The Henge Hold Scroll (Parts 1–3)
Who is the Hermit of Henge Hold, the narrator of these events? He is a mad Iosan prophet who has seen many possible futures for the Iron Kingdoms, many of them foretelling the end of the lands. The things that he sees are invaluable to every king, queen, ruler, or invader of the Iron Kingdoms. As he has traveled the land, spreading word of his prophecies, many kingdoms have received him, whether they accepted his visions or not, and now the time is at had when the truth of his words will be revealed.
The question at hand is simple: will anyone live to validate what he foretold?
Part 1
They call me mad. But look upon the visions I have seen and try to hold your sanity intact. I alone know the shrouded secrets of the past that have given way to the darkness gripping this world. And I alone have glimpsed the possible futures, few of which include the survival of our world and none that escape the carnage and misery that will scar it forever. I am the Hermit of Henge Hold, and in these scrolls I shall chronicle the last days of the Iron Kingdoms as we know it.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Ashlynn d’Elyse — now known across free Llael as The Queen’s Blade — retreated to the privacy of her chambers within Merywyn’s palace, and she wept.
Her country had barely begun to pick up the pieces of the grueling war and occupation by Khador before the infernals struck. The coronation of Llael’s new queen, Kaetlyn de la Martyn — a day for which Ashlynn had prayed since before Khador’s invasion — was forced to be conducted in hiding while the screams of her countrymen could be heard outside as their souls were ripped from their bodies.
And she had been powerless to act. Only the queen herself could have stayed her sword that day, but it was her wish that Ashlynn be sworn in and officially decreed the highest military authority in the land.
Since then, she could find no reprieve from the stench of those hellish nightmares. Their black blood soaked her boots and coated her blade as she led Merywyn’s armies in the ongoing effort to rebuff the demons seeking their souls.
But for every nightmare she vanquished, two more would take its place. And for every soul she saved, ten would be stolen from under her ward. For the moment, she would mourn their loss while struggling not to consider their fate beyond this world.
And when the demons came again, by Morrow’s light, they would have their heads, hearts, and entrails liberated from their vile forms by The Queen’s Blade.
***
Though it was the souls of humans the infernals prized, they let nothing deprive them of what they were due. Rhulfolk, Iosan, Trollblood, even Skorne — all would pay the price of Thamar’s sin unless ancient grievances could be buried.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
The Oracle Calandra Truthsayer watched black clouds drift toward her home. The mad hermit had warned them of the coming locusts, of the devastation they would bring. The warning had troubled her then. Now, she was afraid.
The gathering darkness above blew from the pyres of human cities. Untold numbers of dead, great plazas: all that lay in the path of these creatures was rendered to ash and ruin. Dhunia herself writhed under their touch, wounded deeper than even by the jaws of the Wurm.
She felt the mother’s pain in her flesh. A sadness took root in her soul, fed by faces of grim human refugees and urban kriels fleeing the locusts’ advance. Once, her people had been displaced to seek refuge. Under this regime of darkness, it seemed all sought safety.
“So many seek the United Kriels’ strength,” Calandra said to her daughter but truly to herself.
“They were happy to let the kin struggle. They reap their own harvest.” The other members of her daughter’s knot made sounds of agreement, praising her insight.
“How does the tree grow, Daughter?” Calandra asked. “Can it grow upon bare stones?”
“No, Mother.”
“What feeds it?”
“The soil, made richer from plants that have given up their lives. The rain that quenches its thirst.”
Calandra nodded at her. “And when the wind blows?”
“The boughs of its brothers and sisters shield it?” Calandra’s daughter asked suspiciously.
“A lone tree must face the storm with its own roots.” Calandra knitted her fingers before her face. “But together, their roots embrace to grip the soil, to hold each other fast.”
The sisters of the knot mused on her words.
“The forest of men is aflame, Daughter,” Calandra said. “It thins with each day.”
“What do you propose?” her daughter asked.
“Grab the roots tight and hold against the storm,” the Oracle said.
***
While the peoples of the wild learned the importance of unity, the nations of humankind made similar efforts. But their way was yet cloaked in veiled threats, in displays of power of human arrogance that slowed such labors.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
It had taken the Supreme Kommandant and his retinue nearly three weeks to return to Korsk. The dirigible had barely made it over the Thornwood before they were forced to continue on foot. Pursued by Cygnaran Rangers and Crucible Guard, their survival had been hard won.
Irusk recalled staring up at the towering black walls of Stasikov Palace where the empress awaited his audience and wishing for nothing more than that he could have traded places with Kommander Strakhov aboard the Storm Breaker.
Now, many months later as he approached the smoldering city of Caspia, he wondered if Strakhov’s soul were any safer than Irusk’s own, locked in a Cygnaran prison, or if the infernals that had devastated this unconquerable city had claimed it already.
***
While mortals sought unity, the grasping tendrils of infernal corruption spread across the land like a foul wind. No city or village in Immoren escaped their greedy touch.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Ashlynn did not look up when the nobleman Moler entered the meeting chamber. She already knew at he would say, and she would have preferred to never hear it.
“They are within our walls,” Moler said.
“How can you be sure?” Ashlynn said.
“The 122 bodies in the wine cellars.”
Despite Ashlynn’s recent military promotion, Moler did not mince words with her. When he spoke, rank meant nothing between them.
“These things can’t be killed,” Moler said. “They can’t be wounded. They can’t be beaten. Free Llael is already done being free.”
Ashlynn stiffened. “So, what would you have us do in the face of this new threat?”
Moler shrugged. “Seek allies, flee the Iron Kingdoms, or die. If we hesitate, these things will choose for us.”
“They will not. The queen chooses.” Ashlynn touched her blade. “I choose.”
***
Tense words shared over sheathed blades can help to build common ground, but only humility can bridge such great gulfs. North and south worked to combine their strength as a spurned youth dreamed of reunification.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Julius looked north, imagining the flag of Llael fluttering from every battlement. There are not many kings, he thought, who could claim to lose a queen and a sizeable portion of their kingdoms in as short a time as he had.
“Midwinter will pay for his betrayal,” said Julius’ warmaster at his side.
The young king turned to face him. “Do you suppose Kaetlyn is safe?”
The warmaster scowled. “What that little bird does now should not concern you. She’s as much a traitor as Midwinter.”
“Just smarter than we credited her,” Julius said. Like Midwinter, Kaetlyn had an agenda of her own; Julius had built the bridge to reach it. “And now is not the time to turn away friends. We need every ally we can hold.”
The thought stung. The infernal attack on Caspia was still raw, bloody. It had left scars so deep Julius was still discovering them.
“What do you propose, majesty?” the warmaster asked.
“Unity. Survival.” Julius lowered his voice. “No matter the cost.”
***
War is no stranger in the Iron Kingdoms. Its name is inscribed a thousand times over on every stone. But steel cannot fight shadow. As the infernals claimed their due, cities crumbled and thousands of lights went dark.
