans belly. The commander loosed a long, ragged shriek as Aiakos
ripped the serrated steel up through his abdomen.
208
Aiakos pulled his blade free, snatched up his harpoon, and leaped
over the man. He hit the steps on the other side and ran, leaving the
Ordic commanders dying screams behind. The upper level of the
lighthouse was the commanders quarters, now empty. It held a small
bed, a plain desk and chair, and what looked to be equipment used
to maintain the lantern above.
A short ladder in the center of the room led to a trapdoor in the
ceiling. Aiakos raced up the ladder, through the trapdoor, and into
the bracing chill of the wind coming off the port. Bright light nearly
blinded him, and he jerked his head away from the strobing lantern
in a great glass enclosure. A narrow catwalk with a thin metal railing
ran around the lantern housing.
Aiakos found what he was looking for quickly: bolted to the
railing was a siren powered by a hand crank. The sirens speaker cone
was aimed toward the port. Aiakos smashed his harpoon into the
bolts holding the siren until the entire contraption came free and
fell away into darkness. He then entered the lantern housing and
smashed the lantern to pieces with a single blow from butt of his
harpoon. Darkness swallowed the top of the lighthouse.
He next walked around the catwalk, the pain in his shoulder
ebbing as relief and the heady sensation of accomplishment surged
through him. He could still feel the Leviathans waiting in the lower
level, eager to spill yet more blood. He smiled and looked out over
the dark sea to where the Morbid Angel and the Scythe awaited.
Youre wounded, Axiara said, coming up behind Aiakos. He
was leaning against the warm metal hull of one of the Leviathans,
wrapping a bit of rag around the bullet hole in his arm. They stood
outside a massive warehouse on a darkened pier, the ominous black
shapes of the Morbid Angel and the Scythe waiting silently in the port
209
behind them. Men from both ships along with helljacks and no few
thralls were moving huge brass cannons from the warehouse into the
hold of the Morbid Angel.
Its nothing, Aiakos said.
Axiara placed one hand on his shoulder. It went through the
meat, she said, staring at the wound with an obviously practiced
eye. It will heal quickly.
Aiakos nodded, not sure what to say. Axiara had said nothing to
him about what hed done at the lighthouse or the fact that they were
plundering the Ordic munitions depot almost unopposed. He had
made his way to the pier shortly after finishing at the lighthouse and
had killed the guards here as well.
You are capable, Axiara said. And your talents make you
valuable.
He simply nodded.
I want you to stay on the Morbid Angel, she said. It was not a
request. I can ensure you learn to harness your power, grow it.
I am yours to command, admiral, Aiakos said.
Axiara smiled, the shark again. Well see.
A deep penetrating whine suddenly filled the night and lights
cross the harbor blazed into life revealing Ordic warships bristling
with cannons. The siren would awaken these sleeping giants, and
they would soon be moving toward the munitions depot.
Blood and hell, Axiara cursed. Those galleons will cut us to
pieces. Get back aboard the Morbid Angel!
All but one of the cannons had been loaded, and the last was
quickly taken aboard as the crew, thralls, and helljacks streamed up
the gangplank.
Aiakos ordered his Leviathans to board the ship and turned to
follow them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Captain Bloodbrine
and a few of his men running toward the Scythe. Axiara, flanked by her
210
first mate Kalghur and the putrescent form of Graxus, intercepted the
captain. Aiakos watched the exchange. Axiara spokequiet, severe,
and powerfuland Bloodbrine listened. The conversation lasted no
more than ten seconds, and when Axiara turned to board her ship, a
pale, shaking Bloodbrine watched her go, his face a mixture of rage
and terror.
As Aiakos followed Axiara up the gangplank, he was quite certain
he would not see his former captain again.
Despite its size, the Morbid Angel was a very fast ship. With both
paddles churning and under full sail with the wind, there were few
ships that could catch it. Certainly, the heavy Ordic war galleys had
little chance of successfully pursuing the blackship. Their captains,
however, had no interest in chasing the Morbid Angel. They had a
Cryxian pirate ship in their sightsa fine, fat target with no hope
of escape.
Aiakos watched the short battle in the port from the stern castle
deck. The Scythes cannons rippled with fire, launching a broadside
into one of the Ordic vessels. The night lit up as all three Ordic
galleys returned fire, their cannons illuminating the Scythes final
moments in glaring reds and yellows.
Aiakos sensed someone behind him and turned to see Nyra
Bloodbrine standing a few paces away, her eyes locked on her fathers
ship as it sank beneath the black waters.
Nyras face was blank, her posture relaxed. Aiakos stared at her
unflinchingly, not caring if she saw him staring. The death of her father
and the destruction of a ship that she might have one day commanded
did not seem to faze her. Her face was impassive but her eyes blazed
with fury, and he saw her right hand curl into a fist at her side.
She finally noticed him and turned that withering gaze in his
211
direction. She stared at him for a few moments, possibly trying to

gauge his reaction to the demise of his former captain.
He didnt make her guess. Your father was a good captain, but
hed gotten complacent, satisfied with his position. Thats why hes
on the bottom of that port and you and I are standing here. Leave
the past on the Scythe. There is only the future now, and the power
we take from it.
She opened her mouth to say something but hesitated. In the end
she said nothing and simply walked away.
Such control, he thought. It will serve her well.
Aiakos turned his eyes back to where the Scythe had gone to
the bottom of the Meredius. The Ordic guns had fallen silent, and
already the turmoil upon the water was quieting.
How quickly the balance of power shifts. He thought of his rise
from Blackwater enforcer to pirate to warcaster and still he was not
satisfied. There was still a way forward. Someday even the admiral of
the Cryxian fleet would have no hold on him.
212
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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 husbands nerdery.
A TYROS CRUCIBLE
By Douglas Seacat
Part One
Below Shaelvas, Ios, Autumn ^4571 (604 AR)
he novices who inhabited the Third Chambers underground

complex lived with no true concept of night and day. The monastic
order followed a strictly enforced regimen, with every hour planned.
The short sleeping period was disconnected from any awareness of
the state of the sun, the moons, or the stars.
Elara woke early as she often did, heeding her keenly intuitive
internal clock. In an instant, her eyes were open and her senses alert.
She lay upon one of the six low wooden benches that served as beds
in the room, each barely wider than the shoulders of an average
adult Iosan. Novices of the Third Chamber learned to sleep as still
as the dead to avoid the shame of falling to the cold stone floor
and awakening their sisters and brothers. Other than these simple
benches and a small footlocker for personal effects, the chamber was
unadorned.
The room was quiet as a tomb, with only the whisper of rising
and falling breath. Even this the novices trained to do quietly. Senior
initiates would stand vigil over a room of sleeping novices during
A TYROS CRUCIBLE DOUGLAS SEACAT
their first year and punish any utterances with a stinging slap to the
face. The novices learned to sense those with whom they shared a
room, becoming attuned to their natural rhythms. At the age of
eight novices spent a month sleeping in a cold crypt, lying shivering
near the shrouded and recumbent dead. It was an exercise in respect
for the state of death and also served to help them understand the
void left in the body by the passage of the soul. Ten years later that
lesson still felt fresh to Elara.
Her waking had been noticed by her friend Jyress, who slept on
the adjacent bench. Elara saw Jyress eyes sparkling in the dim glow
of the shuttered lamp sconce above the door. Jyress gave her the
smallest smile and closed her eyes again. They were each used to this
routine. Elara stood and dressed in silence and then crept slowly from
the chamber, closing the door behind her with similar care. She did
this not to deceive her peers but to avoid waking them. None were as
sensitive as Jyress. During the autumn season, novices were allowed
only five hours of sleep each night, and all but Elara treasured that
time. Their instructors pushed them to their limits every day and
night, and any hint of distraction was punished. Sleep was a brief
interval of oblivion between long hours of calculated suffering. Each
season had its own training focus but this season was harshest, for
autumn was when they felt the eyes of their goddess most directly
upon them.
Elara was different from the others, easily refreshed by only a
few hours of rest. It was another imperative that woke her early and
pulled her from her chamber and through the narrow, dimly lit halls.
Day and night were simulated in these chambers by ancient flameless
lamps adjusted at precise intervals by their tenders to approximate
the cycle of the surface world.
When she met two of the black-robed initiates assigned to patrol
the halls, they simply inclined their heads and let her pass. Her
216
routine was known to them. So long as she limited her path to the
nearest shrine, they let her be.
Several shrines to the goddess Lyliss were scattered throughout
the underground passages. The one allocated to the novices was the
humblest, without ornamentation or even the simplest comforts for
those who knelt there. Elara preferred it for precisely this reason,
finding its small, intimate space well suited to her attempts to
commune with her goddess.
The order of the Third Chamber was located immediately
adjacent to and occupying some of the same underground chambers
as the ancient Fane of Lyliss, which had been built shortly after Ios
was founded. This house of worship had once stood at the heart
of Shaelvas, at one time called the City of Wind but now just an
overgrown ruin. The holy presence of the goddess was no mere
abstraction or distant comfort, for she herself had once walked these
very halls, or ones very similar to them. In the ancient days of Ios
the gods had walked among their people, and each of the eight
members of the Divine Court had a fane and city built to honor
them. Shaelvas had belonged to the Nis-Scyir of Autumn, Lyliss the
Merciful Whisperer.
This simple shrine was best, with its small alcoves for each of
the gods. Most held only the symbols of the Vanished, but two
had small figures carved in stone to represent a pair of goddesses,
each an embodiment of a different season. Elara lit a candle
first to Scyrah, Nis-Issyr of Spring, who had returned to Ios to
look after its people but who suffered a mysterious malady that
sapped her strength and left her slumbering. Scyrah was Lyliss
sister and counterpart. The two shared a special bond, for one
stood at the doorway to life, the other at the threshold of death.
Elara prayed for an end to Scyrahs plight, but her true devotion
was reserved for Lyliss, to whom she lit the second candle.
217
Lyliss, hear my prayer in these last hours before dawn. Grant me

the clarity to understand my limits and the will to exceed them. The
words she spoke aloud were only a pale echo of her true prayers, of the
feeling in her heart, the doubt that was eating at her. Elara knew she
was guilty of many sinsimpatience, lack of focus, jealousy toward
Jyress for whom the lessons of their order were so easy. Sometimes
this jealousy was so bright it eclipsed her love for her friend.
She was particularly anxious about her recent failures in training.
For almost a year now, she had faced a wall during her exercises.
Where once she had excelled, now she faltered, finding it hard to
achieve the proper state of mind to fight her best. She had begun
to wonder if she was too flawed a vessel to fulfill her function, to
become a slayer of the enemies of Ios, a holy assassin pledged to
avenge the Vanished. She could not comprehend what such failure
might signify, but she could feel it threatening, like a reminder of
that tomb she had slept in as a youth, of the mummified faces of
those who had died before her and whose souls suffered in the ruined
palace of Lyoss in the Veld, forever keening for the return of lost
gods.
Elara pressed her forehead against the cold stone of the shrine and
prayed for the serenity to become a dagger in the hand of Lyliss, who
was absent but not forgotten.
Jyress collected Elara at the appointed hour, and they descended
together to the central gathering hall. Novices earned their right
for the first meal by fighting in the sparring rings. Elaras stomach
grumbled, and hunger gnawed at her. The morning duels were
always hardest.
Dozens of novices stood in a line near the outer perimeter of the
hall. With its high vaulted ceiling, it was one of the largest open
218
spaces in the subterranean complex. When this complex was part

of the outer chambers of the Fane of Lyliss, this chamber had been
a feast hall for long-dead priests and those who served them. Little
remained to suggest its previous function. Centuries ago the hall
had been transformed into a series of circular arenas, all dedicated
to training in the fighting arts practiced by the Third Chamber.
Members of all ages and ranks came here throughout the day to hone
their skills or instruct their juniors.
The room was large enough to support lessons for many different
groups at once, and the early morning exercises were an important
ritual. Members of the order at a variety of ages and stages of
development were in attendance, each group with their instructing
dominie. Elara passed a handful of young children who were
struggling to stand still, perhaps newly orphaned and brought to
the Third Chamber. Their naked expressions of fear and uncertainty
brought back unsettling memories. Elara could not remember those
early days well, but she knew what these young ones were feeling.
The novices of her age groupthose in their last year before
being elevated to initiatesstood utterly still, in position. She and
Jyress joined them and stared straight ahead. Together they awaited
the invitation of Dominie Hycieth, a stern woman who stood near
the line of weapon racks against the far wall, draped in the long
and many-folded garment traditional for those of her station.
Although her fingers were adorned with many simple metal rings,
each bearing an inscription that signified mastery over a discipline
vital to the order, she wore no weapons on her person. Dominie
Hycieth was one of the senior-most trio who led all training in the
Third Chamber. To the novices in her charge she was more than
mother, more than father, feared and respected only slightly less
than Lyliss herself. Her words had the weight of scripture, and her
cruel and impossibly high standards governed their lives.
219
With an inclination of her head and the smallest of gestures, the

dominie summoned the novices forward one at a time to take up
their preferred weapons. As they did so, they were paired with others
against whom they would test their skill. The variety of implements
on display each held a special place within the fighting form known
as klyvenesh, whose name was an ancient term for a striking serpent,
an animal favored by Lyliss. All were difficult to master and could
bite the wielder if handled improperly. Though practice weapons
were blunted, they could still cause lasting welts and broken bones;
nearly all the novices had endured painful mishaps. Elaras group was
close to the transition to initiate, and the intensity of their training
had increased accordingly.
There were strict traditions regarding worthiness to wield the
various weapons, but by this time in their training each of the novices
had found where their individual talents lay. They were expected to
adapt to multiple weapons over time, but the morning fights were
not for trying new weapons or unfamiliar techniques.
Dominie Hycieth gestured to Elara, who came forward as bid
and walked to the racks to select her weapon. She reached for the
sickle-ended blades she preferred but then hesitated, glancing at
Hycieth. Remembering a tongue-lashing she had received the
previous day, Elara felt a surge of defiance toward her instructor. A
reckless impulse pushed her to do the unexpected. Feeling Hycieths
eyes upon her, she selected a chain blade, one of several variants of
a weapon type that was among the most difficult to master. Each
end of the chain held a weighted and bladed implement, one larger
than the other and considered primary. This ones primary killing
implement was akin to a spears point rather than the more common
sword-like blade. Whatever form it took, a chain blade could only
be wielded comfortably by those who had proven ready to join the
Retribution of Scyrah as full assassins in the outside world.
220
The dominie turned to face her. Elara, do you feel you have
earned the right to dance with the serpent? Her voice was cutting,
her eyebrow raised. No one had the temerity to laugh, but Elara
saw several of her peers smile and whisper to one another behind
their hands. She was being mocked; they had all seen her dressed
down yesterday. Elara looked past them and saw Jyress staring at her
intently. Her friend shook her head once, frowning.
Elara straightened her back and bowed primly to the dominie.
Yes, I am ready. She made a mental vow to never again let herself
be cowed by the dominie.
Hycieth gave a small smile and inclined her head. So be it. Today
you will face Jyress. I am sure the match will be edifying.
Jyress selected her own weapon, and the two of them walked to
the nearest open ring. Many other pairs were already sparring, and
the room had begun to fill with the sound of clashing weapons and
grunts of exertion.
Elara was keenly aware of many eyes upon her. None of the
novices had the luxury to simply gawk, as the dominie would take a
rod to anyone caught not focusing on their own sparring. Still, for
those in the nearest rings it would be easy to steal glances. Elara put
them out of her mind.
Jyress had selected her preferred weapon, a polearm with long,
slender curved blades on either end. She faced Elara, but her
expression betrayed her concern. Elara, what are you doing? she
hissed.
I can wield it, Elara insisted, her confidence growing. The chain
felt good in her hands. She kept most of its length coiled around her
left forearm where she could feed it out at will, while she swung the
bladed end from a shorter length in her right hand, spinning it in a
steady orbit perpendicular to the floor. It whistled lightly through the
air with a sound that was somehow soothing. Elara stepped forward
221
with an eager smile, adopting a fighting stance and increasing the

speed of the spinning bladed point.
She controlled her breathing as she had been taught and
surrendered her thoughts, watching Jyress feet as the two of them
circled. She abandoned all perception of the room, of the other
fighters nearby, of the vigilant form of the dominie. All that mattered
was her opponent and her gleaming weapon.
Jyress made the first move, stepping forward gracefully and swiftly.
Her form was perfect as she thrust her polearm in a low lunge.
Elara evaded to the left and let the chained blade fly, unspooling its
length into a striking serpent. There was a high ringing note as Jyress
knocked it aside. Elara gave the chain a sharp jerk, arcing the weapon
back and around, tightening its lead to bring it into controlled orbit
once again. She had to turn and spin with it to control its direction,
and it came perilously close to striking her shoulder as she sent it
whipping forward again. She refocused her mind, seeking to think
of the chain blade purely as an extension of herself.
Again Jyress came toward her in a series of feints and thrusts,
occupying her as she dodged or used the chain held in both hands
to intercept the polearms double-ended blades. She felt a growing
euphoria as she became one with the weapon, with the moves of
her opponentthe dance of combat. A familiar sensation that had
been elusive in recent weeks. It helped that she faced Jyress, who was
tremendously skilled but more reactive than aggressive. Elara took
the offensive and drove Jyress back. The polearm ordinarily had the
reach advantage, but not against the unpredictable chain blade. Elara
noted the flushed expression on Jyress face, that look she had when
facing a worthy foe, and felt her own confidence solidify.
A strange sensation broke her trance. A tingling in the back of
her head, not quite painful but sharp and undeniable. She felt an
overwhelming certainty that she was being watched. She did not
222
falter in her steps and evaded the next thrust, but she could not resist
glancing toward the main entrance to the chamber. Someone stood
there, leaning against the tunnel wall outside the doors, a vague
silhouette mostly obscured in shadow.
Her pure focus on Jyress was shattered and replaced by something
else. It was as though she could feel the swirling movements of all those
fighting around her. In her minds eye she caught the movements
of Lyren and Nyrfyr sparring behind her, of the dominie striding
between the rings watching her, of a half-dozen others in combat
nearby, each in their own small orbit. For a moment it felt as though
she had perfect awareness of each of their positions and movements.
It was a great, swirling pattern that was both beautiful and chaotic.
She felt a sense of awe and wonder at the harmony of it all.
She had not been watching Jyress feet but sensed the woman
move. Elara turned to compensate and managed to evade the
incoming strike but stumbled. The chain she had been reeling and
winding with fluid grace became awkward in her fingers. When she
reached to catch the blades handle she misjudged the timing, and
the weighted metal cracked into her hand with great force. Jyress
immediately stopped moving as Elara winced in pain.
An attendant rushed to her side, an older woman who was
an expert in medicine and who watched the training to attend
to the inevitable injuries. The womans pinched face was set in
a disapproving expression, and she grabbed Elaras hand firmly,
ignoring her wince and gasp, and inspected it. Apparently finding
no broken bones, the woman opened a jar at her waist and
scooped out a dollop of rank-smelling salve, which she spread
across Elaras palm. It burned with momentary heat, and Elara
gritted her teeth in silence as tears sprang to her eyes, blurring her
vision. The attendant wrapped her hand in a thin layer of clean
cloth before stepping back and giving a small bow, first to Elara
223
and then to the dominie, who had come to stand beside the ring.
Hycieth pointed at the chain blade and snapped her fingers, and
Jyress rushed to collect the weapon and return it to the weapon
rack, giving Elara a brief look of commiseration. Elara waited with
clenched teeth, working to regain her composure. With effort she
returned her instructors steady gaze. Hycieth extended her hands
and offered Elara the familiar short blades, which the young Iosan
accepted.
The rest of the hour you will fight with these, the dominie said.
Do not push yourself. You must accept your limitations and master
those talents you do possess if you are to be of any use at all.
The words cut, but Elara betrayed no emotion. Instead she bowed
and did as bid. Her bruised hand made it difficult to grip a blade
with full strength, but she was determined not to show any signs
of her difficulty. As she awaited Jyress return in brooding silence,
she felt the eyes of other novices upon her and was reminded of the
watcher she had glimpsed. She looked toward the entrance hallway
but saw no one.
Putting that thought aside, she bowed to her opponent, and
without another word they resumed their sparring. Elara felt
awkward now, utterly bereft of the grace that had been hers minutes
before. She prayed to Lyliss she would not embarrass herself again.
When they had worked themselves to exhaustion they were given
leave to retire to the dining commons, there to break their fast. Once
again Elara was aware of whispers behind her back, including those
of novices whose performance was ordinarily worse than hers
cowards who never took risks. Elara held her head high and did not
deign to acknowledge them. At Jyress invitation she sat beside her
friend, as was their habit. Elara never presumed on that friendship
224
and would not have blamed her friend for distancing herself today.
They both sat in silence, heads bowed, until all were seated with
their plates. Dominie Hycieth called them to prayer. Let us give
thanks to Scyrah for this bounty, she from whom life flows, and
thanks also to Lacyr, our Creator.
All in the room made a gesture of appreciation with their right
hands and intoned thanks to Scyrah and Lacyr. It was automatic
and perfunctory to most, a ritual performed whose meaning was
diminished by repetition at every meal. Elara attempted to be
attentive and sincere in her own prayers, but her thoughts were
elsewhere. The dominie continued, Let us also be mindful of our
patrons, without whom we would suffer and starve.
This phrase, spoken only at breakfast, acknowledged the
Retribution of Scyrah. By long tradition the Third Chamber did not
gather its own food or spend time planting or harvesting crops. It
relied on the support and generosity of others for these necessities.
In return, the Retribution gained warriors devoted to their cause
and trained in the specialized techniques only known to their order.
To Elara the Retribution felt as distant and abstract as the city of
Shyrr, capital of Ios, which she had never seen but only read about.
Someday, she knew, this would change and she would see the world.
She did not feel impatient for that to happen.
Across from her, Jyress raised a spoon of boiled grains to her lips,
but her expression suggested she was thinking of other things. She
saw Elara looking at her and smiled. You handled the chain very
well today. I was impressed.
Elara had also begun to eat but she paused, frowning. I dont need
false compliments, she snapped. She took another bite, looking down
into the bowl. She could feel the weight of Jyress indignant stare.
I would never do such a thing! Jyress protested. Why would
you say that?
225
You were taking it easy on me, Elara said, keeping her voice low.
They sat at a small side table, just the two of them. But they were
not far from others, all eating and conducting their own whispered
conversations. You were not fighting your hardest. I do not need
your pity. Even as she spoke, Elara knew she was being unkind. The
envy she felt toward Jyress was coming through, adding venom to
her words.
Why are you always so angry? Jyress asked in a low hiss.
Why are you always so calm? Elara shot back.
Look at me, Elara, Jyress said. Elara looked up from her bowl,
her cheeks reddening with both shame and anger. Jyress was a darkhaired girl with a relatively plain face. She was shorter than Elara by
several inches, and more slight. Yet she possessed a wiry strength and
determination that complemented her tremendous natural skill. She
was among the best in their age group, yet she maintained humility.
Right now her eyes were angry, a rare sight. You dont know what
is happening in my mind, or your own. I may have been distracted
during our fight, but I did not take it easy on you. You arent the only
one who can make mistakes.
Elara immediately felt chagrined at her selfishness. Oh. Im sorry.
What distracted you? Her friend was so self-assured it was easy to
forget she might have troubles of her own.
Jyress leaned forward and spoke quietly but intensely. As we
fought, I was thinking I might switch to the klyvesh-nar, she said,
naming a polearm that was a variant of the one she preferred. Her
eyes shone with a familiar enthusiasm as she spoke of the weapon. It
is both longer and heavier, and so would be slower to wield, but its
blades have a hooked back edge, which would allow She stopped
when she saw Elara chuckling quietly, holding a hand to her mouth.
What? This is a serious choice!
Elara just shook her head and smiled. She was relieved that Jyress
226
had no greater worries than her choice of weapon. For the moment
she forgot her envy and simply appreciated her closest friend.
Picking up on her mood, if not her thoughts, Jyress also laughed
softly before turning more introspective. You know, this will all
pass, Jyress said. None of these difficulties matter. You and I will
complete training and serve together. Those who face us will have
reason to feel fear. She nodded once, decisively, and returned her
attention to her bowl.
Elara knew her friend was right, but rather than being reassured
by her words, she was filled with an inexplicable foreboding.
A cold and clammy hand clapped onto her mouth, and her eyes
sprang open in alarm. She instinctively tried to draw a breath but
could not. She reached up to push at the arm bearing down on
her, but a strong hand caught her wrist and held it. In a moment
Elara deduced she was not in peril. She looked up and recognized
the face of a mentas named Nywel. He was one of a number of
senior initiates in their final year who were tasked with assisting the
instructors, teaching courses to the younger novices.
Nywel had a small smile on his face that made him look ominous
in the dim light. He was clearly feeling smug about his ability to
reach her without being detected. Glancing around, Elara saw none
of the others had awoken, not even Jyress. Nywel held a finger to his
lips and removed his hand from her mouth. He released her arm and
bade her sit still while he awoke Jyress the same way. That done, he
stepped back toward the doorway, signaling them to follow.
Elara shared a look with Jyress and then did as bid, her heart
hammering in her chest. She controlled her breathing and moved
as silently as possible. She had never been awoken like this, and the
break in routine was alarming. She reminded herself a mentas would
227
not do them any harmunless an instructor commanded it.

Nywel led them down to the central sparring chamber. It was
where she spent a large portion of every day, yet it felt different at
this hour. No one regularly utilized the hall at this time, although she
knew some returning masters practiced during the dead of the night
to achieve better meditative calm and avoid interruption. The lamp
sconces here had also been turned low, leaving much of the room in
shadow and darkness. A single pool of brighter light on the far side of
the chamber centered on two figures standing side by side, waiting.
Elara saw movement in the corner of her eye and spotted another
mentas escorting a young male novice named Thyros, who looked as
nervous as Elara felt.
Thyros was one year younger, and she had only met him once,
briefly. He was tall and willowy for his age but also awkward, as
though he was not yet accustomed to the growth of his limbs.
He had a reputation for being exceptionally intelligent, but also
a mediocre warrior. In addition to the Third Chambers focus on
mastery of their ancient fighting arts, novices were also expected to
learn the history of Ios and the religious lore of the Divine Court.
Thyros excelled in these areas but had proven ill-suited to become
an assassin. The strengths and weaknesses of various novices was a
frequent topic of discussion among the order, and Thyros was one
the other novices expected to assume duties other than combat to
support the Retribution of Scyrah. Most of them, including Elara,
dreaded such a fate. His presence here now confused her. She could
not think of anything that connected Thyros, Jyress, and herself.
Dominie Hycieth was one of the two figures awaiting them,
though it took Elara a moment to recognize her. She was dressed in
an unfamiliar robe, one of patterned silk depicting autumn leaves
along its edges. It had to be the dominies masters robe rather than
the simpler one she customarily wore as an instructor. A chain blade
228
was sheathed and looped at her belt, a sight chilling in itself as Elara
had never seen the dominie armed except when demonstrating a
technique. Almost as unsettling was the fact that she had clearly
taken pains to ornament her hair. It was pulled up and bound in
a strangely convoluted pattern atop the dominies head, tied with
black cords. From each cord dangled a weighted silver needle. Elara
recognized these as weapons, simple but traditional implements
utilized by female priests of Lyliss. Was Hycieth a priestess as well as
an instructor? She felt like she should have known.
The novices were led in front of the waiting pair. Elara maintained
a properly respectful posture and avoided the temptation to stare at
the man who stood near Hycieth, his eyes gleaming as he surveyed
them. There was something in his eyes, his posture, and perhaps his
narrow nose and swept-back hair that reminded Elara of birds of
prey she had seen sketched in one of the books she had favored as a
child.
Though Elara did not look at him directlythe dominie
demanded their attentionshe was able to surmise several things
about him. First, he was a stranger. His simple black and brown
leather armor, cloak, and boots showed signs of wear and travel, and
nothing he wore reminded her of any uniform or garment she had
seen within the Third Chamber. An unadorned blade was sheathed
at his right side, barely visible beneath the cloak draped over his arm,
and she could see the end of a crossbow strapped over his shoulder.
She felt certain he must be a mage hunter of the Retribution; she
could imagine no other outsider allowed within these halls. He had
to be the one she had observed watching her sparring two mornings
ago. Even as she had this thought, Elara felt a sharp tingling in the
back of her mind that hearkened back to that morning. As she fought
to ignore the sensation, she felt the mans eyes focus on her sharply, as
if he knew her thoughts. It was disconcerting.
229
Dominie Hycieth did not introduce the stranger but said, I have
summoned you three for a special trial. You will do exactly what I
say, without questions. Is that clear? As the dominie spoke she was
looking directly at Elara, and she could not help pressing her lips
together in annoyance. It seemed unfair to be singled out in this way,
but she had to admit she had been punished for misbehavior more
often than the other two.
The dominie snapped her fingers, and the two attending mentas
carried a weapon rack into the light. Three sets of weapons were hung
there, clearly intended for the three novices. At Hycieths bidding
they stepped forward to arm themselves. Jyress took a klyvesh-nar
polearm akin to but more elaborate than the one with which she had
been practicing. For Elara there were a pair of double-ended sickle
blades. Thyros took a long curved sword whose double edge was
composed of interlocking sharpened crescents. This was one of the
simpler klyvenesh weapons, though its weight and balance could still
be tricky to master.
Elara knew at once that the blades she held were far more refined
than the ones she wielded in practice. The steel was lighter, and both
the rippled pattern on the blade and the supple leather of the handle
suggested considerable artistry. What was more, each felt warm to
her touch and seemed to vibrate with some inner power. As she
admired them she saw glowing turquoise runes manifest along the
flats of the blades in swirling patterns. There was no question these
were arcanikally augmented, each a minor treasure. She had been
through so much at the hands of Dominie Hycieth that she was
immediately suspicious. Why were they being allowed to wield such
priceless implements? Some horrible lesson had to be at hand.
Jyress face was flushed and showed no such suspicion as she
looked from her own weapon to Elara, widening her eyes expressively.
Neither of them had occasion to speak their thoughts. The dominie
230
clapped sharply and said, Duel! The light around them widened
to encompass the nearest fighting ring. She waved impatiently, and
the three novices hurried to take their places around the ring. They
were startled when Hycieth walked into the center and drew her
chain blade.
Without pause she lunged at Jyress, not throwing the blade on
its chain but holding its short hilt in her hand, wielding it like a
short sword. Jyress smoothly and swiftly deflected and then stepped
sideways, circling the instructor. They exchanged a few quick blows.
Try harder to hit me! Hycieth commanded. Imagine your will
as a living thing, funneled into the weapon in your hands. Let it
become an extension of yourself. Strike at me! Faster!
Whether her words had any impact was difficult to discern. There
was a reason Hycieth was the dominie responsible for weapons
training. Despite Jyress having the reach advantage and being in
excellent form, Hycieth had little trouble deflecting a flurry of attacks.
Jyress succeeded in pressing the dominie back two steps before the
older woman suddenly reversed her motion and slid swiftly inside
the polearms reach. With one quick strike she cracked Jyress fingers
with the flat of her blade, forcing the novice to cry out and lose her
grip. The weapon tumbled end over end to clatter along the floor
outside the ring. Jyress bowed humbly and went to recover it.
Thyros fared worse. His stance was good as he lifted the blade
to a high guard position and warily approached. But he was
not as fast or as skilled as Jyress, and he received several painful
smacks via the flat of Hycieths blade. His own attempts at
strikes were easily deflected. Again the dominie exhorted him to
leverage his will through his weapon, but it was to no avail. He
was soon disarmed and limping to the side of the ring. He was
certain to have an ugly welt along his upper right thigh where
Hycieth had delivered a brutal if blunted strike.
231
Elara was standing at the ready. Each blade she held had a handle
at the center and a length of sharpened steel extending from each side,
hooked at a sharp angle with both outer and inner edges sharpened
to a keen edge. They were similar to the ones she regularly practiced
with, although the angle of the hooked portion of the blades was even
more severe. She liked the feel of them and felt alert and energized.
As the dominie stepped toward her, Elara felt rising anger. She
saw no point to this exercise, no way in which she would derive any
learning from it. It was apparent now that Hycieth sought only to
humiliate her students before this stranger, perhaps to impress him
with her skill. She loathed the dominie more than ever, particularly
for having brought Jyress here. Her friend had no need of being
humbled. Knowing she was not skilled enough to win, her anger
fueled her determination to at least score a single good strike.
Hycieth was not yet breathing hard. She said, Feel your heartbeat
and its pulse from your chest down to your palms. An energy flows
through you with every beat, and you can feel it extending past your
palms into the blades in your hands. Do not hold back. Commit
yourself utterly to each strike.
The younger woman barely waited for her to finish speaking before
she charged forward, seizing the initiative. She felt a buzzing tingle in
her hands as she struck, certain she was delivering a blow that would
kill her instructor. Yet there was no satisfying impact as Hycieth
evaded, raising her blade to deflect the next blow. Elara grunted in
anger and exertion and continued to strike, pushing herself to move
faster, flowing from one move into the next. She was not thinking,
not planning, only moving and reacting as the two of them swirled
together to the music of metal on metal.
Hycieth jerked her head as she spun and her hair came loose
from its arrangement, cords flying free. Elara felt sharp jolts of pain
along her left arm, and it suddenly went numb. Without thinking
232
she dropped that blade. Then Hycieth intercepted the weapon in

