The Butcher of Khardov

by Dan Wells

  The thief whistled softly. “You’re big as a house, you are, with more scars than an orphan slave. You stuck somebody bigger than a serving girl, that much is obvious, and probably plenty of them, too. Dockside brawler? Smash and grab man? Or an enforcer, maybe, breaking any heads the boss says to break.”

  Orsus said nothing. He’d never liked talking to criminals, even when he’d been one, but now . . . now he felt lower and dirtier than them all, than even this rat-faced ruin leering eagerly from the shadows. His entire life—his place in the world, his very comprehension of it—lay in shards and tatters. They were ashes tossed and scattered into nothing. Even this wretch was more worthy than he was, for he had not fallen from so high a place.

  “Oh come on,” said the thief, “we’re cell mates now, that’s a bond thick as blood. You can talk to me. I’m the last face you’ll ever see, because the hangman wears a mask. Well, me and Queen Ayn. Quite a company to be in.” He grinned lasciviously. “That’s a mouth I’d like to touch before I die.”

  Orsus curled his hands into tense, iron fists, wishing he could access his magic and flay this man’s flesh from his bones. The runic shackles on his wrists and ankles prevented even that.

  “Pretty thing they say she is,” said the thief. “Might be worth a run for it—”

  “I killed a village,” said Orsus, too incensed to hear another word of the man’s confession. If the murderer wanted Orsus to talk, by Menoth he’d give him the darkest words in the world.

  The thief started, eyes wide. “What?”

  “An entire village,” said Orsus, his deep voice rumbling through the dungeon cell like a distant earthquake. “All of them, even the soldiers who tried to stop me. Every living one killed with axe and boot and tooth.” He parted his lips in a humorless smile, and the thief pressed himself tightly against the wall. “Gone.”

  “Surely you . . .” The thief swallowed. “Surely you’re exaggerating?”

  “I cut their throats and broke their bones,” said Orsus, reveling in the man’s terror, “and when their bodies stopped moving I tore down their houses and burned away footsteps until the land was bleak and bare.”

  The thief’s face was even whiter now, that of a pallid ghost streaked black with grime. “You’re the bloody Butcher,” he whispered, and Orsus fell silent again. Word traveled fast, it seemed. He had heard that word before.

  No longer a kommander, but a butcher. The Butcher.

  All sport drained from his torment of the thief, and Orsus sunk deep within his thoughts. The criminal, at least, was too scared to speak again, but even that was cold comfort, for in the silence Orsus could hear the cries of a hundred dying women, a thousand, a host so great he would hear nothing else forever.

  The cell was full of them, even when he closed his eyes. Accusing and crying and asking where he’d been. He sat still and stared ahead and tried to think of nothing.

  He thought of his life, and it was the same.

  When the guards came for his final judgment, they brought guns first, a regiment arrayed against him in the hallway beyond the bars, ready to riddle him with bullets at the first sign of trouble. Kommandant Frolova was there, augmenting the weapons with magic until the air seemed to crackle with unseen power. I could make my flesh like iron and charge into their center, Orsus thought, using the close quarters to make them slaughter each other in crossfire. But he would not attack them. Strip away his titles and he was nothing more than a killer—a madman, some said, and the throngs of wailing, burning women screamed their agreement at his back. He was a rabid dog, and he would be put down. Whatever small part of him retained its honor prevented him from stopping it.

  He was already in manacles, but they wrapped him further in heavy links of fat black chain. They led him to the yard outside, where his escort was bolstered by Man-O-War shocktroops and Widowmaker snipers perched high on the walls.

  Pull left to off-balance the armor, he thought, then right to use their reaction momentum against them. Stay close to the Man-O-Wars for cover and use their weapon strikes to split the chains. As soon as my arms are free I’ll steal the nearest weapon and slaughter them to a man—

  The thoughts leaped up unbidden, the dance of death forever in his thoughts. A puzzle box of tactics and violence, a seamless blend of mind and muscle. She was right about me, he thought. I will always be a monster.

  A Kodiak loomed over him—one of his own, though the pass codes had been changed. He could touch its mind, but he could not control it. He was in the same training yard he’d arrived in, years ago when he’d emerged from the wilderness after years of aimless wandering. He’d tried to run from her, but she was a part of him, and no matter how hard he’d tried he could never run away from himself. Korsk had been his last chance—a new life to atone for his sins, outlive them, or forget them. He had failed all three.

  Kommandant Frolova stood before him, his eyes weary. “I will tell you bluntly that we expected more resistance,” said the kommandant. “Even here, surrounded by this escort, you could fight us; you could not win, but you could perhaps get lucky. The Orsus Zoktavir I know would have fought us to his dying breath, and even after.” He considered Orsus a moment. “Why?”

  Why? thought Orsus. Because I can never be free. Because the only way to save her was to become the kind of man she couldn’t love. That’s all I ever wanted—her safety and her love—but no matter which I gained I was doomed to lose the other.