A few noble souls held up a torch of hope, offering everything they had or ever would have to drive back the darkness. Such champions often faced opposition from unexpected corners, even those whom they held dear.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
The great temple buzzed with activity, a vast beehive made of gleaming steel. Servitors and ascended priests housed in spidery vessels crawled over a looming arch covered in crackling nodes. Iron Mother Directrix observed them, basking in their unity.
Her peace shattered when the entrance far overhead spiraled open. Aurora glided down the enormous chamber on humming metal wings to land gracefully at Iron Mother’s back. The girl was a flat note in the symphony, impossible to ignore.
“Is your foolishness at its end?” Iron Mother did not turn from the fabrication of the celestial gate.
“Hardly,” Aurora sniped. Her tone was sharp, victorious. “I went looking for him. Right now, he’s clinging to a life he almost lost fighting the invaders. His efforts are — ”
“Sentimentality. But useful. The gate nears its completion, and his actions provide an adequate distraction,” Iron Mother said. “Cyriss’ arrival will render the invaders inconsequential.”
Aurora moved to impede her mother’s view.
“While you hide here, Mother, the world beyond the temple dies.”
Iron Mother brushed her daughter aside. “This world dies so the Maiden of Gears may remake it. Time is at hand for all things to ascend.”
“Time we no longer have.”
Iron Mother regarded Aurora, hurt and desperation written on Aurora’s face. The friction between them was a pair of gears that could never fully mesh.
She relented.
“Your new frame awaits. Take it. Find him. Perhaps he’ll listen…” She weighed her next words. “…to his daughter.”
Calculated words that could not be retracted. Sebastian Nemo had refused her offer of transcendence. Sending off Aurora, she hoped to make him reconsider — and free herself from a troublesome young woman while her great work reached its completion.
***
Many tried to account for the souls that had been claimed by the infernals, but the toll was beyond any mortal ability to reckon. In the horrors that plague my mind, however, I can tell you they numbered in the scores of thousands before the old rivalries were put aside and tribes took up arms together.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Gurvaldt Irusk had long ago, it seemed now, knelt before his empress and her sorcerer-consort. Both held their faces as masks, though the Supreme Kommandant could sense the displeasure concealed beneath. They were a pair of majestic statues clad in Khador’s colors.
“After your last reprimand, I did not think another was required,” the empress had said at long last. Her voice echoed through the chamber, words vanishing among the gathered throng of silent onlookers. Irusk wondered if they were there to witness his death.
“Nor I, Empress,” Irusk said. He did not bother with false bravado or humility. Neither would afford him much.
“Yet once again, here you are, having failed your empress and your nation,” she said.
His eyes moved to the shape at her left hand. It loomed in the shadows.
That’s where he’s gone, Irusk thought.
Though rumors flew freely, there were no confirmed reports of the Butcher of Khardov fighting in Llael. The Supreme Kommandant had hoped him dead. Yet here he stood, panting like a hound straining at its leash. Light caught the edge of the large man’s axe.
The Butcher’s body bore fresh scars, his armor in despicable shape. He looked like a man who’d swam an ocean of enemy blades to look down on Irusk today. The mad, raving hound of Khador. The bloodied butcher of men. What little light was once in his eyes had fled forever.
“I once denied you death,” the empress said, “hoping you would yet prove useful to our empire. Was I mistaken?”
Irusk locked eyes with her murderer instead of the empress. “Perhaps.”
She continued. “The blade that fails to cut once can be sharpened. If it fails again…”
The empress’ hand traced a line along the Butcher’s obscene axe head. “If it fails again, you look for a better, sharper one.”
“My Empress,” Irusk said, “I live at your mercy. I die at your command.”
Her finger left the axe with a sharp ring that echoed as clear as her voice. Empress Ayn Vanar rose from her seat, walked to Irusk, the Butcher close behind her.
“Rise, Supreme Kommandant,” she said. “You are used to speaking with the southerners. You will go to them and meet with their boy-king as my emissary. Do not disappoint me.”
Irusk bowed to her. “Of course, my Empress.”
She motioned to the Butcher. “I tire of sharpening blades, Irusk. Why should I bother, when I have one so keen at my disposal?”
The Butcher’s face twisted, the silent snarl of a rabid dog.
***
New enemies require old enmities to sleep, and so strength came into the west from those who were once abandoned. Marching across the blasted land from their new home to fight for their old one, the strength of Dhunia arrived. A trollkin’s might is unarguable. A troll’s ferocity incontestable. When they first came, fear transformed into a faint glimmer of hope. But would even their strength be enough to turn the tide?
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Tension crackled as the grim-faced trollkin approached the gathering. Soot-streaked and tired from the march, they passed through a courtyard packed with Trenchers and Winter Guard, who warily looked on.
Gunnbjorn signaled the halt. In flawless Cygnaran, he said, “I seek an audience.”
Soldiers parted to let a familiar man through the crowd. A prince, a king, a counselor, and a betrayer. Leto. Gunnbjorn had to resist the urge to salute. Old instincts, hard to suppress. If Leto recognized him, he did not show it. “I am High Chancellor — ”
“Yes,” Gunnbjorn said. “Our messenger said you prepared for our arrival.”
“The war council is already meeting.” Leto took in the trollkin force, notably the full-blooded trolls. He looked disheartened. “Your Oracle’s message suggested there would be more. This is, what, a hundred?”
Gunnbjorn couldn’t hide his grim smile. “Just the ones I let into the fort.”
At his signal, one of his fell callers bellowed, a giant sound that boomed against the fort walls. Beyond the fort, another fell caller answered. And another. Soon the voices of trollkin, the cries of pygs, and the rumble of dire trolls filled the air, threatened to split the sky. He savored the surprise on Leto’s face.
“The Army of the United Kriels stands with you,” he said.
***
Only bits of the world pierced the veil of his coma. Muffled voices, like soft whispers in a far-off room. The gentle touch of his caretakers on his numbed skin. All else was darkness.
Sebastian Nemo lingered in that place between waking and death. He dreamed, but they were fractured visions that became smoke when he drew close to grasping them. Old friends, old loves, all long past.
His mind was his greatest gift, greater even than his warcaster ability. But in this void, this nowhere-place, he could feel the walls of darkness drawing in around it. His body of flesh was an anchor. It drew him deeper each day. Time meant nothing. Days or hours, all the same in such a place. The only measurement he had was the slow creep of that impermeable shadow, as his mind softened and weakened in his state. It was a prison that grew smaller each time he tested its bounds.
In his maddening prison of unmoving meat, Nemo sensed muffled voices. He felt a gentle touch on his skin. A familiar scent fired off in the deep parts of his mind, yellow-white explosions of memory that rose in the mire of his coma.
Movement, distant and strange, rocking him in his prison. Cycles of cold and warmth moving over him, where that familiar aroma became brassy and hot as it met the touch of…fire? The sun? It was the odor of late summer nights spent over lengthy books. The smell of her.
Impossible. Everything about her, every lovely and familiar mote, had been discarded. Forgotten. Left to rot unmarked in some forgotten place. Yet still her scent clung to him, pulled at him, pleaded for him to open his shuttered eyes once more.