her right hand and with a twisting motion jerked it free, sending it
flying to imbed itself in a wooden rack outside the ring. Elara looked
down and saw her left arm bleeding from two small punctures, one
in her upper arm and the other below her elbow. They looked like
insect bites, and her arm was tingling as though she had slept on it
wrongly. She saw two of the needles attached to cords in Hycieths
hair were stained red. The older woman was not looking at her
and had returned her chain blade to her waist. She then set about
rearranging her hair with economical motions, restoring the cords.
Elara sighed and picked up the blade at her feet, then walked
over to the one stuck in the weapon rack. She paused as she saw the
leading edge where it extended from the wood was wet and stained
red. She touched it gently and frowned. She looked down to see if
she had cut herself without realizing ita persistent danger with
these weapons.
She saw no sign of it, and looked up in disbelief to observe a
rent in Hycieths robe between her abdomen and sternum, its edges
colored by fresh blood. The dominie showed no sign of being in
pain; she did not even appear to notice the wound, which seemed
superficial. She simply stood and waited for Elara to return. The
novice felt more confused than triumphant and also self-conscious.
Jyress and Thyros were staring at her.
Hycieth did not acknowledge the injury or compliment Elara.
Instead she said, For the next trial, you will each be blindfolded.
She snapped her fingers again, and the mentas brought long strips
of black cloth to bind their eyes. Elara winced slightly as Nywel tied
hers tighter than seemed necessary.
She felt vulnerable and suddenly afraid. She had managed to strike
Hycieth! That fact echoed in her mind, now with added ramifications.
Her life was in the instructors hands, and always had been. Fatalities
233
during training were rare but not unknown, and for a dominie the
death of a novice would provoke no lasting consequences. Not that
she truly expected such a thing, but the vacant look in Hycieths eyes
as she had adjusted the cords in her hair seemed ominous now.
Hycieth spoke again, her voice near enough that Elara was startled.
You have been trained to sense when others are near. That awareness
is not well developed, clearly. Focus on it. Ignore your eyes and rely
on your other senses. Hear what is around us, our breathing, our
heartbeats, the movement of cloth on skin. Smell the sweat of recent
exertions and feel the smallest movement of air along your arms.
Embrace the darkness as a friend. Welcome Ayisla, goddess of night,
the most steadfast ally of Lyliss.
Elara forced herself to relax. She was on more familiar ground
now. They had practiced these sorts of exercises on many occasions,
and Elara had always performed well when blindfolded. She adopted
a ready posture and allowed the sensations of the chamber to reach
her. It was not difficult to discern Hycieths position, as the dominie
was walking in a slow circle around the three of them. By Hycieths
orbits around each of them Elara deduced the positions of Jyress and
Thyros, who were remaining still and were difficult to perceive.
Elara frowned. Hycieth was taking no pains to conceal herself or
walk silently. Surely if she had wished, the novices would not have
sensed her at all. She strained her ears, felt the small hairs on her
arms tingle and rise. It was strange, but for a moment she had a
small taste of that clarity she had experienced when fighting with the
chain blade against Jyress. She knew the positions of those around
her not through what she could hear but through something else,
some greater certainty.
Turn to face your greatest threat! Hycieth said suddenly.
Here it was, the trick, although Elara felt no less confused for
having anticipated it. Her heart hammered as she hesitated. Was
234
Hycieth the greatest threat? Or was it their visitor, from whom

she had sensed the slightest movement? He had stepped forward
and from the sound of it had drawn a weapon. But no, there was
something else.
She felt that tingling again in the back of her mind, and it seemed
as though a silver light flared across her closed eyelids, connecting
the stranger to something else, something perilous. Instinctively she
turned in that direction. It was across the chamber in a portion of the
room that had been lost in darkness. Something large and heavy and
powerful. She could feel a soft vibration beneath her feet, a sound too
low to hear, and her heart pounded faster. The thing was gathering
energy, preparing to fire some unfamiliar but deadly weapon, one
not wielded by an Iosan hand.
Stop! Hycieth commanded. Elara froze. The sense of imminent
peril quickly faded, as did her awareness of those around her. Do
not move. Mentas, remove their blindfolds.
When she could see again, Elara saw nothing ahead of her worthy
of attention. The far side of the large chamber remained completely
dark. She kept facing in the same direction but could not resist
looking over her shoulder at the others. Her heart sank as she realized
neither of them were facing the same direction. Jyress was facing the
stranger, who had drawn a compact crossbow from his back and held
it loosely at his left side. Thyros was facing Hycieth.
The dominie and the outsider looked at one another and after a
pause he nodded. Hycieth clapped her hands once sharply and said,
Jyress, Thyros, you may return to your chambers. Elara, remain.
This ominous pronouncement was obeyed, though Elara and
Jyress shared a subtle look before the latter was led away. Elara
watched them go and sighed, wondering what her punishment
might be. The tense moments that had just passed left her drained,
too tired to feel fear. Before she could ask any questions, however, the
235
light sconces in the chamber suddenly brightened as Hycieth and the

stranger moved closer to her.
Elara blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light. She stared directly
ahead. Now she could clearly see a myrmidon there, one of the
fighting machines of Ios. She had never seen one in person before.
As if of its own accord, the bipedal construct of white-lacquered steel
strode forward. The light shimmered strangely around it, a distortion
she knew represented the power field it generated to protect itself.
Prominent on its bulky shoulders were glowing turquoise patterns
not dissimilar to the ones on the blades she had used against Hycieth.
Upon the back of each of its forearms were lengths of sharpened
steel, and its head was topped by a high curved vertical crest that gave
it a vaguely avian appearance.
She recognized the machine as one of the light myrmidons built
to serve the Iosan Homeguard Coalition. It could manipulate the
force field that surrounded it to deliver a powerful and deadly burst
of energy across short distances. It was a weapon of war, but one
unlike any employed by the Third Chamber. It seemed utterly alien
and out of place here, in her home, and its presence unsettled Elara
far more than the thought of punishment.
You know what this is, Elara? Hycieth asked.
She answered promptly, A Gorgon light myrmidon, built by
House Shyeel.
Very good. Now, step closer to the myrmidon. There is nothing
to fear. It will not harm you. Reach out and touch its frame, then
close your eyes and think about making it move.
I dont understand, she said, but Hycieth did not clarify. Elara
walked closer to the machine as directed, determined not to show
any lack of resolve. She reached out to touch the smooth metal of its
lowered right arm, staying clear of the sharp blades along the back.
Though it was a light myrmidon, it towered impressively above her,
236
over nine feet tall. She marveled at the precision that must have gone
into its fabrication, particularly its hands, which looked as articulated
as her own.
Do as I bid you, urged the dominie. Close your eyes and think.
Pretend you can force this machine to do as you wish, if only your
thoughts can reach it.
Elaras training had required her to do many strange things, so this
directive did not trouble her. She followed the dominies instructions
as best she could. She frowned as she felt an odd jolt, like a small
sliver of pain in her mind, as if she had hit her head on something.
Suddenly dizzy, she began to breathe hard and her eyes watered. She
was not sure what was happening; her mind felt fogged. She gasped
and stepped away from the myrmidon, and the sensation faded. She
had dropped one of her blades without realizing it and had raised a
hand to her brow.
Again the two older Iosans shared a look. The stranger nodded,
revealing a small smile. Hycieth gave a deep sigh, looking weary and
resigned, then squared her shoulders and spoke.
Elara, let me introduce you to Keldeacon Synvas Uithuyr. Synvas,
this is Elara, one of our less distinguished novices.
Elara ignored the insulting tone. From the way the dominie had
pronounced the name, it was clear she was expected to know who
Synvas Uithuyr was. His name sounded familiar, but she couldnt
quite place it. She had been required to learn so many names and
dates, they sometimes blurred together.
Synvas stepped forward and inclined his head. His expression
was intense, his eyes taking the measure of her. Now that he was
closer Elara could see that his face bore a number of notable scars,
including a deep but long-healed gash that crossed his lips on the
left side. There was something off-putting about the look of his
left eye, as it seemed a paler shade of icy blue than his right.
237
Does that name mean anything to you, Elara? Hycieth asked.

Of course, Elara lied. It is an honor to meet you, Keldeacon.
She inclined her head to a greater degree.
Apparently seeing through her, Hycieth gave a tsk of reproof and
said, The keldeacon is one of the Nine Voices of the Retribution.
Her words had the intended effect. Elara simply stared at Synvas,
her mouth falling slightly open with shock. The Nine Voices were
the leaders of the Retribution of Scyrah, that organization to which
the Third Chamber was bound and owed its survival. This meant,
as far as she understood such things, that this man was as highly
placed above Hycieth as Hycieth was above Elara. She felt her cheeks
burning as she considered her insignificance. She bowed more deeply
and kept her eyes on the floor, uncertain how to respond. None of
her training had touched on this.
There is no need for such deference, Synvas said, speaking for
the first time. His voice was low and somewhat rough, as though
speaking pained him. I am just an old soldier. We will be spending
considerable time together in the days ahead. You may speak freely
to me, at least when we are alone.
Elara looked to Hycieth in confusion and said, I dont understand.
The dominie bent to collect the weapon Elara had dropped and
offered it back to her with a look that could only be described as
sympathetic. To Elara this was more startling than a stern glare. These
blades were crafted to be wielded in battle, not to languish here.
The keldeacon spoke again to Elara. I am certain you have the
potential. You will accompany me to the Syvash Hold. There is much
you must learn. Your training as a warcaster tyro begins at once.
Seeing Elaras stunned expression, Hycieth added words that
pierced her like a thrusting blade: Yes, Elara, you will be leaving
the Third Chamber. Your destiny lies elsewhere.
238
Elara and Keldeacon Synvas left before dawns first light, and
while she was given permission to spend a few brief moments in
prayer at the novices shrine, she was not allowed to speak to Jyress.
This caused her a sense of profound loneliness as they made their
way up the long corridors leading to the exit of the Fane of Lyliss.
Initially she felt numb and unable to confront the meaning of what
had just happened. She found herself staring at the myrmidon that
accompanied them, fascinated by its smooth movements.
It was not until they stepped into the strange chill of the outside
air and she saw the sunrise for the first time that the reality of what
was transpiring hit her. She stopped and stood frozen for long
seconds staring at the brightening horizon, at the vault of the sky
above her, the trees and overgrown vines and foliage that surrounded
the entrance to the tunnel leading into the lower fane. The keldeacon
waited for her patiently, looking unsurprised as she absorbed the
unfamiliar sights of the world outside the halls that had served as her
home since her earliest memories.
Elara realized her life had changed irrevocably. She did not feel
liberated from the halls below, but terrified of an unknown new life.
There was a sinking feeling in her stomach, a dryness to her throat, a
sense of barely restrained panic. It was very difficult for her to believe
she was a warcaster. This thought was so far outside the scope of her
aspirations that it baffled her.
She had been raised to become an assassin, a blade of Lyliss.
She had known long and difficult years of training lay ahead of
her, but she had been prepared for them. Such conditioning was
necessary if she were to put aside fear of death and embrace the
sacred role of her order. Eventually she would have emerged to
join the Retribution as others of her order had before her, to be
unleashed on the enemies of Ios like an arrow from a bow. She
was not ready. Hycieth had made that abundantly clear.
239
Now what was her path? She looked to the man who was one of
the leaders of the Retribution of Scyrah. She sensed her being taken by
him was intended to be an honor, and certainly warcasters were always
spoken of in reverential tones. Despite this, her heart told her it was
punishment, a reprisal for failing to serve Lyliss. He felt like a jailor.
They walked a short distance from the overgrown ruins of what
had once been Shaelvas, the City of Windnow just vague lumps
of old crumbled stone buildings lost amid the trees and vinesand
came upon a small encampment. A number of dark-cloaked and
grim-faced men and women were gathered there, each armed with
blades and crossbows. They welcomed Synvas with quiet but genuine
enthusiasm, showing deference in their postures, their lowered eyes,
their inclined heads. They spoke in low voices and augmented their
spoken words with complex hand gestures she did not understand.
One of the eldest went so far as to clap Synvas on the shoulder,
suggesting some greater familiarity. This one, an Iosan with a heavily
scarred face, looked to Elara with suspicious scrutiny. Just the one
this time? She looks young.
More will come in a few months. This one is special. A budding
warcaster.
Is that so? He sucked a tooth and raised an eyebrow at Elara,
as if doubting the truth of those words. Elara could not blame him.
To Iryss, then?
Well be going to the Hold, Synvas told him. Elara knew
enough Retribution history to recall that the Hold was a mountain
fortress, the first place of safety built by the fledgling sect so they
could meet and practice their persecuted religion in peace. The
Retributions main facility was the Syvash Stronghold in Iryss,
not far from the original Fane of Scyrah, but the Hold was up
amid the southern mountains, far from the center of Ios.
They led a horse forward for Synvas, and he pulled Elara up behind
240
him. This was another new and uncomfortable experience. The

keldeacon smelled of leather, oil, and smoke, but the horse smelled
even stranger. The mage hunters abandoned their encampment
and soon they were on their way from the ruins of Shaelvas. The
myrmidon advanced just ahead of their horse. They seemed to be
keeping to no road she could detect.
The strange discomforts arising from riding a horse for the first time
distracted her. Everything about the outside world was unfamiliar,
and so she did not know what direction they traveled or where their
final destination might be. But eventually she felt compelled to talk.
Hycieth insists my performance was poor, she said. There are others
who do better. Perhaps she simply wanted me gone.
The reasons you are valuable to me have nothing to do with
your former training, the keldeacon said. I would not worry about
what Hycieth may have said. Your poor performance was because
you were battling your instincts. Hycieths methods may forge an
assassin, but she is narrow-minded and stubborn. She didnt have the
first idea what to do with you. At least she had the sense to contact
me when she suspected what was wrong.
Elara had never been fond of the dominie, had in fact despised
her, but she felt offended at his disrespect. She said sharply, Dominie
Hycieth is a master of klyvenesh who has been training assassins for
two hundred years! Only belatedly did she realize the impertinence
of her words, but the keldeacon seemed unfazed.
Her training works well, for them. Not for someone like you, he
said. The concentration she desired of you, the all-consuming focus
on a single foe, that is not how a warcaster enters battle. Your power
seeks to flow outward, to embrace a multitude of perspectives, to
see the battlefield in its entirety. You will learn to fight as well when
your mind is outside your body as when it is within. She was silent
after this, frowning, confused by his meaning. He said, I would not
241
expect you to understand yet. Give it time. The training awaiting

you will be superior in every regard to what you experienced in the
Third Chamber.
This provoked a surge of sudden hatred linked to her grief at
leaving her home behind. She could not help hissing through her
teeth, You insult what you do not know. Nymeth. She had spoken
low, into his back, and the word escaped her lips without thought.
She felt a cold wash of fear. The word she had spoken was a severe
insult among those who worshipped Lyliss. It meant outsider, but
also one who was ignorant, who did not know the secrets, and who
blasphemed but was too stupid to realize it. She had just said this to
one of the leaders of the Retribution.
He did not get angry, however. Yes, to you I am an outsider. I
do not insult the Third Chamber, or your goddess. But your training
has been narrow. It is a religious practice as much as a fighting art. It
is beautiful, ancient, and sacred. I respect that. But it is limited. Bear
in mind that when your peers are ready for the world, they come
to me to enter training anew. It is with the mage hunters that they
transcend their rituals and become soldiers. We arm them to face the
uncertainties they will confront when stalking our enemies outside
Ios. You are lucky to go early. It will not be so hard to unlearn what
you have been taught.
Elara fumed silently. They might have cast her from the Third
Chamber, but she would not abandon her faith. She would learn
what they would teach her, but she vowed that her heart belonged
to the Goddess of Autumn. His words at least reassured her in one
regardif the assassins also went to this place to train, perhaps one
day she would see Jyress again, though by then she might name
her nymeth. She touched the hilt of one of the blades given her by
Hycieth with the fingertips of her right hand. If she was to be a
warcaster, so be it. She would do so on her own terms.
242
Part Two
The Hold, ^4573 (607 AR)
In later months Elara would try to recall the journey from Shaelvas
to the Hold, but she could never remember the details. It had taken
several long days and nights, passing through the dense Mistbough
Forest of southern Ios and eventually climbing the rugged foothills
and into the mountains. The path they followed was narrow and
treacherous, although those with them knew the route well. The
Retributions first fortress was hidden away amid those peaks, and
since they arrived at night and because its outer walls melded so
smoothly into the surrounding landscape, she never got a proper
look at it from the outside. It was less a single keep than a series of
stone buildings connected by broad open areas, all enclosed amid
a chain of high walls.
It had been built with the expectation that those who held it might
have to defend it against other Iosans when the Retribution was first
founded, its religious principles declared heretical by the Fane of
Scyrah. It was not until the organization grew and expanded that it
became one of several training grounds for those waging war against
human arcanists, whom they knew to be accountable for whatever
misfortune had befallen the gods. The central Syvash Stronghold in
Iryss was where new recruits went to learn the basics of their roles,
but once they were ready they were sent here to the Hold for more
advanced training.
The Retribution of Scyrah was said to have dozens of hidden safe
houses and armories scattered throughout the human kingdoms,
each home to a tight-knit cell of mage hunters who planned and
executed dangerous operations on foreign soil. Most of those pledged
243
to the organization spent decades away from Ios, and might live their
final years without ever seeing their homeland again. Nonetheless
the Hold was special, being the most secure and protected of their
facilities and where the Nine Voices could meet to discuss their larger
plans in absolute secrecy. Hundreds of dedicated warriors of the sect
were there at any given time, including seasoned veterans who had
returned to serve for a time as instructors.
Elara quickly became accustomed to being in the mountains, to
the biting cold of the air during most of the year. The open sky lost its
terror and now she enjoyed looking at the stars and moons at night.
There was a comfortably familiar minimalism to aspects of life here.
The rooms were simple and spare, with little ornamentation. The food
was also simple and portions small. The mage hunters in training
endured a lifestyle as monastic and disciplined as the Third Chamber,
albeit stripped of the religious rituals Elara had found a comfort.
For the most part, the mage hunters were also pious, although
in a quiet and private way. Ultimately that attitude allowed Elara to
conduct her own worship without drawing undue attention. Scyrah
was paramount here, the other gods forgotten. Scyrahs name was
often on their lips, and visits to her shrines and central fane were a
regular part of life for most. Oracle Relvinor Luynmyr, another of the
Nine Voices, led the priests of this sect and had been instrumental in
defining the religion of the Retribution. The Fane of Scyrah, which
was the largest structure in the Hold, was his domain.
Elara did not feel comfortable in this building. She eventually
found a shadowy corner away from the drafty main halls where she
could speak her prayers to Lyliss in private. She brought with her a
single flattened autumn leaf she had preserved in a thin prayer book.
This served as her own private shrine.
In the first few weeks after her arrival she kept to herself to preserve
her thoughts, yet in the months that followed it became clear the
244
others had no desire to count her as one of them. The irony of her
accusation of nymeth to the keldeacon became apparent, as she was
now the outsider. He was their father, their general, a beloved figure.
He did not earn obedience by stern command and harsh rebuke,
unlike Hycieth. He left that to other instructors, some of whom were
every bit as unforgiving as her mentors in the Third Chamber. The
keldeacon was always welcomed, admired. He travelled frequently
between the Hold and Iryss on Retribution business.
She heard the legends of his exploits from his younger days.
When she asked why he had stopped, the mage hunters looked at
her strangely and mentioned his missing hand and lame leg, both
remnants of old battlefield injuries. This stunned her. She had
never noticed, even while riding behind him. He bore himself so
confidently, wrapped in his cloak, his face self-assured and regal, she
had not even noticed he was missing his right hand. She knew there
were ways to compensate for such a loss, that artificers could create
a false hand nearly as good as a real one, but apparently he preferred
to go without. Once she learned of his leg she was able to discern a
stiffness to his stride, but it was barely noticeable.
Her interactions with him were sporadic past those first weeks,
once her training under the supervision of others began. Still, her
peers knew he had brought her personally, and they resented that
fact, adding to the distance between her and them. She was to be
a warcaster tyro, and they were envious. She had a power denied
them, not earned through virtue or effort, but just a quirk of birth.
It was not difficult to learn how few warcasters there were among the
Retribution, each a significant figure. They were lucky to find one in
a generation.
She could see how strong the bonds of camaraderie and friendship
were among the mage hunters. Those of an age treated their peers as
brothers and sisters. This was a family Elara was no part of. In this
245
as in many ways, Elara had no true peers, no friends. She liked to

think she preferred being alone, but then she thought of Jyress and
her heart betrayed her.
She thought this isolation might fade in time, but as the months
and then years passed, it only became more cemented. She refused
to show any distress. Where she walked she held herself proudly. She
pretended not to hear the snide asides. She focused on becoming a
worthy warrior. Here she did well, the situation quite different from
how it had been in the Third Chamber. Once she learned to use
her gifts, she blossomed as a fighter. None could stand against her
for long, and she allowed herself to savor that pride, even if others
viewed her as arrogant.
In personal combat she was supreme, but her training suffered in
other respects. Among the lessons of group tactics and strategy, she
felt disinterested. In exercises where they sought to teach her how
to lead a strike force she found her peers slow to obey, forcing her
to seize the objectives personally, after which she was reprimanded
even if she succeeded. Elara was not about to accept defeat simply
because of the failings of those who were less capable than she. More
troubling was the difficulty she felt controlling her myrmidon when
under pressure. The more intently she sought to improve, the worse
the situation became.
These thoughts were much on her mind as she readied herself
for a mixed-group skirmish that would be personally supervised by
the keldeacon. Elara had been placed in a team of infiltrators and
strikers with whom she had been training for three months. This
was to be the culmination of their drills together. They were to be
thrown into a combat exercise against another team to see how
they responded to the unpredictable pressures of a large encounter.
246
Elaras thoughts were on a sequence of strikes and parries she

had been practicing. She paid little attention to the details of how
her warcaster armor was being strapped to her body. Assisting her
was a mage hunter named Myolyr, who conducted the task without
enthusiasm.
Give me your right arm, he said snappishly, and she realized he
had repeated the command because she had ignored him the first
time. She acquiesced but did not acknowledge his tone. He may have
found it demeaning to be forced to serve as attendant to someone
who was technically his junior at the Hold, but the situation was
not comfortable for her either. She would have preferred a female
attendant and did not appreciate how he manhandled her limbs
into the heavy armor, though he had evidenced more disdain than
attraction.
Sadly, Myolyr was the closest she had to a friend at the fortress.
He had not chosen to be at her side but had been ordered there.
His position was loosely akin to that of the mentas in the Third
Chamberhe was a junior instructor assigned to her shortly after
her arrival, a liaison serving as a buffer between her and the rest of
the mage hunters. It was his task to explain things everyone else here
took for granted, thereby facilitating her acclimation.
Myolyr clearly resented this duty, and the passage of two years had
done nothing to change that. He was a capable mage hunter, skilled
in combat. He aspired to be sent beyond Ios and eventually become
a strike force commander. It was obvious he felt it was beneath him
to be a tyros escort. He had suffered among his peers because of this
duty, which isolated him from them nearly as much as Elara was
herself.
She was not unsympathetic to his position, but his manner
grated. He made no effort to be friendly, so neither did she. It did
not help that he seemed to take pleasure in remarking on her failings
247
after each combat exercise, lesson, or sparring match. She was certain
today would be no different. She compressed her lips and mentally
vowed to give him no fuel for that fire.
Her armor properly strapped, she accepted her blades from him
and pressed a button in a recessed indentation on her left hip. This
activated an arcanikal mechanism that powered up with a low hum
and prompted patterns along several portions of the armor to glow
with a soft turquoise light. Her armor siphoned a small portion of her
innate arcane power to generate a power field around her and reduce
the apparent weight of the heavy armor, augmenting her motions
and lending strength to her legs and arms. The first time she had
worn the armor it had felt strange, but she had quickly acclimated,
and now it felt like a second skin.
She strode quickly from the chamber, forcing him to rush to
keep up, muttering under his breath. It was such small things that
provided her satisfaction. Though he escorted her and assisted in
maintaining her armor and weapons, he was not a part of her team
and would not be fighting alongside her. Ive already passed these
trials, he had made a point of telling her.
Her team awaited her in the central courtyard adjacent to the
Lower Barracks, one of three large open stretches of ground in the
fortress complex reserved for combat exercises. She waved politely to
them, and several that were facing her direction inclined their heads.
Whatever architect had created this place might have intended a
garden here, with plants to honor Scyrah, goddess of Spring. The
grass and thorny hedges cultivated here now existed solely to simulate
an outdoor environment, and the field frequently endured being
smashed to mud and pulp. Several heavy obstacles had been dragged
into place to provide cover and create choke points.
Her myrmidon also awaited her, having been directed to the
courtyard by one of the arcanists who saw to its maintenance. It
248
was an old and heavily battered Griffon, a light myrmidon noted

for speed and durability as well as its relatively simple design. It bore
a large shield on its left arm and wielded a lengthy halberd in its
right. Elara inclined her head at the arcanist adjacent to it, and he
reached up to reset the control that allowed him to marshal it with
verbal orders, putting its cortexits artificial mindin a ready and
receptive state.
Despite its condition, the notched and scraped armor had been
fully repaired since the last time it had seen action. Like all myrmidons
here, it was employed both alongside and against those training and
so saw considerable abuse. It was apparently a very old machine,
rebuilt countless times, and the marks along its frame were a badge
of honor to those who maintained it. Elara had begun to view the
machine with grudging fondness, although at times the contraption
frustrated her in equal measure.
Elara, Ive been assigned as commander today, said Hyrell, one
of the senior strikers. She looked at him for a moment, considering.
To his credit, he did not shrink from her stare. She had sparred with
him on several occasions and recalled thinking he might turn into
a passable swordsman. He especially excelled in accuracy with his
crossbow, an important skill for a mage hunter. Of the members on
her team, he seemed a solid choice as commander.
Still, it was unusual. In the field, those with the warcaster
talent were generally put in operational control unless there were
extenuating circumstances. A substantial portion of Elaras training
had been geared toward readying her for command. She looked over
to Instructor Gyrell, who was responsible for their team, but the
woman simply stared back, her arms crossed. Was this also some sort
of test? Did they want to see if she would lose her temper again? She
glanced back to Myolyr, who stood a few feet back at the edge of the
training field. He offered her a small shrug, useless as ever.
249
Very well, she said to Hyrell. I am at your command. In truth,

she was relieved not to be in charge. She preferred to do her own
thing, and her teammates always seemed to get underfoot at the
worst times.
She walked to the Griffon and placed a hand on the cold metal
of its arm. She closed her eyes and reached out with her mind to
connect with the cortex. She sensed arcane barriers ready to deflect her
mind, but she navigated these locks by sending a complex sequence
of code images, doing so as quickly as she could manage. She was
soon through and felt slightly dizzy as the myrmidons artificial mind
locked to hers. It inclined its head, and she felt its familiar if alien
presence, its watchfulness. She opened her eyes and was unsteady on
her feet for a moment as she saw through both its visual apparatus
and her own eyes. She forced herself to be steady, knowing she would
acclimate in a minute or two.
She was keenly aware of Keldeacon Synvas Uithuyr, who stood
at the mid-point between the two teams, facing her now. She made
sure her breathing was steady and turned back to Hyrell. Im ready,
she said. Behind her the Griffon moved at her mental command,
striding forward to stand next to her and plant the shaft of its halberd
in the soil.
Each team gathered at opposing sides. They were soon given
directions by the assisting instructors. The other team would defend,
with a banner attached to a spear in their possession as their goal.
The keldeacon watched as judgehe would score their performance
personally, a fact that put all the mage hunters on edge, each of them
eager to prove themselves and make an impression. Looking across
the field at the faces of those gathered, Elara surmised this might
prompt mistakes to be made. The weapons they wielded were real,
although measures had been taken to prevent lethality. The sharp
edges of their blades were wrapped in leather, and the strikers had
250
crossbows loaded with blunt bolts intended to bruise. Still, when

emotions were high, accidents could happen.
The keldeacon gave the final instructions, speaking in a voice
that carried to both sides. Attackers win if they reclaim the banner
and return it. Defenders win if the attacking army is destroyed.
Additionally, the defenders win immediately if Elara is disabled. At
this a number of the people on her team looked at her appraisingly.
She scowled and ignored them, focused on the fluttering banner she
could barely see above several of the obstacles across the field.
Hyrell gave his orders, speaking low. He directed the infiltrators
to advance in two groups first, to draw attention and then pull back.
The strikers would take to the high ground of a hill fronted by low
hedges and fire on any pursuit, then close with the foe to engage
them and create an opening. Hyrell and his handpicked lieutenants
would try for the banner. Elara was to stay back behind the strikers
and provide support, using her myrmidon to shore up the line, then
cover Hyrells withdrawal once he got the banner.
Elara disliked the notion of being held in reserve. Hyrells plan
was not entirely bad but was not aggressive. She couldnt imagine
the defenders would be lured outthey had no reason to leave their
positions. The order for her to stay back was clearly motivated by
his fear of losing the match prematurely. This effectively put her in
a similar position as the banner on the other end of the field: an
objective, not a member of the team.
She drew her blades and mentally directed the Griffon to advance
as the others rushed silently forward, the infiltrators keeping low
and to the cover afforded by some of the obstacles on their side of
the field. The strikers crouched down behind the bundles of twigs
intended to represent foliage atop the low hill that offered a view
over the central corridor. The mage hunters communicated silently
by hand gestures with one another, coordinating well.
251
Elaras attention was focused on her myrmidon as her teammates

moved into position. She controlled her breathing and drew on her
training from the Third Chamber, seeking a calm serenity apart from
the tension of this clash. She let her thoughts ripple outward as she
had been taught, making use of her myrmidons senses as well as
the subtler awareness of her surroundings afforded by her newly
awakened arcane abilities.
She had a moment of clarity as she felt the looming presence of
hostile forms behind the nearest screening obstacle, blades at the
ready. The opposing team had established a forward defense, she
realizedrather than spreading their numbers across their territory
or keeping a reserve closer to the banner, a sizable force waited in
ambush for her teams advancing infiltrators. The sense of them
faded the moment she tried to concentrate.
She moved forward and around the hill, blades in either hand,
and gave a high, short whistle to get Hyrells attention. Hyrell looked
back to her, his expression showing his annoyance at her giving away
her position.
She rapidly signaled Danger ahead! and Halt advance! The gesture
language used by the mage hunters was capable of conveying complex
information, but not always quickly, so she kept it simple. She then
signaled she would be advancing to support the infiltrators.
Hyrell gave a sharp gesture of negation and emphatically
pointed for her to move back to the strikers, then turned and
continued on, not bothering to pass her warning to the others.
Elara gritted her teeth and instead ran forward, feeling her
legs empowered by her warcaster armor. She wasnt about to
let the forward arm of the team be slaughtered while she did
nothing. She belatedly remembered her Griffon and mentally
compelled it to advance as well. She diverted some of her arcane
reserves to empower the arcanikal device primed to release a
252
surge of power to the myrmidons legs. It sped forward with

sudden acceleration.
As she had foreseen, the infiltrators on the other team were
already in motion, vaulting over the barrier and landing among her
teammates who had sought to take them unaware. Meanwhile a
group of opposing strikers shifted forward, exposing their position
but gaining good angles of fire on the forward elements of Elaras
team. The center of the field became a confusing mass of attacking
mage hunters with blunted blades in each hand, striking to deliver
telling marks on their foes. The padded elements of their blades had
been soaked in dye before the match, making it easy to see solid
hits revealed on dark leather armor as orange slashes and streaks.
Those painted sufficiently were considered fatalities and directed to
abandon the field.
Several of Elaras infiltrators were slashed before they could even
attempt to retaliate, their chests marked with what were unmistakably
fatal blows. Elaras Griffon waded into the fight to shore up that
line, blocking incoming attacks with its wide shield before retaliating
with glancing strikes of its halberd. The myrmidon had been given
extensive conditioning to avoid committing its full strength against
trainees, but confronting it was daunting nonetheless. The mage
hunters were nimble opponents and Elara did not have the attention
to spare to guide its swings personally, which made them easier
to evade. The halberd was a heavy weapon, however, so anyone it
struck was considered dead no matter how oblique the blow. Even
without her helping the machine, she hoped it could keep several
foes occupied.
Elara spared no more attention for the machine, for she was among
the enemy with her blades. She felt a sudden rush of adrenaline as
she did what she knew best. She saw the fear in the faces of the
infiltrators as she grinned and struck them down. She scored orange-
253
dyed gashes across the neck of one, then ducked beneath an incoming
thrust from another to his right, her power field shimmering as the
weapon was deflected. With another slash that enemy was down and
she found herself fighting back-to-back with one of the infiltrators
on her team, her Griffon still entangling several enemies to the side.
She was too busily engaged to watch Hyrell, although she could
hear him shouting in frustration, desperately trying to salvage his
plan. He was rallying the strikers to abandon the hill and advance
to provide fire support. Meanwhile he and his lieutenants rushed
for the banner. The center of the field was a frenetic melee as what
seemed to be the entire opposing team converged on Elara.
A sudden and savage joy filled her as she intercepted incoming
blades and knocked them aside even as she delivered killing
retaliation. She did not strike as swiftly or as often as she might have,
reserving her arcane power to overboost the power field that was
deflecting incoming blunted crossbow bolts. She fell into a battle
trance, and for a few long, glorious moments she felt invincible.
Several short orange lines were marked on her vambraces from
glancing blows of incoming blades, but by the rules of the match
she could safely ignore them. Her armor and power field made it
considerably more difficult for an enemy to deliver lasting injury to
her, as only blows to her torso counted. She arguably had an unfair
advantage since eventually the strikers and infiltrators would earn
traditionally attuned and purified weapons that would enable them
to ignore a warcasters power field. Elara was fully willing to exploit
the situation to her benefit. From the corner of her eye she saw Hyrell
reach the banner and seize the pole. All she had to do was hold out
At some point during the fight she had lost her situational
awareness. She felt a void at her back. The infiltrator behind her had
been cut down. She began to turn but stumbled as a heavy thrust
made it through her power field and smashed into the space below
254
her backplate, digging into her spine. She regained her balance but
was struck several more times, parrying only one of the incoming
strikes. Her Griffon had begun to move in her direction, but too
late. She realized at once she should have brought it nearer earlier.
She had forgotten the myrmidon amid the press of the melee.
Elara is down! Keldeacon Synvas declared loudly, ending the
match. He stood just yards from her position, though Elara had
not even realized he was near. Her cheeks burned. Match to the
Defenders. Well fought. Both teams, assemble and attend to me.
Hyrell gave her a fierce glare and hurled the banner pole to the
grass. He had been more than halfway back, but she had lost the
match before he could secure his triumph. Looking around at her
team she saw that most bore the orange slashes of injuries and had
been forced to quit the field. The opposing team had nearly as many
casualties, not that it mattered. She felt some small satisfaction at the
number she knew bore marks from her weapons.
The other team was in high spirits, clapping one another on the
shoulders and smiling as they assembled near the keldeacon. Elaras
team was quiet and grim, and there was a decided distance between
Elara and the nearest mage hunters. Several spoke quiet words of
reassurance to Hyrell and shot angry looks her direction. Elara gritted
her teeth and ignored them, bracing for the keldeacons words.
Both teams fought well, and I can see the impact of your
training, he began. These exercises are useful to demonstrate how
quickly the reality of battle can change. We will be enacting more
elaborate scenarios in the weeks ahead, ones intended to more closely
simulate situations you may encounter on missions. This exercise
was about fighting as a team, and adapting.
He turned his hawk-like eyes to Elara, and it required a force of
will not to look away from the intensity of his stare. Elara, you made
several critical mistakes, but your instincts were solid. Perceiving your
255
team in peril, you acted courageously to support them. However,

you neglected your myrmidon. You still struggle to fight with it as
though of one mind. I expected better.
Other times she had felt compelled to argue with his assessment,
but this time she knew he was right. She inclined her head, accepting
the rebuke.
Additionally, you could have employed offensive magic to
eliminate at least one enemy before you closed. Why did you not?
I did not believe I could spare the energy from my power field,
Keldeacon. Not while closing with the foe. This was partially true,
but she had also not felt confident in her ability to manifest the runes
quickly while controlling the Griffon.
His gaze lingered on her another second, just long enough so
she knew he saw through her small deception. Then he turned to
the others. He spoke to the leader of the opposing team, noting the
strategy employed had been risky, if ultimately successful. He noted
that this had resulted in high casualties. Then he faced Hyrell and
said, Elara warned you, but you did not heed her.
His back stiffened and Hyrell said, She did not explain the
situation and seemed mostly intent on disobeying her orders.
Elara felt a rush of anger but forced herself not to protest. The
keldeacon said, There is a reason warcasters are usually given
operational command in a combat engagement. I engineered this
match to underscore that. Once they are versed in their talents, a
warcaster has a unique perspective on the battlefield, an awareness
that cannot be matched. An ordinary commander, no matter how
capable, can rely only on his personal senses and the reports of
subordinates. His task is to make the best decisions possible amid
the fog of war. A skilled warcaster can neutralize that disadvantage.
In a life-or-death situation, a warcaster may not have the time to
explain what she has sensed but must act. This does not mean she
256
is always rightfar from it. We all make mistakes, and others may
die because of them. Nonetheless a warcaster must learn to trust her
instincts, to assess the threat, and to act. Those fighting alongside
her must trust those instincts as well, as hesitation invites disaster.
Elara made mistakes today, but so did you, Hyrell. Ultimately your
pride did your team more harm than Elaras disobedience. Meditate
upon that.
Hyrell bowed his head, his ears red. Yes, Keldeacon. Thank you
for the lesson. The phrase was picked up by the others, and Synvas
inclined his head slightly in return and then dismissed them.
Myolyr was waiting for her as she left the field. He joined her in
returning to the armory where her armor and weapons would be
stowed. She felt a familiar loathing as he stepped beside her, as she
could see his disapproving frown. More than anything she did not
wish to hear his opinion on the engagement, but she knew it was
inevitable.
I think Hyrell was right about you, he said at last, when they
were inside and beginning to remove her armor.
Of course you do, she replied.
You wanted to be in the middle of the fight, even knowing your
loss would sink the team. You were reckless. You must begin to
understand that your life is more important than others.
This was a different tack, and she turned to face him, surprised.
His tone was bitter, but there was a strange earnestness beneath it.
She asked, So you would stand back knowing others would fall
because you did not intervene? You would accept their deaths?
I will never be in a position to make that call, he said. Again,
his naked sincerity caught her off guard. You are a warcaster. I am
not. You are more valuable to the Retribution than everyone else
training in this fortress. Yet you cannot master the simplest tasks
beyond fighting. You cannot learn proper tactics, or how to use your
257
magic or control your myrmidon. It is a waste. The gods are fickle.