  And then I chose love, and she died for it.

  I’m not resisting this death because I already died, years ago, with her shattered body hanging lifeless in my arms.

  Orsus’ mind was a tortured wound, but his secrets were not for this man or any other. He stood straighter. “There is nothing more important than loyalty,” he said. “If I am a traitor to Khador, then it is my duty to see myself destroyed.”

  Aleksei stood next to Frolova, his severed head in his hands. “Loyalty.” The word dripped from the stump of his neck like blood. “They don’t understand it at all.”

  Neither do I, thought Orsus.

  The head leered. “Tell me about it.”

  Frolova nodded, though his face was impossible to read. “You will be judged by the queen herself. May Menoth show you the mercy you never showed any other.” He stepped back, gave the order, and fell in line with the escort as it marched solemnly toward the end. Orsus shuffled slowly in his chains, passing guard after guard, ’jack after ’jack, field guns and Widowmakers and the cold dead eyes of a thousand ghostly accusers. He walked through the palace gates, in the wide front doors, through the marbled halls to the throne room. The corridor was lined with soldiers, hand cannons at the ready, and behind each one stood the battered body of a woman he’d failed to save. He searched their faces, but he never found her.

  She was inside, seated on the great golden throne.

  He fell to his knees at the sight of her, resplendent in white and gold, silk and satin, a crown upon her brow and a scepter in her hand. She watched him impassively, never rising, never moving. The Man-O-Wars had to drag him toward her, and he hid his face in shame.

  It was not the queen, but Lola.

  “Where were you?” Lola’s voiced boomed through the crowded hall, the accusation thick with betrayal. “Why didn’t you come for me? Why didn’t you save me?”

  “I couldn’t,” he sobbed, “I did everything in my power, but I couldn’t save you!”

  Lola and the queen stood side by side, speaking in unison. “You destroyed those people.”

  “They were traitors.”

  “You didn’t ask me which people.”

  “They were all traitors!” he shouted. “Everyone I’ve ever killed, I’ve killed for you, and I have given my life to destroy them but it’s never enough! I will never. Be. Free.”

  The young queen studied him, black hair lightly brushing her ears. She cocked her head the way she used to, the way Lola used to, and her voice was soft and subtle as an assassin’s dagger, damnin
g him no matter how he answered.

  “And would you kill more?”

  He was trapped more tightly by those words than by the manacles, chains, rifles, cannons, and steam-powered armor. If he said no then he was a liar and a coward, useless as a warrior and admitting, by implication, that his actions had been wrong. They had been brutal, and perhaps even illegal, but they had not been wrong. And yet if he said yes he was a monster, the Butcher of Khardov, the man who lived for death. He could never save her before, and he could not appease her now.

  Better an honest monster, he thought and whispered his own foul condemnation. “Yes.”

  “You would?”

  “I would kill everyone who threatens you,” he said. He rose to his knees, chains clanking at his sides. “I would find every enemy, root out every traitor, anticipate every foe in all the world who dares to think for half a second about the ending of your life.” He stood tall now, the soldiers around him tense, the target of a hundred aimed and readied rifles. “Though you despise me for it, I will kill your enemies. Free me and I will do it again. Accuse me and I will confess. Execute me, and I will rise from the grave to kill your enemies, over and over.” His voice was a roar now, filling the room like thunder. “I lost you once, and I will damn myself a thousand times before I lose you again.”

  Lola stood, her scepter ready for the sign of final sentence, but instead of judging him she walked forward, her gown shimmering in the gas lamps. She passed through the clustered soldiers and the guards and the rifles and the steel, and she stepped into the circle of armored Man-O-War soldiers, past the outstretched chains. Orsus kneeled before her, his head bowed, his eyes wet with tears, his neck bared for the fall of an executioner’s axe.

  She touched his chin.

  He lifted his eyes again and the golden crown was gone, replaced with a simple ring of chamomile. She wore a homespun dress, and instead of a royal scepter she held a simple hand-carved puzzle box. The image blurred in his tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “Then serve me.”

  “What would you have me do?”

  The queen’s red lips parted, and she spoke the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard. “Kill for me.”

  The throne room filled with whispers, shocked voices murmuring back and forth in a torrent of gossip and speculation, but Orsus ignored them all, lost in rapture, his paradox solved. His impossible dream come true.

  “Remove his chains,” the queen commanded. “This prisoner is more loyal than any man here, and he will serve me, and his actions will be a sign to the world that disloyalty will not be tolerated. Infidelity will be punished. Treachery, if anyone is so foolish as to consider it, will be met by my servant as he met it near Boarsgate: with massacre.”

  The chains fell from Orsus’ body, and he stood tall beside the fierce, majestic queen. She smiled at him, and his shame was gone. His madness fled. He would serve this woman with every breath left to him.

  Lola stood beside the queen and opened her mouth to speak.