She was in his dreams more often, calling to him from beyond the crushing walls of his constricting mind. She begged him to wake. She shouted at him in her distant voice that time was running out. She began to hurt him. Not the heartache from before, but a sharp, biting pain.
If he had a voice, he would have told her to stop. Her words lanced through his flesh. Like scalpels, they cut through the cotton that muffled his numbed skin; like surgical tweezers, they plucked the wads that stuffed his unhearing ears.
He felt pain. He heard the snarling snap of lightning, smelled the scent of roasting flesh.
With a scream of pain, Nemo’s eyes ripped open. A voice cried, “He’s up. Back away!”
He looked up at a beautiful face. Her face, not cold and iron, but warm flesh. Tears rose in her eyes.
“Impossible,” he managed to say, body still sharp with static from the current they must have used. His swimming vision resolved into the shape of Aurora, Numen of the Convergence.
She broke into a relieved smile.
“Welcome back… Father.”
***
Irusk wondering how many of the soldiers pointing guns at him had lost friends at his order. He did not find the question comforting.
A timid Cygnaran approached, stumbling into the perimeter of the camp Irusk had erected.
“My king has sent me to consider your surrender.” The man’s eyes drifted to Irusk’s sword lying unsheathed on the table.
“Empress Ayn Vanar has commanded me to offer myself into Cygnaran hands,” Irusk said, handing the toady a parcel sealed with the imperial signet.
The envoy’s eyes bulged. “Under what conditions?”
“The empress fears for the security of our homeland and wishes to surround herself — ” Irusk swallowed the bitterness in his throat. “ — with her most capable soldiers.”
The Cygnaran’s face furrowed. “Meaning?”
“I remain here,” Irusk said, “to face whatever justice your king deems worthy. In return, you liberate Kommander Strakhov to rejoin the homeland.”
The line of Cygnarans beyond his modest camp balked. Some began to murmur.
“One of you, deliver this to the king,” the envoy shouted at the soldiers, holding aloft the empress’ missive. “See he gets it at once.”
“What about ’im?” a soldier asked, pointing with his rifle.
“Shoot him,” another shouted.
The Cygnaran envoy licked his teeth, considering the words. “No. A bullet would never do for the Supreme Kommandant.”
Irusk kept his face emotionless as the timid Cygnaran, finding his vigor, reached for the hilt of Endgame.
“It is tradition to die by the blade,” he said.
***
War is an unjust thing. Often, it returns its anguish on those who have already suffered at its sting. So it was in Llael, which barely tasted the sweetness of freedom before new enemies sought to enslave it.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
PART 2
As the events leading to Oblivion unfold, so too does the pace, like an avalanche speeding down the mountainside, growing beyond the ability of anyone involved to maintain any form of control. For some, it is all they can do simply to hold on and survive…
***
Ashlynn was covered in gore from infernals — much of it was blue, and all of it reeked. Down the hall, Marie Aguillon’s dark skin was a darker shade of that same blue. And though Ashlynn wasn’t sure where Vayne di Brascio was, she suspected the gun mage looked the same.
They were retaking the palace in Merywyn from the clawed horrors that had appeared along the Iron Highway to assault the city’s spires. Nobles like Moler had already fled, Ashlynn had heard, but no such thoughts had even occurred to her or her closest compatriots.
Nightmares with pulsing veins floated among traitorous infernalists finally brave enough to reveal their colors. Ashlynn dispatched them with her father’s sword, sending their souls to their masters.
Two rapid-fire explosions and two dead infernalists signaled di Brascio’s return from the royal quarters.
“The queen, she is safe,” he called out.
“The queen is safe,” Marie Aguillon answered. “Speak the language, Vayne.”
“You understood, yes? Then I speak fine enough.”
Ashlynn gutted an infernalist with an eyepatch. “We need to move her.”
Marie curled her lip. “You don’t mean the Llael Passage, do you?”
“Never. Her place is within Merywyn. The deserters — they’re no longer Llaelese. They can leave and never return.”
“Aha!” Vayne di Brascio gunned a horror out of the air and closed the gap in their triad.
“Even the Queen’s Blade speaks as I do.”
Marie ignored him. “So, where do we hide her?”
Ashlynn’s response was curtailed by the high brassy notes of trumpets from beyond the walls.
Marie’s eyes bulged; Vayne raised his magelock and cocked his head.
“How dare they?” he breathed. “Our own military?”
The trumpets sounded again, more mournful, despondent, than before.
“They can’t,” Marie groaned. Vayne made a guttural, furious noise in the back of his throat.
Ashlynn killed three infernalists with such fervor that others began to flee from her reach.
She snarled, “This will not stand. Not while I breathe.”
The trumpeting ended abruptly.
“They’re retreating,” Vayne said in disbelief.
Marie said, “Or surrendering.”
Ashlynn shook her head. “Unless they’re dying, no one stops fighting for Llael unless I command it. And I do not.”
***
The scrolls tell me much. Not all make sense. Some things are so unlikely they seem to ride against the flow of history and destiny. So it was as blood and flesh, at long last united, who strove to forever separate themselves with cold metal.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Aurora held her father’s frail hand. Her father. The word still felt unreal. For so long he had been a nebulous figure in her imagination; now he was here, and he was dying.
“Where are we?” Nemo asked. His glassy eyes drifted around the temple’s interior, unable to focus on anything.
“Somewhere safe.” Aurora said, caressing the back of his weathered hand.
It was a temple abandoned after a shift of the geomantic web. Old and empty.
“You look so alike,” Nemo whispered, struggling to touch her face. His hand was clumsy, clammy. It fell limp to his side.
She touched his lips. “Quiet now. We haven’t much time.”
“For what?” Nemo asked.
Aurora chewed her lip with uncertainty. She knew her father opposed what she planned. But there was no other way.
“I spent my life wondering who you are,” Aurora said, “and I refuse to lose you now. Not when I can do something about it.”
Nemo looked up, eyes focusing on the apparatus that surrounded them. His weak breath whistled as he drew it in aghast.
The device of soul transference waited.
“No,” Nemo breathed. “I beg you, no.”
Aurora shook her head. “There is no other way. Your body dies soon.”
She turned from him, trying not to hear his pleas. With a gesture, the optifexes she’d brought for this task began their work. The old temple awoke with the deep purring of an enormous, contented beast about to enjoy a meal.
As the soul transference began, Aurora looked back at the frail body lying below the device. His face was a mask of betrayal and confusion. He was clearly ready to die, but she would not let him.
His old body twisted in pain as he called to her.
“Why? I do not want this!” he shouted. Bolts of energy lanced through his body, charring his flesh. The machine pulled everything that was Nemo from the body he once inhabited.
As the machine died down, the sound of charred flesh crackling replaced its mechanical purr. Aurora plucked the glowing cylinder from its mechanism, cradling it like a bird in her hands.
“Because we need you, Father. Now…and forever.”
***
Time is a vortex, drawing all things to their conclusion. Some are buffeted by its tide, caught in a force they cannot resist. Others pit their meager strength against inevitability and struggle to last.