You will never be ready for the Crucible.
Elara felt rage building within her. He seemed to realize he had
gone too far and stopped. Elaras hand was on one of her blades, the
tendons in her forearm tensed. It took an effort of will not to draw.
Even with that restraint she knew she could kill him, so easily.
Arcane runes flashed before her minds eye. She could gather her will
in an instant to send a searing bolt of killing energy and end him. His
eyes widened and he took a step back, looking down to her arm. She
thought he was looking at her blade but realized glowing runes had
begun to manifest around her wrist. She let the power go, horrified
at her lapse of discipline. She could see shock and fear in his eyes. He
knew he had come close to death. In an instant, by mere thought,
she might have killed him.
Perhaps this should have made her feel better, but it did not.
She felt miserable, all the more so because his words rang true.
She turned her back to him and continued to unbuckle her
armor as if nothing had happened. He assisted her in removing
the plates without another word. She pretended not to notice his
hands were shaking.
She considered his mention of the Crucible, the final trial given
aspiring tyros. She knew little about it other than it was a difficult
ordeal whose outcome determined whether a novice warcaster could
enter the field to perform real missions. It was a trial she both eagerly
anticipated and dreaded. She had at least one more year of training
before being subjected to it, time she would not squander. She had
to work harder and prove them all wrong.
Two weeks later she began feeling she was being haunted by a
ghost. She kept feeling eyes upon her, and as she went about her
258
lessons there was the sensation of familiarity, of half-glimpses of

someone she knew. She found her heart beating wildly for no reason,
even when resting between sparring matches. The distraction drove
her to make mistakes against an easy opponent, allowing him to
score several points before she finished him. She wondered where
her mind was.
She was just returning from the short reprieve of the midday meal
when she turned a corner and almost walked into a slim hooded
woman who did not make way for her. Elara frowned and looked up
to a pair of familiar eyes. The woman stood with arms crossed, as if
in challenge, but her eyes were bright and she gave a sudden smile.
Jyress! Elara exclaimed in surprise, feeling a sudden wave of
affection and warmth. Jyress laughed and they briefly embraced.
The other woman was dressed in attire that superficially resembled
that of the mage hunters, but a number of indicators displayed
her allegiance to the Third Chamber, including the subtle way the
symbol of Lyliss was threaded in black embroidery into the pattern
of her grey armor. Elaras eyes widened to see the coiled chain blade
attached to a clasped loop at her side, its sharpened edge sheathed.
You are named now?
Yes, and here at the Hold for my final training. I still prefer to
wield the klyvesh-nar, but the chain blade has its place. She paused
and then said, It does me good to see you, Elara. Youve changed. But
I suppose so have I. She pulled back her hood to show her shaved
head, atop which had been inscribed several tattooed patterns
oaths of vengeance.
Your hair! Elara exclaimed, watching Jyress chuckle and then
turn her head to either side for closer examination. A number of
mage hunters and others affiliated with the Retribution chose to
cut their hair away to demonstrate their fidelity to the cause, their
disinterest in anything that would distract them.
259
I see you have not embraced this tradition, Jyress teased, reaching
up to touch Elaras longer hair, which she had recently died an aqua
blue, finding it complemented the glowing runes of her armor.
Elara felt embarrassed for this small vanity, but she saw no
disapproval in her friends eyes. Looking her over, Elara saw a
number of other small but definite signs of the years that had passed.
When they had parted neither had been at their full growth. Jyress
had gained at least an inch, perhaps two, and while slim her form
suggested a woman more than a girl. It made Elara wonder how she
looked in Jyress eyes. She knew she had also grown, and become
stronger. She stood now almost five inches taller than Jyress, who
nonetheless carried herself with the confident assurance of a named
assassin. Have you been following me? Elara asked suddenly,
remembering her previous thoughts.
Again Jyress laughed and said, Yes. Ive actually been here training
for several weeks. Seeing the look on Elaras face, she continued,
Im sorry I did not come to you before, but I was worried a reunion
might distract us both. I couldnt resist seeing you now. I wanted to
see if I could sneak up on you. You made it difficult; several times I
thought you had me.
Despite the playful tone, there was a tension in her voice that
caught Elaras attention. She could still read her friend, despite so
much time apart. What is it? Why search me out?
The training is being accelerated. And not just mine. You will
see more familiar faces here soon. Everyone is preparing. Things are
changing quickly, as Im sure you know.
Elara shook her head, feeling that familiar sensation of being left
out. Myolyr had barely said a word to her since their confrontation,
and she had been giving him his space. None of the other mage
hunters took her into their confidence. Now that Jyress had
mentioned it, she considered there had been increased traffic
260
through the grounds in the last two weeks. She had been so focused
on her own training, so accustomed to her isolation, that she had
not thought to consider the cause.
Seeming startled at her ignorance, Jyress pulled her out of the
path of several others to speak in low but intense tones. Listen.
Eiryss has returned and spoken to the Nine Voices. You know who
she is, I hope?
Elara snapped, Im not utterly ignorant. Yes, I know of the Angel
of Retribution.
Of course. I dont know many details, and everything Ive heard
is rumor, so bear that in mind. But word is spreading like wildfire
that Eiryss discovered proof of the existence of Nyssor, the Scyir of
Winter! The god is said to be alive, but frozen, protected within a
vault that is now in the hands of thieves sheltered by the government
of Khador. Her eyes blazed.
Elara felt a shock travel straight through her. Lyliss forefend!
The prayer emerged reflexively from her lips. Can it be true?
Jyress shrugged and said, I do not know, but something is
happening, and the entire Retribution gathers for war. Whats more,
several of the Hallytyr have openly declared for our cause. House
Shyeel, of course, but also House Nyarr. The Hallytyr were the high
houses that governed Ios. Given the Retribution had long languished
in the shadows, its membership little better than outlaws, this was
big news. House Shyeel had long supported their cause by provided
myrmidons in secret but had never openly endorsed them. Jyress
continued, It is certain we will take actionand soon.
Elara felt wonder, having difficulty imagining the scope of what
Jyress described. Such events could change the entire face of Ios, if
not Caen itself. More than this, she felt a budding seed of hope. If
Nyssor had been found, what of Lyliss? They would have to take
things one step at a time. But she could not help but imagine the
261
ripples of similar hopes this news would send through Ios.

She brought herself back to her current task. I must get to my
next exercise. She shook her head, still feeling overwhelmed. You
will soon leave to join the front lines, while I am trapped here.
Jyress gave a slyer smile and leaned closer to speak quietly. I
cant say much, but everything is accelerating. I will not be the only
one sent forth to fight for our sect. I am not supposed to speak to
you about it, but your Crucible is soon. She gripped Elaras hands
in hers and gave them a squeeze. Now we must part. Good luck,
Elara. I hope to fight by your side soon, as we dreamed of when we
were younger.
With that she was away, pulling up her hood and slipping into
the shadows with an ease Elara envied. Elara stared after her for
several long seconds, her sense of urgency outweighed by a gamut of
complex emotions.
262
Part Three
Beyond the Western Border of Ios
Less than a week later Elara rode out from the Hold alongside
mage hunters who were strangers to her. She was reminded of being
collected from the fane below the ruins of Shaelvas, except those
older and grizzled mage hunters had been quiet and grim. These
ones were young and energetic, even irreverent, prone to odd humor
and telling stories in a familiar shorthand that left Elara confused.
They had that easy familiarity that suggested they had fought and
faced the possibility of death together many times. Though they
were youthful, several already had battle scars. Leading them was a
similarly young but accomplished warcaster named Kaelyssa, into
whose charge Elara had been placed.
Before she was sent forth, Keldeacon Synvas Uithuyr had
summoned her to speak with him in the Hold fane, bidding her
equip her warcaster armor and bring her weapons and all she owned.
It had been a foreboding order, which combined with the austere
but holy surroundings to make her feel unsettled and vulnerable.
She still did not feel entirely comfortable within the temple devoted
to Scyrah, as though her allegiance to a different goddess made her
unwelcome. For the respect she owed the Goddess of Spring, Elara
did offer her prayers when she entered.
She was directed to a small, empty second-floor chamber with
smooth walls and floors, where a simple bench was situated below
a large aperture. Through this could be seen the main statue of the
goddess, sculpted within the small central courtyard below that
was open to the sky. A carefully tended garden with Scyrah at the
center filled the courtyard, and a profusion of leafy vines climbed the
263
stone walls and sent runners deep within the surrounding fane. The
depiction of Scyrah here was quite different from what she had seen
in her original fane in Iryss or in the capitol where she slept, watched
over by attendants. The statue of Scyrah here stood in a fierce pose,
sword upraised, her body armored for war. This was Scyrah in her
guise as Avenger of the Vanishedthe Retributions goddess.
The keldeacon had been looking on the statue but turned to greet
her. He did not take long in getting to the point. Elara, he said.
Your time with me is coming to an end. But there is one topic I
thought we should discuss before you enter the last phase of your
training.
Of course, Keldeacon.
There is something I have observed that troubles me, and which
I believe lies at the root of many of your difficultiesyour anger. You
are too often ruled by it. Do you disagree?
Elara had not been expecting this sort of conversation and was
caught off guard. Still, she felt in no position to deny him. No, I do
not. She looked down at the stone tiles beneath her feet. She said, I
have sought to demonstrate proper discipline.
He ignored this. What lies at the root of your anger?
Nothing. I dont know, she said, feeling honestly confused. She
had never given it any thought.
Is it some difficulty with your peers? I know most of our brothers
and sisters remain aloof. Is it some failing that we, your instructors,
must take responsibility for? No? She shook her head and his voice
became gentler. Come, Elara, let us speak without the barriers of
rank between us, as when I first collected you from the Fane of Lyliss.
Tell me, why is it I never hear you speak of your parents?
The question took her entirely by surprise. She blinked at him,
feeling a tightness in her throat. Why would I speak of them,
Keldeacon? I never knew them. They are nothing to me.
264
I dont think thats true. Even when we do not know our parents,
they define us. I find it difficult to believe you have never considered
them. Certainly Dominie Hycieth told you who they were, as best
she knew? All orphans who go to the Third Chamber are allowed to
know their origins.
She told me, Elara allowed. But still, I have no feelings toward
them. They were unremarkable.
Synvas turned back toward the courtyard, folding his arms and
looking serenely down upon his goddess. He said, Tell me, how did
they die?
Elara began to feel her blood stirring again. She disliked being
manipulated, and it was worse from the keldeacon, who had treated
her with considerable kindness. You know how they died.
I want to hear it in your words. Answer. The tone of command
entered into his voice.
She sighed and said, They foolishly chose to leave Ios and live
among the humans. Her voice was neutral, as if relating any other
fact she had learned in a lecture or from a book. They were likely
members of the Seekers sect. I was told they lived in a community
of Iosan exiles in western Cygnar, near the city known as Ceryl.
Humans killed them for refusing to give up some of their own who
were accused of crimes. They thought they could live in peace with
humanity, far from Ios, and were murdered for it. They were naive.
Stupid. She lost her neutral tone and stopped.
The keldeacon looked at her over his shoulder. There is no shame
in admitting it: you are angry with them. You despise them for their
choices.
She swallowed and said, Yes, I suppose I do. They were fools. But
I have put them behind me. I am not like them.
No, you are not. Still, it is important that you face these feelings
and understand their origins. You must know your anger if it is not
265
to rule you. Anger can be useful if harnessed. It can be a fire to keep

your purpose lit. Let me tell you a few things you may not know.
First, your parents were not stupid. They were very intelligent, good
people. They sought a solution to the doom facing Scyrah, clues of
the Vanished. They wished a better life for you, a future. They were
misguidedand yes, naivebut their intentions were noble.
She was not sure what to make of his words. The last thing she
had expected was for him to speak well of her parents. Little good it
did them, or anyone, she said at last.
That is true, Synvas agreed. But my point remains. Your
parents had courage, and this was displayed in their final moments.
The community where they lived also contained a safe house for the
Retribution. Some of our brothers and sisters had been on a vital
mission and returned there. They were not cautious enough and were
followed. Mercenaries hired by the Fraternal Order of Wizardry, one
of our greatest enemies, marched into the village and demanded
those they sought be handed over. Your parents were foremost among
those who refused, even though they did not agree with our cause.
They would not allow fellow Iosans to be given to certain execution.
For this, they were murdered. They were soon avenged, by the same
Retribution agents who had taken shelter there. It was also those
agents who found you and returned you to Ios, to your new home
within the Third Chamber.
Elara felt stunned. It was a great deal to absorb, and her feelings
were conflicted. I did not know this, she said. At least, not all of it.
I thought you should be aware of the full story, so you could
make your own decision about your parents and whether they are
deserving of hatred. If you ask me, they were admirable in their
own way. I cannot blame them for seeking a better future for their
daughter. Retain your anger, but harness it for our cause. Direct it at
those who are truly worthy of hatred. It is humanity that brought us
266
to this. They may seem like us on the surface, but they are a selfish
and loathsome racedestructive, short-sighted, and malignant.
Their use of magic brought doom to our gods and threatens our
extinction. They must be stopped. Soon you will be in a position
to face them, to take life. When you look at your first enemy, you
will see someone familiar, someone who may not seem so terrible. It
may cause you to hesitate. I ask only that you remember your anger,
remember your parents and what they endured. Do not hesitate.
Each kill you commit for us is righteoussanctified by Scyrah, who
avenges the Vanished, and also by the memory of her sister Lyliss,
who gladly destroyed the enemies of the Divine Court.
His words had a powerful impact on her, and she felt her heart
beating fast, her blood surging in her veins. I will not hesitate. I am
not sure I am ready, but I promise to do my best.
The keldeacon smiled and walked over to her to place a hand on
each shoulder. None of us is ever ready when called, but the worthy
rise to the occasion. I have faith in you.
Shortly thereafter he introduced her to Kaelyssa, also known
as Nights Whisper, who to Elara seemed surprisingly young. The
strike force leader had welcomed her warmly and took her from
the mountain fortress. In the days since that meeting, while they
travelled west, Elara had learned directly from her, spending time
talking about what it was like to control multiple myrmidons in
battle and to call on ones arcane powers amid a chaotic tumult.
The lessons were not so different from what she had been taught
by the keldeacon but centered on Kaelyssas experiences in the field,
particularly from when she had been a tyro. They also spent time
working on Elaras magic and her ability to direct a myrmidon while
distracted.
Together with the strikers and infiltrators that made up Kaelyssas
escort, there were among them several newly trained mage hunters,
267
Jyress among them. She avoided Elara and did not speak to her.
This did not trouble the aspiring tyro, as she sensed her friend was
going through her own rites of acceptance among the others as a
freshly trained assassin. It did not occur to her that there might be
more to this reticence until several days later when they neared the
western Iosan border. There had been no talk of their destination,
and for a time Elara wondered if they might be returning to the
Third Chamber, a thought that filled her with homesickness.
During a stop Kaelyssa bade her stand still and close her eyes, and
a blindfold was tied tightly around her eyes. She was told to release
her mind from the myrmidon with which she had been training,
and she was assisted back into the saddle. Soon she was led onward
in silence, as all conversation and banter between the other mage
hunters ceased. In fact, she heard no indication any of them were
present, and her augmented senses told her there was only Kaelyssa,
who was leading her forward. The rest had scattered.
She felt a rising tension and berated herself for being a fool in not
anticipating this before. She was about to endure her Crucible. This
was clearly the entire reason Kaelyssa had taken her from the Hold.
From the smells in the air and the shifting sounds of other living
creatures, Elara felt certain they had entered the lands of mankind.
It was not long before Kaelyssa bade her dismount and in low tones
gave her brief instructions. After I leave you, count to a thousand
and then remove the blindfold. You will see a dirt road ahead. Follow
it to the right, and you will soon come upon a neglected farm. The
house there is presently used as a meeting place for armed patrols of
the Llaelese Resistance. You are familiar with that group, I trust?
Elara nodded, having learned about many human organizations.
The Llaelese Resistance was an insurgent group fighting the
268
integration of Llael into the Khadoran Empire. She knew cells existed
in each of the major cities in Llael, where they operated in a style not
entirely unlike the Retribution. She could not help but feel some
small sympathy for them and their seemingly doomed struggle. They
still held the sparsely populated southeastern corner of Llael, where
they possessed some military strength supported by gun mages and
other arcanists, including a few warcasters. They faced enemies who
were much more powerful, enemies with greater resources, numbers,
and strength of arms. So far as Elara understood, destroying the
Resistance was not a priority for the Retribution, although their use
of arcanists made them eligible targets when encountered.
Kaelyssa continued, Your primary objective is to retrieve a
satchel held within that farm house. It contains correspondence
with intelligence vital to upcoming operationsobservations of
Khadoran patrols. You can expect to encounter armed members of
the Resistance. You will be on your own and outnumbered, and you
should try to avoid confrontation. Once you have the satchel, return
to the woods and we will meet you. Understood?
Elara nodded, her mind racing. Kaelyssa slipped away, and she
began counting. As she counted she considered how little she knew
about the Crucible. No one would speak to an aspiring tyro about it.
All she knew was things rarely went as expected.
Her orders had been unexpectedly simple. She was particularly
surprised the challenge did not involve leading a team of mage
hunters, given the difficulties she had encountered commanding
them during training. She felt relieved to be on her own, as she did
not want the added burden of lives reliant on her decisions. Her heart
was pounding at the thought of facing armed humans. She had not
anticipated this sort of trial, with her life on the line. In retrospect,
there was a logic to it. They had to test her in a real situation, not the
fabricated scenarios she had faced at the Hold. But she had only her
269
warcaster armor and her weapons, along with some few supplies in
the pouches at her waist. Was she to be given no myrmidon? Why
had Kaelyssa focused so intently on those lessons?
At the count of a thousand, she removed the blindfold to find
herself alone in a small copse of trees adjacent to a well-worn dirt
road, its surface marred by deep ruts from wagon wheels. Beyond
this were dry grasslands broken up by fenced farmland. The lay of
the land was strange, utterly unlike the Iosan interior. She looked
behind her and saw in the near distance a heavy line of thicker trees
extending as far as she could see in either direction. That way was the
Iosan border.
Elara followed the road to the right as Kaelyssa had instructed,
although she kept to the low ditch beside it, obscured by tall grasses.
It made travelling less comfortable and her footing uncertain, but
she would not be easily seen by anyone using the road. She knew
her Iosan armor would mark her as a foreigner well before they saw
her face or her sharply pointed ears. She found herself wishing she
were wearing something akin to the earth-tone leathers and cloaks
of the mage hunters, which would make it easier to blend into her
surroundings.
She encountered no traffic on the road and after travelling furtively
for almost an hour she saw the farmhouse ahead, down a short side
road and overlooking fields that had clearly gone wild. Away from
the house and closer to the field was another large structurea barn,
perhaps. She crept closer, wary of walking into the open during
daylight and keeping to the undergrowth on the far side of the road.
She could see a number of people by the barn and in the open yard
outside the house. She determined it would be wise to find a good
vantage point and hunker down until darkness, when she might be
able to approach unseen. In the meantime she would try to get a
better sense of how many people were there.
270
Well before sundown, a pair of human men in piecemeal armor

came hurrying from the road on foot toward the farmhouse,
approaching from the opposite direction Elara had. She watched
them closely as they neared the house. One of them waved to
someone she couldnt see, perhaps a sentry on the second floor of the
barn, then continued up the porch to pound on the door. Some of
the humans in the yard approached him, likely to ask him questions.
She was too far away to hear what they were saying, but several
more individuals came out of the house to listen to the armored
human, then all the humans congregated in the yard, talking and
gesturing. Two of them went to the barn, threw open the main
doors, and soon emerged with a wide wagon hitched to a pair of
draft horses. It was clearly intended for hauling supplies. As the
wagon began to move toward the road, a small group of humans
joined it as escort. A woman joined the driver up front and another
man in nicer clothing than the others jumped on the back. The rest
walked alongside.
Altogether two women and six men went with the wagon. All
were armed, with four of the men and one of the women also wearing
mixed armor, what looked like boiled leather reinforced by metal
plating. One man wore a breastplate and pauldrons, and another
had metal greaves and vambraces. All of it looked scavenged and
ill-fitting.
Elara faced her first significant decision. Her mission objective
was in the house, which should be easier to secure without these
humans present. Still, she was reluctant to approach the house
during daylight, and she was keenly interested in this expedition
and its goal. She had seen one of the returning men pointing up
the road, and the entire group seemed excited. She could not
be certain, but she did not think they were travelling far; they
carried no food, clothing, or other supplies.
271
She decided to follow the wagon and its escorts. If she became
convinced they intended a longer journey, she could return here.
She kept some distance from the road, staying low and obscured by
foliage and trees, as the mage hunters had taught her. The humans
did not seem particularly wary and were focused on the road ahead.
Elara felt bold enough to close the distance to get a better look at
them. She pulled her goggles down over her eyes to gain the benefit
of their augmented lenses. They would be most useful at night, when
they would make it easier to see in limited light, but they also offered
a slight magnification that brought the wagon and its occupants
closer in stark relief.
She had never seen humans before. Fascinated, she examined
their features, their clothing, and their armor and weapons. She had
expected their ears, which were small and oddly nub-shaped, but
other details surprised her. First, most looked young, if descriptions
she had read were any indication. The men had scruffy, unkempt
faces but not full beards or moustaches. Most were also lean and
ragged, their faces soiled and their hair tangled. She would have
hazarded none of them had had a decent meal in days. They seemed
altogether unclean and repulsive.
The only one who bore himself with any dignity was the lightly
armored man in the back of the wagon. His face was clean and his
clothing seemed better quality than the restdark garments of finer
cloth. He wore a ring on his right hand. She froze as she saw him
draw a pistol that had been holstered at his waist, its grip gleaming
in the sunlight. A moment later he checked along its barrel, polished
it with his sleeve, then opened an ammunition wheel to look inside.
It seemed more a habit than anything prompted by a sense of alarm.
As holstered the gun she got a better look at its barrel, and what
she saw gleaming there caused her heart to hammer in her chest.
Distinct runes were inscribed along its length. There could be little
272
doubt the man was a gun magea warrior who combined magic
with firearms. This meant he was one of the arcanists whose very
existence contributed to whatever ailment beset Scyrah and had
befallen the Vanished.
She saw the driver gesture ahead, and the group looked where he
indicated, picking up the pace even as he flicked his reins to urge
the horses on. They were nearing their destination. Elara risked
running forward to keep up, veering away from the road and down
the gradual slope there to remain out of sight. She circled warily in a
wider arc toward what had drawn their attention. She could hear the
sound of the creaking wagons wheels change as it left the road and
entered the softer earth and grass beyond.
Moving cautiously, she ascended the slight rise and at last caught
sight of what appeared to be a broken and overturned wagon. It had
been toppled and its wheels shattered. The humans were gathering
around something that had spilled from the back, half-covered by a
beige cloth tarp. They spoke in excited tones. Elara knew the basics
of their language but found their speaking too muffled and indistinct
to understand what they said. Creeping forward and circling to her
left, she was finally able to catch sight of what they were inspecting.
Her eyes widened, and she had to grit her teeth to prevent a reflexive
gasp.
There, tumbled onto its side on the ground, was an inert Aspis
one of the light myrmidons employed both by the Iosan Homeguard
Coalition and, in smaller numbers, by the Retribution of Scyrah.
There was no mistaking its curved, white-lacquered armor plates, the
turquoise markings of its arcanikal power conduits, and the chromed
steel joints visible between the creamy white armor. It looked badly
out of place here on the ground in this dry and featureless countryside.
Her mind raced. Elara did not for a moment believe this was a
coincidence. An abandoned but apparently undamaged myrmidon
273
here, just as she was undertaking the Crucible? No, this was part
of her trial. It seemed reckless of the Third Chamber to leave the
priceless machine here, but there was no other explanation. The Aspis
was functional; she could sense its active cortex though she would be
unable to control it until she could come into direct contact with it.
The humans were clearly trying to determine the best way to haul
the myrmidon onto the flat deck of their wagon. Several uncoiled
lengths of rope, and one began to thread the end of one through a
sizable pulley attached to a cross-brace across the top of the wagon. It
looked as though they were prepared for a job of this nature, although
she expected they were going to have considerable difficulty. Though
it was a light myrmidon, the Aspis was nine feet tall, and its weight
was considerable.
She could not sit idle, not if there was any chance they might steal
the myrmidon. The thought of allowing a piece of Iosan technology
to be left with these humans was unthinkable. Myrmidons had been
employed only infrequently outside of Ios, and then in controlled
situations; humanity knew little of their capabilities. The Retribution
had been careful to employ them only when they could eliminate all
witnessesan edge the sect would surely exploit in days to come. As
unlikely as it seemed that these people were capable of understanding
an Aspis by studying it, others might be more able. Either way, they
had to be stopped.
Angry, she strongly desired to rush them now and cut them down;
the thought sparked excitement within her. The gun mage in particular
was a tantalizing target, but he also represented considerable peril.
She did not fear death, but she did fear failure, and the odds here
were not in her favor. All these humans were armed, and they looked
desperate. The Llaelese Resistance was not to be underestimated, or
so those who had instructed her had insisted. She knew better than
to discount these people for being human or young.
274
Chances were good several or all had seen real combat. Elara, on
the other hand, had not. She felt ready, honed, having prepared her
entire life for the moment she would wield a blade to kill a human
mage. But preparation was not reality.
She needed a distraction.
Holyster Gryven knew they had stumbled onto something special
the moment he spotted the overturned wagon just off the road. He
had taken only a brief look under the tarp, enough to see a machine
unlike anything he had ever encountered, at which point he had
rushed to get help. There had been no corpses around the wagon
and limited signs of violence. Whatever had happened, those who
owned this thing might return at any moment. Now he was puzzling
over the best way to use their rope and the pulley to haul the great
machine onto their own wagon.
Before the war he had apprenticed under a mechanik in Merywyn,
and he had spent considerable time learning how to work a forge
in the attached smithy. He was a large man, well muscled, and in
more recent years he had learned to fight. Despite what other people
might think of his looks, he was smart, and had a knack for problem
solving. He had enough training in basic engineering that he was
certain he could puzzle this out. He knew a number of useful knots,
and he set to creating a harness around the machines upper torso,
although its oversized shoulder armor made this a challenge. What
we really need is a crane, he mumbled under his breath.
Yes, a steam-powered crane would be quite handy, came the
sardonic reply from the gun mage Jasmyr dEloine, who wasnt
making himself very useful in Holysters opinion. He lounged
against the wagon with arms folded, a self-confident smirk on his
face. Unfortunately, wed have to send to Rhydden for that.
275
What do you think it is? This came from Nylesse Wyne, a tall
and broad-shouldered farm girl who had proven to have a knack for
swinging a sword. She wore her armor with greater ease than any of
them, including Holyster, and had proven to be a natural soldier.
A warjack, clearly, Holyster said. Has to be.
Nylesse was staring at it with a frown, tilting her head, and she
shook her head. Dont look like any warjack Ive seen. Who makes
em like that?
I have no clue. I guarantee theyll want to see this in Rhydden.
Someone there will know what it is. He grunted as he sought to feed
the rope underneath the machine. Give me a hand here.
Smoke! This was shouted by Gyles Trevan, the driver, who had
been up on the back of the wagon to help feed the rope through the
pulleys. He pointed to the northeast, where a thickening plume of
black smoke rose from over the next hill. Looks close. Fire? That
could be bad. This areas real dry. Hasnt had rain in weeks.
Holyster let go the rope. He stood with a frown, shading his eyes
to peer at the smoke. Jasmyr was standing alert, one of his pistols
in hand and all hint of his former posturing gone. As annoying as
the man could be at times, Holyster knew he was deadly with his
rune-inscribed bullets, and he was glad to have him here. The gun
mage said, Something might be coming our way. James, Laughlen,
Lauren, Kyle: lets take a look. The rest of you, stay on your toes.
We should really get this thing up on the wagon, Holyster
insisted, but he saw the gun mage was in no mood to negotiate.
Jasmyr and the others drew their weapons and moved as quietly as
possible toward the smoke. Atop the wagon Gyles picked up his old
rifle, cracked the breech to ensure it was loaded, and snapped it shut.
They all waited.
Holyster sighed but saw there was nothing to it but to be patient.
He wished hed thought to bring a hooaga cigar to calm his nerves.
276
At times like these his thoughts turned to the rest of his family back
in Rhydden, where they had fled after the war brought Khadorans
to the capital. Before the Siege of Merywyn he had wanted to stay
in that city, to volunteer to defend the walls. His father would have
none of it, saying he was too young, with a proper life ahead of him
still. Then they had fled to Rhydden. His family was still there, with
barely enough to eat, likely wondering when he would return safe.
He looked down to the strange warjack they had found and smiled,
anticipating he could leverage the find to get his family extra food
rations, at least. Maybe a better sword, a pistol, and some quality
boots for him, too.
He had a sudden bad feeling, and his hand went to the hilt of the
blade at his waist. Did you hear something? he asked.
Facing him, Nylesse shook her head. No, what Her eyes
widened, and she pointed with her readied blade. She hissed, Ware
behind!
He was already drawing his blade as he turned. He took in the
sight of a strangely tall and exotic-looking Iosan woman rushing
through the tall grasses from downslope at him. He had little time to
gather an impression other than her face was beautiful and terrible all
at once. Her eyes were fixated on him and her expression was cold.
Her hair was a strange shade of blue, and in her hands were a pair of
wickedly curved bladed weapons unlike anything he had ever seen.
Then she was upon him. He raised his sword defensively, but she
hooked it aside with the sickle blade in her left hand, throwing him
off balance. Her right hand swept toward him. It was like time slowed
as he saw it coming, but there was nothing he could do to avoid it.
She struck underhanded, slashing the hooked point up and into his
abdomen. Its razor-sharp edge cut through the hardened leather of
his armor with no resistance, and he felt the cold metal ripping into
his belly. He gasped in surprise as she yanked upward, and he felt
277
something inside him give way, followed by a flood of warm wetness

and an explosion of pain. Then the cutting edge of the blade in her
left hand returned and sliced coldly across his neck. He saw and felt
no more but only gurgled as he toppled forward.
The blood was what shocked Elara the most, the sheer quantity
of it, along with the smell and heat as she cut the man open. She
stepped back and away as he tumbled like a butchered sow. Heart
hammering, she felt a strange euphoriabut also a sickness in her
gut. She had not hesitated, but she was not unfazed. It seemed her
training should have prevented the sinking feeling she had inside, the
desire to retch. Hot blood and viscera had spilled from him, and her
blades and parts of her armor were stained red.
She felt something else, tooa strange rush of power, the
sensation of his life force drawn into her as she took a deep breath.
Her weapons vibrated and felt warm in her hands. She did not have
time to consider this; the woman standing behind the man she had
killed gave a half-choked cry and rushed at her. She was broad of
shoulder and almost as tall as Elara but heavier. Her face was red and
distorted with rage.
Elara stepped to the side and let the woman rush by, where she
almost tripped over the myrmidon. Elara felt her pulse racing and
knew she had to activate the machine. Everything was happening
too quickly. She should have struck out, torn open the woman as she
went by, but she had not. A mistake.
Stay back, Nylesse! Let me shoot! the man on the wagon
shouted in Llaelese. He raised his rifle, the barrel wavering
unsteadily. Elara leapt to the side as he pulled the trigger. She
invested all her gathered arcane strength into her power field. The
bullet went wide and disappeared into the grass.
278
The sound of the rifle firing was loud. Very loud.