  Orsus ran through the forest madly, crashing through trees and sticks and branches, hot on the heels of . . . what? He couldn’t remember. A deer, he thought, or a wolf. He’d been running so long he’d forgotten. It was almost dark, and the snow and the sky had melded into the same featureless grey, scarred by dark-black trees devoid of life. It was all he could see for miles. It was all he’d seen for days.

  He’d been in the wilderness for years, long enough to forget human speech and human voices.

  All voices but one.

  “Orsus!”

  It was angry yet sad, pained yet damning, lost yet beckoning. It came from everywhere and nowhere.

  Had he been running toward that voice, or away from it?

  “Orsus, where were you?”

  He screamed back, bestial and inarticulate. The dead trees ignored him, and the sound died echoless and lost.

  “Orsus . . .”

  He ran.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Dan Wells has written many books, including the psychological horror series I AM NOT A SERIAL KILLER and the post-apocalyptic SF series PARTIALS. He has been nominated for the Campbell Award and three Hugos, and his podcast Writing Excuses is a two-time winner of the Parsec Award. He currently lives with his wife and five children in Germany, where he is slowly painting armies for both Khador and Retribution. He plays a lot of games, reads a lot of books, and eats a lot of food, which is pretty much the ideal life he imagined for himself as a child.

  You can find Dan online at TheDanWells.com or follow him on Twitter: @TheDanWells.

  GLOSSARY

  Arktus: An obsolete Khadoran warjack chassis that served as the conceptual precursor to the Kodiak.

  bayan: A Khadoran instrument similar to an accordion.

  Boarsgate: A major Ordic fortress in the Murata Hills protecting that kingdom’s northern border.

  border legion: One of five legions in the Khadoran Army assigned to protect a section of the kingdom’s borders and interior.

  bratya: A criminal fraternity in Khador, most often being a small tight-knit gang but sometimes evolving into a larger organization. Bratyas are pervasive in Khador’s labor prisons but also in the criminal underworld of most major cities and townships. Most bratyas answer to and are employed by a kayaz.

  cortex: A highly arcane mechanikal device that gives a steamjack its limited intelligence. Over time cortexes can learn from experience and develop personality quirks.

  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.

  Devastator: A particularly heavily armored Khadoran warjack chassis capable of enduring tremendous punishment if its shield fists are closed to protect its more vulnerable central frame.

  Deshevek: A small southern Khadoran village located closest to the Ordic fortress of Boarsgate, known primarily for the Boarsgate Massacre of 587 AR.

  Giving Day: A popular holiday taking place on the last day of the year across the Iron Kingdoms noted for festivals, family gatherings, and the exchange of small gifts. The nature of this holiday varies from region to region. While begun as a Morrowan tradition it has spread to other communities. Menites of the Khadoran Old Faith use this time to also contribute their tithe the local temple.

  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.

  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.

  Hedrinya: A small Khadoran village located amid the foothills of mountains near the Neves River in the Scarsfell Forest.

  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.

  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.

  ’jack: See steamjack.

  ’jack marshal: A person who has learned how to give precise verbal orders to a steamjack to direct it in conducting labor or battle. 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.

  Juggernaut: A staple Khadoran warjack chassis, the basic frame of which is utilized by the largest number of Khador’s active warjacks. It is armed with one open fist and an ice axe.

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

  kareyshka: A lively Khadoran folk dance particularly popular in rural areas. The dance varies considerably from one region to another.

  kayaz/kayazy: Translated as “merchant princes,” a privileged class of commoners in Khador with considerable wealth and influence. Various kayazy control many aspects of the Khadoran economy, including legitimate industry but also criminal enterprises. Kayazy employ bratyas to distance themselves from criminal activity.

  Khardov: An industrial city in western Khador that is also a major hub of the Khadoran railway.

  Kodiak: A sophisticated and versatile Khadoran warjack chassis employing an advanced military grade cortex and a heavy boiler engine to enable it to maneuver ably in even difficult terrain.

  kommandant: A military rank for a senior commissioned officer in the Khadoran Army, ranking above kommandant and below supreme kommandant. Supreme kommandants are the highest active military rank, reporting to the premier of the army.

  kommander: A military rank for a senior commissioned officer in the Khadoran Army, ranking above kovnik and below kommandant. Most Khadoran warcasters are kommanders.

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

  Kossite: Descendants of the ancient kingdom of Kos, now a major ethnicity of the Kingdom of Khador and most numerous in its northwestern region Many Kossites are valued as expert woodsmen and serve as irregulars alongside the Khadoran Army to fulfill their conscription obligations.

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

  Korsk: The capital of Khador and the nation’s largest city, located on the eastern shore of Great Zerutsk Lake occupying the lands between Great Zerutsk, Shattered Shield Lake, and Lake Volningrad.

  Laika: An old but durable Khadoran laborjack chassis that is no longer manufactured.

  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.