A few, marked by fate and fortune, see the opportunity to ride the currents of the vortex. Carried on the gulf between escape and oblivion, they can catapult free from destiny or be drawn into its blackest depths.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
“At least they let you keep your sword,” Oleg Strakhov said.
The kommander’s burned flesh had twisted his already scarred mouth into a deeper snarl on one side.
“And you your looks,” Irusk replied.
Strakhov didn’t respond to the slight. Since leaving Cygnar, the assault kommander had been in high spirits, listing indulgences back home he planned for their return. It was out of character for the one-eyed killer to be cheerful.
“What did he say?” Strakhov asked as the pair approached the inner doors of Stasikov Palace.
“My freedom is predicated on delivery of a message to the empress,” Irusk replied, “one I fear she won’t take lightly.”
Strakhov clapped his bandaged hands, wincing at the pain. “An errand boy for a boy king. Are you to deliver a proclamation of war?”
As the throne room’s doors swung open to reveal the court, Irusk said, “Something far worse.”
They crossed the room and knelt before the empress. She sipped wine, taking her time with them before speaking.
“I would offer you a drink, but I did not prepare for so many guests,” she said. “Irusk, were my commands unclear?”
“No, my empress,” Irusk said. He kept his head bowed like the condemned at the headsman’s block, appropriately enough.
“Yet you grace the court with your appearance. Were the terms of your surrender not accepted?”
“They were not.”
The empress descended from her dais, touching Strakhov’s pauldron with a light hand, but she spoke at Irusk. “Illuminate us.”
“Julius offers this: the Iron Kingdoms must stand together while there is something still worth fighting for.”
She waited a moment, digesting the words. Her scowl grew. Then she barked with laughter.
“Idiot. His nation bleeds and he begs the wolves to give him peace,” she said.
“I believe hope motivated him, Empress, not desperation.”
“Be silent,” she snapped. “You were warned before, Irusk. Failure is not a quality I admire.”
He awaited her command to the Butcher. The one to set the madman’s axe swinging. But another voice came, low and resonant, filling the chamber.
“Ayn, wait.” Vladimir Tzepesci rose from his seat and took the empress’ hand. As she turned to face him, he spoke, soft enough Irusk could barely hear.
“A great wind blows, cold and cruel. If we do not face it together, we fight it alone.”
Their eyes locked for a long moment. Looking up at the Great Prince and imperial consort, Empress Vanar seemed to consider his words.
Without looking at Irusk, the empress asked, “What else did the boy say?”
***
Destiny. Like a great machine ticking down our final days. As the darkness grows, some pull to each other like lodestone and iron. Others are forced apart, broken pieces never to reunite.
At the heart of it all, one glowing soul bonded to two others, polarizing them. Pushing them apart like a fundamental force. What could have been their bridge instead becoming a barrier.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Mother had known all along. Of course she had. A part of Aurora suspected the Directrix had even guided her actions. Not that it changed her punishment. Mother awaited her return to the temple complex with a cell waiting.
“What is she doing with him?” Aurora asked.
Axis, the Harmonic Enforcer, shrugged. He stood between Aurora and the door as her warden.
“Deciding,” he said.
“It’s not her decision to make.”
Axis cocked his helmed head. “It was yours?”
Frustrated, Aurora ignored him. She listened for any clue as to what transpired in the temple above. Though distant, the modulated voices of clockwork vessels droned through the walls, the familiar tone of Iron Mother loudest of all.
The cell door irised open. The young woman Athanor Locke stood beyond the aperture.
“Directrix demands your presence,” she said.
Axis moved to escort Aurora out, but Locke intervened. “She wants you to join the obstructors guarding the entrance.”
Without a word, the large warcaster brushed Locke aside and clomped away into the temple’s tunnels.
When his footsteps faded, Locke exhaled with relief. “Damn, he bought it. Hurry, there isn’t much time.”
“What are you doing?”
“Putting my neck out for you,” Locke said, ushering Aurora along. “Your mother and the others are deciding what to do with Nemo’s soul. It, uh, isn’t going in his favor.”
“We must stop them!”
“That’s the plan,” Locke said. “Just…be yourself.”
Moments later, the pair burst into the chamber. Iron Mother, Forge Master Syntherion, and Eminent Configurator Orion debated over Nemo’s soul vessel. When Iron Mother’s gaze fell on Aurora, her mantle of blades flexed and snapped with restrained anger.
Iron Mother swept the others aside with her bladed cloak. Their eyes fell on Aurora and Locke.
“You follow folly with impudence,” Iron Mother declared, “and bring low another promising worshipper with you.”
“Why are you here?” Orion asked.
“To prevent you from making a critical mistake,” Aurora said.
“A subject in which you are versed, Daughter.”
Mother and daughter faced each other down. The other leaders of the Convergence moved closer. Aurora readied for a fight.
“Now!” Locke shouted.
There was a confused moment. Everyone turned toward the woman.
The great glass constellation overhead shattered as a clockwork angel descended. Prefect Hypatia swooped down to Nemo’s forgotten soul. She snatched it and returned to the air.
Before anyone else could react, runes spun around Locke’s wrist. Her spell detonated like a bomb among them, hurling them back. Aurora’s ears rang, but she could read Locke’s cry on her lips.
“Time to run.”
***
So few grasped the necessity of war beyond the obvious desire to live. Yet to lay down one’s life for one’s cause feels noble; to do so to ensure the survival of one’s species feels desperate. Desperation is often all one has when someone like me can offer no other emotion.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
They pushed against a line of horrors with a storm of steel. Rattling sluggers sent lines of fire over the battlefield on the east flank. To the west, Stormblades’ glaives crackled with brilliant blue light.
Jeremiah Kraye and his warjacks wove among the chaos, pitting iron hulls and ordnance against nightmare-born muscle and sinew. A shell burst in front of him in fire and smoke. Malagant’s hooves clawed at the air.
Kraye pulled on the reins and steadied his carbine. Across the battlefield — once some speck on the map outside Caspia that now teemed with cultists — a howling creature laid into trollkin warriors.
Kraye put everything into his shot, guiding the bullet and urging it onward. It took the creature in the neck, and most of the shop wall behind it. The trollkin pressed on, into the smoke.
His orders: meet with a trencher platoon and provide warjack support. The infernalists built another damn gate; he was sent to destroy it. Simple enough on paper. With a hundred allied kriel warriors, they said it would be simple.
It wasn’t. Cultists and beasts boiled up into the streets from every sewer, around every corner. Friendly artillery fell like hail. Foul magic stained the air and rotted his allies’ flesh.
***
Our senses are often more full of death than life, though we notice the latter more as the former nears.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Clouds of blasting powder smoke and soot from smokestacks choke the streets. It is dark, the artificial twilight of an obscured sun. The air burns to breathe, scratching at the throat and the lungs.
In this darkness, orange bursts of muzzle flare and the cracking of rifles mix with the cries of battle: challenges roared at opponents, screams of pain, the piercing shriek of unseen monsters in the haze.
The blanket of smoke, the stress of fighting, all turns the street into an oven. There is no air to stir up a breeze, just the packed heat of mobs of men and women, the cherry-glow of coals in sizzling furnaces.