Elara growled and leapt up onto the back of the wagon. None of
this was proceeding as she had imagined when she started that fire,
but it was too late to second-guess herself.
The driver had opened the breech of his rifle and was fumbling
with another cartridge, trying to insert it even as she came at him. He
gave a strangled yelp, dropped the cartridge, and lurched forward,
swinging the gun at her like an awkward club. She ducked and
stepped close to him, well inside his reach. Standing tall, she brought
one of her blades up and then slashed down, burying its point into
the top of his skull and penetrating deep into his cranium, where
it stuck. She looked away in disgust as she yanked the blade free of
his skull while he shuddered and convulsed. She then leapt down
over the side of the wagon nearest to the downed myrmidon, finding
Nylesse waiting.
The woman held her sword well and lunged at Elara in a fencers
pose, seeking to skewer her with the point. Still rattled, Elara barely
deflected it in time, finding her legs did not feel steady. The woman
struck again, this time in a downward diagonal slash. Elara got a blade
under it but underestimated the womans strength, so her own blade
came back toward her and her power field shimmered and sparked
as it sought to deflect it. The woman used the momentum from her
first swing to launch a perfect backhanded slash. The unexpected
attack caught Elara off guard, and the blade penetrated her power
field and scraped her left pauldron but did not find purchase.
Elara swung her left blade under the humans sword. It bit into
her side just under her right arm, its arcanikally empowered point
and edge penetrating her breastplate and the flesh beneath. It was
not a killing wound, but it stole the strength from the womans arm,
and the sword tumbled from her grip. The human yelled in anger
and unexpectedly drove her forehead into Elaras face. She turned
279
in time to prevent a direct hit to her forehead, and her power field
reduced the blow to a minimal impact, but it still sent her reeling.
The woman then leapt upon her, bearing her down and clawing at
her face.
Elara had never fought like this before, and for a brief moment
she panicked, but then she remembered her training and brought a
knee up sharply into the womans wounded side, sending her rolling
off. Elara staggered to her feet and found her left blade had fallen
from her grasp. She still had the right one, and she moved swiftly
to cut the humans throat, opening a wide red gash that gushed
shockingly red blood. The womans eyes bulged, and she gasped as
if startled. Again Elara felt the power through the blade, the sense of
lifes energy flowing through it and into her. These were the weapons
of the Third Chamber, blessed of Lyliss.
She felt dizzy and her stomach remained unsettled, but she was
becoming accustomed to it. Her adrenaline was pumping, and she
knew she had little time. The gunshot. The others would be coming.
She recovered her other blade and went to the myrmidon where
it lay on the grass. She could sense its cortex more strongly now,
waiting and ready. Its motivation systems were powered down, or
it would already have stood to fight alongside her. She knelt beside
it and placed a hand on its armored surface, closing her eyes. She
calmed her breathing and her mind and reached out for it as she had
been taught. Its mind awaited her behind a swirling grid of barriers
like interlocking gears. She focused on sending it the images, sounds,
and words she had been drilled to remember. The gears began to
separate.
She sensed something coming, an imminent threat, and it
distracted her. She could feel them approaching up the hill, rushing
as quickly as they could. A flash of warning told her the gun mage
had his weapon out. She could feel him drawing his energy.
280
She moved just a little too late, leaping over the myrmidon to
get to the other side, where its bulk would partially shield her. The
shot rang out and something searing struck her. Her power field
was at full strength and absorbed much of the bullets energy, but
the powerful magic-enhanced shot pierced through, penetrating
her armor at her left side, below her ribs. Pain blossomed but was
quickly drowned in a surge of adrenaline. She landed on the far
side of the myrmidon and hunkered down as another shot struck
its armored hull. She touched her side, and her hand came up with
blood. She hoped it was not a serious wound.
Again she reached out mentally to the myrmidon, even as she
heard shouting and sensed others circling to flank her. The gun mage
had taken cover behind his wagon and was waiting for the rest to
drive her into the open so he could fire again. Elara put this from
her mind as she focused on the interlocking gears she sensed in her
mind, sending the sequence of images, words, and impressions. The
gears parted and her mind joined with the Aspis cortex. She sensed
it was fully empowered, having been drawing on the inherent arcane
energies of its environment as it rested idly.
There was a high-pitched whining and then a vibrating thrum
as its internal systems engaged, drawing on full reservoirs of arcane
power. Its motors activated swiftly, and suddenly she was able to see
through its eyes and feel its readiness for battle as it pushed itself to
its feet. Elara felt the myrmidons strength and power as if it were her
own. There was another humming sound, and she felt an electric
tension in the air as its field generator kicked in and its power field
activated. A shimmering barrier formed around the myrmidon that
was similar in many respects to the power field generated by her
warcaster armor.
The Aspis was a machine she had never controlled before, an
exotic light myrmidon intended for bodyguard duty. Unlike the
281
Griffon she had become accustomed to in training, it had no large

shield, no long halberd. Its arms did not end in hands at all but
rather a pair of complex orbs, each shimmering with blue energy.
These devices could strike with tremendous impact, enough to drive
back even heavier machines.
One of the humans shouted, Look out! The warjack is up!
Another one cursed and invoked the name of his human god.
Elara sensed them around her, closing in. They were scared of the
myrmidon but still had the advantage of numbers, and the gun mage
knew she had been hit.
Despite it all, Elara felt a surge of excitement. Now, here amid the
life-and-death struggle of actual battle, she felt alive and in her proper
place. Her mind was joined with the myrmidon, and she watched
through both its eyes and hers, scanning those who approached. She
had never felt so smoothly integrated with a myrmidonit truly felt
like an extension of herself.
To her left was a man with a long knife in each hand, circling
around the overturned wagon. On the other side were two others,
one with a steel-tipped spear, and one with a long, wide-bladed
sword. The gun mage and a woman who also had a pistol were at the
wagon. Elara heard the woman sob on finding the drivers corpse.
The horses at the front of the wagon were snorting and unsettled by
the smell of blood, yet unwilling as yet to bolt.
Elara raised a hand and gathered her arcane power, finding the
runes now coming quickly to her mind. Practice in the days she had
traveled with Kaelyssa was paying off. A white bolt of energy flew
from her hand and struck the swordsman in the chest, creating a
smoking blackened ring that blazed through his torso and out the
other side. He screamed and fell, and Elara felt some of his living
essence flow back through her and into her myrmidon.
She burst into action, springing away from the shelter of the
282
myrmidon to intercept the man with the daggers. Two pistol shots
rang out.
The womans normal bullet barely missed her to splinter the wood
of the downed wagon. The gun mages empowered shot was truer,
but it was for this the Aspis was designed. Its fully charged power
field existed as a haze that bent the light around it. Faster than the
blink of an eye, a portion of this field extended to intercept the bullet
intended for Elara, absorbing its energy. The glowing bullet lost its
luster and fell inert to the grass while the myrmidons field banked
and diminished.
In the next moment Elara was on the knife fighter, whose eyes
widened at the ferocity of her attack. He was skilled and nimble and
managed to evade and parry her first strikes, but she did not relent,
lunging to open a wide gash in his upper thigh. He stumbled and her
other blade cut deep into his shoulder, sending him falling back. She
followed and slashed across his midsection. He moaned and writhed
as blood gushed from the wound. Her blades collected his dying
energy, which flowed through her and into her Aspis already closing
on the spearman.
She was inside the machines mind, towering over the terrified
man, nine feet tall and two tons of armored metal. She backhanded
him with one of its repulsor fists, which erupted in blue sparks as it
impacted his chest. His ribcage shattered as he was hurled end-overend to topple against the wagon, multiple internal organs crushed.
Elara moved close to the Aspis again, so she could rely on its
protective field, and gathered her arcane power, intending to
eliminate the gun mage at last. As she turned she saw him pulling his
last compatriot up behind him on a horse he had cut free. He turned
and fired as they began to gallop away, scowling as the myrmidons
power field once more absorbed the shot. The field banked very low,
temporarily depleted, but she knew it would soon recover.
283
Without hesitation she ran forward and raised her hand, sending
a bolt of energy at the gun mage, but her spell missed by several feet
and disappeared into the field. The Aspis moved forward to join her,
but neither had any chance of outrunning the horse. Elara felt deep
frustration at the sight of the fleeing gun mage, particularly when
he fired his pistol into the air, sending an orange-red flare into the
darkening sky that would be clearly visible to anyone watching at the
house for their return.
She looked around at the blood-drenched battlefield, still shocked
and sickened at the corpses. But neither this nor her own blood
seeping from the gunshot wound in her side was the reason for the
sinking feeling in her stomach. It was the certainty of disaster. She
hurried off the main road, although she knew her spilled blood and
the heavy steps of the myrmidon would make her trail easy to follow,
and made for the cover of the nearest trees.
Her mission was a failure. Her mouth felt dry, and she swallowed.
She had proven a capable killer and perhaps had made Lyliss proud,
but then she had let the gun mage escape. There was little chance
of assaulting the farmhouse now. She shook her head against rising
despair and considered her options. She felt angry, both at herself
and at those she had failed to kill. Nothing had gone as expected.
Was it her duty to attack the farmhouse now? They would be ready,
hunkered down, likely with additional firearms. The Apsis could
stop only one shot at a time. There was a part of her that insisted she
should make the attempt regardless. No worthy assassin of the Third
Chamber would accept such a failure.
Better to get inside that house and kill the gun mage, even if it
meant her life. She felt the strong urge to obey this imperative. If she
were to fail this trial, at least she could strike down one foe of the
Retribution. The Aspis multiplied her power considerably, although
she had no doubt those remaining at the house could overwhelm
284
the two of them. There was also the fact that she was wounded. She
could feel herself weakening. All it would take was one stumbling
step, one moment of disorientation, and she would be killed. Still,
there was no shame in such a death. Better than facing failure in the
eyes of Kaelyssa or anticipating the look of disappointment in the
face of Keldeacon Synvas.
Tempting as this was, she knew it was wrong. The myrmidon
she had recovered could not fall to the humans. Its return was more
important than the immediate death of one gun mage, a man who
could be hunted down later. Whatever papers she had been sent
to recover could not measure against the value of an Aspis and the
knowledge the humans could glean from it.
More than this, she recalled Myolyrs bitter words, You are more
valuable to the Retribution than everyone else training in this fortress.
She found this difficult to believe, given her poor performance,
but she knew it to be true nonetheless. Flawed though she was, the
Retribution needed warcasters. It would be selfish to throw her life
away in some futile gesture.
She had to accept her failure and return. Clearly she was not ready
to be a tyro. In time she could redress her mistakes. Reluctantly she
turned away from the townhouse and made her way toward the thick
line of trees to the east. She winced at the pain in her side and leaned
against the silently implacable myrmidon as she walked.
She had not travelled even half the distance before she found Kaelyssa
waiting for her, alone. The warcasters expression was unreadable, but
then she came forward and showed concern at the blood on Elaras
side. Here, let me deal with that, she said as she pulled a roll of
bandage material from one of her pouches. She helped Elara remove
some of her armor and bound the wound while they sat in silence.
285
Im sorry about my performance, Elara said at last, miserable,

having been awaiting a rebuke.
There, that should hold. Lets get your armor back on, Kaelyssa
said, as if Elara had not spoken. Itll cause you pain until you can
rest properly, but the bleeding should be stopped. You need to be
careful not to exert yourself or make any sudden motions. Now
come with me.
They did not enter the woods as Elara expected but walked west
again, back toward the area she had left. Despite the questions
arising in her mind, Elara remained silent. She could not find the
right words.
Kaelyssa was the first to speak. The Crucible, she began, then
paused. It is a strange and difficult thing. I have never heard anyone
describe one that was easy. And no two are ever the same. I did not
enjoy subjecting you to this, just as I did not enjoy my own Crucible
when I was put through it by Garryth. She spoke of the Blade of
Retribution, a man with a legendary reputation and one of the most
fearsome and ruthless of the sects warcasters.
They stepped to the edge of the trees and Elara realized they could
see the farmhouse from here. Dusk had fallen, leaving the house and
the barn as silhouettes against a darkening sky. Again Elara drew
her goggles over her eyes to see better. Smoke was pouring from the
back of the farmhouse. She saw furtive figures moving against that
backdrop. There was an eruption of distant gunshots and shouting.
She looked sharply at Kaelyssa, but the senior warcasters attention
remained locked ahead, staring through her own goggles.
After a moment Kaelyssa said, No mission is ever undertaken
alone in the Retribution. Your brothers and your sisters always fight
alongside you, prepare the way for you, or help you find your way
home. A strike force is both a team and a family. Where one member
fails to kill a vital target, another will finish the job. This brings no
286
shame. It is how the work must be done. Our cause is larger than any
of us. There is no one else who will see it done.
Fires were spreading in both the townhouse and the barn, but
the sound of gunfire had ended. More shadows could be seen racing
away from the buildings, heading in their direction. Soon Elara
could see the shapes of the members of Kaelyssas strike force. They
inclined their heads to both her and Elara. One of the first to return
tossed a satchel to Kaelyssa, which she caught in one hand. Elara felt
her cheeks burning as she realized it was her objective.
She was distracted from these thoughts by the sight of three mage
hunters at the rear advancing closely together. She saw Jyress between
two others, being helped along as they supported her weight. Elara
sucked in a breath and felt a pang of fear but was reassured when
Jyress smiled at her as she neared. A bullet to the leg, she said. But
I got him. The gun mage. Her eyes were bright with pride. Her first
kill as a mage hunter assassin. Elara felt no envy for her friend, only
gladness. One small wrong in the world corrected. The others took
Jyress away, promising to see to her injury.
We should go, Kaelyssa said. But first, I should tell youyou
did not fail.
The words were such a shock that Elara could only blink at her
stupidly. What? But my objective...
The Crucible is not about accomplishing an objective. It is a trial
to see how you handle complications and setbacks. It is designed to
test your judgment as much as your ability. You must be able to put
the needs of the Retribution above other considerations. Completing
a mission at all costs will not always serve our cause. Granted, it
would have been superlative had you managed to recover the satchel
as well as the myrmidon and killed the gun mage. But I did not
expect that. Had you handled things differently perhaps Jyress would
not have been injured cleaning up after you. There is always a cost;
287
your choices have an impact on your brothers and sisters. You have
learned that lesson. Still, you did well. Recovering the myrmidon
and recognizing your limits proves your judgment. You have passed
the Crucible and are now a full tyro.
Elara accepted these words and felt amazed, but found it a bitter
lesson. She considered Jyress and hoped she would be all right. She
felt no different from a moment before, and was aware of how much
she still had to learn, as well as how little time she would have. The
Retribution stirred and would soon march to war. She knew every
day there might be circumstances similar to what she had faced in
her Crucible. More impossible choices, more occasions where her
anger might overwhelm her.
But she also felt committed, now more than ever. As she walked
alongside Kaelyssa away from the fires and saw the other mage
hunters moving as shadows ahead of her, she felt a deep kinship with
them for the first time. She was no longer an outsider, no longer
nymeth.
She prayed to Lyliss and to Scyrah, asking for the strength and
courage to see both her parents and their gods avenged.
288
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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 nondisclosure 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.
GYPSYS LUCK
By Darla Kennerud
Merywyn, Khadoran-occupied Llael,

Early Spring 607AR
Morrow, but this city is a hell of a rat-hole.
Gastone Crosse looked out over the dirty marketplace of Lower

Merywyn from where he leaned against the corner of a building.
The day was slightly less cold and damp than recent days, and the
street was filled with hawkers, shoppers, and the occasional knot of
fleecersorphans and runaways who lived on the streets in groups
and survived by begging and thieving. Hed been a fleecer, too, but at
sixteen he knew better. It was much safer to work alone.
The city had once been a thriving hub of trade among the Iron
Kingdoms, or so hed been told, but that had all been before his
time. The weasel-faced nobles, the ones whod run the country
since the death of the last king over a decade ago, had thrown
it all away for money, food, and pleasure, while everyone else
scraped to get by. There was little enough to scrape now, under
the heel of the Khadorans with their foul vyatka-laced breath and
their nasty boiled meats and their coarse, brutish ways. Disgust
turned Gastones stomach as he surveyed the marketplace from
GYPSYS LUCK DARLA KENNERUD
behind the curtain of dark hair that fell over his face.
To the left, just before the stand where Andrea guarded her spiced
meat pies, walked a middle-aged man, well dressed but with more
gut than shoulder, lecturing a boy with glazed eyes. Gastone took
note of the purse-sized bulge in the mans coat. Across the muddy
street, thin-faced Old Neale looked anxiously out from his pitiful
farm stand, which showed only winter cabbages and some ugly,
misshapen roots. Nearer, in front of the woolery, a flushed young
servant girl balanced a pile of parcels. Her huge eyes tried to look
everywhere at once, drinking in the bustle of the crowd as she waited
on her mistress.
He glanced to the end of the street, and his gaze fell on the
Khadoran soldier facing the market. The mans square, ugly face
was unreadable behind a black mass of beard, but his eyes swept
suspiciously over the crowd as though looking for any excuse to exert
his power, and the axe he wore glinted dangerously. Gastone quickly
looked away, careful to keep his hands from touching the pair of long
dueling knives he wore at his belt. He didnt recognize the soldier,
but the man obviously took his job more seriously than some others.
Id better move on for now, Gastone thought. Hed barely taken a step
when shouts broke out over the general noise of the marketplace.
He turned to look. Old Neale had ahold of someones coat sleeve,
and the small, red-faced man whose arm was in that sleeve was
sputtering and shouting as he tried to twist out of the farmers grip.
A wiry woman with a basket in one hand was yelling at both of
them and pointing toward the edge of the farm stand, but both men
ignored her. Gastone saw a red-haired woman clutching a stack of
papers duck around the side.
A sharp, deep voice carried over the tumult. Order! Order!
Whats the trouble? The Khadoran guard strode toward the farm
stand, his hand on the haft of his axe.
292
Wasting no time, Gastone dove into the crowd, walking

fast. Most of the shoppers were turned toward the commotion,
watching the scene unfold. As he passed the woolery, Gastone
let one hand brush the top parcel from the servant girls stack
without slowing. She paid no attention; he probably could have
stopped to go through the whole stack if hed wanted. He weaved
around gawkers and shoppers, then turned to head back up the
street, as if to circle around the ruckus. He headed toward the
father and son hed been watching. Just as he neared them, he
tripped on a stone in the street and pitched forward with a cry.
The parcel flew out of his hands, and he stumbled directly into
the broad-bellied man and his son. Gastone and the boy almost
hit the ground, but the sturdy gentleman held them both up at
the last second.
Ho there! Youll knock the wind out of your lungs. Hubert, are
you all right? the man said as he let go of the hood on Gastones
shirt and looked at his son, who nodded with a dazed expression.
Gastone put on a concerned look. Sorry! Im very sorry, really.
I should watch my step. I was distracted... He waved toward the
farm stand and the Khadoran guard. Even the wealthier residents of
Merywyn stepped carefully around the soldiers, who would often
arrest someone as soon as look at them.
The mans expression darkened. Yes, understandable. A person
cant walk twenty paces without a soldiers eye on him, and they
control everything in and out of the city as well. Its bad for business.
Gastone nodded and began looking around on the ground. The
man spotted the parcel where it had been flung, then he nudged
his son and pointed at it with his chin. The boy scrambled for the
package and handed it to Gastone, who wiped off a bit of mud
with one hand. Ah, thank you. Im sorry for disturbing you. He
straightened and bowed slightly. Good day, he said.
293
Yes, well, no harm done. Good day. said the gentleman,

returning the bow.
Gastone continued up the street away from the market, slipping a
meat pie under his coat as he passed Andreas stand. She stood several
steps away, where shed moved for a better look at the commotion
across the street. The din had faded, but the Khadoran was still
barking at those involved. No one paid Gastone any special attention
when he disappeared into a side street.
Almost no one.
A deeply hooded figure near the woolery watched Gastone
slip away, just as she had watched him work his trade. Shed used
the distraction of the guard to make her way through the market
unnoticed, but when she saw the young man whisk away that first
parcel she paused to see what hed do next. It had been worth the
delay. His timing was perfect, his footwork quick, and his fingers
light. From his avenue of escape, she surmised he knew the area
intimately. And there was something else about him... Shed have
to look into this enterprising young man. He could be an excellent
asset to the cause, if properly handled.
She turned and continued to the tinkers shop at the other end of
the market street. If the young thief worked this area, Cloutier would
know who he was. She would bring it up after their other business.
Gastone took the last bite of the meat pie and licked the juices off
his fingers with a sigh. Maybe once summer came the pies would be
bigger again. The winter had been hard on everyone, but it was a sad
thing when the pastries had to suffer.
He ducked into another alley and made his way to the back of
294
Jules old shop. The place had been closed up since the shoemaker
had taken sick, but Gastone still found himself coming by regularly.
This part of town, well behind the beauty walls that kept Merywyns
more desperate citizens from the sight of its wealthier ones, had
hardly ever been what hed call busy, but in the last year it had
grown emptierall the better to avoid curious eyes.
Gastone flipped over an empty crate to use as a table, then pulled
another over and sat down to look through the mornings wages.
The paper-wrapped parcel he set aside for the moment; he was more
interested in the prize from the stout gentleman and his son.
Come on, gorgeous, he thought as he loosened the cord on the silk
purse and emptied it onto the crate. His heart leapt at the welcome
clink of coins, but there was only a small handful, which he scooped
back into the purse. Besides that were three rough-edged red stones
the size of a fingertip. He picked them up in turn, examining them
closely. They didnt look like much, but he knew better than to judge
the worth of a thing by its exterior. The smallest one had a visible vein
across the broadest part, but there were many tricks a good jeweler
could do to work around such flaws, so perhaps the stones would still
bring some gold. He pushed them aside and reached for the parcel.
He let his fingers rest on the brown paper, picturing what could
be inside. A fine scarf? Leather gloves with a bit of embroidery? His
mother had always made him guess what his presents were, even
when she knew hed seen her knitting the mittens or sketching the
picture. The game had brought a sliver of sunlight to their otherwise
harsh life, and hed kept it up over the years.
A noise from down the alley brought him to his feet in an instant,
but it turned out to be just a scavenging mongrel. The two stared
at each other for a second, and then the hound went back to its
search. Gastone tore open the parcel and found lengths of fine green
cloth and white lace. A smaller packet held matching thread, cord,
295
and ribbon. He pursed his lips, considering. Hed been hoping for
something more valuable, but this would do. And he knew just the
person to see next.
Come to order a gown for your sweetheart, Gastone? Tante di
Fiscani said and chuckled as she snipped a thread of the dark grey
cloak she was mending. Her nephew Fitch, a boy of fourteen who
was sweeping the small shop, looked up eagerly.
Actually, I brought the gown to you, Gastone said. He pulled
the bundle of cloth from his bag and spread it out on the worktable.
The color of summer grass. And look how it shines against the lace,
like... er... a field withfrolicking lambs.
The middle-aged woman laughed. And what lady wouldnt want
to remind her lover of bleating sheep? My boy, youre not made for
fancy talk. I dont suppose I want to know where that came from?
She sighed at Gastones shrug but set the cloak aside and came
over. Fitch sidled up alongside her as she fingered the green cloth
appreciatively. What a pleasure it would be to make a dress of this!
But my customers cant afford such luxury. Ill have to cut it into
parcels. I can give you twenty keeps.
Only silverand keeps, at that? You know our old coin doesnt
buy what it used to. Gastones voice was tinged with anger.
Madame di Fiscani gave him a sharp look. Thats the truth, and
theres not one of us in Merywyn that doesnt know it. But keeps
is what I have. When he didnt reply, she added, Its a risk at any
price. I cant have the City Guard around, even if Captain Enzo is a
good man. Its bad for business.
Fine, he said. Ill take the twenty keeps. She nodded. I
have something else, he added, a few stones. Not as convenient
to carry as coins, but you must handle some different currencies.
296
Exchanging them for me would make up for this poor deal.

Stones? I dont handle that sort of payment unless I have to.
Carrying them isnt the only inconvenience.
Just take a look, Gastone said, taking them from the purse and
holding them out. Please? Despite her objections the seamstress
held out a hand, and he passed them to her.
Fitch craned his neck to get a look. You lucky bastard, he breathed.
Tante examined them for a moment but then shook her head.
They might be worth something, but not for me. I cant take them.
She set them on the table, then retrieved her money box and shears.
Gastone ran through names in his mind. Which of his contacts could
he trust enough to ask next? He didnt like to trade in currencies that
got attention.
Seeing Fitch ogling the stones, he picked out the smallest and
tossed it to him. Maybe itll bring you luck, Gastone said, though
it hasnt brought me any so far. Fitch grinned as his aunt raised her
eyebrows at him.
Gastone watched as Tante counted keeps into his hand. Then she
cut a short length of the lace, which she folded and handed to him.
Never know when youre going to meet someone special, she said.
Gastone snorted but took the lace. I like being alone, he said.
For now, maybe, answered Madame di Fiscani. But the world
is harsh, my boy, and people need each other.
Not me, said Gastone as he headed for the door. Fitch followed
him into the street.
Gastone glared at the younger boy and braced himself for the
inevitable suggestion that Fitch should come along with him instead
of helping his aunt. The boy had gotten it into his head that the two
of them would make a good team.
Fitch said abruptly, Gastone, arent you tired of working the
whole city for a few coins?
297
No, its my lifes dream, Gastone said.

The younger boy glanced around nervously and pulled Gastone
aside, then leaned in and said in a low tone, What would you say if I
told you I knew of a much better target? Gastone raised an eyebrow,
and Fitch continued, I know where theres a lot of money changing
hands, in secret. No soldiers or officials, just a private thing. We
could get in easy, take a nights earnings, with no trouble.
Gastone couldnt hide his surprise. No trouble at all, eh? What do
you know about that? Fitch drew himself up to speak, but Gastone
cut him off. Never mind. Tell me about this private thing.
Its an illegal gambling hall, Fitch said. Byrtrand Delacroix runs
it at his shop after hours. Its been going for a few weeks, drawing
people from all over town to throw money at each other.
Gastone watched Fitch closely. The kid was a troublemaker, but
this was the first hed heard about a gambling operation. Then it hit
him. Oh, no. Howd you hear about this place?
Fitch looked at his feet, his shoulders hunched. Ive... uh...
been there... a few times.
What? Gastone glanced around and lowered his voice again.
Fitch colored and then went white. Gastone ran a hand through his
hair and took a breath. Out with it. What happened?
I was chumming up to these dandies at the tavern, and they
got pretty far into their cups. Then one decided they could do with
a change of scene and brought up the gambling hall. I... invited
myself along. At Gastones expression he added, I wasnt going to
play! But the one dandy gave me a few crowns, and the other put
them on a number, and I won, and they kept taking the winnings
and placing bets, and I kept winning.
Until...?
I stopped winning, Fitch said in a miserable tone. But I had so
much money, Gastone, right there in my hands! I just had to get it back.
298
But you didnt.

No.
And you kept playing.
Yes.
Gastone steeled himself to ask the question that would reveal how
much trouble the kid was in. Fitch, you have to tell me. Did you
borrow money? Fitch nodded. A lot of money? The boy nodded
again, and Gastone cursed. Everyone in their neighborhood knew
better than to borrow money. The poor never win that game, thought
Gastone. Never.
Fitch looked up at Gastone, the bravado gone from his eyes, and
Gastone saw the seven-year-old hed known back when Tante had
taken him in. Even then, the boy was always a step behind him, more
often than not breaking the small mechanical items Gastone had
scrounged and fixed up to sell. Fitch said, I have to pay them back
in another week, or theyll come after me. Theyll burn the shop,
Gastone! His voice broke, and he stood shaking.
Pigs and piss! This was serious.
Okay. I get it. Gastone put a hand on Fitchs shoulder. Well
take a look at this place and see. He put on a stern expression at
the relief in the boys eyes. But if I say its not doable, thats it. Well
figure something else out, but youll stay away from that place.
Fitch nodded.
What now? Gastone thought. Despite Fitchs overblown ideas, hed
never done anything like this. One thing was certain: he wasnt going
to let the kid anywhere near a big job if he could help it, and this one
sounded like a rats nest. Gastone would do his own scouting, and if
the situation seemed decent, hed take the place himself.
He adopted a brisk tone. We can go in four days. Can you wait
that long? Fitch nodded again and started to speak, but Gastone cut
him off. Not a word of this to anyone, he said. If you go blowing
299
about it to impress your friends or some girl, Im done. If you go near

the place yourself, Im done. And I swear, Fitch, if you do anything
this stupid again, Ill take it out of your idiot hide myself. Got it?
Fitch nodded again. I wont, I swear. Morrow help me, I wont!
Gastone shifted his weight from one foot to the other to keep the
blood moving in his legs. Hed been hidden in this spot for hours,
watching, and the cold had long ago worked its way through his
clothes. From his vantage point on the balcony he could see the
entire street, but he kept his focus on the building directly across
from him, a mid-sized, two-story building in decent repair, especially
compared to the rest of the neighborhood.
For two nights hed watched as well-dressed men, working folk,
and the occasional couple had made their way to the building and
been allowed entrance. There must be some sort of password, but
whoever guarded the door didnt seem to be too strict about it, based
on the number of people well into their cups who made it in. He
could attach himself to one of those groups easily enough. He also
knew every window and door in the building, and hed figured out
the gambling itself happened on the second floor.
He checked his pocket watch again. Hed pieced it together from
bits hed scrounged or traded for, and though he was proud hed been
able to get it working at all, he knew it tended to run slow. To make
up for this, every day before coming here hed adjusted it according
to the town bells.
As on both of the previous nights, one of the guards had left just
after 1a.m. The other would stay until closing at 3 and then would
accompany the boss home. There had been no sign of other guards,
and like Fitch had said, there had been no sign of soldiers or the City
Guard. Gastone was grateful for that; Captain Enzo was never hard
300
on petty thievery, but this was a different kind of nut altogether.

Gastone waited half an hour after the guard had turned off the
street, just in case the man returned for a forgotten glove or scarf. He
was just preparing himself to move when the door to the building
opened and a tall, broad-chested man left the building carrying a
heavy-looking travel bag with several outside pouches. Sweet Morrow!
Gastone thought. Must have been a lucky night. The gambler paused
to adjust his coat and hat, and Gastones mind raced through possible
scenarios. This was too good to pass up. The man entered the street,
and Gastone started to climb over the railing to make his way down.
He heard footsteps from down the street and froze. He could see
three men approaching. The one in the lead was slightly built, in a
heavy, fitted coat and tall boots. The other two held back on either side
of him, hulking shapes in shorter coats and heavier boots. Definitely
trouble. All three were focused on the gambler, and Gastone eased
himself back into his hiding spot to watch. The man in the center
called out to the gambler, who replied. Gastone couldnt make out the
words, but the gamblers tone made it clear these two were not friends.
A movement in the shadows caught Gastones eye, and he could
make out two more large figures stealing toward the gambler from
behind. All five of the approaching men produced weapons as they
continued to move toward the gambler, surrounding him. The
slender man said something else with a nasty laugh, and the gambler
looked around at the surrounding men. In a flash the gambler
dropped his bag on the street with a thunk and drew an imposing
gun of his own: a huge quad-iron. The approaching men stopped in
their tracks. Gastone stared at the gun, astounded at the size of the
thing, but the large man aimed it easily.
The air grew thick with tension, and Gastones breathing echoed
in his own ears. The two men on the street exchanged another
few words, but the thugs stayed back, waiting for orders or for the
301
gambler to make a move. Something on the mid-section of the gun

began to glow bright blue. The two mens voices rose in anger, and
then suddenly all five of the strangers charged the gambler. He and
the leader kept their eyes on each other and fired their weapons.
Instead of two gunshots, Gastone heard severalenough to leave his
ears ringing.
A sickly green light gathered on the men facing the gambler even
as their bodies slumped to the ground. Recoiling from the foulness
of that light, Gastone threw himself down onto the balcony, his arms
covering his head. A cold, keening wind washed over him, and he
felt an icy prickle down his spine. After a moment, he realized the
whine in his ears was only an echo, and he crawled to the edge of the
balcony and peered down onto the street.
The scene was strangely similar to what he had seen just a moment
before, yet decidedly different: where each man had stood now lay
a body, unmoving. All dead, Gastone thought with both relief and
wonder. Next to the gambler sat his untouched bag.
Gastone scrambled to his feet and climbed down from the
balcony, glancing up at the gambling hall and in both directions
of the street before moving from the shadows. Surely someone had
heard and would come to investigate; he didnt have much time. He
went straight for the gamblers bag but froze when his eyes fell on
the faces of the attackers. Even for dead men, they didnt look good.
Where there had been hulking forms and threatening expressions,
now he saw twisted, withered shapes with grey faces frozen in agony.
The boss and three of the thugs had this same unnatural, shriveled
look. It was almost a relief to see the corpse of the fourth thug staring
blankly into space as it stained the street with blood.
He turned and looked down at the gambler. This manthis
man hed been about to face alonehad taken out an entire gang
of thugs in seconds. His eyes went to the gun, the quad-iron that
302
could fire so many perfect shots so quickly. It was gorgeous, and

unlike anything hed ever seen. He set down the bag and picked up
the gun to examine it. He had to use both hands, it was so heavy.
Turning it over to get a look at the mechanika, he noticed an intricate
silver inlay on the weapons exotic wood housing, continuing onto
the barrel. A sudden groan spilled from the gambler, and Gastone
realized the man wasnt dead.
His trance broken, Gastone grabbed the bag again, then paused.
He pulled the stolen silk purse from his pocket and dropped it on the
big mans chest. The few coins in it clinked as it landed.
For your trouble, he said, smirking. He glanced around again,
then took off into the alley with both the gun and the bag.
We were supposed to go together! You said youd take me! Fitch
said, his anger and disappointment clear. Even in the empty shop, he
kept his voice low.
Gastone shook his head and pushed the heavy purse across the
table to the kid. No, I didnt. And its a good thing, because that
place was dangerous. Last thing Tante needs is you in some Khadoran
jail where not even Captain Enzo can help you, with those men still
hot to get their money one way or another.
I was going to take care of that! I had it all worked out. I didnt
need you to do everything for me. Im not a kid, Gastone! Fitch
took a breath, wringing his hands.
Just take the money and be done with it, Gastone said firmly.
I kept some for my trouble, of course, but theres enough to get
you out of the kettle youre in and have some to spare. Pay the loan,
forget about gambling, and keep yourself out of the way for a while.
Everything should be all right. He reached for the cup of flat ale at
Fitchs elbow, and the boys eyes grew wide.
303
Whats that? Fitch cried, staring at the large quad-iron under

Gastones coat.
Gastone quickly adjusted his coat to hide the gun and scowled at
Fitch. Just something I picked up recently. Forget about it. I dont
even know if Im going to keep it.
Fitch looked shocked. Why wouldnt you keep it? That thing is
amazing! Can I hold it?
No! Gastone said, startling Fitch with his vehemence. He
swallowed and took another tack. Yeah, its big, so its not especially
easy to hideobviously. If one of those Khadoran brutes spots it
and asks me for papers, theres no way Ill avoid arrest. Its heavy,
too, and its throwing off my balance. This kind of gun demands
attentionand that is one thing I can do without. It just might be
more dangerous than its worth.
So whatre you going to do with it?
Sell it, most likely.
Are you crazy? Even if you could find someone to take it, what
youd get is nothing compared to its real value. When are you ever
going to have a gun this impressive again? With a weapon like
this, people have to take you seriously. That will get you a lot more
than a handful of coins. Seeing the look on Gastones face, Fitch
continued, Come on, Gastone! Havent you ever thought about a
job that would set you up for life? Not even for a minute? You could
get the hell out of this dung heap of a town, make a real life.
Set me up for lifeor end it? Gastone said. Its a lot easier
to get killed than it is to get rich. He paused, considering. Hed
refused to tell Fitch any of the details of that night other than
that he hadnt actually entered the gambling hall, and he hadnt
intended to tell him more. Idiots going to get himself killed chasing
after gold, he thought. He had to tell him something. You want
to know where I got the gun?
304
Fitch nodded eagerly.