Buildings are vague shapes. Some glow from fires inside, flames roaring through their windows. Broken timbers jut like splintered bones from roofs and walls caved in by errant artillery shells.
Beyond the cobbled streets there is what once was a park. The trees burn like torches, the manicured lawns chewed up by the advance and retreat of soldiers, by the hooves of heavy cavalry and tread of machines.
Fountains turned to temporary foxholes are stained pink from the bodies floating within their shallow waters. Statues of old heroes and kings chipped away by gunfire into vague silhouettes of gray-white stone.
In the park’s center, a grand arch. Built to commemorate some long-forgotten historical event, trimmed with patina-green bronze. Faint lines of something organic mar the white marble faces like creeping ivy.
But this ivy grows thick and sinewy, throbs and bulges, the living veins of something otherworldly grows into and among the stones.
An alphabet of runes glow along its columns, across its top, so foul they are almost alive. They wriggle and twist under the eye, trying to escape the grasp of scrutiny. Looking at them too long makes eyes water, drills into the skull like a hangover.
Deep crimson light glows from the arch’s center, casting the surroundings with an otherworldly glow. It ripples like a heat mirage on the summer desert. It fills the air with a piercing whine that makes molars rattle and the stomach churn.
From this light, shapes emerge into the world. Profane, disgusting forms of rubbery white flesh, talons of jet bone. Mocking reflections of human bodies, as malformed as the fractured statues. Their howls are the sound of tortured souls begging for release.
Squadrons advance on the gate through the blood-soaked grass, taking cover where they can. They fire at the growing mob of creatures, ripping through their bodies, but still the things advance. They grow in numbers, slithering into the world like unready births.
Trollkin fire their oversized weapons, laying down a storm from rapid-fire sluggers, titanic sprays of buckshot that could punch holes in a battleship. A roaring dire troll hurls a smoldering barrel that momentarily robs the world of sound.
Still more of the things come. They crawl over the mangled bodies of their dead, sprinting into battle with soldiers and trollkin with a frenzy of talons and scything blades.
The battle turns against them. A warjack has its limb ripped off and hurled aside to flatten a group of soldiers. Cavalry are bogged down by the dozens, horses and riders screaming as they are torn apart.
***
The scrolls reveal much about who will fight, who will flee, and who will stand in bewilderment. But the scrolls do not promise this as anyone’s final state.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Desperate horns sound the retreat. Wounded and panicked soldiers fall back from their positions, trampling over those unable to get out of the way. The cracking voices and shrieks of pain mercifully muffle the crackling of broken bones.
The newborn mob struggles to flee. They become easy prey for the beasts at their backs. The weight presses bodies into walls, squeezes the life out of them. A shower of gore from those at the rear sprays over the rest in thick sheets of red.
Then, something overhead. The already dim light deepens further as a great shadow passes over the park. Downdrafts swirl the smoke, ripping a hole open to the sky.
A huge shape of armor and guns hangs overhead, as long as a battleship, with great turbines churning the air. A klaxon spins up within it. Then, a ripple of gunfire lights on its belly.
A shrieking chorus precedes the barrage that crawls across the ground, stitching a line of orange fire through the creatures and into the gate.
The soldiers below cannot hear their leader’s shouted commands. They do not need to. While the guns of the skyship above cycle in fresh shells, they turn back as one. Across a field of churned earth and scattered limbs, they advance.
King Julius Raelthorne watched the Khadoran vessels slowly move over Caspia. Even from a great distance, he could feel the punch of their cannons in his gut. Pillars of smoke grew from the streets wherever they flew.
It seemed the empress had gotten his message.
***
What makes the impossible possible? Perseverance? Desperation? Sheer force of will? While I see the impossible, I also see the possible, and when the two join, my visions can change without paradox or disparity. Stranger days may yet be probable.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
“What is this thing?” Aurora asked. The spherical machine dominated the heart of the Temple of the Incomplete Axiom, standing high as a house.
“About ten thousand crowns’ worth of parts and a few months of work,” Locke replied.
“Why would you build this? You couldn’t have known about Nemo or what I would do. I didn’t even know.”
Locke shrugged. “I’m a mechanik. I had to build something.”
“It looks — ”
“Cygnaran. I know. I had a supplier in Corvis for some components.”
“If this works, then what?” Aurora asked.
“Honestly, I was hoping you’d answer that one,” Locke said.
Aurora cradled Nemo’s soul vessel. “An ancient Iosan told me Nemo’s mind held a key.”
“Ooh, vague. That’s fun.”
“He said it would be our salvation.”
“Then I hope he was right. We could use salvation about now,” Locke said.
“I hope so, too.”
“Maybe Nemo knows somewhere safe. Or has a machine to fly over the Meredius, away from the infernals?” Locke asked.
Aurora didn’t respond, stared up at the great machine.
“Did you, uh, want to do the honors?”
Aurora hesitated. She’d wrenched Nemo’s mortal life away, denied him peace. When he awoke, how would he respond?
No. The time for doubt was past. It died on a cold metal slab in the final beat of Sebastian Nemo’s heart.
Aurora plunged the soul chamber into its waiting port.
Light sparked across the machine, dim but growing to brilliant blue. Static charge built, sparking off Aurora’s metal armor.
Bolts of lightning sprang from the machine to crawl along the interior of the dark temple.
In a voice like the discharge of a dozen storm chambers, Nemo spoke.
“I was. Dead. I have returned.”
“I’m sorry,” Aurora said. “There was no other way.”
Nemo’s mechanical eye fixed on her. “We. Must hurry. There is much to do.”
***
But even the noblest efforts can fail. Fabric woven from the strongest threads tears. The patchwork of western Immoren began to falter, giving blood, body, and soul in their defiant efforts. Yet light began to shine as the dimmest of stars burned brightly to offer hope.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
PART 3
***
“We have reaped the rewards of the Wicked Harvest. Our legions grow,” rasped Asphyxious. “What troubles thee, Ravenmane?”
Skarre swirled the warm blood in her scrying vessel. “Thamar can no longer hide her sin. And I have seen what comes next…”
“What does she mean, my lord?” asked Deneghra.
“She means our herd is threatened.”
“Aye,” said Skarre. “They will leave us nothing.”
“Surely they are no match for Toruk,” Deneghra said.
“No. Our Dragonfather will take time to heal,” the lich said. “Time we do not have.”
Deneghra paced. “Then what will we do? “
Asphyxious glided before Deneghra and caressed her cheek with an iron talon. “My dear, is it not obvious? We will save the nations of men.”
***
The crack of his weapons splitting the beast’s skull was satisfying. He relished the spray of its unnatural blood on the ochre sand.
This was a war without end. Xerxis found it immensely gratifying.
Despite recent setbacks in the Western Reaches, the skorne had found bounties of slaves and conflict. Many had become exalted in battle.
Not every foe was suited to bondage in the east. A pity, but one couldn’t have everything, could they?
A phalanx of Cataphracts to his right encircled one of this new foe’s great beasts. A creature of blood and bone, many limbed that spewed black blood from many wounds. Xerxis moved his mount to join them, gore dripping from Lamentor.