I took it off a man I thought was deadafter he killed a whole
gang of other men I know were dead. Thinking of the grey, wasted
corpses hed seen, Gastone suppressed a shiver. I dont know what
the fight was about, and I dont want to know. I thought the gun
might be worth something, so I took it. I tell you, though, FitchI
dont want to bleed my life out into the street just to settle some
argument. Carrying a gun marks you.
The kid shook his head in disbelief, but he didnt keep trying to
convince Gastone that glory and riches awaited him. Instead, he
took the purse from the table, muttered something like thanks, and
disappeared into the apartments behind the shop.
Gastone looked around. Hed been bringing Tante di Fiscani
goods since he was nine, and shed always treated him fair. She was a
resourceful woman, immovable at times. That might help with the
local troublemakers, but it wouldnt serve her well against the kind of
men Fitch had gotten mixed up with.
Havent you ever thought about a really big job, one that would set
you up for life?
Of course he had. Every time he had to work the feeling back
into his frozen fingers or fill his belly with river water so it would
stop rumbling, he thought about it. Hed spent countless hours
imagining takedowns and dreaming of what hed do next. Not
travel; he couldnt bear to leave Merywyn and his mothers grave.
But there were plenty of other options. He could open a locksmiths
or a tinkers shop, where hed be ablet to mess around with gears
and parts to his hearts content. For as long as he could remember,
hed only needed to examine mechanical things, hold them in his
hands, in order to figure out how they were put together. Sometimes
he could even see the way something should have been built in the
first place. Real life wasnt nearly so straightforward.
305
Feeling restless, Gastone left di Fiscanis and headed toward the

river. The feel of the wind off the water always stirred an unnamed
excitement within him, and he found his footsteps quickening as he
neared his favorite spot. Cresting the familiar rise overlooking the
docks, he saw a beehive of activity surrounding a mid-sized boat
newly arrived, from the look of things.
This. This would set me up for life.
Not this exact boat, but anotherthe merchant-smuggler boat
from Five Fingers that bribed its way past wartime checkpoints to
slide into the city every quarter. The one that was stuffed to the
rails with luxuries: coffee, sugar, and exotic spices from the far-off
continent of Zu as well as cigars out of Tarna, furs and scented oils
from Uldenfrost, and the finest Ordic beef that could be had. The
one that brought trade for the city of Merywyn its people never
sawnot the poor, anyway. The one that had been whored out to
the Khadoran occupiers by wealthy merchants who ignored and
betrayed their own countrymen for the chance to fatten their purses.
That was the one.
The gold boat, as it was known, had been making runs from
Five Fingers along the Dragons Tongue River and then up the Black
River since long before the northerners had invaded. The rotten
Llaelese merchants hadnt missed the opportunity to slip cream
into the sauce, using little luxuries to get in good with the mongrels
running the nation at the time. When the Khadorans emerged
from the forest and laid claim to Llael, the tack of the merchants
changed only in who they provided their favors to. The Khadoran
officers welcomed the arrangement, which gave them better access
to niceties than theyd had in the Motherland, particularly for those
from Khadors interior.
Every thief in the city dreamed of getting part of those shipments,
and Gastone was no exception. For the most part they kept to
306
daydreaming and stayed well clear of the boat because of its heavy
security. Teams of Merywyns City Guard, Khadoran soldiers,
and mercenaries guarded every stage of delivery and processing.
Attempting to breach that security was tantamount to suicide, and
the Guard wasnt shy about gruesomely advertising the failures of
those few who tried. There were plenty of heads on spikes at the
Queens Gate that could testify to that.
Gastone watched the activity on the river with narrowed eyes.
Set for life.
Ignoring the drizzle, Gastone made his way to the outskirts of
Merywyn using side streets and keeping to the less populated areas.
This wasnt a day to draw attention, even from innocent Llaelese;
the last thing he needed were spectators. Once he reached the
Rats Warren, an isolated and empty area where the few remaining
buildings had been heavily scavenged over the years, the huge gun
strapped to his back was making his nerves jump and his muscles
ache.
Hed rigged the back holster after Fitch had seen the gun at his
hip; he couldnt take the chance of that happening again, at least until
hed decided what to do with the thing. If the wrong sort of person
spotted it and decided to make trouble, Gastone knew hed get the
worst of it. He found the weight of the weapon reassuringeven
comforting, in an odd, itchy sort of waybut that wasnt enough to
consider keeping it until he knew for sure he could actually use it. It
was a far cry from the pathetic holdout pistol hed owned a couple of
years ago, and that thing hadnt lasted more than six months.
Deciding hed gone far enough, Gastone chose an abandoned
warehouse yard littered with debris and set away from what had once
been the main street. He removed his long coat and pulled the quad-
307
iron from its holster across his back. Hed examined the gun closely
already, but standing there with it in his hands he felt a thrill that
wasnt entirely comfortable.
Four perfect shots, in the space of a moment.
He should be safe here, far from the eyes of the Khadoran invaders,
but he knew this gun would be trouble if he were caught. How far
away would a shot be heard? Would it create that explosion of green
light? The daylight would help dull the brilliance and the cover of
the rotting buildings would help hide it, but what about the eerie
wind? Although he wasnt entirely certain that part hadnt been his
imagination.
Shaking off his nerves, Gastone opened the breech of the gun
and pulled four cartridges from his pocket. Hed expected to have to
pay to have some made, but the gambler had been carrying several
reloads in an outside pocket of the bag. Gastone shook his head.
What the hell kind of trouble would you need a couple dozen rounds
like this for? It wasnt the first time the question had occurred to him,
along with a queasy feeling, and he didnt dwell on it. Instead he kept
his hands moving, loading the first set of cartridges into the gun.
He looked around for a target and spotted a pile of broken crates
about fifty paces away. The paint had faded, but they looked like
theyd been red once. Perfect.
Gastone faced his target and lifted the gun in his left hand. It
didnt feel as awkward or heavy as hed expected, but he still had to
strain to keep the oversized quad barrel from wavering. He figured
hed get used to that over time. He looked down the length of the
gun, and the faded red pieces of wood blurred into an ominous,
hulking shape in a red coat. He took a breath. As he exhaled, he
pulled the trigger.
The big gun slammed back against his unbraced wrist and kicked
upward hard. A white-hot current of pain shot up his left arm, and
308
something smashed into his forehead. The next thing he knew he

was on the wet ground, barely able to breathe. He opened his eyes a
fraction and grimaced at the dull light, which drove spikes into his
head. When he forced his eyes to stay open and raised his head to
look around, stars flickered in front of him.
He let his head fall back into the mud as the drizzle petered
out. When hed caught his breath, Gastone sat up slowly, his head
complaining. His left arm felt heavy, and he realized he still held the
grip of the quad-iron tight. His cheeks began to burn as he realized
what had happened: hed brained himself with his own gun. The
thing had a hell of a kick! He peered in the direction of the crates
and saw to his astonishment that the top crate was demolished, burst
into splinters by the force of the bullet. Holy Morrow ascended! he
thought.
His eyes darted to the gun and scanned the metal inlay. Instead
of the bright glow hed seen in the alley, the runes now emitted only
a soft light. Relieved, he pulled himself to his feet, groaning, and
chose another target. This time he angled his body away from it
and planted his feet wide. He set the gun high against his hip and
supported the barrel with his right hand to steady it and take some of
the weight off his left wrist, which ached intensely from the first shot.
Again he took a breath, exhaled, and pulled the trigger.
This time he stayed on his feet, but the gun punched back against
his gut and he took a step back even as he doubled over in pain,
gasping. Goddamn this cursed hunk of metal! Through watering eyes
he saw that once again hed hit his target.
He forced himself upright, picked another target, and again
took a wide, angled stance. He leaned forward slightly and held the
quad-iron as before, steadied with his right hand under the barrel,
but snugged at the top of his leg. As he took a breath, he could
swear his thigh was already aching from the kick. He exhaled.
309
The kick of the weapon shivered through his bones, but Gastone
kept his feet and allowed his body to swallow up the vibration. It
was a good shotthe best so farand he decided hed had enough.
Hed proven he still had some skill with a gun, but this thing was
too much: too heavy, too awkward, too conspicuous. All in all, just
too dangerous. Hed sell it, like hed planned to do in the first place.
However much he wanted to be able to shoot like that, he needed to
be able to eat even more.
Im telling you, DeLouche, its a beautiful weapon, Gastone said
in a low voice. I took it out to the Rats Warren yesterday and tried
it myself. It handles like a dream. His stomach growled, and he
winced. The aromas of the dinner being prepared for the moneygrubbers who frequented the inns dining hall made it hard to focus,
but he couldnt let a little hunger distract him. Sweet Morrow, but
that stew smelled amazing.
The small, thin man wrinkled his nose, making himself appear
even more rodent-like than usual. Why you looking to move it,
then, hmm? I know the kind of quality guns you boys run intonot
worth coin nor carrot.
This is different. Gastone took on what he hoped was an earnest
expression and willed himself not to turn his head as the cook took
the lid off a pot and stirred. Look, Im trying to help you out, with
Alayna being sick and all. A fine weapon like this should bring a nice
profit. Youre one of the few men I know who could find a buyer
for something this special. And what do I need a huge gun for? If I
carried anything, itd be something eleganta small dueling pistol,
maybe.
DeLouche eyed him for a moment and then gave a nod. All right,
he said, gesturing to a door off the kitchen. Lets see it, then, hmm?
310
He followed Gastone into the dim storeroom and left the door
open. Gastone reached into his bag and brought out the bundle that
held the quad-iron, pushing aside a pouch of mechanical parts for
the pocket watch he was repairing. DeLouche didnt trade in that
sort of thing; the main thing here was the gun.
He set the bundle on top of a crate that held bags of grain and
undid the wrappings. In the dim light, the gun seemed to glow softly,
and his hand ached for it.
DeLouche took in a sharp breath with a hiss and stepped back, an
expression of horror on his pale face. How did you? But no. No,
Gastone, I cant take this. Its trouble, sure as you stand here.
I know its big, DeLouchewhy do you think I came to you?
You know firearms better than anyone in the city. Just hold it, feel its
balance, and
The thin man was shaking his head and holding up both palms as
though to push away the gun and Gastone both. No, truly, I cant.
Its rune-inscribed! Thats a whole different market, hmm? Gastone
noticed he was beginning to sweat as he continued, A gun like that,
it stands out, gets a man noticed. There would be questions. No, it
would be too hard. Impossible. He took a grimy handkerchief from
his coat pocket with a shaking hand and began to wipe it across his
forehead.
Fine, Gastone said, shrugging. Maybe youre not the man for
the job after all. Or maybe I should just keep it. Could come in
handy. He began rewrapping the gun in the cloth.
DeLouche was across the small room in a second, his grip tight on
Gastones arm. Will you listen to me, hmm? That gun is evil. Get rid
of it however you can if you know whats good for you. Throw it in the
river if you have to, but get rid of it. He dropped his arm, cast a final
glance toward the gun, shuddered, and hurried out of the storeroom.
Gastone stared after him, unsure what to think of the mans
311
words. Hed known DeLouche and his wife for years, and hed never
seen so much as a hint of superstition in them. Maybe shes sicker than
I thought. Hes just taking out his worry on me. He finished wrapping
the gun and shoved the bundle in his bag, his mind racing. Sure, a
gun like this could draw attention if you didnt keep it hidden. But
evil? People were evil, not things. Hed seen plenty proof of that.
Hearing the cook fussing at a serving girl the kitchen, he paused.
When the voices faded as the cook followed the girl out of the room,
he came out of the storeroom, never one to miss a chance at a meal.
He glanced longingly at the stew pot but instead grabbed a loaf of
bread and a cold turkey leg without missing a step. He was out the
back door and on his way before the cook returned.
When the hooded woman slipped cautiously into the unassuming
shop, the tinker was working at a side table, his head down and
an expression of intense concentration on his face. Ill be right
with you, he said without looking up. Just let me finish this one
thing...
Im afraid I dont have long, said the woman.
He looked up immediately and jumped to his feet, flushing pink.
Oh, excuse me! My apologies
She waved away his concern. No, no, Cloutier. You have your
job to do, just as I have mine.
Yes, I suppose I do. I mean He stopped himself and wrung
his hands. Well. What can I help you with today, Madame...?
He looked at her questioningly as he limped out from behind his
worktable.
Call me Marie, please. She paused, and he nodded. I have a
job to discuss with you. Its a little more involved than your usual
work. Probably best discussed privately?
312
The tinker flushed pink again. But of course, Marer, Marie.

Please, this way. He limped to a side room and held the door for
her. She followed, taking in the layout and furnishings in a glance.
While he set the water to boil and prepared tea, the tinker told
her the news of the last few months. She listened quietly, her hood
now back and her face lined with worry. Shed hoped at least some of
the stories shed heard from other travellers were exaggerations and
life was not truly so difficult in Merywyn. But the Khadorans had
turned all the citys heavy industry toward outfitting their war efforts
and repairing their great machines, and the people were suffering.
The winter had been particularly difficult; there was little grain and
even less meat to be had. She shook her head as Cloutier related
the number of citizens jailedor worsefor petty crimes: carrying
an unauthorized weapon, stealing food, or simply sleeping in an
abandoned building. With tens of thousands of northern soldiers
moving through the city to the front line as well as other parts of
occupied Llael, security was tighter than ever. She considered the
military implications of all those enemy soldiers being added to the
field and wondered what offensive they were preparing for.
Im afraid people are getting used to this way of life, Cloutier
said, looking sadly into his weak tea. It has all become normal.
The woman said, No, I think not. The heart of our people is
strong, Cloutier. They will do what they must, but they will never
allow the boots of the Khadoran interlopers to crush their spirit or
their dreams. Never. He looked up at the conviction in her words, a
spark of hope evident in his eyes.
Of course not, he said as if he had just remembered the truth.
He lifted his cup. To a free Llael!
She smiled. To a free Llael, she replied, raising her cup to his.
Whatever the price. She took a drink and set down the cup. Now,
about the job. I have a machine, very old but in good condition, that
313
requires some new parts. Id like you to make them for me, get it
back in working order.
Cloutier blinked. Of course I would be happy to try, he said,
but wouldnt you do better with a machinist or a mechanic? My
experience in fabrication is limited, like my resources. He pointed
his chin at the main room of the shop.
The woman shook her head. I have a mechanic, but Im afraid this
is beyond her expertise. I have run into some... difficulty acquiring
the parts she needs. What I do have are specifications for them. She
looked directly at the tinker. They are within your ability, I know it.
I have seen you work wonders before.
Ah, yes. He chuckled, a misty look in his eyes. Once I worked
wonders almost daily, as I recall. He sighed and patted the knee of
his injured leg. But those days are long gone, my lady. Begging your
pardon, but Im not the man I once was. Im not the man you need
for this.
Begging your pardon, but I know better. Will you try, at least?
The tinker blinked again, and then he smiled. As always, my
Marie, I am at your service. I will do my best.
The woman smiled as she laid a hand on his arm. What more
can anyone give? She sat back in her chair. I saw a young man in
the market today Im curious about. She described the pickpocket,
and Cloutier made a face.
I know who you mean: Gastone Crosse. He grew up on the
streets, an alley rat who took up thieving to survive. Hes quick and
clever enough, but he wallows in his anger at the occupation and at
the former government both.
Thats understandable, the woman said. A young man like that
might do well for the Resistance, dont you think?
Cloutier scoffed. Not that one. Hes a loner, and stubborn. Hes
been approached by recruiters before, but he always sends them
314
away, saying theyre no better than the Khadorans. His face twisted
into a scowl of disgust. He is too selfish to be a patriot. He is too
selfish to be anything but a street thief.
The woman nodded. Some people needed to hear arguments put
to them in just the right way, and a boy whod grown up on the streets
was bound to be more suspicious than most. This particular young
man, though, had far more in his future than he could have ever
imagined. She just hoped hed realize it while he still had a future.
315
Late Spring 607AR

Gastone sat with crossed arms. Why are you talking to me?
Plenty of people could have wrecked that building. In front of him
paced Raynard Enzo, captain of the City Guard in Merywyn and a
man well known to Gastone from years of conversations just like this
one in the cramped City Guard office.
Captain Enzo sighed. Perhaps. But there was no sign of the
Resistance there, and this incident has your name all over it. You
dont think I can recognize your handiwork? The Wandering Bear is
a prominent hall, but not heavily guardednot officially, anyway.
Owned by a wealthy former councilmember and popular with the
Khadorans. And that chandelier was just installed.
Sounds like someone did the city a favor, said Gastone. Enzo
had always looked out for him, had given him chance after chance
rather than just throwing him in jail or leaving him to the filthy
reds, but he still wasnt going to confess to destroying property. The
chandelier must have cost a small fortune, if not a big one. That was
the whole point.
The captain stopped pacing and looked at him sharply. Listen
to me, Gastone, he said, his voice earnest. This isnt just stealing a
few coins. Messing with the Khadoransthats dangerous territory. I
dont know how you did it, but I know you were involved. Gastone
started to object, but Enzo silenced him with a gesture. Maybe
youve gotten mixed up with a gang. Maybe you made it look like the
chandeliers chains were shot to throw off the investigation. It doesnt
really matterI know you, and I know how you think. Havent I
always been good to you? Havent I always protected you?
Gastone uncrossed his arms. That shot had felt amazing. Hed
planned to get close and shoot up the place, all right, but once he was
316
at the window hed decided to just try for the chain. Hed taken his
time with the shot, envisioned the bullet slicing through the chain
perfectly, and then fired. And it had happened just the way hed
imagined: the chain snapped, and the chandelier crashed into pieces
on the floor below. Spectacular. Thats not the point, he said.
No, but it is important, because I need you to understand: you
go much further, and I wont be able to protect you. Itll be out of
my hands. What happens to you, what happens to your neighbors,
what happens to Merywyn because of youall out of my hands.
He rubbed at the bridge of his nose with a finger and thumb,
then sat next to Gastone before continuing. You might think Im
exaggerating, but Im not. Gastone, the Khadorans mean to stay
here, and theyll go to any lengths to prove it to us. If we want to
survive, we have to work with them, not against them. If they catch
you doing something like this he waved his hand toward the
report on his desk theyll kill you. These little pranks, are they
really worth your life? You can do so much better.
Gastone bridled at this. You wont choose to protect me, you
mean! You couldnt stand up to the nobles that were bleeding the life
out of Merywyn, and you wont stand up to the invaders who swept
in to leave their stench all over the country. You dont have the spine
for it, not even to make your own life less miserable. Well, I do.
He paused and then added, Im not a kid anymore, Captain. I can
take care of myself. He meant it. He was seeing things more clearly
nowjust not the way Enzo wanted him to.
He couldnt sell the quad-iron right now, not with the kind of
reaction hed gotten from DeLouche. After a few months, maybe
hed have better luck with someone else; the man wasnt the only one
in town with contacts. In the meantime, he could finally make a real
difference in his life and get some hits in against the Khadorans and
the wealthy bastards whod made the country vulnerable to them.
317
Enzo looked at him evenly, his expression sad. Youre wrong,

Gastone. Ill protect you as much as I can, but my higher duty
is to the people of Merywyn. I shield you far more than you
know; I shield all of you. What would happen if I stood up to
the Khadorans? My head would leer at you all from beside the
so-called Queens Gate, alongside all the others. Perhaps the City
Guard would be allowed to select a new captain, but probably not.
The Khadorans would take the opportunity to fill the post with
someone already in their pocketif they didnt simply hand it to
one of their own soldiers. He shuddered. Ive heard stories about
Khador that would spoil butter. That they force every last citizen
into the military at age ten and onto the battlefield at thirteen. That
they let their people freeze in order to save coal for their ravenous
warjacks. Even that for centuries their rulers have meddled in dark
sorcery.
Gastone shook his head. I dont care what they do to their own
people. I care what they do to us.
Enzo stood wearily and put a hand on Gastones shoulder. So do
I, Gastone. They were both silent for a moment, and then the captain
simply walked from the room, leaving Gastone to contemplate his
next move.
Gastone hadnt gone more than a few hundred yards from the City
Guard office when a young woman appeared beside him, matching
her steps to his. In a glance he took in her dusty, worn breeches and
boots, nondescript coat, and long red hair. She looked familiar, but
he couldnt place her.
She must have noticed his confusion, because a satisfied smile
flashed across her face, so quickly he almost wondered if hed
imagined it. Without looking at him, she said, That chandelier was
good work.
He started. How did she know about that? Morrow, had she seen
318
him? Hed been so careful! He wouldnt rise to the bait. Do I know

you? he asked.
There was that hint of a smile again. Not exactly. But Ive seen
you work the market crowd.
A red-haired woman ducking behind the farm stand... So that was
where hed seen her before. He said nothing.
You have talent, Gastone Crosse. You should put it to work for
more than the occasional coin. Put it to work for a free Llael. Join the
Resistance! She shoved a pamphlet toward him. On the front, in a
large, bold script, were the words Restore your nation to its rightful
place. Join the Llaelese Resistance!
Gastone almost stumbled. Is she serious? he thought. No. Im not
risking my neck for you people. And for whata piece of paper that
says Llael instead of Khador? Go bother someone else.
The woman shrugged. You didnt strike me as a coward, but
maybe youre right. Better to do what the Khadorans want and stay
out of their way. Better to live off their scraps than stand up for
yourself. If you call that living.
The Resistance just wants to bring back the filthy weasels who
kicked us around before the northerners got here. Hell, they probably
paid for the invasion. Im not interested, he growled.
She was silent for a moment, but Gastone didnt respond. She
made him uncomfortable, and he wished shed go away. Finally, she
said, Youll die like this, you know. Youll die on the street, or youll
die in prison, but you cant survive in a place like this alone. At least
with the Resistance youd have some protection.
The Resistance be damned! And spread the word, will you? I
already told you people no. He really was in no mood for this.
Hey, its all the same to me. But this is your chance to do
something, a chance to make a difference. He grunted. The
Resistance had nothing to do with him, and he wanted to keep it
319
that way. All right, then, the red-haired woman said. Fine. If you
change your mind, look for me in the market. And Gastone?
Surprised by the change in her tone, he finally looked at her. Her
expression was unreadable, but her next words sent chills down his
spine.
Be careful. We might not be the only ones with eyes on you.
320
Late Summer 607AR

Breathing heavily, Gastone darted past the ornate sculpture of
Gyselle di la Martyn and around the corner and pressed his body
flat up against the wall of the Khadoran administration building,
keeping his light coat closed. The sound of boots echoed in the street
but faded after a moment. The patrol hadnt spotted him.
He relaxed, slumping against the building as he caught his breath.
That had been close. His pulse pounded in his veins, and he smiled
at the thrill of it. Not close enough to catch Gastone Crosse! he thought.
The past few months had been exhilarating. Hed gone from
skulking around the market for copper coins to picking and choosing
targets hed never have dreamed of a year ago. After hed brought
down the fancy new chandelier in The Wandering Bear, hed gone
out regularly, targeting a whole range of locations for the coin, the
destruction, and the thrill of it. Sometimes he used the gun to shoot
up a place; sometimes he didnt. At first he told himself he needed the
practice, but soon hed immersed himself in the power of knowing
he could go where he wanteddo what he wantedand neither the
Khadorans nor the City Guard could stop him.
Hed had many close calls, but it seemed like the bolder he
became, the luckier he was. With the adrenaline of the chase in his
blood, he was faster and more sure-footed than ever, and stories of
his daring and elusiveness were flying through the city. When he
was in his new element, his weapons became an extension of him,
and he became part of the night itself. He hadnt hurt anyone,
so the poor thrilled to the rumors of the shadowy vigilante who
stalked the genteel neighborhoods, and the wealthy were aghast at
the nerve and skill of the man in the stories. The bastards might not
know his name, but they sure as blazes knew his work.
321
Captain Enzo had cornered him more than once for a heart-toheart. But when Enzo said to lay off for a while, Gastone raided
a whole string of nobles houses in the Rose Quarter. When the
captain suggested darkly that those break-ins didnt look like simple
robberies, Gastone went on a hunt for vyatka barrels being stored for
taverns and inns across the city. The conversations with Enzo always
went the same way:
I know its you, Enzo would say.
Couldve been. Or maybe I was across town, Gastone would answer.
You dont want to stir up trouble, Enzo would say.
Theyve never cared about what I wanted before.
Someones going to get hurt, Enzo would say.
Its about time, Gastone would answer. The captain would look at
him with worried eyes, and Gastone would bristle just a bit under his
gaze. I can do what I want, hed think, missing the reassuring weight
of the oversized quad-iron against his leg. His knives just didnt feel
the same. For once in my life, I can do whatever I want.
Keeping the hood of his long coat up and his face in shadow,
Gastone followed the women from a distance. It wasnt difficult, as
one or the other stopped frequently. Though they were only reasonably
well dressed, their shoes were very high quality, and their hands looked
soft, not red and rough. Not laborers, then, but genteel ladies dressed
down for a bit of shopping where their coin would go furtherat the
expense of the hard-working folks whose wares they bought.
As one of the two looked over a stand of ribbons and fabric
scraps, her companion touched her arm. I see a woodcarvers
stand a little further down. Meet me there when youre done?
The first woman nodded, and the second stepped into the crowd,
her purse swinging from her wrist.
322
Gastone quickened his step. The woman couldnt have set herself
up more perfectly. Just as he neared her, a familiar redhead cut
between them.
Georges! she cried with obvious relief. Thank Morrow! Ive
been looking for you everywhere. Darling, weve been betrayed! If
Papa finds you! Oh, Georges, what are we going to do?
Darling? Georges? Gastone blinked, and before he knew it
she was leading him out of the crowd with a firm grip on his arm.
He looked back just in time to see a dirty little fleecer dart in to
slice the bottom of the shopping womans purse. Damn it! he
said. Several people nearby snickered and tried to look elsewhere.
Just keep moving, the redhead ordered in a whisper as she steered
him to the side door of a nondescript shop off the main market. She
rapped on the door twice, then twice again.
What in blazes do you think youre He stopped midsentence as the door opened and she gave him a little shove, right
into a large wall of flesh with arms. Two huge hands came down on
his shoulders, the door was shut, and he was walked to a table and
pushed down into a chair, not ungently but quite decisively.
Gun and knives, said the man-wall, holding out his plate-sized
hand. Gastone stared at him. The man leaned down so his face was
almost even with Gastones. It wasnt pleasant. Give me your gun
and your knives, he said slowly, wiggling his fingers.
Gastone pulled his two knives from his belt and handed them
over, never looking away from the mans face.
Now the gun.
Gastone swallowed. Sorry, I cant do that, he said. But if itll
make you feel better, Ill promise not to shoot you.
The man cocked an eyebrow at him. Feeling bold today? Thats
nice. Now hand over the gun.
I... I... Gastone felt his pulse begin to race. A bead of sweat
ran down his back.
323
How about a compromise? said a womans voice. You hold

onto the gun, but you give him the bullets.
Gastone jumped, then turned red as he realized the room wasnt
empty beyond himself and his new friend. The voice had come from
behind a small, plain screen across the small room. What do you
want from me? he demanded, louder than he intended. He glanced
at the man-wall, but the brute simply raised an eyebrow at him and
held out a meaty hand.
Theres no need for worry. Youre perfectly safe here, the woman
said.
After a brief pause, Gastone drew the gun and emptied the
chambers, then dropped the cartidges into the guards outstretched
hand one by one. Satisfied, the man stepped back and leaned against
the wall with a bored expression.
The woman continued, I understand youre prepared to throw
your life away fighting for scraps from the Khadoran table rather
than join the Llaelese Resistance. I dont think thats wise.
Gastone laughed bitterly. Why would I need to be wise? Smart,
quick, and luckysure. But wise I can do without, especially when
it involves the Resistance. All they have to offer me is another way to
die. He waited, but there was no reply. He found himself touching the
handle of his gun, even though hed just handed over the ammunition.
He was surprised to see a slight figure in a deeply hooded cloak
emerge from behind the screen. She took a seat slightly to the side
of him.
I know you think the Resistance isnt for you, but you dont have
all the facts. The Resistance can offer you one thing you cant steal, no
matter how good you get, something far more valuable than gold.
Gastone smirked. What would that bepatriotism?
Warcaster training. She said it just like that, as if she had said
he could get a lace for his boot or berries for breakfast.
324
He gaped. Warcaster? Are you crazy? Beginning to laugh, he

said, Is this a prank? Who put you up to thisFitch? He started
to get up.
Please sit down, Gastone. Listen to me, she said in exactly the
same even tone as before, but suddenly he realized the man-wall was
directly behind his chair. Damn, hes fast! Gastone thought.
She went on, It may be something of a shock, but yes, you have
the warcaster ability. And I think theres something inside you that
recognizes it. Havent you ever noticed how lucky you are? Everyone
is lucky sometimes, but all the time? I bet you dont ever have to
think about where to place your feet or how hard to throw a rope,
and you never have. She paused to let it sink in. Now, recently all
of that has been even stronger. Its not because of your increased...
activities. Its your warcaster talent beginning to make itself known.
He said, No, youre wrong. Me, with a steamjack? His mind was
racing. Everything she said had struck a chord in him, and his entire
being was resonating from the impact. He knew it was true. But how
could it be? The very idea was ridiculous.
Its not all about jacks, she said. A persons arcane power always
finds a way to express itself, but its not always dramatic. You might be
using arcane energy and not even know it. Sometimes it looks more
like bending luck, so you move a little faster, jump a little higher
she turned her face directly toward him, and he realized she was
younger than hed thought shoot a little straighter. He swallowed.
But to take full advantage of your talent you need training. Training
you can get with the Resistance. Youd be able to study your power,
practice, learn alongside someone more experienced.
But Id have to be part of the Resistance, he said.
She nodded.
Fighting for the old government.
No. The vehemence in her voice startled Gastone. The old
325
government betrayed us; we can never forget that. What we fight for
now is the chance for a new governmenta truly free Llael.
He shook his head. Call it what you want, its all the same. No. A
thousand times, no. I wont lift a finger to help reinstate the filthy rats
who misused their own people. Let em rot, for all I care.
Youd pass up warcaster training out of spite? You have that much
hate in you? she asked. She sounded genuinely surprised, and for a
split second Gastone felt bad.
He said, If I do have this warcaster thing, this ability, Ill figure it
out on my own. Like Ive done everything my whole life. I dont need
your help, and I wont answer to anyoneespecially the Resistance.
The woman stood up. Dont miss this chance, Gastone, she
said. What a waste that would be! She walked to the door but
turned back before opening it. Your opportunities are not limitless.
You need to see the value of this offer before its too late. And then
she was gone.
The man-wall gave him back his knives and ammunition and left
as well. When Gastone opened the door, the red-haired woman was
waiting for him.
How did it go? she asked.
You people are sure persistent, said Gastone. But that lady is
crazy.
Youre not the first to say so, she laughed. But shes leaving
soon. She grabbed his arm and spoke urgently into his ear. You
know the old Singing Starling building, near Crystal Park? Six days
from now, an hour after dusk. Be there, or she leaves without you.
She let go of his arm and melted into the crowd.
Ive got most of it worked out. Fitch pulled Gastone into the
shadows. The narrow alley was deserted, but he looked around and
326
lowered his voice anyway. Gastone, this is our chance! Just one hit,
and well both be set for life. Since when did you lose your spine?
Gastone shook his head. Its just not possible for one man.
Nobody could get ahold of the gold boat shipment on their own.
Not even me.
So what about with a crew? Not just sneak thieves, but the fastest
and the smartest. I can make that happen. I know some of the best
in the city, Gastone. Theyd follow you. And with a good plan, we
could do this.
Gastone stared at Fitch. When had he gotten so bold? How did he
know the citys best thieves? What had the boy been up to? I work
alone, he said. I wont have the lives of a bunch of hoodlums on my
head. He started to walk away.
I can get us onto the delivery wagon. Fitch said.
Gastone stopped and turned around slowly. You can what? he
said.
The delivery wagon that takes the gold boat shipment to the
Khadoran warehouse. I can get us on as driver and second. He
waved away the question Gastone was about to ask. Ive made a lot
of new friends since youve been ...busy with other things. For a
cut of the take, a certain wagoner is willing to come down with a bad
stomach. Hell have to call in replacements. Us. The boy was flushed
with pride, Gastone noticed, but he kept his voice even.
Interesting, Gastone admitted, but I dont know if its enough.
Ill have to think about it.
Fitch nodded. Think fast, he said. The shipments due in port
before weeks end. And we need a plan.
With a thrill, Gastone realized if he pulled this off, word might
reach the hooded Resistance recruiter before she left the city. Then
she and everyone else would know how wrong they were to think he
was at the mercy of the Khadorans. He could take care of himself.
327
The dust that greyed Gastones hair made his eyes water, and
the false moustache and goatee hed affixed to his dirty face itched.
He kept his composure, though, focusing on the days plan. Here
we go, he said under his breath as he pulled the wagon up to the
checkpoint. A sullen-looking guardsman approached.
Names? said the guardsman.
Henri Leblanc and Hugh Rossignol, with Dupreys Conveyance,
said Gastone, holding up a weathered parchment. The guardsman
glanced at it but didnt take it.
What are you carrying?
Gastone smiled thinly. Nothing but rope and tarps, for now,
he said. But Ill be back through later with blessings from afar. The
gold boats in, thank Morrow, and Im to bring in the shipment.
The guardsman grunted and stepped back, waving the wagon
through. Beside Gastone, Fitch let out a breath in relief. Gastone
glanced at him.
You okay? Not getting nervous, are you?
The boy smiled. I cant believe how easy that was!
Gastone set his teeth. Fool had better not screw this up, he thought.
I dont think Id like the view from the Queens Gate.
When they approached the docks, they passed through another
checkpoint, this one more heavily guarded with a mix of Khadoran
soldiers and Merywyn City Guard. As before, the parchment Gastone
held up seemed to be satisfactory and they were allowed to pass.
Gastone oversaw the loading of the goods onto the wagon, which
was watched over by a half-dozen of the City Guard. Climbing
around in the bed of the wagon, Fitch saw that each crate, box, and
barrel was positioned to spread the weight of the load across the
wagon bed. Once that work was done, he tied down the tarp and
328
clambered back onto the bench.

The kapitan had Gastone make his mark on a register and then
handed him a sheaf of heavy, cream-colored papers closed with a
heavy wax seal of red to deliver to the warehouse manager. Gastone
stowed the papers and joined Fitch on the wagons bench.
Four guards on horseback approachedthree City Guard and
a Khadoran sergeant. After a brief exchange with the kapitan, the
sergeant called, Head out! Gastone flicked the reins, and the
procession began to move.
One stage down, Gastone thought. Morrow willing they all go as
smoothly.
The loaded wagon moved steadily north along Kingfisher Road,
which curved from the docks to the center of the city roughly along
the same line as the canal that lay not far to the west. They made
good time toward the central warehouse of the Khadoran Army,
and the guards had relaxed somewhat once they had passed through
the wooded area northeast of the checkpoint to the inner city. The
chances of trouble were lower within this more protected ring, even
with the numerous buildings, side streets, and alleys that lined the
road as they approached the center of Merywyn. The Khadorans had
taken over many of the nicer estates in this part of the city as barracks,
and indications of their presence were everywhere. At one point, the
guards stopped the wagon at an intersection, and Gastone had to
concentrate to keep his expression impassive as an entire kompany
of Winter Guard marched past in formation.
They were just rounding the upper bend, where the Kingfisher
began to curve northwest, when one of the guardsa snub-nosed
woman with straw-colored hairpresumably saw something ahead
and kicked her horse into a gallop. Gastone shared a look with Fitch
329
and shrugged. Dont worry, boy, he said, loud enough for the
sergeant alongside them to hear. The guardsll make sure were safe
as a babe in his cradle. Fitch turned red and glowered at him, and
out of the corner of his eye Gastone saw the Khadorans half-smile.
He had to suppress a smile himself.
After a moment the guard returned and reported, Theres a farm
wagon overturned ahead. Fools blocking the road.
The sergeant frowned. Whats his load?
Looks like soil, she answered. Its spilled across the whole road.
How many with him?
Just one I could see. Nothing else.
The sergeant nodded and turned to the rear guards. Could be an
ambush. Keep your eyes and ears open. They nodded.
After a few moments the group rounded the bend and the wagon
came into view. A tall, thin woman was calming the unhitched horse
while the farmer tried to right the wagon. Soil was spilled out across
the road. The sergeant held up a hand, and Gastone brought their
wagon to a stop.
Then the wind shifted, and the truth hit them square in the face:
that wasnt soilit was manure, and unbelievably ripe. Gastone,
Fitch, and all four guards gasped and coughed, eyes watering with
the sudden stench of it. It was one thing to encounter that smell
on a farm or in the stables, but to suddenly be engulfed in it in the
open was something elseor so they assumed. Gastone knew the
alchemical concoction added to the load made the fumes burn their
eyes and irritate their throats.
Next to Gastone, Fitch swallowed, his skin ashen. Henri, I dont
feel so good, he said, his pale face twisted miserably.
Gastone said, Settle down, boy. Youll be fine. The Khadoran
sergeant only glanced at them.
The farmer saw the approaching group and stood upright to wipe
330
his brow. He came forward then, waving the sweaty cloth in the air
as though to flag them down.
Morrow be praised! Come to do a good turn? First job Ive had
in two months, this, and the mare upset by a wasp and a rut in the
road! Dont know what Id have done if you hadnt come along.
Apologies, called the sergeant, but were on city business and
cannot stop. Move aside, and Ill send someone back to check on you
soon enough.
On the wagon bench, Fitch looked up piteously. No, really, I
think Im going to He practically threw himself off the wagon
to vomit spectacularly onto the road. The guard on his side quickly
moved her horse forward, her face showing disgust even as she
returned to scanning the upper windows and roofs of the nearby
buildings for threats.
The farmer answered, City business! Of course, of course. But
how do I move aside, exactly? He spread his arms to indicate the
toppled wagon and its spilled load. Now, if I had some help, Im
sure we could get this wagon up in the swish of a nags tail.
The sergeant glanced at the surrounding buildings.
Gastone spoke up. Begging your pardon, but we could backtrack
a bit and go around by way of the Midnight Road and then the
Ladys Fingers. It would take longer, but... He pointed his chin at
the load of manure, disgust clear on his face.
The Khadoran grunted and looked at him with narrowed eyes.
The Midnight Road was known for being dark whatever the time of
day because of the surrounding buildings, hills, and trees; Gastone
knew no guard who valued his skin would willingly take the gold
boat shipment that way. And the Ladys Fingers were a lattice of short
streets that crisscrossed through several questionable neighborhoods
and which would be difficult to navigate with a loaded wagon. Given
those options, he knew which choice he would make.
331
The sergeant turned to the two rear guards. Rowyn, Lazaroux,

give the fellow a hand, and be quick about it. We have a schedule to
keep. The two men looked surprised but immediately dismounted
and moved to assist the farmer, taking care not to step in the mess
Fitch had made.
Gastone said loudly, If youre done there, Hugh, come lie down
below the bench. Wouldnt do to get left behind. Nodding, Fitch
pushed himself up from the ground, spat, and climbed clumsily back
up onto the wagon, then disappeared below the bench. Gastone
cursed, loudly enough for the guards to hear. Damn fool boy. See if
you get your days wages after this! He kept up the grumbling until
he judged enough time had passed for Fitch to be in place within the
wagon. The modifications he had made to it were about to be put
to use.
Together, the two guards and the farmer had almost righted the
overturned wagon, though the guards were coughing and sputtering.
Gastone assumed an impatient expression and began tapping his boot
on the floorboards. Just as the men managed to heave the farmers
wagon to its wheels, he stopped: that was the signal.
He couldnt hear anything over the commotion, of course, but
he felt a slight shudder in the wagon as the oiled mechanism hed
installed was engaged to lower a portion of the wagon bed onto the
street. He smiled at the sergeant when the man looked his direction,
but the Khadoran moved his horse closer to the obstructing wagon
and continued to throw glances up at the nearby buildings, more
interested in getting back on the road than in anything else.
Gastone could feel his heart beating fast in his chest and focused
on maintaining a normal expression. Come on, fellows, lets see if youre
worth what were paying, he thought, willing himself not to look
toward the back of the wagon. He turned his head as he leaned to
one side to pick something up off the floorboards. Adrenaline surged
332
into his body when out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadowy
figure dart from the nearest alley and slip under the wagon as quietly
as a cat. A moment later it emerged to slink back to the alley, moving
more slowly with the burden of a crate. Another figure disappeared
under the wagon and retreated with a large box. Gastone knew theyd
be dropping the stolen boxes onto a hand cart stashed in the alley. It
would never hold the entire wagons delivery, but he expected theyd
only have time to transfer a handful of boxes anyway. Considering
the contents of the boxes, even just a couple would be quite a haul.
The two guards who had been assisting the farmer turned to make
their way back to their mounts. No, not yet! he thought. His mind
racing, Gastone stood and yelled at the woman leading the mare over
to be hitched to the wagon, Watch yourself, woman! The horse!
The woman screamed before hed gotten out the words, and the
mare reared, whinnying and pawing the air before landing. Trying to
avoid the hooves, the woman pulled on the lead rope, but the horse
continued to dance and toss her head, eyes rolling wildly, and then
reared again.
Both guards on horseback had to control their mounts, which
stepped sideways nervously at the excitement. The two guards on
foot ran over to assist with the mare. Gastone saw the first shadowy
figure make another trip from the wagon and disappear into the alley.
One of the guards finally caught the mares bridle and began
to calm her with gentle strokes and soothing words. The animal
continued to move skittishly under his hand, but before too long her
eyes stopped rolling and her breathing returned to normal.
The second shadowy figure made another trip from the wagon.
The guard held the lead rope out to the woman, but she
stepped back and shook her head, pretending to be frightened.
The man looked back to the farmer, who was shoveling manure,
and then led the horse over and began to hitch her to the wagon.
333
He felt the mechanism raising the platform back up the wagon,

and a third shadow slunk from the wagon toward the alley. Fitch.
Though Gastone had hoped to get a few more crates, he felt a
moment of relief; they needed to get out of here, and he certainly
wasnt wild about the idea of the hired crew being alone with the
goods. They could have their share once everyone had made it back
to the rendezvous point.
The sergeant turned his horse back toward the supply wagon, and
Gastone tensed. Dont look! he thought, almost at the same time as
Rot it, Fitch, I knew youd screw this up!
Then everything happened at once.
The Khadorans eyes narrowed, and he opened his mouth to call
out an order even as he shifted his weight to urge his mount forward.
At the same moment, Gastone whipped the reins on his team,
yelling, Hyah! Startled, the horses bolted forward, and Gastone
guided them straight toward the farmers wagon. The sergeant pulled
his mount hard to the side to avoid being trampled, cursing and
shouting at his guards as he drew his pistol. The farmers horse reared
and danced. The second mounted guard kicked her horse to pursue
the supply wagon and its valuable load.
Two wheels of the vehicle tipped off the road into the soft mud,
and Gastone felt a needle of panic that they would be mired, but
he managed to careen past the manure wagon. From the corner of
his eye, he saw no sign of the farmer or his assistant. He pulled his
loaded quad-iron from under the bench and leveled a shot toward
the farmers vehicle, hoping the man was smart enough to be down or
well away. The wagon bed exploded with the impact of the bullet at
such close range, pelting the area with manure and wood debris. The
farmers horse screamed and bolted, pulling the partially destroyed
wagon behind it as it ran down the road.
The two guards already after Gastone were only put off their
334
stride for a moment, and then they were also past the wagon. He
heard a pistol shot ring out and then rifle fire, and he crouched down
as low as he could, thankful it was so difficult to shoot accurately
from horseback. He barely had control of his wagon team, and they
showed every sign of very much wanting to be back on the main
road and far away from his oversized quad-iron.
He saw an ale cart coming his direction and nearly crashed into
it before he could turn onto a small side street. He could barely
hear the drivers curses over the din of the wagon barreling down
the paved road. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw the two
mounted guards make the turn, much more easily than he had. They
were gaining on him, and they still had their guns out. Hed drawn
them as far away from the rest of the crew as he could; it was time to
let them have their wagon back. Holstering his gun, Gastone glanced
around quickly to take stock of the neighborhood. He knew most of
the city well, and his illegal activities had honed his ability to read an
area for bolt holes, likely caches, unlocked gates, and easily distracted
residents. One of the mansions the reds had taken over for officers
barracks wasnt far from here, though, which complicated matters
even more. He could hardly afford to have Winter Guard involved
as well.
A shot hit his wagon, and he made his move. Still crouching
low, he pulled the wagon closer to his side of the street and leapt
off, launching himself into the shadow of an old two-story church.
Morrow help me, this is as close to praying as I get, he thought as he
hit the pavement. He rolled onto his feet and sprinted behind the
church and across the property. He could hear hoofbeats, but only
from one horse; the other guard had probably gone after the wagon.
He darted behind a gaudy marble statue on a large pedestalsome
nobles vanity gift, no doubtflattened himself against the base, and
waited for the rider to pass him. Would it be the sergeant, or the
335
second? He really hoped it wouldnt be the Khadoran. Either because

they were stupid or because they were stubborn, those pig-bastards
could be as hard to lose as cold in winter.
It was the Khadoran. Damn it! He raced by, and Gastone peeked
out, then dashed across the alley to the house across from the church,
one of a row of houses that crowded the next street all the way up
to where it crossed Hyacinth about a mile to the north. The houses
in this neighborhood had once been known for their climbing vines
and flowers, and he knew this one still had a trellis. He clambered
up it quickly.
Once on the roof, Gastone allowed himself a moment to catch his
breath before picking his way to the side edge, where the next house
practically butted up against this one. He made the short jump,
crossed that roof, and leapt to the third roof the same way. There
he paused, listening for the Khadorans horse, but he couldnt hear
anything. His blood ran cold, and he made his way to the back of the
roof, where it looked down on the alley.
Gastone peered over the edge of the roof and froze in horror. The
rotted Khadoran was right there under his nose, holding his horse
still as he looked around the alley. Gastone stared at the top of the
mans stupid hat, hating him with every part of his being. The guard
suddenly tensed. Gastone sucked in a breath and pulled back slowly,
so as not to draw attention if the man happened to glance upward.
With a start, he realized his hand was on the handle of his holstered
quad-iron, though he didnt remember moving it there. He pulled it
away and focused on his breathing for a moment. When he checked
the alley again, the Khadoran had moved on.
Gastone looked up the alley toward the retreating guard, feeling
pleased with himself. Looks like my luck is holding, he thought.
336
The gambler took the last bite of the bland soup, dropped the
spoon into the wooden bowl, and sat back in his chair. Miller beans
werent his favorite by far, but hed found that a poor meal was often
the price for good information. From where he sat near the fireplace,
he had a decent view of the other customers, and hed been listening
to a group of young people getting into their cups at a nearby table.
He hit Le Fontaynes, did you hear? Got a silver service worth a
years wages, said a youth with light hair and bleary eyes. He had a
well-worn pamphlet in his handsa Resistance pamphlet, judging
by the way he folded and unfolded it nervously.
Another, a pale girl with a shock of black curls, shook her head. I
heard he got more than that. One of the paintings is missing.
Why steal a painting? said another boy, also with black curls.
Whats the point? Nobody would touch the thing.
From where he sat the gambler said, He must have connections
with better taste than you.
All three of their heads swiveled to face him. He chuckled, picked
up his mug, and moved to their table. Why else would he bother?
To hang it in his foyer? He laughed, and the others joined in. The
pale-haired boy jammed the pamphlet in his pocket. The man
waved to the serving boy and pulled out a chair for himself. Bring
me another, he said to the boy when he arrived. Nobring us a
pitcher. The young people smiled and elbowed each other.
The gambler pretended to study his ale. What a feat, though!
Who could do such a thing, and right under the Khadorans noses?
Nobody, I tell you. Not without getting caught.
Nobody except Gastone Crosse! cried the light-haired boy. The
others nodded, grinning. Clearly the thiefs talents could not be
questioned here.
Gastone Crosse, the gambler repeated in a half-whisper.
Gastone! cried the black-haired boy, mistaking his contemplation
337
for a toast and raising a half-empty mug. The others followed suit.
The serving boy returned with their pitcher, and the gambler sat
back and let the others fill their mugs. Under the table, he repeatedly
turned over a stone in his left hand, feeling its roughly polished edges
against his fingers. One of his men had given it to him after a kid
had offered it as part of a payment for a gambling debt. The idiot
lieutenant had thought it worthless, or else he might never have
turned it over. It was, in fact, quite valuable to the gambler, but not
for the coin it could bring. He had other stones just like itthanks
to the thieving wretch whod taken Gypsy Kiss.
Gastone Crosse.
Something was off, Gastone could feel it. From a shadowy corner
he watched the side door to the small warehouse, just as hed been
doing for the last half-hour. There was no sign of anything unusual,
but he couldnt shake the itchy feeling something was very wrong.
Finally, he steeled his nerve and made his way to the door, careful
to stay in the late afternoon shadow of the buildings. He kept his
senses alert for anything that might indicate the plan had gone sour,
but there was nothing. That in and of itself made him nervous; since
when did nothing go wrong for him? Not that he didnt always
manage to land on his feethe did, every timebut so far this
job had gone reasonably well, and that made him wonder what was
coming.
He peered in through the small windows of the warehouse,
hoping to see Fitchs crew inside waiting. They should be happy,
perhaps celebrating with just a nip from a stowed bottle of uiske
or ale. If those idiots are drunk! he thought, but he never finished
the sentence. He could see the warehouse was empty. How was it
possible no one had made it back here yet? Even with the goods
338
to carry, they should have arrived before him.

Gastone heard a distant rhythmic pounding growing louder and
realized it was the sound of an approaching Guard patrol. Pigs and
piss! When had they changed their patrol pattern? Unless
He darted to the side door only to find it locked. Fitch was
supposed to have it open by now. Thamar take that rotted boy! he
thought. If he so much as considered double-crossing me, I swear Ill
end him even if I have to do it from jail.
The footsteps continued to grow louder. The patrol couldnt be
more than a street or two away now. Gastone realized hed have to
make a run for it. He knew Fitchs bolt-holes and hiding places as
well as he knew his own; hed look for him in the Perfumed Quarters
once something else had captured the Guards attention. Dirty weasel
will just gamble away whatever money hes been paid for my head,
Gastone thought.
Casting one last glance toward the sound of approaching footsteps,
Gastone broke into a run, making his coat fly. With every step he
could feel the guards close on his heels.
Gastone skidded to a stop around the corner from di Fiscanis
shop and peeked around the edge of the building, breathing heavily.
As usual for the afternoon of a fine day, the street was filled with the
buzz and bustle of a good number of people, Llaelese citizens and
Khadoran soldiers alike, going about their business. He pulled up
the hood of his long coat and blended into the foot traffic.
He kept an eye on the shop door, but no one entered or left.
The shop seemed empty. The knot in his stomach tightened; it
was definitely odd for Tante to close up in the middle of the day.
She could be in the living quarters, though, trying to talk Fitch
into coming clean with him. Trying to figure out how to keep the
339
kid from throwing his whole life away over money.

He approached the shop, glanced around, and quickly slipped
inside. Hed better not have drawn the Guard down here, he thought.
Seeing no sign in the shop of either Fitch or Tante, he continued on
through the door to the apartments. He took care to step quietly,
just in case.
The living quarters were also empty, and the only item of interest
he found, stuffed in Fitchs clothes chest, was a pamphlet like the
one the red-haired woman had tried to give him on the street. Fitch,
interested in the Resistance? he thought. I cant see it. There was no sign
Fitch had been back, with or without the goods. This should have
been reassuring, but Gastone couldnt quite dispel the cold dread that
had grown in his chest over the afternoon. Something was wrong.
He slipped back through the shop and into the street. Where
would Fitch have gone? Maybejust maybehed been stupid
enough to go back to the wagoners, and Tante had simply gone for
supplies. Gastone made his way toward the end of the street, letting
the crowd carry him forward. He eyed the nearby shops, wishing he
could risk asking if anyone had seen the woman today. But he knew
it was a risk he couldnt afford, not for himself or Tante. He clenched
his teeth and pressed onward.
Captain! called a womans voice.
Gastone had barely registered the meaning of the shouted word
when he saw a woman in the uniform of the City Guard bearing
down on him through the crowd. He turned to run and saw another
pair of guardsmen closing from behind. The nearest alley was a good
ways ahead, and as the people realized what was happening they
retreated from the street to crowd along the edges, blocking any way
out.
Hold, Guard! It was Enzo, making his way from farther back.
He shouted to the guardsman who had first spotted Gastone, Lasset,
340
damn it, I said hold! The woman stopped, but she kept her eyes
fixed on Gastone and her hand on the cudgel at her belt.
Gastone adopted a look of mild annoyance, as he had done
nothing to deserve this sort of attention. He didnt see Fitch with
the Guard, so he didnt think the little punk had sold him out to
them, but he couldnt be sure yet. He kept his eyes forward but took
in every detail of the street layout and the crowd with his peripheral
vision, hoping for a chance to bolt.
Gastone, you need to come with me. Captain Enzo said, loud
enough to be heard from twenty paces away.
What? Why? Never mindit doesnt matter. Im not going
anywhere with these brutes. He pointed a thumb at the Guard
around him.
Enzos mouth tightened. Lets not do this out in the street.
Cooperate, will you?
Gastone felt panic creeping into his throat. I dont know what
youre talking about. Go bother someone else. Find someone to
throw in jail for stealing a crust of bread; Im sure that will make you
feel better. The people nearby muttered angrily, and he saw some
scowl in his direction. Enzo was as well liked among the commoners
as anyone could be in his position. Gastones words were unfair and
he knew it, but he couldnt fight the bitterness rising to the surface.
The guardsman ahead took a step toward him but halted at a
motion from Enzo. The captain stepped closer. His face was haggard,
Gastone noticed, the lines in his brow more pronounced than hed
realized until now. There was a dark, tired look in his eyes Gastone
had never seen directed at him, and he felt its impact down to his
boots. He took a step back.
Im sorry, Gastone, but youve gone too far this time, and I have
to bring you in, Enzo said. Theres nothing else to be done. Come
with me now, while you have a choice, and it might go easier for
341
you. The Khadorans are on their way, and they arent going to be as
willing to listen.
Gastone swallowed, trying to get rid of the bitter taste in his
mouth, but it did no good. He could barely see the gathered citizens
now; his vision had narrowed, and all he saw was Enzo and the
guardsmen. I cant, he said. He was startled at the hoarseness of his
own voice. His stomach churned. I wont.
There was a commotion behind Enzo, and a trio of Khadorans
pushed through the crowd.
Captain Enzo! said the one in the lead, a wide man with a bare,
angular chin instead of the more common beard. This is one of
the fugitives? Excellent. I will be taking him now. We have much to
discuss.
Enzos face went white, but his eyes never left Gastones face.
Kapitan Polzin, I am honored by your offer, but I cannot ask you
to finish my job, he said. Especially since we only have a suspicion
of this boys involvement. As determined by your kovnik, I will take
primary custody of him and see what can be learned from him before
you... become involved.
No, said Gastone. He would not be given to the reds like some
kind of sick offering. He looked around and saw only a sea of angry
faces. His head swam, and his fingers tingled on the grip of his gun.
The Khadoran stepped forward, and Gastone had the quadiron braced on his leg and pointed at the man before he so much
as thought about doing it. There were gasps from the onlookers.
Gastone noticed the runes on the gun were beginning to glow blue.
Hed never figured out how they worked, and they hadnt glowed like
that in the time hed had it. A foggy image of a glowing gun being
swallowed in a burst of yellow-green light floated across his mind.
Gastone, dont be stupid! called Captain Enzo with a choked
voice. We just need to talk to you.
342
Gastone swung the oversized guns barrel toward Enzo. His pulse
pounded in his head. Dont lie to me, Enzo! I know how these
squatting pigs talk to people, and its a conversation Im not going
to have. Just leave me alone! The runes were burning brightly now.
Gastone, Ill do everything I can, I swear to you, Enzo said,
holding up a hand entreatingly, his face a mask of pain. But to
have any chance at all, you have to come with me. Its the only way
I can
A surge of panic and rage and desperation coursed through
Gastone. Around him, time seemed to stand still, and yet he was
only vaguely aware of his movements, as if his body moved of its
own volition. He felt his finger on the trigger of his gun squeeze
once, twice, smoothly and almost instantaneously; the gun aimed
as if without his direction. The sound of the shots slowly boomed
in his ears. The Khadoran kapitan went down, and Enzo. There
was a sickeningly familiar blinding green light. A cold wind blasted
the street, and Gastone felt as much as heard the high keening that
accompanied it as an icy spike of pain exploded into heat within his
chest. He gasped and stumbled forward, clenching his eyes against
the shock of it.
He became aware of a strangely distant sound of commotion
and opened his eyes. His vision had cleared, and all around him
people were still reacting, as though in slow motion. Most people.
Ahead of him the Khadoran lay in a shriveled heap, withered
and grey. His sunken face was contorted in pain. Gastone felt his
stomach lurch. Enzo! Shaking, he shoved his gun into its holster
and rushed to the captain, moving like lightning amid the slow
chaos around him. The man had fallen face down, and Gastone
hesitated before moving him, his eyes and mouth clenched against
the moment of truth. He touched the captains shoulder and felt
the unnatural lightness of it before pulling him over.
343
Gastone threw himself backward, scrambling away from what

remained of Raynard Enzo. The agony in the shriveled, twisted face
was like a kick to the gut. He felt sick, and once again his body
seemed to know what needed doing before his mind could grasp it,
and he was suddenly on his feet and racing toward the nearest alley.
As he plowed through the confused crowd, he saw the red soldiers
and the City Guard taking in the scene and slowly looking around
for him. A Khadoran bullet came hurtling toward him, but it seemed
suspended in air, and he twisted away. It passed by to bury itself in
the wall behind him with the sound of finality.
He had just become the most wanted man in Merywyn.
Gastone could hear the shouts of Khadoran soldiers somewhere
nearby. The damn reds had hounded him down street after street, and
hed had a hell of a time staying ahead of them. Twice hed darted out
from behind a building only to spot a patrol on a crossing street and
had to race to safety, but hed made it both times. He was hunkered
in a coal cellar now, catching his breath and trying to figure out what
to do, where to head.
Enzo.
The world had taken on the strange echoes of unreality back there
on the street. Hed moved quickly and with as much agility as ever,
but without a thought, as though in a trance. Everything around
him had seemed to be happening in slow motion, which had allowed
him to see and evade danger, but at the same time once he was past
danger the details of the situation quickly swirled together in his
mind, turning into a mental tornado. And at the center of the storm
was the knowledge he had just killed a manno, two men. Hed had
to defend himself before, had used his knives when he had no other
choice, but hed never taken a life that he knew of, not even one of
344
the stinking Khadorans he hated with every part of his being. The
weight of it made him feel sick.
Enzo!
How had it happened? He couldnt make sense of it, and his head
felt heavy with trying. He hadnt meant to fire at all. He didnt even
remember deciding to raise the gun, though it wouldnt have been
the first time hed used it as a threat. He hadnt meant to hurt anyone,
least of all the captain! Enzo, whod always tried to get him to do
better for himself, to live a cleaner life and set himself on a straight
path, when anyone else would have just hunted him down long ago.
Enzo, who despite his uniform had looked out for the poor as much
as he could. Enzo, who had been reaching out to him even in his last
moments. Enzo, whod been turned into a twisted, grey husk in the
flash of a gun.
Gastone turned and retched into the corner.
His life here in Merywyn, such as it was, was over. The Khadorans
and the City Guard would hunt him down relentlessly, and the
Khadorans would make an example of him. Life in prison might be
even worse than execution, but hed get whichever was worse. He was
no more than a common murdererand hed murdered one of the
few people in any position of authority in Merywyn who was kind to
the commoners. Not even they would help him now.
The Khadoran shouting and the sound of boots on the pavement
faded, and Gastone waited several breaths before raising the cellar
door a few inches to peer out. The street was empty. Thanking his
luck, he climbed out and ran toward the alleyway a few buildings up.
If he could stay out of sight for a while, maybe once the initial furor
was over the Khadorans would forget about him. For the first time
since being spotted outside di Fiscanis he felt the tiniest glimmer of
hope. Gastone raced into the alley and skidded to a stop when he
almost ran into a large man coming toward him.
345
Whats the hurry, son? The man loomed in the shadows,

advancing toward him. Not a soldier or a guardsman, that much was
clear, and yet he looked familiar.
Sorry, Gastone said. Im late to meet someone. He moved to
go around the man, but the fellow stepped to the side, directly into
his path, making no effort to hide the large, ornate pistol he carried
in one hand. Gastone took a step back.
Let her wait, said the man. We have business, you and me.
Too far to get back to the alley entrance, Gastone thought,
automatically checking routes of escape. No cross street nearby.
Windows on the ground floor look locked. Drainpipes worn and rusted.
He held up his hands in a show of surrender. What kind of
business? Do I know you?
You have my gun. Thats a pretty dangerous situation to be in.
A series of images flashed through Gastones mind in a split
second: looking down on a dark street, a tall man with a bag of his
winnings, approaching thugs, four bodies left shriveled and lifeless,
another left to bleed out his lifes blood, and a strange, oversized
quad-iron. He could feel its reassuring weight on his leg.
Gastone stared at the man. Sorry, but you have me confused with
someone else. Weve never met. He shifted slightly so his weight was
on the ball of his feet.
The man gave him a cold smile. He held up a purse and tossed it
to Gastone. Go ahead, have a look, he said.
Gastone spilled the purse into his hand. Amid a few coins were
two small, rough-cut stones. He put them back in the purse and
looked up. Is this supposed to mean something to me?
The gambler laughed, a low, raspy chuckle that made the hair
on Gastones neck stand on end. The man reached in a coat pocket,
pulled out something small, and tossed it to Gastone. He caught
it without thinking and opened his fingers. There in his palm was
346
another small, roughly polished stone of deep red. Across the face
ran an obvious vein.
His blood ran cold. Fitch.
Your friend isnt so bright, the gambler said. He tried to pay
a debt with that, which made it a lot easier to find you. Look, son,
you saw a chance to take the gun, so you did. I can understand that.
But unlike your friend, youre smart. You didnt know what you were
getting into, or youd have walked away. I work directly for Gyles
DFarrell. You know that name?
Sweet Morrow! Gastone involuntarily sucked in his breath. Gyles
DFarrell was the head of the Star Daggers, the biggest criminal
organization in the city. Nobody crossed them and livedand rumor
was that they were tied to one of the big syndicates in Five Fingers.
Anyone associated with them would be both extremely powerful and
extremely dangerous.
The big man took a step closer. Playtime is over now, and I want
my gun back. He aimed his pistol at Gastone. Now.
Whoa, whoa, said Gastone, holding his hands up as though to
slow the man. Then, snake-fast, Gastone drew one of his knives and
knocked the pistol aside with a desperate swipe. He then grabbed
the drainpipe of the building they were next to, pulled himself up,
and lashed out with both feet, slamming his boots into the gamblers
chest and knocking him off his feet. Before the man hit the pavement,
Gastone was running down the alley for all he was worth.
The gambler was up in an instant and running close behind.
Gastone heard the telltale click of the pistols firing pin and dove
under a half-empty cart loaded with building materials. The bullet
slammed into the back of the cart and cracked one of the wheels,
setting the whole cart at a precarious angle. He spotted the halfwindow of a basement in the adjoining wall. Just as the gambler
neared, Gastone kicked the damaged wheel out, bringing the
347
contents of the cart crashing down into the street. Still under the
cart, he squirmed his way over to the window, wrested it open, and
threw himself into the darkness. He landed with a hard thunk on
the packed soil inside, rolled to his feet, and ran upstairs and out the
front.
Gastone slumped against the back chimney of a widowers mansion
in the Rose Quarter, his head swimming. Hed been running all day,
and more than anything he needed a minute to gather his thoughts
and figure out what the blazes to do next.
Start with the facts, he thought. Mentally, he ticked them off on his
fingers. The Khadorans wanted him dead. The City Guard wanted
him in prison or dead. His old neighbors almost certainly already
thought of him as dead. A gambler with ties to the Star Daggers
wanted his gun, which he would then use to make him dead. Fitch
was nowhere to be found, probably because hed sold Gastone out
and was laughing into his ale somewhere, not at all dead.
This wasnt helping. Maybe if he focused on one part of the
problem and went from there hed make better progress. For instance,
where could he go now? He couldnt stay up on this roof forever.
All his usual neighborhoods were out. The market area was too
dangerous, as was di Fiscanis, the wagoners, and anywhere even
remotely near the City Guard office or anywhere else in the inner
city. The Rats Warren? He shook his head. The soldiers might not
find him there, but the Star Daggers certainly would. There wasnt
anywhere in the city he could hide from the Khadorans, the City
Guard, the street folk, and the criminal gangs.
He found himself wishing Fitch were here, despite everything. He
pulled the silk purse from his coat pocket, found the red gem hed
given the kid, and held it up between his fingers. So much for luck, he
348
thought. He had no money, no home, no friends. No future.