His first swing from atop Suruk splintered one of the thing’s talons. The beast retreated, but he moved after it. His next blow crushed its face like an earthen pot. The beast’s excuse for lifeblood seeped from the ruin of its skull.
One of the extollers, a soulward, approached him after the battle.
“Tyrant, I beg to speak,” the extoller said. Xerxis bade him continue with a gesture. “My attempts to claim the souls of worthy fallen have been stymied.”
“How so?” Xerxis asked.
“Their spirits do not linger. It is as if this new foe sups on them.”
A smile crossed Xerxis’ face. “Wonderful.”
At last. The skorne had found another way to escape the tortures of the Void.
***
Ashlynn didn’t want to believe what she was hearing. But the messenger, a nondescript traveler with a Llaelese accent who, she decided, had little reason to lie in an audience with her, seemed sincere and earnest.
“Cygnar and Khador,” he said again, “have allied.”
She couldn’t tell herself she was surprised. Furious, yes. Betrayed, yes. But she’d seen sufficient fickleness and self-serving self-preservation among the leaders of both countries that she was no longer taken aback by anything they might do. Especially at Llael’s expense.
“How did you come by this information?” she finally asked.
“Personal observation,” the messenger said, donning his hat as if the conversation were concluded and he was prepared to depart. “It was not unlike seeing a dragon with two heads.”
“Do they march this way?”
“I don’t believe so. Not at the moment, anyway. I think they are overwhelmed by the common enemy that seems to be descending upon all of us. They may yet seek you out to join them, of course.”
Ashlynn could hardly imagine the vulgarity she’d bring to rejecting any such offer, but this was not the moment to envision her rage if that happened. Instead, she needed to address the messenger’s other request: protected passage to Leryn.
“I can spare two fighters to get you there as thanks for the information,” she said, though even that stuck in her craw as two too many. “After that, you’re on your own, Mr. Kyle.”
The messenger nodded tiredly as he gathered up his baggage. “I often am, madam.”
***
In the days following Nemo’s clockwork transcendence, he learned what Aurora put aside to preserve his existence. The entire membership of the Convergence had torn down the middle following her escape.
Over half remained loyal to the Iron Mother. To them, Aurora was a traitor to their cause and betrayer of the Great Work. Others, mostly from smaller cells outside the inner circle, sought her out to join strength.
Nemo levitated above a mechanical orrery, one more celestial object among many. Below, inscribed lines depicted Immoren, with patches of light glowing at concentrations of opposing forces.
“She gathers at Henge Hold,” he said.
“Yes. Mother had engineers preparing a gateway for transport there. That site possesses a unique geomantic resonance she believes can expedite her plan.”
“That being?”
“To bring Cyriss to Caen,” she said.
Nemo’s mind whirled. “That is,” he paused, searching for the right word, “ambitious.”
“The initial tests were promising. The gate works. She’ll have it well-guarded for transport to the henge.”
“We require this device.”
“What are you planning?” Aurora asked, skeptical.
“Acquisition of the gate, if it truly works, represents the best possibility for survival.”
“Do you think her plan will work?”
“No. Not as she envisions it. Possibly an inversion would,” Nemo said.
“You want to take people through the gate,” she said.
Nemo rotated, studying the orrery. “Beyond it. But not just people. The void above is an unknown sea, which they cannot cross without a vessel.”
“How many people — ”
He cut her off. “All of them, if I could. Otherwise, as many as possible. Any resources you do not require to capture the gate must adapt your machines. Prepare your agents in other cities to guide refugees. This is the new Great Work.”
***
The world has become finite, but the ways it changes are infinite. Predictability is gone, as many have predicted. Expectations, however, still live on, even in the unexpected.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
“I do not have names,” Vayne di Brascio said. The gun mage and Marie Aguillon stood behind Ashlynn on one of the palace balconies overlooking the streets of Merywyn. She kept her back to them, as if she were scanning the city below for the deserters.
Marie glanced at Vayne, who simply shrugged. Ashlynn seemed to have become numb to ill tidings; she had said little to them about the alliance between Khador and Cygnar. Yet this news — that the military was secretly organizing flights from Llael — made her tremble with rage.
“We could stop them,” Marie offered, but Ashlynn held up a hand to silence her.
“Tell me the rest.” The Queen’s Blade bit each word as she spoke.
Vayne cleared his throat. “The rest, it is but a rumor. Still, it is believed by many.”
“The soldiers are taking our citizens to Henge Hold,” Marie cut in.
“In Cygnar,” Vayne said helpfully.
“And from there, the story is they’re leaving Immoren to be saved from this invasion.”
Vayne said, “But this is not confirmed, of course.”
Ashlynn turned to them; her face was composed, but her eyes burned. “It’s that old man. The hermit. He thinks he’s a shepherd of some sort, and he’s spreading fear to convince people to follow him.”
Vayne licked his lips and touched his magelock. “Do you want that I should find him?”
***
The city stood, but the land was dying. Every day, refugees came to Sul from forgotten villages across the Protectorate. They were the survivors. Far too many others had fallen.
Sovereign Tristan Durant tried to offer them hope, but his own had waned. Every day, infernal forces struck at Sul, testing the defenses in new ways. They assailed the walls and emerged within, aided by cells of cultists.
The land stunk from the burning dead. The tired, hungry, unwashed masses were given spears and told to fight if they could still stand. Outside, blazing columns of cavalry rode through the hordes, but fewer returned each night.
His mask was stifling. He pulled it free to face the desperate crowd below.
“Be joyful,” Tristan said, “for those we see to the other side did not die to the Enemy’s hunger, but their own. Their souls are intact, ready to journey to the City of Man.”
Sobs wracked mothers, orphans, widowers among the mob. Some clung to the hands of the gathered dead lining the street beneath the temple steps.
“We are abandoned,” a man cried out. A squad of exemplars dragged him from the mob for his heresy.
“We are not!” Tristan called over his cries. “Menoth has given us many gifts. Law, wall, sheaf, and flame. But above all these, his greatest gift to us is one another. There is no shadow that can overcome such light.”
He spread his arms to encompass all gathered. “Many feel alone, who live in such times as these. But we are not! Cling to one another, share the flame of your kindness and strength with one another. Together we are stronger than we are alone.”
Tristan spoke a benediction over the dead, thanking them for the lives they shared with those left behind. He encouraged their spirits to pass into the next world and closed with words thanking Menoth for the gift of life he bestowed.
As they hauled off the bodies for incineration, Tristan Durant saw his words had comforted some. They wiped away their tears, had some glimmer of hope.
He wished he could say the same about himself.
***
Khador’s arrival in Caspia gave them a chance. A few days later, barges filled with Rhulic mercenaries appeared on the Black River. Trollkin, ogrun, dwarves, and the armies of two kingdoms took to the streets of the great city, fighting against an endless tide.
From overhead, Cygnaran and Khadoran ships reduced whole blocks to ashes. The flying machines were potent tools, but they couldn’t be everywhere. By the time one appeared overhead in support, it was often too late to make a difference.