You could get the hell out of this dung heap of a town, Fitch had
said. He was right. Gastone had to leave Merywyn. He let his head
fall back against the chimney and stared out at the setting sun. Hed
never felt so alone.
What the red-haired woman had said echoed in his mind. You
cant survive in a place like this alone. At least with the Resistance youd
have some protection.
He swallowed. That was it. The Resistance was his way out.
Theyd said they could protect him. Theyd said they could turn him
into a warcaster. He didnt like the idea of re-establishing the broken
Llaelese government, but at least they could give him some skills,
some options.
The other thing the woman had said came to him in a rush: You
know the old Singing Starling building, near Crystal Park? Six days
from now, an hour after dusk. Be there, or she leaves without you. Today
was the day. He sat bolt upright, glancing again at the sunset. An
hour after dusk.
The next minute Gastone was climbing quickly down the side
trellis, his mind racing to map out a route that would give him even
a ghost of a chance to get to the park in time, even as he pushed away
a deep sadness at the thought of leaving Merywyn.
This was his last chance. If he didnt make it, he was a dead man.
But there was one thing he had to do first.
Gastone slipped through the churchyard gate with hardly a
sound, shoulders hunched and hood pulled up. He adjusted
the scarf obscuring his face. He couldnt afford to get caught at
all, of course, but the thought of it happening here of all places
made his stomach churn.
349
The field grass was still in winter sleep, but here and there he saw
pale clusters of snowflowers, always among the earliest of the spring
blossoms. He picked a cluster and carried it with him as he quickly
made his way past row after row of small markers to the place he
knew best in the entire city.
Near the edge of the field, under the canopy of a small umbrella
pine, he knelt at his mothers grave in the gathering gloom. Setting
aside the snowflowers, he brushed stray leaves from the Morrowan
symbol on the simple stone marker and traced the letters with a
finger: CROSSE. Below were the words Evelynn Beatryce, Beloved
Mother, born 572 AR, died 600 AR and the verse hed been
allowed to choose from one of her favorite songs:
Wherever there is goodness you are,
Strength and love unending
Gastone felt desperation and sorrow rush to the surface of his
awareness and blinked away tears. How could he do this? He closed
his eyes, letting his hand fall from the gravestone, trying with all his
heart to remember her. Hed realized years ago he could no longer
recall her face clearly, but now he could almost feel a hand gently
stroking his head, hear her comforting him as he had when he was
small.
Mama, Im sorry! he cried in his head. I didnt mean to hurt anybody.
Oh, sweet boy. We hardly ever do. But there is no going back, is
there?
No going back. The thought cut him to the core.
We can only keep moving. Do better, from this moment. Every
moment.
He swallowed. I have to leave you, he said.
I will be here, my sweet. Im always here.
He choked back a sob, taken back to the only time that hadnt
been true. Shed already been sick for two weeks when he was arrested
350
as a troublemaker and taken to a steam engine assembly plant. There

he was to work and sleep and eat for his sentence, earning out his
crimes to society, as the constable had put it. The first few days were
the worst, before he knew the rules and how to get around them. No,
worst was the children even younger than him who had already lost
any hope of seeing their homes or families againif they even had
any. But he had his mother, and though they lived in what amounted
to hardly more than a dingy room in the lower quarters, she made it a
home, and he was going to have a baby brother or sister soon, she said.
Once the supervisors realized he could climb around inside
machines like a gobber, they set him to making small repairs and
helping maintain the factory machines. He accepted the new
responsibilities with enthusiasm. Not only did tinkering give him
a break from more tedious duties, it also calmed him, gave him a
way to solve problems. Working in the machines also gave him the
chance to see much more of the building and its security. It didnt
take him long to come up with an escape plan, and within a couple
of weeks he was making his way back home.
When he burst into their small apartments, he was startled to see
the landlord sweeping out the empty rooms. Gastone had demanded
to know where his mother was and what had happened to their
things.
Dead a week, the older man had said. Folks had looked for him,
thought hed run off. Hed had to sell their few belongings for costs
so at least she wouldnt go to Paupers Field.
Gastones head had spun. Just like that, his whole world was gone.
No mother, no brother or sister, no home. It wasnt my fault, hed
said. Hed gotten out as soon as he could.
The man had shrugged. He should talk to the priests at the
Church of the First Ascension to see his mama. If he was lucky,
theyd have a bed for him there, too.
351
The priests had let him stay for a few days, but then theyd said he
had to move on. Hed come to the grave then, to promise her hed
always come back, no matter what.
Gastone wiped his face on his sleeve, then reached into his coat
pocket and pulled out the piece of lace Tante had given him what
seemed like years ago. Shed said he should give it to someone special.
He kissed it and tied it into a bow around the stems of the delicate
snowflowers hed picked and laid the tiny bouquet at the base of the
gravestone.
Ill do better, Mama, he whispered. I promise.
He rose from the grave, the evening breeze on his wet cheeks like
the faintest caress.
Gastone ran when he could, but much of the way across the city
he was forced to keep to small, meandering streets and alleys. Twice
he had to change course to avoid a patrolboth the Khadorans
and the City Guard were clearly out in force, hunting himand
several times he had to cut through areas hed normally consider too
dangerous to risk, neighborhoods where he was known or could
easily be spotted. Several times he felt the skin-prickling sensation
of someone watching him, but he couldnt afford to duck away and
wait them out.
He was nearing the park, his side and legs aching from the
exertion, when he spotted a Khadoran patrol making a circuit around
it. Panic rose in his throat as he shimmied up a tree. Damn it! What
if the Resistance recruiters had to change their plan because of those
stinking northern pigs? Worse, what if theyd already been captured
and the patrol was looking for stragglers?
His heart pounded as he watched the soldiers, not so much from
fear of discovery as from dread of what their presence might mean.
352
When theyd rounded the bend on the far side and the sound of their
footsteps had faded, he felt his body go limp from relief. His fingers
ached, and he saw they were white on the handle of his quad-iron.
He didnt even remember drawing it.
Gastone holstered the gun, then dropped to the ground and
continued to the park at a slightly slower run. The Singing Starling,
shed said. Thamars teeth, why does it have to be on the other side? His
whole body ached. Ignoring the pain, he picked up his pace and
sprinted across the park.
He was panting when he cleared the rise in front of the large
building that had housed one of Merywyns scandal rags. Theyre still
here. They have to be here. The building looked empty. Keeping an eye
out for guardsmen, he raced to the entrance.
A heavy chain secured the doors, with a lock that had rusted shut
long ago. Damn! The paper had been abandoned for years, and hed
expected to find the building easy to access, though likely picked
clean of anything useful. He thought briefly of shooting the lock
off the chain, but he still felt the cold in his veins from watching the
Khadorans pass by so close to his hiding place. Gunfire would surely
bring them running. Gastone glanced around and, seeing no sign
of anyone watching him, quickly moved around to the side of the
building.
There has to be another way in. They have to still be here!
He found what he was looking for: a small side door, with no lock.
He opened it slightly, holding his breath at the creak of old hinges,
and peered into the room. He saw only rows of large metal racks,
thick with dust and stacked with moldering paper. Some of them
had been moved over the years and leaned at precarious angles, but
Gastone should still be able to manage his way through. He slipped
inside and closed the door, then listened for other people. When he
heard nothing he made his way through the maze of racks, willing
353
his eyes to adjust to the dimness. On the other side of the room there
was another door, this one ajar. He paused in the doorway, straining
again for any sound that would mean the Resistance members were
here.
Nothing.
Gastone stepped through the door and stopped in his tracks. The
room opened to two stories here, to accommodate the machinery
necessary to produce the newspaper, and an old steam engine loomed
over him. A large smoke exhaust vent ran from it to the near wall,
then along the top of the wall for several paces before disappearing
into the ceiling and presumably up to the roof. He moved around
the room, picking up and setting down bits of machinery and debris.
He felt suddenly directionless. Was he too late? Had their plans
changed? Had they ever even been here?
On the far side of the large room, past the steam engine, stood
three cylinder presses. Beyond was a bank of heavy tables, with more
tables positioned near the machine itself. Gastone peered across the
dim room to try to make out what it was he could see sitting on one
of the far tables. Maybe the Resistance had left something for him,
something telling him how to find them. He walked over and found
only a gas lantern. Feeling his throat begin to constrict in panic, he
scoured the other tables.
In five minutes he had a small collection of items that indicated
the place had indeed been used for clandestine meetings of some
sortthe cracked lantern, some scraps of paper and the stub of a
pencil, and a stack of pamphlet sheets recruiting for the Resistance
but no communication from anyone. He lit the lantern and sank to
a crate that had been pulled up to the table. What would he do now?
Feeling anxious, Gastone began pacing the room. As he passed
the steam engine he paused for a better look. It wasnt new by any
stretch of the imagination, but it seemed in reasonable condition.
354
Did it actually run? The Resistance had printed pamphlets here at

some point, obviously, but the machine didnt look like it had been
used recently. Spotting a wrench and a small pile of parts near the
belts that ran to the printing presses, he felt a rush of adrenaline as
he realized that this could be the way for him to call the Resistance
recruiter back; if he could get the great engine running, the smoke
would alert her that hed come after all, and she might come back for
him. He picked up the wrench and a smile crept onto his face. He
always thought better with tools in his hands.
Ten minutes later he emerged from under the great machine, the
wrench in his hand and a smudge of grease across his cheek. Hed
checked things over and reworked a dicey bodge job, and he was
feeling just a bit pleased with himself. Underneath that, the abyss still
yawned, but for the moment he was able to deny it.
Gastone stared at the startup switch, hesitant to flip the lever even
though he had no other plan. Steeling his nerves, he set aside his
tools and went to the coal bin in the back of the building. A layer of
coal lined the bin, and his heart jumped. If theres coal, maybe theres
water, too.
He found casks of water in a nearby storage room and filled the
boiler. He stocked the coal and lit kindling for the fire from the
lantern. All the time in the back of his mind he heard a steady refrain
of doubtdoubt that hed done the repairs properly, doubt that the
machine would run, doubt that he should start it or even be here.
But his own systems had shut down, and hed lost his direction in
the unfamiliar alleyways of despair. He could only focus on the next
step, and the next, toward the expected and purposeful outcome. As
he waited for the machine to build up steamif it was going tohe
turned the wrench over and over in his hands.
After a moment, a noise caught Gastones attention. The squeak
of the side door? He turned quickly and once again found himself
355
facing the gambler. The broad-shouldered man was only a few paces
away, with his ornate pistol pointed right at Gastone. In his other
hand he held a hooded lantern.
Youre a slippery little eel, Ill give you that, the gambler said.
Ill have Gypsy Kiss back from you, one way or another. He nodded
toward his pistol as if unsure Gastone understood the threat.
Instinctively, Gastone twisted around as he swung out with the
wrench and dove behind the table hed found it on. The wrench
smashed into the pistol just as the gambler pulled the trigger, and
the bullet went wide. It hit one of the pipes of the unmoving steam
engine and ricocheted to take out one of the few remaining brackets
that held the exhaust vent in place. With the painful screech of
metal on metal, the exhaust vent sagged from the ceiling and broke,
crashing to the ground in a tremendous cloud of dust and soot.
He heard the gambler shout a curse between his own coughs, and
his mind raced. Moving quickly to take advantage of the dust cloud,
he felt his way along the engine to find the startup switch. He flipped
it and ran for one of the presses, where he hunkered down behind
cover.
Gastone yanked out his quad-ironGypsy Kiss?snapped it
open, and quickly loaded it with four of the large cartridges he kept
in his pocket. He wouldnt use it against the gambler directly, he
told himself, trying not to think of the twisted husks it had left of its
former victims. But he could still distract the man with it and maybe
even convince him he was willing to kill to keep it. He snapped the
gun closed and inched to the corner of the press for a quick peek
out. The vent segment had fallen directly in front of the rack room,
blocking the door. The cloud of soot was settling, but thin smoke
spilled from the broken vent in the ceiling.
He ducked back and waited, listening, gun at the ready. There!
Faint, slow footsteps. He braced himself and leapt out from behind
356
the cover of the press, aiming back toward the door to the rack room
as he did. The gambler ducked behind a large cabinet to the side.
There was a creaking behind Gastone, and he turned to glance at
the gauge on the steam engine. Sure enough, it was rising steadily,
and the machine was beginning to awaken. He saw the muzzle of the
gamblers pistol at the edge of the cabinet and darted back toward the
presses. Instead of staying behind the cover of the first one, though,
he bent down behind it and continued to the far end of it, thinking
to make a dash for the back of the huge room. With the door to the
rack room blocked, the only way out was through the front. If he
could get out of the gamblers sightline, once the machine was going
he could use its clamor to cover his footsteps, and he might be able
to make it to the main doors and shoot his way through before the
man caught up to him.
Gastone Crosse! You know Im going to find you. You cant hide
forever! the gambler called out. He sounded like he was still behind
the cabinet. Gastone swallowed, his heart pounding, and ran for the
second press, keeping low. Gypsy Kiss is mine, and you know it.
You dont even know how to use it. Come on, son, just slide it out
and maybe youll get out of this alive.
More likely youll murder me with it, Gastone thought grimly. That
was no way out. He peered above the press and saw the man moving
toward him.
The gambler fired, hitting the printing cylinder right next to
Gastones head. Gastone ducked back down fastand a good thing,
too. He was going to have to fire the quad-iron. He darted for the
third press, turning and firing at the first press as he did. The gambler
dove away from the shot but returned fire from behind the press.
Damn it, boy! Im going to kill you! The gambler could barely
be heard above the clamor of the steam engine and the presses, but
Gastone caught enough. His pulse pounded in his temples, and he
357
could feel sweat beading on his forehead. Someone was going to die
here.
Gastone could see his path through the haze to the other side of
the steam engine, which continued to power the belts to the presses.
He glanced back toward the gamblers position but couldnt see him.
He took a deep breath and burst into the open, quad-iron raised. A
bullet zipped toward him, but he dove to the floor behind the steam
engine and it buried itself in the wall. He heard the sound of fast,
heavy footsteps and rolled to his feet to sprint toward the front of the
building.
He heard the gambler fire again as he came abreast the rack room,
and he threw himself into a roll. He felt the bullet pass over him as if
in slow motion, and when he came to his feet he saw why: the runes
on his damn quad-iron were beginning to glow, just as they had
before the last time everything seemed to slow down for him. His
finger ached for the trigger.
The gambler slid to a stop halfway across the room. He kept his
pistol pointed at Gastone, but his eyes were on Gastones gun and his
face had gone white.
Come on, now, the gambler said in a shaky voice. You dont
want all the trouble a weapon like Gypsy Kiss brings down on you.
Ive got connectionsthe Star Daggers keep a lot away. But youre
all alone. Whos watching your back, son?
Images flashed through Gastones mind, each on top of the other:
Enzo with his hand outstretched, then lying shriveled in the street;
Fitchs shape running from the wagon with the gold boat goods;
the red-haired woman warning him against dying in the streets;
snowflowers on his mothers grave. Anger welled up inside him; yes,
he was alone, and why? Because hed been born in the wrong place,
at the wrong time? He needed to be harder to survive this city.
The gambler took a step back, staring at him in horror, and tried
358
another angle. You dont want another death on your head, Gastone.
Things can still turn around! You want to be part of something?
Come with me. Well go to the Star Daggers together. Theres always
a place for someone with your skills. It will be like starting over.
Gastone didnt hear a word of it. I should just shoot him, he
thought. Why am I trying so hard not to kill him, when Enzo had to
die? When Mama did? Hes killed with this gun. I saw him do it. He
deserves whatever he gets.
He wanted so much to pull the trigger, just to end all this. He
could work out all the other problems, but first he had to get out of
this, and he had to get the gambler off his trail. What choice did he
have? He was already a murderer. He might as well accept it.
His body shook with the effort of not giving in. He had to believe
there was another way.
A shrouded figure hurried toward the building that housed the old
printing press, moving as fast as possible while remaining stealthy.
This was no time to attract the attention of some well-meaning
townsman or overzealous guardsman. She could definitely see smoke
venting from the building, though it looked thin. Gastone had to be
there.
Ashlynn had waited here with her retinue as long as she possibly
could, but finally shed had to admit the boy wasnt coming. Until
that moment shed held out hope he would see the right of it despite
his misplaced anger.
Her group had almost reached the mostly forgotten side gate out
of Merywyn when one of her lieutenants told her of a runner with
the purple of Llael tied to his belt as a signal. It turned out to be one
of her people from Merywyn, coming to tell her what had transpired
in the streets earlier. The Captain of the Guard dead, and one of the
359
Khadoran officers. The Guard and the northerners both turned out
to search for the killer: the young man shed been recruiting. But
the eyes shed set to watch him had done their job, and they knew
where he wasor at least, where hed been heading not long ago.
Shed looked in the direction of the old newspaper building and had
thought shed seen smoke rising into the sky. Gastone.
As she slipped through the side door to the building and made her
way through the large metal racks, Ashlynn could sense arcane power
being gathered in the main room. She hurried to the connecting door
only to find it blocked; the exhaust vent had fallen on the other side.
She tried to move it, all too aware of the growing power, but it was
far too heavy. Not for the first time, she wished she had her warcaster
armor, but it was far too dangerous to be seen in town with it, and
shed left it at the camp. Above the loud chugging of the running
steam engine in the other room she could hear a mans voicenot
the boys, but someone elses. She pulled a stool over to the door and
climbed on it to peer through a small opening near the top.
The first thing she saw was Gastone, bracing a huge quad-iron
against one thigh as he stood in a perfect stance to do serious harm
to whoever was at the other end of the room. Runes on the guns
oversized barrel glowed brightly, and her stomach twisted. What had
the boy gotten himself into? She couldnt see enough of the main
room to get a look at his target, but that quad-iron was clearly some
sort of special mechanikal weapon, and it was drawing far too much
power. This was bad.
Gastones face was pale, his jaw clenched. His right hand
supported the huge barrel of the gun, and his other gripped the
handle so tightly his fingers were white. One finger twitched toward
the trigger, and Ashlynns heart nearly stopped. Her instincts told
her the runeplates in the gun were dangerously overcharged, and
she worried pulling the trigger might cause them to explode.
360
Gastone, no! she yelled. He froze, but his expression was

confused. Gastone, its me! I came back for you! He cast only a
quick glance her way, but recognition dawned in his eyes.
Through clenched teeth, he said, I dont want to kill him. Morrow
help me, I dont want to kill anyone! But the gun wants him... He
trailed off, confused by his own words.
From the other end of the room Ashlynn heard, The Star Daggers
are powerful in this city. They can help you get whatever you want.
She still couldnt see the speaker, no matter how she craned her neck.
Unless he came into view, she wouldnt be able to use her own arcane
powers against him.
First things first, though: that gun was going to explode if it drew
any more power. She had to get the boy to relax. Gastone, can
you hear me? He nodded, not taking his eyes from the other man.
Good. Now listen. That gun is mechanika. You know what that is?
He nodded again, frowning. Good. Its drawing too much power
from you. You need to calm down. Dont worry about anything
except this moment. Breathe. She could see him force a deep breath
into his body, hold it, and exhale slowly. So he can follow directions,
she thought, keeping a close eye on the glowing runes.
The other man continued, Think about it, son. Whatever you
want. Gold is just the beginning.
I dont care about gold anymore, Gastone said, loudly enough
to carry across the room. He took another deep breath.
Ashlynn went on, Feel your connection to the gun. Youre linked
to it; its taking your emotions and your powers and amplifying
them. Picture your energy flowing from your chest out into your
hands and into the gun. He exhaled, and she glanced at the steam
engine. You and the gun are part of the same machine. You give it
power, cylinders turn, and it gives you that power back. From you
to it. From it to you. Its all one system. His jaw was relaxing, and
361
she thought the runes were fading. Thats good. Now, you need to
take control. Feel your own power. The gun is just a tool. Draw the
energy down through your body, through your feet, and into the
ground.
Come on, Gastone, she thought, watching him struggle. I cant help
you against someone I cant see! You have to do this yourself. Ashlynn
looked toward the steam engine. All she could do now was cast a
protective spell on him, but since doing that would reveal her
powerand thus her identityto Gastones opponent, she needed
to be careful with her timing.
You can do it, she thought. Dont give in. We need you.
Feel your own power, she said.
Hadnt that gotten him into this mess to begin with? Gastone felt
his heart starting to pound again and took another deep breath. He
had to do this. He had to try.
Picturing his energy flowing into the gun like shed told him, he
felt the panic begin to ebb. He could see it in his mind, the blue
line from his body to the gun, through the gun, and back to him.
He traced it, smoothed it, directed it down through his feet into the
ground. Something shifted within him. It was like a chain that had
come off its gears was feeding smoothly again. He felt a familiar calm
and a new clarity of mind. Glancing at the gun, he saw the complex
runes fading back to silver. A loud clatter at the other end of the
room got his attention, and he saw the gambler had overturned a
rack and was hunkered behind it, likely reloading.
Gastone looked to the Resistance recruiter and saw something
like approval in her face.
She said, Now its just a gun. A very big, very powerful gunbut
just a gun. The gambler edged his pistol around the corner of the
362
rack and fired, but his aim was well off and the bullet hit a valve on
the steam engine instead.
Damn it! Gastone yelled, running to position himself behind
the front of the machine, out of the gamblers field of vision.
Gastone, return fire! the recruiter called. That approving look
was gone. He shook his head, feeling his pulse beginning to pound
again. This is no time for wallowing. Youve got to trust medefend
yourself or hell gun you down! He took a deep breath and nodded,
and her expression relaxed a little. Now concentrate. Take all your
desire to shoot him, and sharpen it to a knifes point. See yourself
hitting your target unfailingly. Push that into the gun as you fire.
Will the gun to work for you.
Gastone took another breath and did as she instructed as he
aimed the quad-iron. When he pulled the trigger, he hardly felt
it. They were one. He heard the loud report, and his bullet blasted
the gamblers hiding place apart, brushing right by the mans head.
Gastone smiled grimly as the gambler scrambled backward on all
fours and then raced toward the relative safety of the presses.
Now well see how you like being hunted, you goddamned bastard!
he thought as he strode forward to track the man down. He was in
control now, not the gambler, and not the gun. He felt exuberant.
Gastone, you idiot, get out! the woman yelled. Suddenly he
realized the pounding in his head was actually coming from the
shaking of the great steam engine. One of the belts that ran from it to
a press on the other side snapped, and the shaking grew more violent.
A slow, high-pitched whine began to grow, and Gastone realized she
was yelling at him again. Its going to blow! Move, now! was all he
made out.
He glanced at the back steam gauge and watched it climb. Deep
into the red, it was inching up to its limit. Would he have long
enough? He wasnt sure the old machine could take much more
363
pressure. No, the gambler was headed up front and would have a
bead on him too easily, even in the thickening smoke. He looked
back to the recruiter, saluted, and flat-out rantoward the back
wall, not the front door. He saw the glow of runes encircling him
and felt a tingle across his body, and then his feet were moving under
him like steam-powered wheels, giving him a burst of speed.
Holding the quad-iron in front of him like a banner, Gastone dove
into the coal bin at the back of the building and began squirming his
way up and out. Just as he felt fresh air on his face, behind him the
world exploded into steam and screaming metal.
The Marshal of the Resistance was silent until they were well away
from the building and out of dangeror as close to it as he was
ever likely to be again. Finally, she ducked into yet another alley and
rapped on a garden door he wouldve walked right past. A panel in
the door slid back and she exchanged words with the person on the
other side, and then the door opened wide enough for her to slip
through. Gastone followed close on her heels, only to walk straight
into a sinkingly familiar wall of flesh.
Marshal? the man-wall said, one hand on the knife at his belt.
Yes, Gyfford, hes with me, she said, sounding weary.
Gyfford? A day ago, Gastone would have smirked. Today, he could
barely comprehend that the huge man had a name more typically
associated with adored, chubby-cheeked sons of nobility than with
rebels. Gyfford stepped aside, though Gastone could feel the mans
eyes follow him.
In here, Ashlynn said over her shoulder as she opened a side
door to the house. The building was dark, but she moved easily
through the rooms and disappeared down a dimly lit staircase.
Gastone followed; she obviously knew this place well.
364
The stairs led to the servants floor, emptying into a cramped

hallway with numerous rooms off it. In several he saw people
examining papers, discussing plans, or busy at other tasks. Ashlynn
called for hot tea and food for the two of them and strode down
one of the smaller hallways; though the thought of food turned his
stomach, he hurried to catch up to her. After a moment she came to
a small side room, where she pointed to a hardback chair at a table.
Gastone sat.
Ashlynn hung her cloak on a peg and turned to face him. Was
that your idea of taking care of yourself? she asked. He didnt see any
trace of humor in her face. Her eyes were like fire.
I I dont know how it all came to this, Gastone said.
Well, youre the only one, then, she said sharply. So what now?
What does the great Gastone Crosse have planned for his future?
He shrugged, miserable. I thought you could Could you help
me?
Ashlynn arched an eyebrow at him. Gastone looked at the table,
and she began to pace. She said, I did intend to help you, when we
first met. But things are different now, as Im sure you can appreciate.
There was a rap at the door, and Ashlynn opened it to admit the
red-haired woman hed seen in the market, the one whod told him
where to go if he changed his mind. She was carrying a tray with two
bowls of fragrant pea soup and a loaf of bread. The woman set the
tray on the table, and Ashlynn said, Shona, join us. Id like to hear
your opinion on the situation, as a lieutenant here in Merywyn.
Gastone was stunned. The red-haired woman was a key Resistance
member in the city, a lieutenant? With a jolt, he realized hed never
asked her name, never even wondered what it was, though theyd
crossed paths several times. He really was a self-centered idiot at
timesand now it would cost him.
Ashlynn gave him a level look, and this time he met her eyes. As
365
of this afternoon, you are a very large security risk for the Resistance.
The Khadorans and the City Guard are hunting you down, of course.
Why should I endanger my people for you?
Gastone swallowed. Theres a lot I could do. Just point me at a
Khadoran target, and Ill destroy it. Im good, Im quick, and I always
land on my feet. And you must be able to use another warcaster. You
said you could train me.
Ashlynn shook her head and looked at Shona. Your assessment?
Its true he has the skills to be an asset, she answered. But
whether he could be part of the Resistance is something else.
Gastone started to object, but she looked at him and began to
tick points off on her fingers. Youre reckless, bordering on stupid.
Youre stubborn and inexperienced, a dangerous combination. The
way youve sought out fame shows a certain self-centered vanity.
Youre proud, or you would have accepted my offer the first time and
this whole mess might have been avoided. Youre hardly what anyone
would call a team player. Not to mention and here her eyes flared
with anger you just blew up our printing press. That took six
months to make operational!
Gastone shrank into himself with every sentence. There was no
denying any of it. Ashlynn was going to abandon him, just like
everyone else had ever done. She was going to leave him to the Guard
and the Khadorans. Hed be dead within a monthif he could last
that long.
I can do better, he said, barely above a whisper. He straightened
in his chair and looked first at Shona, then at Ashlynn. I want to do
better. He was almost surprised to realize he meant it.
Shona and Ashlynn shared a look, and then Shona sat back in her
chair, her expression inscrutable.
Ashlynn said, All right, then.
What? He was confused.
366
The Resistance will take you in, keep you away from the
Khadorans and the City Guard, protect you from the Star Daggers
if others come after you, and train you as one of our own. But there
are conditions.
Relief washed over him as she spoke, but he kept his head enough
to stay guarded. He wasnt out of the river yet. What conditions?
You will be a true part of the Resistance and work with us
to reclaim Llael. You must agree to stay with the Resistance for a
minimum of two years, Ashlynn said. During this time youll take
training assignments as I see fit, period.
Gastone nodded slowly. As much as he didnt like the idea of
being under anyones control, he knew Ashlynn was his only chance
to learn how to use and expand his abilities. He could stomach
working for the Resistance for a couple of years in exchange for that
trainingand the chance to continue breathing.
He pulled Gypsy Kiss from its holster on his leg and set it on the
table. Youll want this. Even as he said it he began to feel sick.
Ashlynn looked at the gun for a moment. Then she said, You
know now thats a powerful piece of mechanika. As a warcaster,
you can connect to it in a special waythat abilitys related to our
control over warjacks, as youll learn. But I can sense youre bound to
that gun now, more than is natural. I cant just take it from you, so its
vital you learn how to control it. Ill teach you that, too.
Gastone realized hed been holding his breath and let it out slowly.
It wont be easy. Training is difficult, and our fight is relentless.
Ashlynn walked over to the table and set something down next to
the gun. Gastone stared at the familiar bit of crumpled white lace
tied into a bow. She said softly, Youll need her with you. Im afraid
you can never return to Merywyn while Llael is in Khadoran hands.
His stomach clenched. Even with every guardsman and soldier in
the city looking for him, it hadnt occurred to him he might not be
367
able to come backmaybe not ever. This was his home, or as much
of one as hed ever known. Everything hed ever loved was tied to this
city. In his mind, he crested the rise over the docks, feeling the wind
caress his face. He saw Tante di Fiscanis expression as she handed
him the lace. He felt his mothers hand on his head as he knelt at her
grave.
Do better, then, shed always said.
He nodded again, reluctantly. As Ashlynn well knew, he really
had no choice.
The group of Resistance members, disguised as farmers, paused
in the trees on the way to the crumbling side gate at the southeast
corner of Merywyn to split into smaller groups for the journey to
Rhydden. Gastone stayed near Ashlynn as instructed, though she
paid him little attention. Probably for the best, he thought, avoiding
looking at the other travellers. He was throwing his lot in with the
Resistance for practical reasons, but that didnt mean he had to make
friends with them.
Wait here, Ashlynn said and moved a few paces away to consult
with one of her lieutenants. He nodded but felt no need to speak.
Walking to where the trees began to thin out, Gastone looked
down upon Merywyn. He could see scattered lamplight, with
the pinpricks of light most numerous toward the wealthier inner
city. A transport train crawled toward the center of the Khadoran
headquarters, where the lights were frequent and regularly spaced.
Seems like more of the bastards arrive every day, he thought. His eye fell
upon the simple tower of the City Guard, and he felt a hard lump
form in his throat.
Enzo, my friend, this isnt the way I thought it would be, he thought.
Im so sorry. With the captain gone, who would look out for Merywyn
368
now? His heart was heavy, and he was keenly aware of the quad-iron
holstered against his leg.
The lights became sparser out toward the poorer districts, beyond
the beauty walls that hid their squalor from the well-to-do. Gastone
couldnt help but wonder if Fitch was there, somewhere. He found
himself hoping the boy was okay despite himself.
Its time, Ashlynn said from behind him. He nodded, drinking
in the sight of his home under the clouded night sky.
Its not for good, he thought. Ill be back someday. I promise.
Without a word, Gastone turned his back on Merywyn and
joined his Resistance fellows, and the small group moved furtively
toward the gate out of the city.
369
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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. This is her first novella. 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 dont include rules on the box lid, turning normal
conversations into mock operettas, or creating reference charts of
monster abilities.
GLOSSARY
jack-hauling: A form of punishment whereby a person is chained to
a warjack and dragged off their feet, possibly for an extended distance.
More extreme variants of this punishment can be used as a means
of execution, including chaining a condemned criminal to multiple
warjacks sent in different directions so the condemned is torn limb
from limb. Another technique involves chaining the condemned
directly to the steam engine, where its heat will scald flesh.
jack marshal: A person who has learned how to give precise verbal
orders to a steamjack to direct it in labor or battle, sometimes called
marshaling. This is a highly useful occupational skill, although it
lacks the versatility or finesse afforded by the direct mental control of
steamjacks exercised by a warcaster.
jack: See steamjack.
Ad-Raza, Amon: A Protectorate warcaster of Idrian descent, Amon
Ad-Raza is a high allegiant within the Order of the Fist.
arc node: A warjack-mounted device capable of serving as a conduit
for the magic of its controlling warcaster, considerably extending
his range and potentially allowing spells to be directed at targets he
cannot personally see. The warjack with the arc node must be close
enough for the warcaster to control it in order to function.
GLOSSARY
arcana: Term most often used to refer to lore or knowledge regarding

systematic magic which utilizes arcane formulae.
arcane turbine: A highly efficient and advanced coal-fueled generator
that transforms energy produced by a steam engine into arcane energy.
Arcane turbines used in warcaster armor are designed to tap into and
transform a warcasters latent magical power into a protective field.
An operational turbine also partially mitigates the weight of warcaster
armor and may add to the strength of arms or legs.
arcanika: Serving a similar role as human and Rhulic mechanika,
arcanika is an Iosan arcane science that relies on manipulating and
storing arcane energy from the environment and then transforming
it into useful work. Arcanikal power plants do not require a fuel such
as coal, and their energy reservoirs will naturally replenish over time.
arcanist: A trained arcane practitioner who manifests magic through
force of will and the precise use of arcane formulae.
Aspis: An Iosan light myrmidon equipped with complex arcanikal
devices in place of hands and which can manipulate its own force field
to shield those near it.
Ayisla: Nis-Arsyr of night and Watcher of the Gates of Lyoss, one of
the eight Iosan gods referred to as the Divine Court. Now counted as
one of the Vanished.
battlegroup: A warcaster and the warjacks he controls.
Berck: The largest and wealthiest city in Ord, home port of the Ordic
Royal Navy and House Mateu.
372
GLOSSARY
Berserker: A Khadoran heavy warjack equipped with twin war

axes. The oldest Khadoran warjack still in service, Berserkers have a
reputation for instability and aggression due to the deteroriated state
of of their cortexes. They have been known to explode if pushed in
battle. Entered service in 430 AR.
black ogrun: A brutal and bloodthirsty offshoot of the massive and
powerful ogrun race. Considered barbaric even by the standards of
the Scharde Islands.
Black River: The longest river in western Immoren, connecting Rhul,
Llael, and Cygnar. Merywyn, Corvis, and Caspia-Sul rest on this
river, and it forms the eastern border of Cygnar, separating it from
the Bloodstone Marches.
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.
bombardier: A variety of Khadoran Man-O-War heavy infantry
trained in the use of a bombardier grenade cannon.
bond: Term used to refer to several types of mystical connections
between a warcaster and his mechanikal weapons or tools. Usually a
bond refers to the persistent mental connection between a warcaster
and a warjack in his battle group. A warcaster can be bonded to multiple
warjacks, but a warjack can only be bonded to a single warcaster at a
time. Mental commands and arcane energy are delivered to a warjack
across this bond, and the bond allows a warcaster to see through a
warjacks eyes and control its actions directly. Longstanding bonds
can permanently alter a warjacks personality, giving rise to unique
quirks drawn from or inspired by a warcaster.
373
GLOSSARY
bonejack: The general term for a Cryxian light warjack, notable for
being particularly swift and nimble.
Buccaneer: An Ordic light warjack that is designed to remain nimble
and sure-footed even while moving along heaving ship decks and is
typically armed with a net and gaff hook. Entered service in 584AR.
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.
candles: A colloquial and derogatory term sometimes used by
Cygnarans to refer to soldiers of the Protectorate of Menoth, based
on their proclivity for lighting things on fire.
Canon of the True Law: The oldest and most sacred of all Menite
texts and which outlines the spiritual and religious tenets of the faith.
Within the Protectorate of Menoth all law is at least tenuously rooted
in the the Canon of the True Law.
Caspia: The capital of Cygnar, the largest and most populous city in
western Immoren, and the only human city not to fall to the Orgoth.
Also called the City of Walls.
Cearlys Crossing: A shallow tributary of the Black River east of
Cygnar in the Bloodstone Marches.
Centurion: A Cygnaran heavy warjack equipped with a piston spear
and a mechanikally augmented shield and considered the most
durable of Cygnars warjacks.Entered service in 599 AR.
Ceryl: Cygnaran port city, home of the Fraternal Order of Wizardry
and the Cygnaran Navys Northern Fleet. Cygnars second largest city,
located in the northwest closest to Ord.
374
GLOSSARY
City of Man: Name of the afterlife by the Menites, being a vast

city in Urcaen where Menoth shelters all his faithful who have ever
lived on Caen. It is said to be surrounded by an enormous wall and
battlements that are periodically set upon by the Devourer Wurm and
that creatures bestial followers.
colossal: Massive predecessors to the modern steamjacks, these great
machines were originally constructed during the Rebellion against the
Orgoth. Recently several nations have begun to build new colossals to
add to their military arsenals. Modern colossals are smaller than the
ancient ones but draw upon centuries of advanced warjack development.
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.
Creator, the: See Menoth.
Crucible, the: A trial employed by the Retribution of Scyrah to test
the readiness of warcasters in training for field duty and the junior rank
of tyro. Each crucible is unique to the aspiring tyro and is designed
to test their adaptability and judgment. Generally a Crucible will
include a novice warcasters first exposure to live combat, the necessity
of life-o- death decisions, and potentially their first kill.
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.
375
GLOSSARY
Cryxlight: A yellow-green glow associated with the necrotic energies

utilized by the forces of Cryx; also known as balefire.
Cygnar: The kingdom on the western coast south of Ord and noted
for its long coastline. Cygnar is generally considered the most
prosperous and technologically advanced of the Iron Kingdoms and
is the birthplace and seat of the Church of Morrow.
Darius, Edward Dominic: A Cygnaran warcaster and arcane mechanik
who is among the nations foremost experts on the construction of
warjacks and related mechanika.
Daughters of the Flame: An insular order in the Protectorate of
Menoth that reports directly to Feora and operates as the covert strike
force of the military. Many of its core members count husbands,
parents, or siblings among the thousands of soldiers who have died in
defense of the Menite faith.
Deathripper: A bonejack, or Cryxian light warjack, built of black iron
and steel fused with the skulls and fangs of blighted beasts and armed
with powerful jaws. The bonejack has an arc node that enables it to serve
as a conduit for the spells of its controller. First reported in 502AR.
Defender: A formidable heavy Cygnaran warjack developed as a
modification of the older Ironclad chassis. Its signature weapon is an
intrinsic heavy barrel cannon offering unprecedented range and accuracy.
It is also equipped with a shock hammer for melee, a weapon that can
damage an enemy cortex through its armor. Entered service in 564 AR.
deliverers: One of the mainstay ranged units of the Protectorate of
Menoths military, deliverers are easily replaceable troops armed with
reinforced cylindrical tubes capable of launching Skyhammer rockets.
376
GLOSSARY
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 537AR.
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.
Divine Court: A pantheon composed of the eight gods of Ios, the
Divine Court once dwelled in Ios and was the highest authority in
that land, above the Consulate Court. The Divine Court was ruled
by Larcyr and also included Ossyris, Ayisla, Nyrro, Scyrah, Lurynsar,
Lyliss, and Nyssor, each god governing some aspect of the passage of
time as well as having other divine duties.
dominie: Title given to the seniormost instructors in the Retribution
of Scyrahs Third Chamber, those responsible for establishing and
overseeing training programs for novice and initiate assassins.
Dominie must be masters of the klyvenesh fighting arts. See also
Third Chamber.
Dorognia: One of the volozk, or major provinces, of Khador. A
productive region, Dorognia includes Rorschik, Volningrad, Lake
Volningrad, and the lands south of the lake to the border of Ord,
including the Gallowswood. Most of the regions inhabitants are
clustered around the great lake.
377
GLOSSARY
Dragons Tongue River: A river stretching from Corvis to the Bay

of Stone which separates Cygnar from Ord and is relied upon by a
number of river towns such as Point Bourne, Tarna, and Five Fingers.
Dragonfather/Dragon Lord: See Toruk, Lord.
Druzhina: Khadors most prestigious military academy, wherein
the most promising conscripts are forged into professional officers
versed in advanced tactics and battlefield command. Entrance to the
Druzhina is merit-based for most Khadoran citizens, though those
of sufficient noble standing or who are wealthy enough to pay a
substantial entrance fee are accepted automatically. The Druzhina is
located in Korsk.
Eiryss: A renowned Iosan mage hunter who spent many years as a
mercenary specializing in the elimination of enemy arcanists and
warcasters. She kept her affiliation with the Retribution of Scyrah
secret and used her mercenary work to gather information on the
human armies.
Exemplars/Knights Exemplar: A martial order created with a code of
absolute obedience to the Menite clergy. Scrutators rely on the Knights
Exemplar to help maintain doctrinal purity and root out potential
heretics. Most numerous in the Protectorate of Menoth. Since the
reign of Hierarch Ravonal, their numbers there increased dramatically
so they could serve as primary heavy infantry for the Protectorates
military. There are several branches of Knights Exemplar with distinct
armament, weapons, and roles in the Protectorate military.
Fane of Scyrah: The church of the Iosan goddess Scyrah, who is today
the primary goddess of the elven people. In theory the fane stands
above even the fifteen Hallytyr of the Consulate Court as the highest
authority of the Iosan government, although in practice this authority
is rarely wielded.
378
GLOSSARY
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 Dragons Tongue River in the Bay of Stone
where the river is split into five channels, or fingers, by the islands.
Five Great Military Houses: The Iosan Houses responsible for
commanding the military of Ios, each with its own formidable
army and in control of a significant fortress. This includes Houses
Ellowuyr, Issyen, Nyarr, Rhyslyrr, and Silowuyr. These five houses are
also members of the Hallytyr. See Hallytyr.
Flameguard: A Menite martial order traditionally charged with the
defense of temples and holy sites. Armed with spears and protected
by shields and plated armor, members of the Temple Flameguard
have become the standard frontline infantry for the armies of the
Protectorate of Menoth.
focus: The effort applied by a warcaster to guide or augment a
warjacks attacks. Sometimes this is an act of mental concentration
to personally guide the warjacks weapons; other times it is siimply
channeled arcane energy sent into the warjack.
Fort Falk: One of the largest of Cygnars eastern border fortresses and
a major training facility for both trenchers and Storm Knights serving
the Cygnaran Army. It is situated on the west bank of the Black River
south of Corvis.
Fraternal Order of Wizardry: The foremost civilian arcane order in
western Immoren, notable for its occult research and the production
of steamjack cortexes. Most of its wealth and power derive from
cortex production, both for commercial industry and to serve military
contracts in Ord and Cygnar as well as formerly in Llael.
379
GLOSSARY
Gift, the: The sudden emergence of arcane power as a human science

divorced from the divine, essential to the ancestors of the Iron
Kingdoms in ultimately defeating their Orgoth oppressors. Often
referred to as the Gift of Magic, the Gift of Sorcery, or Thamars Gift.
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.
Gorgon: A light myrmidon created by House Shyeel in Ios. Armed with
forearm-mounted blades and a field-dependent polarity cannon, the
Gorgon is capable of manipulating kinetic energy to lock foes in place.
Gorzytska: The second-most mountainous volozk in Khador,
Gorzytska includes the Thundercliff Peaks up to the border of Rhul.
Although the western mountains are slowly being conquered by hardy
Skirov mining towns and settlements, much of the area remains
impassable.
Gravediggers: Informal term used to refer to Cygnars trencher
infantry, so-called because they may die in the very trenches they
have dug as improvised fortifications. Trenchers take pride in this
designation, as it represents willingness to give their lives in battle.
great prince: The rulers of large Khadoran regions known as a
volozkya, the great princes are that nations highest ranking nobels
behind only the great vizier and the empress herself. Each great prince
is considered a minor sovereign by law and ancient tradition, although
they are still beholden to the ruler of Khador.
380
GLOSSARY
great vizier: A singular high-ranking government official in Khador,

being the foremost advisor to the crown. As the great vizier speaks for
the sovereign, he is usually the second-most powerful individual in
the nation. The current great vizier is Simon Blaustavya.
Greylords: Members of the Greylords Covenant, an organization of
Khadoran arcanists serving their kingdom both in the military and
by coordinating some intelligence-gathering activity. Greylords are
versed in ice-based magic.
Griffon: An Iosan light myrmidon built by House Shyeel and armed
with a halberd and shield. The Griffon is capable of moving swiftly and
unhindered by difficult terrain since its force field can reduce its weight.
gun mage: An arcanist capable of channeling arcane energy into rune
shots fired from magelock pistols.
hallytyr: Litterly high house, one of the fifteen ruling families that
together govern Ios, together with representatives from hundreds of
lesser houses, over whom they have authority. The Five Great Military
Houses are a subset of the hallytyr, being those responsible for
controlling the Iosan military.
Harbinger of Menoth: Regarded among Sul-Menites as a direct
conduit to the will of Menoth himself, the Harbinger of Menoth
serves as the spiritual advisor to the heirarch of the Protectorate. The
appearance of the Harbinger in 603AR is regarded among Menites as
the most significant religious event since the discovery of the Canon
of the True Law.
helljack: The general term for a Cryxian heavy warjack, which
arguably demonstrates greater autonomy than a regular warjack and
is inherently violent.
381
GLOSSARY
Homeguard Coalition: The sizable fixed army of Ios tasked with

defending that nations 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.
hooaga: A plant that is dried and smoked in tightly rolled bundles.
Introduced by its gobber originators to trollkin and humans, hooaga
cigars are now commonly found throughout the Iron Kingdoms.
House Shyeel: Although not technically a military house, House
Shyeel is the foremost producer of Iosan myrmidons and has a virtual
monopoly on the most advanced myrmidon arcanika. The house
has been a secret supporter of the Retribution of Scyrah for many
years but has recently declared its support publically. In addition
to supplying myrmidons, Shyeel has dispatched many arcanists and
several warcasters to serve the Retribution cause.
Idrian: Formerly nomadic tribesmen native to the Protectorate
interior and the fringes of the Bloodstone Marches. Most Idrians have
converted to the worship of Menoth and joined the Protectorate, but
some unconverted tribes remain.
Immoren: The continent containing the Iron Kingdoms, Ios, Rhul,
the Skorne Empire, and the lands between them. Much of Immoren
remains unexplored, and its inhabitants have had limited contact
with other continents.
interdiction: A subdivision of a crusading army of the Protectorate,
typically composed of units from a single martial order.
382
GLOSSARY
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 long, gradual decline and now faces an
imminent cosmological catastrophe.
Iron Kingdoms: Initially the four nations founded after the Orgoth
Rebellion: Cygnar, Khador, Llael, and Ord. The Protectorate of
Menoth, founded after the Cygnaran Civil War, became the fifth Iron
Kingdom after declaring its independence from Cygnar. Most of Llael
has since been conquered by Khador and the Protectorate.
Ironclad: The most common and recognizable heavy warjack in the
Cygnaran Army since entering service in 556 AR. The Ironclads
strength and utility have made it a mainstay of Cygnaran commanders
on every battlefield, and it is notable for employing a powerful quake
hammer in melee.
journeyman: An apprentice Cygnaran warcaster, generally a
lieutenant in the Cygnaran Army. All Cygnaran warcasters must serve
a journeyman tour under a senior warcaster before being promoted to
the rank of captain and recognized as a full warcaster.
Judicator: A colossal employed by the Protectorate of Menoth that is
armed with twin banks of shoulder-mounted rocket launchers as well
as dual chest-mounted flame throwers. Entered service in 608 AR.
Juggernaut: A staple Khadoran heavy warjack chassis, the basic frame
of which is utilized by the largest number of Khadors active warjacks.
It is armed with one open fist and an ice axe. The current design
entered service in 516AR.
kapitan: A military rank for a commissioned officer in the Khadoran
Army, ranking above lieutenant and below kovnik.
383
GLOSSARY
Katrena, Ascendant: The first ascendant of Morrow and the patron

of valor, knighthood, and nobility. Katrena died and ascended in
1810 BR after defending the third primarch, Orestus I, from an
attack by Menite assassins.
kayazy: Literally, merchant-princes. A significant social class in
Khador representing the leaders of the merchant class. Each kayaz
is a wealthy and influential leader of some aspect of industry and
commerce. The kayazy have gained a controlling interest over both
criminal and commercial industry in Khador and often employ
assassins as well as bratya street gangs.
keldeacon: A title given to the member of the Nine Voices of the
Retribution who is in charge of recruitment and training of Retribution
personnel. Most training takes place at the Syvash Stronghold, which
is the keldeacons domain. The present holder of this title is Synvas
Uithuyr, a warcaster and former mage hunter. Finding new warcasters
is one of his top priorities.
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.
klyvenesh: The striking serpent fighting style practiced by members
of the Third Chamber, assassins belonging to a secretive and ancient
cult dedicated to the goddess Lyliss and which now serve the
Retribution of Scyrah.
Kodiak: A sophisticated and versatile Khadoran warjack that employs
an advanced military-grade cortex and a heavy boiler engine to enable
it to negotiate difficult terrain. It is armed with a pair of armored
fists and can also vent deadly heated steam on those in its immediate
proximity. Entered service in 547 AR.
384
GLOSSARY
koldun lord: The third highest ranking within the Greylords Covenant,
subordinate only to obavniks and to the high obavnik arbiter.
kommandant: A military rank for a senior commissioned officer in
the Khadoran Army, ranking above kommandant and below supreme
kommandant. Loosely equivalent to generals in other kingdom armies.
Kossites: One of the major ethnicities of Khador, the descendants of
the ancient kingdom of Kos. They are the majority population of the
Kos volozkya but are also found throughout the northwestern region
and in smaller numbers elsewhere.
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.
laborjack: A steamjack used to perform heavy manual labor.
Laborjacks come in both light and heavy variants and many different
chassis, each designed for a specific type of work.
Lacyr: The Narcissar of Ages, Lacyr was the unquestioned ruler of the
Iosan gods, referred to as the Divine Court. Now counted one of the
Vanished. Lacyr is credited with creating the elven races.
Lancer: A rugged yet agile Cygnaran warjack with an emphasis on
defense and survivability. Each is equipped with an arc node, a vital
piece of technology that allows its warcaster to cast spells at a greater
distance. Entered service in 601 AR.
Lawgiver, the: See Menoth.
385
GLOSSARY
Leryn: A heavily fortified northeastern Llaelese city that was the

birthplace of the Order of the Golden Crucible during the Rebellion.
The city was occupied in 605AR by Khador during the Llaelese War
and subsequently taken by the Protectorate to become the seat of its
Northern Crusade in 607AR.
Leviathan: A four-legged, amphibious helljack armed with a longranged spiker cannon and a powerful claw. First reported in 586AR.
lich lords: The twelve appointed generals and rulers of Cryx, powerful
undead who answer only to Lord Toruk, the Dragonfather. The
original lich lords were created from the pirate kings who ruled the
island when Toruk arrived. Each lich lord is an extremely powerful
and intelligent iron lich capable of controlling warjacks and wielding
formidable necromancy.
Llael: Once the smallest and easternmost Iron Kingdom but largely
conquered by 605 AR in the Llaelese War. Llael was then 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 ecclectic groups of notable Resistance leaders, former
Llaelese nobles, and even one prominent member of the Church of
Morrow. The Llaelese warcaster Ashlynn dElyse serves as marshal of
the Resistance armed forces, which includes many mercenaries loyal
only to coin. The most dedicated and imperilled 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, and patron of assassins, a member of the Iosan Divine
Court. Currently counted one of the Vanished.
386
GLOSSARY
Lyoss: This name has two meanings. Originally, a great palace within
the Veld that served as home to the Divine Court of the elven gods
and the afterlife for the dead who were deemed worthy of entry. The
first major elven civilization was named the Empire of Lyoss in honor
of the gods, sometimes also referred to as the Lyossan Empire, and
held sizable territories in eastern Immoren.
mage hunters: Iosan assassins 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.
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.
Markus, Ascendant: The patron of soldiers and watchmen, Markus
was an Ordic soldier who ascended in 305 AR after breaking the Siege
of Midfast by defeating fourteen barbarian chieftains in a series of duels.
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.
387
GLOSSARY
Menite/Menoth: A worshiper of 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. Menoths
gifts to humanity included fire, agriculture, masonry, and the written
word in the form of the True Law, his divine commandments. The
largest number of Menites are found in Khador and the Protectorate
of Menoth; most humans consider Menoth their creator but are not
necessarily Menites. Menite worship declined with the rise of the
faith of Morrow.
Menofix: The symbol of the Menite faith, in the form of a stylized cross
depicting the shape of Man. The Menofix is displayed prominently
throughout the Protectorate as well as any Menite place of worship
in other kingdoms. Faithful Menites will often carry a small Menofix
on their person.
Menoths Fury: An extremely volatile and flammable substance
refined from oil found in abundance beneath the Bloodstone Marches
and commonly used as a weapon by Protectorate troops and warjacks.
mentas: Title given to senior initiates in the Retribution of Scyrahs
Third Chamber who serve as assistants to an instructing dominie.
Mentas may be tasked with providing direct training to junior novices.
See also Third Chamber.
Meredius, the: The ocean west of Immoren. Immorese have crossed
the Meredius to reach the southern continent of Zu, but only the
Orgoth have successfully navigated its expanse to whatever continents
lie to the west.
388
GLOSSARY
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.
Morrow: One of the Twins, brother to Thamar, and a god who was once
mortal but who ascended to divinity by achieving enlightenment. Also
known as the Prophet, Morrow is a benevolent god who emphasizes
self-sacrifice, good works, and honorable behavior. The organized
religion of Morrow is the largest and most widespread faith in the
Iron Kingdoms, the majority faith in Cygnar, Khador, Llael, and Ord.
The Church of Morrow has considerable wealth and influence. See
also Thamar.
Motherland: Term used by patriotic Khadorans to refer to Khador
itself, related to certain myths and folklore illustrating the intimate
connection between the land and its people.
myrmidon: A general term for the warjacks of Ios. Myrmidons do not
use steam power but draw on an arcanikal power source renewed from
the environment. They do not require refueling but can only fight for
a limited time before they must rest to restore their energy reserves.
necromancy: An ancient arcane art rooted in the study of the
transition between life and death and certain energies inherent in
both the soul and the bodies of the dead. Largely reviled as black
magic and deemed illegal across most of western Immoren, the art
is still practiced, most prominently by arcanists of Cryx as well as
by many Thamarites. Necromancy is considered profane by both
Morrowans and Menites as well as by several other religions.
389
GLOSSARY
necromechanika: A dark science that combines mechanika and

necromancy, utilized primarily by Cryxian necrotechs in the
fabrication of such horrors as mechanithralls, bonejacks, and helljacks.
See necrotech.
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 Cryxs war industry.
necrotite: A foul mineral found in places that have seen mass torture
and death, where life energy has saturated the stones beneath the soil.
Used to power Cryxian warjacks, it is functionally similar to coal but
longer burning and more efficient. Both the substance itself and the
fumes and residue it produces are highly toxic to all living things.
necrotite: A foul coal-like mineral found in places that have seen
mass torture and death, where life energy has saturated the stones
beneath the soil. Used to power Cryxian warjacks, it is functionally
similar to coal but longer burning and more efficient. Not only the
substance itself but also the fumes and residue it produces are highly
toxic to all living things.
Nine Voices of the Retribution: The nine leaders of the Retribution
of Scyrah.
390
GLOSSARY
Northern Crusade, the: A specific army in service to the Great

Crusade of the Protectorate of Menoth. The Northern Crusade
marches to take the message of Menoth deep into the lands of the
faithless and is led by Grand Scrutator Severius and includes many
other Protectorate leaders including most prominently the Harbinger
of Menoth. After 607 AR the Northern Crusade is headquartered in
the former Llaelese city of Leryn.
Nyssor: An elven god of the Divine Court who is also called the Scyir
of Winter, the Grand Crafter, the Keeper of Secrets, and the Frozen
Sage. Nyssor is particularly important to the Nyss elves, who see
themselves as his chosen people. Until late 607 AR, Iosans counted
Nyssor as one of the Vanished.
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.
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.
overboost: The technique whereby a warcaster channels arcane energy
into his armors arcane turbine to augment the power field it generates
in an attempt to ward off incoming attacks.
power field: A field of arcane energy emitted by an arcane turbine worn
by warcaster outfitted in warcaster armor and capable of absorbing the
impact of attacks against the warcaster to a limited degree.
391
GLOSSARY
Prikaz Chancellery: The ruling body of the Greylords Covenant,

Prikaz agents may be tasked with performing surveillance of any
citizen suspected of treason, including members of the nobility,
kayazy, government or military officers, and even fellow Greylords.
All agents of the Prikaz maintain extensive networks of informants
through payment, coercion, and blackmail.
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.
quad-iron: A heavy, four-barreled pistol capable of firing all of its
barrels in rapid succession. Expensive and rare, quad-irons are highly
valued despite their weight and punishing recoil.
racking (of spells): Term used by some Cygnaran, Khadoran, and
Ordic warcasters to refer to preparing the small number of battleready spells that have been sufficiently practiced and ingrained that
they can be cast instantly even amid the chaos of battle. Changing
these spells requires an extended period of time and preparation and
can have a drastic impact on a warcasters battlefield tactics.
Radiance of Morrow: The religious symbol of the Church of Morrow,
a stylized sunburst design.
Raelthorne, King Leto: The current king of Cygnar, Leto Raelthorne
seized the throne from his older brother Vinter IV during the Lions
Coup of 594 AR.
reds: A colloquial term sometimes used by other nations to refer to
Khadoran soldiers, based on the dominant color of their uniforms.
392
GLOSSARY
Repenter: A Protectorate light warjack armed with a three-headed

flail and an integrated flamethrower fueled with Menoths Fury.
Entered service in 533 AR.
Resistance: See Llaelese Resistance.
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.
Revenger: A variant of the Protectorates Repenter light warjack that
houses an arc node and is armed with a halberd and repulsor shield.
Entered service in 546 AR.
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.
Rhydden: The last free city in Llael after the Llaelese War, the town
was once renowned for its vineyards but after the war becomes
the primary bastion of the Llaelese Resistance and home to several
thousand loyal fighters as well as the Resistance armory. Ruled by
Duke Gregore Delryv IV, a prominent member of the Resistance
Council.
Rivening, the: A cataclysmic event in 140 BR during which the Iosan
priestsexcepting only priests of Scyrahwere shorn from their
connection to the divine and driven insane. In subsequent years this
event would be linked to the rise of human magic a decade earlier, a
theory that eventually led to the creation of the Retribution of Scyrah.
393
GLOSSARY
Riversmet: A Llaelese city built at the confluence of the Black River

and the Oldwick, Riversmet was the site of multiple battles during
the Llaelese War and eventually razed by the Khadorans to force the
surrender of Leryn. The city has since been rebuilt, and is of strategic
importance in the Khadoran opposition of Protectorate forces of the
Northern Crusade.
Rowan, Ascendant: Morrowan patron of the poor and downtrodden,
Rowan renounced all material wealth and spent her life alleviating the
suffering of Immorese under Orgoth oppression. She ascended in 289 BR.
runeplate: A vital core component of mechanika that consists of a
special metal plate inscribed with permanent arcane glyphs to grant
an item specific magical effects.
Satyxis: A horned, blighted race of the Scharde Islands that is entirely
female, infamous for their blood magic and inventive cruelty.
Scharde Islands: An island group southwest of Cygnar, named after
the largest island, which has become the heart of Cryx. The Nightmare
Empire claims the majority of the Scharde Islands and preys upon
those few that remain contested.
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.
394
GLOSSARY
Scyrah: The Nis-Issyr of Spring, once one of the Iosan Divine Court,
Scyrah was the only one to return to Ios after the Rivening, at which
point she became the primary goddess of Ios. She currently languishes
in a state of decline mirroring the condition of the elven race, a
matter not discussed with non-Iosans. Scyrah has assumed the mantle
of Narcissar of the Divine Court due to the absence of Lacyr and has
been moved into the fane in Shyrr. Her old fane in Iryss still exists and
is maintained. The Retribution of Scyrah depicts her as a warlike and
avenging figure rather than simply a goddess of spring and fertility.
Section Three: Khadors intelligence kommand section of the
Ministry of the Great Vizier, responsbile 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.
Seekers: Members of an Iosan minority religious sect who actively
search for the solution to the mysterious ailment that has afflicted the
goddess Scyrah, which they believe likely exists outside the borders of
Ios. This motivates some Seekers to cooperate with and form alliances
with outsiders.
Severius: The current heirarch of the Protectorate of Menoth, a
warcaster and powerful priest.
Shaelvas: Once an Iosan city dedicated to the goddess Lyliss, also known
as the City of Wind, long since abandoned and now overgrown ruins.
Skyhammer rockets: Simple yet long-range rockets delivering an explosive
payload which are notorious for being both powerful and inaccurate.
Slayer: The most common helljack among the forces of Cryx, with
stout tusks and powerful claws on both arms.
395
GLOSSARY
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.
steamjack: A steam-powered mechanikal construct designed in a
variety of configurations and sizes, used for both labor and warfare
throughout the Iron Kingdoms, Cryx, and Rhul. Some machines
referred to as such use power sources other than steam and are so are
not technically steamjacks but are still referred to as such as a matter
of custom.
storm chamber: A storm chamber is a revolutionary accumulator,
powered by lighting generated within the chamber itself, developed
and widely used by the Cygnaran military.
Storm Knights: A military order in Cygnar comprising Stormblades,
Stormguard, and Storm Lances. Storm Knights serve as either heavy
infantry or heavy cavalry in support of other army units.
Storm Lances: Mounted Storm Knights who charge into battle
wielding voltaic lances.
storm rod: The weapon employed by Stormblade sergeants to coordinate
and empower nearby storm glaives. The term is sometimes used informally
to refer to the stormcaller rod, a different weapon entirely.
Stormblade: The first and most esteemed of Storm Knight specialties.
Most Stormblades wield storm glaives in battle. They supplement
ancient Caspian sword fighting traditions with state-of-the-art voltaic
weaponry such as storm glaives.
396
GLOSSARY
stormcaller: Members of an order of Cygnaran specialists called

stormsmiths who are trained in the use of mechanikal apparatus with
power over storms. Stormcallers can use machinery to summon lightning
to smite Cygnars foes at a distance. Stormcaller can also refer specifically
to the rod wielded by these stormsmiths to summon lightning.
Stormclad: A Cygnaran heavy warjack based on the Ironclad chassis
and armed with a voltaic blade and which draws on the excess galvanic
energies emitted by storm glaives to enhance its own capabilities.
Entred service in 597AR.
stormsmiths: An order of Cygnaran specialists who are trained in
the use of mechanikal apparatus to generate localized storms and call
down targeted lighting strikes upon their foes. The signature gear of
a stormsmith relies on technology originally invented by Sebastian
Nemo and is unique to Cygnar.
Stormwall: A Cygnaran colossal armed with a pair of torso-mounted
cannons, a pair of metal storm guns, voltaic fists, and a lightning
pod launcher. The first-designed of the new generation of Cygnaran
colossals, notable for a new and more advanced cortex capable of
controlling multiple weapons systems as well as a dual power system
using powerful steam engines for motive power and storm chambers
to arm its voltaic weapons and its arms.Entered service in 608 AR.
Strategic Academy: The leading military training academy in Cygnar,
with campuses located in Caspia and Point Bourne. Responsible for
training military officers of all branches and for overseeing warcaster
apprenticeship.
397
GLOSSARY
Sul-Menite: A practitioner of the branch of the Menite faith created

under Heirarch Sulon in 482 AR at the onset of the Cygnaran Civil
War. Most Sul-Menites live within the Protectorate of Menoth, a
theocracy based around that religion. Sul-Menites have actively
sought to convert others to their faith and include many Menites
originally from other nations.
sunburst: A seige weapon employed by the Protectorate of Menoth
that propels long shafts tipped by explosive metal spheres filled with
Menoths Fury.
Syvash Stronghold: The Retribution of Scyrahs main training base,
located in the city of Iryss but with secondary facilities in the southern
mountains of Ios, including the Hold.
Temple Flameguard: See Flameguard.
Ternon Crag: An independent town at the foot of the Greybranch
Mountains between the eastern border of Cygnar and the western
edge of the Bloodstone Marches. Ternon Crag exists outside the
reaches of king and country and has attracted a considerable share of
scoundrels.
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.
398
GLOSSARY
Third Chamber: A cult of Iosan assassins descended from warriormonks dedicated to the goddess Lyliss and which are now a part of
the Retribution of Scyrah. Their headquarters is hidden in chambers
connected to the old Fane of Lyliss beneath the ruins of Shaelvas.
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 but are not self-willed. Most thralls are
mindless; the more advanced ones can emulate intelligence but have
no goals or purpose except what they are given by their masters.
Toruk, Lord: The dragon that is the evil and vastly powerful ruler
of Cryx. Toruk is both the oldest known entity on Caen and the
progenitor of all dragons. Also known as the Dragonfather and the
Dragon Lord.
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.
tyro: An Iosan novice warcaster who has successfully completed
extensive training and is declared ready for field duty.
uiske: A distinctive and potent liquor distilled from roasted barley
and water.
Uldenfrost: The Khadors northwestern most major settlement, a
small town of trappers and hunters.
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.
399
GLOSSARY
Vanar, Empress Ayn: The sovereign queen of Khador, Ayn Vanar XI

declared herself Empress in 606 AR following a sweeping military
conquest including victory in the Llaelese War.
Vanished, the: The missing and presumably deceased gods of the
Iosan people. This term is not used among non-Iosans. The actual
status of the Vanished is unknown, and some groups such as the
Seekers retain the hope that some may still exist. The recent discovery
of Nyssor by Iosans has strengthened this belief.
Vanquisher: A variant of the Protectorates Crusader warjack that is armed
with a flail known as a blazing star and a flame belcher cannon that fires
cannonballs filled with Menoths Fury. Entered service in 598 AR.
Vassals of Menoth: The only organization sanctioned to practice
arcane magic in the Protectorate of Menoth. Vassals are tightly
controlled and allowed to wield their power only for the furtherance
of the Temple of Menoth, employed primarily to fabricate vital
mechanika such as steamjack cortexes.
Veld, the: Iosan name for Urcaen, or possibly a specific region of
Urcaen where their gods and afterlife were located.
vyatka: A strong liquor usually distilled from potatoes that is common
in Khador and exported across the Iron Kingdoms.
warbeast: Casually, any powerful beast employed in war. More
technically, any supernatural beast capable of bonding to a warlock
and manifesting an animus. This term is not widely used in western
Immoren but is employed by the skorne, whose armies make heavy
use of enslaved beasts. Other groups employing warbeasts include the
Circle Orboros, the Legion of Everblight, trollkin, gatormen, and
farrow. Most warlocks require an affinity to specific types of warbeasts
to bond to them.
400
GLOSSARY
warcaster: An arcanist born with the ability to control steamjacks and

connect to other mechanika with the power of the mind. With proper
training warcasters become singular military assets and are among
the greatest officers and soldiers of western Immoren, entrusted to
command scores of troops and their own battlegroups of warjacks in
the field. Acquiring and training warcasters is a high priority for any
military force that employs warjacks.
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.
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
are equipped with relatively simple and inexpensive gear.
wrack: A massive Menofix built with chains to hold a prisoner for
punishment, generally used as a form of execution. Menite scrutators
may sentence heretics or wayward members of the faithful to the
wrack. Their suffering is thought to purify their souls before they are
sent to Urcaen. Menite warcasters can draw on the mystical power
generated by this punishment to empower themselves in battle.
zealot: A volunteer force of the Protectorate of Menoths 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.
Zu: A largely unexplored continent south of Immoren. Since its discovery
the northernmost port city of Konesta has served as the primary point
of contact for the Immorese, and from here its people have engaged in
lucrative trade for a number of exotic goods that cannot be found elsewhere.
401
Rites of Passage: A WARMACHINE Anthology

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: March 31st, 2014
ISBN: 978-1-939480-63-7
Privateer Press
13434 NE 16th Street, Suite 120
Bellevue, WA 98005
privateerpress.com
skullislandx.com

Rites of Passage

Uploaded by

Document Information

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Rites of Passage

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

RITES OF PASSAGE

TODD HARRIS, VIKTOR TITOV,

With the recent abundance of superhero movies, an interesting

trend has emerged: in almost all instances where multiple movies

he world you are about to enter is the Iron Kingdoms, a place

WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

people rose up in rebellion. This began a long and bloody process

WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

north a disembodied dragon called Everblight leads a legion of

THE PRICE OF A GIFT

The battlefield raged like a storm.

Lightning arced overhead in long, crackling streaks, drawn from

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

of gutted corpses in his wake. If the battlefield was a storm, he was

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

and strategically placed smoke bombs that concealed them from

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

Before she could take another breath, he appeared before her.

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

Cygnars fighting men, though the meaning of the phrase shifted

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

their innate talent revealed itself, often manifesting in moments of

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

mechanical, the fluid manner in which they moved made them

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

on patrol or engaged in one of the frequent border skirmishes that

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

As the Ironclad wound up for another swing, the Centurion

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

Ironclad, examining its irregularities. This warjack has served me

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

Since the Kingdom of Llael had fallen to the Khadoran Empire

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

A single missile exploded upon a cannon, detonating its own

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

comprised Cygnars most frequently deployed fighters.

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

from the ring, nearly tripping into the rising Centurion.

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

his dual-bladed staff over his shoulder. Youll be leading soldiers

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

A new salvo of rockets screamed over the trampled plain and

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

her responsibility was to consign the artillery crewsand very likely

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

with the padlock. The gruesome form of torture involving strapping

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

a pudding as good as the army cooks at Fort Falk. Sergeant Hollings

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

The trenchers began to fall in behind Hollings, but he held them

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON

She gave chase without hesitation, reloading her pistol as she

THE PRICE OF A GIFT MATTHEW D. WILSON