For every force they crushed, though, a fresh one rose to take its place. Magnus had faced the same leaders, the masters, multiple times. No matter how devastating the wounds he landed, the damn master appeared again.
His forces, a mix of mercenaries, Cygnarans, and trollkin, had merged with Strakhov’s assault kommandos. They fought their way to Castle Raelthorne street by street, cutting down infernals the whole way. Their losses were high; at each wall, Magnus kept a tally of the dead.
When they arrived at the castle gates, Strakhov pulled him aside.
“My Marauders can breach the gate. After that,” he spread his hands, “no more coal.”
“Get us in. Julius wouldn’t want them scuffing his floors, anyway.”
The Khadoran smiled and closed his eyes, instructing his warjacks. Magnus had his soldiers spread out to protect them. This wouldn’t be quiet.
“Ready,” Strakhov said.
“Prepare for an attack,” Magnus said. “A gallon of vyatka to the most kills.”
They did not have to wait long. The booming of the Marauders’ rams on the door drew infernals like flies to a corpse. Pale grievers swarmed into the forecourt, mouthlike orifices hungrily snapping the air.
“Volley fire,” Magnus shouted. He fired into the approaching swarm, blowing a griever to bloody meat.
Rifles cracked and grenades flew at the infernals. They returned by vomiting streams of corrosive, burning bile. Magnus’ soldiers died screaming.
When the smoke cleared, dozens of infernal creatures lay dead. The rest fell back in retreat.
“Almost through,” Strakhov called out.
About damn time, Magnus wanted to shout. But what he saw froze the words in his throat.
The grievers were the vanguard of a massive force comprised of humanoid howlers, robed figures, and enormous beasts that defied reason.
There were too many to count.
***
“Into the palace,” Magnus cried. He called up a mental map of the layout, trying to remember the fastest routes to the throne room. “Take the east stairwell beyond the barbican!”
The survivors rushed in. As a final barrier, Strakhov crashed his Marauders shoulder-to-shoulder in the door.
They moved through the strangely quiet castle interior, boots clattering against the pristine floors. A shrieking pack of nightmares came snapping at their heels.
Not everyone was fast enough to outpace them. Soldiers fell under trampling howlers. Trollkin turned to face the mob, buying the rest time with their heroic deaths. When Magnus finally entered the throne room and barred the door, they were down to platoon strength.
The door shuddered under a massive impact. Magnus backed up, leveling his scattergun. He could hear the scrape of talons on the other side.
“That won’t hold,” Strakhov said, priming his carbine.
The shriek of feral machines sounded beyond the door. It mixed with the cries of the infernals in a hellish chorus, driven by the beat of metal and flesh. The air began to stink of spilled blood, hot metal, and choking fumes.
Magnus waited after the sounds faded before peering into the hall. Infernal corpses littered the floor, their foul blood staining the royal tapestries. They had been ripped apart.
“Guard this room,” Magnus said. Lt. Harcourt moved to comply. Magnus and Strakhov stalked out, weapons ready, to the nearest window.
In the city below, green lights glowed. Dozens of bonejacks and helljacks, accompanied by reeking mobs of thralls, flowed through the streets.
Impossibly, the Cryxians seemed to be turning the tide. The undead drove the vast infernal horde back, cutting it off at dead-end streets. Though the Cryxians suffered immense losses, it seemed they were winning the battle of attrition.
“The souls,” Magnus whispered.
“The dead are starving them,” Strakhov said. “They cannot consume something that isn’t there.”
Two shapes swooped into view. A dark king, accompanied by his black princess, riding on wings of shadow and a rotting leviathan of flesh and metal.
Asphyxious and Deneghra, on high, showered magic down on their infernal targets.
Strakhov grinned. “We need to get word to Irusk and Grundback. Cryx has given us a chance to drive these things from Caspia. Let’s not let it go to waste.”
***
Asphyxious descended, a dark guardian angel, toward the awestruck mortal throng. If he had the flesh to smile, he couldn’t have concealed his pleasure. With a sweep of his blade, he gestured across a sea of red- and blue-garbed soldiers.
“Be not afraid,” Asphyxious said, his voice booming across the Caspian square, “for I am merciful.”
Several haggard warcasters approached. Asphyxious recognized old rivals he’d faced time and again. Irusk was there. Old Asheth Magnus. They were wary. The weight of Cryxians behind him, his mob of hissing thralls and ’jacks, was hard to ignore.
“Why?” was Irusk’s only word.
Asphyxious regarded him with a baleful eye. “Art thou lost? Thine empress must be worried.”
“Why?” The warcaster repeated, more forcefully.
Magnus lit a match and lifted it to a cigar. “It’s a ploy. Has to be.”
“Nay, not a ploy nor a plot. An act of pity. A pledge to the scrabbling mortals,” Asphyxious said, “that all creatures infernal shall perish at our soulless command. Humanity has a new savior this day.”
Magnus stepped forward now, his good eye boring into Asphyxious’ own. Clouds of blue cigar smoke leaked from his mouth.
“You forgot someone,” he growled. The mercenary showed no hesitation or fear as he faced off against the lich lord.
“What is thy meaning?”
“You aren’t all soulless.” Magnus tapped on Asphyxious’ black iron frame with his own mechanikal hand. “It might not be in here. But it’s somewhere. Maybe somewhere hard to find. But after today, they’ll be looking.”
***
Days wound into weeks, weeks spun into months, and the tides of battle ebbed and flowed across the Iron Kingdoms. Like the rebellion that shaped this land, alliances between unlikely parties were needed to keep the spark of hope glowing.
Living and dead fought together against the infernals. Blackclads struggled to keep their wilds. My people struck bargains with our bitter rivals. For a time, at least, it seemed as if there might be a chance to hold back the darkness.
— Hermit of Henge Hold
***
Her closest allies were gone, and Ashlynn was alone.
She had sent Marie Aguillon and Vayne di Brascio to do work she no longer felt she could trust to even her highest-ranking officers: halt the military support of turning the citizens of Llael into refugees.
Barring that, they were commanded to get every Llaelese soul to safety.
Including themselves.
It was tempting to allow Vayne to seek out this so-called Hermit who was the voice of doom and gloom all across western Immoren and then bring the old man’s visions to a bloody halt.
I bet you wouldn’t see that one coming, she thought.
But ultimately, she knew it would be killing a prophet for daring to prophesize. It wasn’t the Hermit’s words that were driving even the most patriotic zealots to flee their homelands; it was the gibbering, slavering monstrosities descending upon them doing this.
Now the palace was painfully quiet as she made her way to the queen’s throne room. The normal bustle of the domestics and the royal guards had been reduced to a quivering silence of isolated soldiers, those who were either too devoted or too afraid to leave their posts.
As she ascended the stairwell, she heard a sound from the gates: the snarling of starving horrors that could smell souls within. They were fearless, without caution, and whenever they breached the walls they were destroyed — but not before taking souls of soldiers with them.
When she entered the throne room, she knew instantly that Kaetlyn de la Martyn could hear those infernal nightmares as well: the tears on the young queen’s cheeks spoke to her fatalism.
“My Queen,” Ashlynn said softly, “I’m afraid it’s time.”
“What you mean is ‘there IS time,’” Kaetlyn answered. “We’ve nowhere else to be.”
Ashlynn shook her head. “We… You do. Someplace safe. The military is leading our people to Henge Hold. From there, they travel beyond the reach of the monsters.”
“I’ve heard this flight of fancy already. It’s likely a Protectorate plot or a Skorne trick.”
“If — ”
“I will not leave our land.” Kaetlyn tightened her grip on the arms of her throne as if Ashlynn meant to pry her from the seat. “I trust your soul and mine feel the same.”
“Where the queen goes, so goes the Queen’s Blade,” Ashlynn said. She almost smiled; she imagined she sounded like Vayne. “At least that would be my assumption. I am as new to this as you are.”
“Then we are together?”
Ashlynn nodded. “Of course, my Queen. Until the end.”
The queen sighed. “Why must everything always be life or death?”
“Because,” Ashlynn answered, “that’s all there ever is.”
“Is that truly what you believe?” The queen’s eyes watered more. “When was the last time you felt happiness, my Blade? Or honestly enjoyed life?”
Ashlynn drew her estoc — the two-handed sword her father had called Almace that she had renamed Revanche — and held it up to inspect it. The howls of monsters, and men made into monsters, echoed up from the palace gates. She looked at her queen.
“Just now,” she said.
***
The proud Army of the Western Reaches gathered at the boundary of Ios. Rank and file stood in perfect position, framed blocks of Cataphract and praetorian. The warbeasts remained still, yoked under the will of their masters.
It was a gathering enough to make the Iosans tremble in their white fortress. Many thousands would be proud to die at Makeda’s command, to hurl themselves against the Iosans in a wave of flesh and blade.
But the Supreme Archdomina stood under a banner of peace.
An Iosan host rode out from the fortress on horseback.
“It is Incissar Vyros,” said the Iosan slave who stood beside her. He was a prize plucked from Makeda’s aborted war with the Iosans who was now her translator. “The leader of the Dawnguard.”
Makeda’s warriors made way for the Iosans. They remained wary, hands on their great swords, as they approached.
The slave spoke. Makeda understood the language, but wanted her counterpart to hear her words in his own tongue.
“Supreme Archdomina Makeda of the Skorne Empire offers you safety for this council,” the slave said.
“Has she not lost enough soldiers fighting us?” Vyros asked dryly. “Or does she come seeking our mercy?”
The Incissar regarded her with his remaining eye.
“Tell him that the Skorne Empire comes with a proposal,” she said. While her slave translated, she studied Vyros, judging him by his posture. A skilled fighter, no doubt, but he bore himself with a weariness that betrayed long days fighting against their new, mutual foe.
“Here to beg the release of skorne prisoners? Tell her she’s too late. They’re long dead.”
She chose her next words carefully. They needed to guide the Iosan toward her desired end but not reveal her true objectives. The translator slowly conveyed her message.
The slave began. “Spirits of the void walk the world, indiscriminate in their hunger. They are within our western holdings and, we assume, among your own. We have spilled much of each other’s blood, but it was the blood of the living. Not the filth of these beasts.”
“Does she ask to shelter within Ios? Never,” Vyros said.
“Makeda asks this: allow the Army of the Western Reaches to fight with your people. Let her join her strength to yours, so there might be enough survivors on both sides to one day resume our honorable conflict.”
Vyros scowled. “Utter nonsense,” he said.
Makeda instructed her slave. Her words shocked the Iosan, made him stammer.
“Makeda, uh, offers this token as a sign of her worthy intent,” he said.
She gestured, and the lines of praetorians parted.
Taskmasters led chains of captive Iosans through the gaps. They stared at the distant fortress with longing.
“All the spoils of our war, returned to your control,” her translator said. Though he didn’t say such, the enslaved speaker looked at Vyros in desperation.
Vyros rubbed his chin. “And if I refuse?”
Makeda replied. The translator’s throat bobbed as he gulped.
“She says that, in light of this new foe, caring for so many slaves is impossible and she would have to dispose of them.”
Makeda leaned back and spread her hands. In the Iosan tongue, she spoke for herself.
“Do we have an agreement?”
***
Asphyxious took great pleasure in the moment of his foe’s demise. Through his helljacks’ bond, he could feel the pulverized flesh of infernals and cultists give way beneath their talons. He could see the fractured spirit blow from the bodies like smoke.
From Caspia west into Ord, the lich lord was a smiting angel against the infernals. The living could only follow his trail like scavenging dogs, witnessing his growing tally of victories,
Deneghra flew her necrotic beast down to join him.
“What news, witch?”
She gestured west. “These were scouts for a larger group outside Tarna.”
“How fares Skarre?”
“Ravenmane has ships on the Dragon’s Tongue. They’re ready to provide fire support and reinforcement.”
“Let us not keep our foes in abeyance,” Asphyxious said. To his skarlock Vociferon, he gave the order for his thralls to clean up the stragglers, and he brought his helljacks to his side.
Another victory awaited him.
He marched on Tarna through a blasted land. Bodies of the infernals’ victims littered the countryside, overripe fruits of a forgotten harvest. Shells of towns on the road stood empty. Ordic and Crucible warjacks inert wrecks, their controllers long dead.
What fools these mortals be, he thought. The living had no hope of victory against such a foe. Only one as perfect as he could dream of triumph.
As he approached the city, the full scale of the infernal force unfolded before him.
Their presence darkened the world, muting its color and light to a dull gray. They clawed and scrambled at Tarna’s walls. Above, a priest exhorted the city guard to keep fighting, while two glowing avatars of Morrow battered the beasts like lantern-drunk moths.
Asphyxious spotted his target at the heart of the infernals. A living tower of flesh wreathed in smoke. One of their masters, a looming figure clad in black iron. At its silent gesture, the whole army of infernals surged against Tarna’s defenses.
Here was his prize. Let the infernals face the might of an unliving god.
Asphyxious and his helljacks charged into the infernals. His machines trampled forward to clear him a bloody path. Any creatures that survived the onslaught met their end at Daimonion’s edge.
He did not wait for Ravenmane’s cannons or Deneghra and their army of thralls. He would seize this victory by his own iron claws.
The headlong charge brought him and the master together.
“Turn and face thy destruction,” he shouted, “for thou confronts a lich lord of the Dragonfather!”
One of the infernal master’s oversized flails lashed out, bursting his power field and smashing Asphyxious back.
Deneghra flew at Tarna, high above the battlefield. She watched in mute horror as below an enormous infernal launched an assault against Asphyxious. The lich lord retaliated with an onslaught of dark magic, with his helljacks and his blade, but the infernal gave no ground.
She dove to give aid as the infernal’s flail caught Asphyxious’ dented frame. Pieces shattered off his body. Another strike and his bleached skull was ripped free. A final blow, and the infernal pulverized the lich lord’s body to scrap.
Asphyxious’ helljacks went inert.
