Exiles in Arms: Night of the Necrotech

by Werner, C. L.

  EXILES IN ARMS:

  NIGHT OF THE NECROTECH

  C. L. WERNER

  Cover by

  NÉSTOR OSSANDÓN

  CONTENTS

  WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  EPILOGUE

  GLOSSARY

  WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  MAP

  PROLOGUE

  Fog from the Bay of Stone smothered the wooden piers, reducing the lights from Captain’s Isle across King’s Finger Channel to an indistinct glow in the darkness, a phantom blaze on the distant horizon. Even at this late hour there was life on the main island; the taverns and gambling halls were more active by night than by day. The big island was never quiet.

  It was far different on Dicer’s Isle, a collection of squalid drinking holes, shadowed alleys, and rundown buildings. Here the pulse of activity waned as the night deepened and the gathering darkness drove the denizens of the island to whatever shelter they could afford. Cutpurses, burglars, muggers, and footpads all prowled the shadows, watching for opportunities to add black pennies to their pockets or notches to their blades.

  On the Doleth Docks
, stevedores and sailors had quit their labors with the sun’s retreat. Those with coin had withdrawn to the stewpots lining Privateer Lane on the cliff above the docks. Those without had slunk away to parts unknown or into the holds of their vessels to seek refuge in sleep. An abnormal tranquility settled over the docks, a sharp contrast to the noise and bustle of the day. Only the creaking of timber and the snap of rigging stirred the quiet.

  Men in heavy boots clomped down the easternmost pier, a long finger of planks and timber called Grimbold’s Gamble after the merchant who’d built it two hundred years earlier. Lamps at intervals of forty yards briefly illuminated the figures: a company of mercenary guards in grimy leather armor. Each man wore a bright red band around his arm and carried a heavy cudgel. Hirelings of the merchant combines who owned the pier, the men were expected to subdue malcontents with their bludgeons before resorting to more lethal tactics. A live thief or smuggler was a commodity, grist to feed the mill of justice in Five Fingers. A dead man was only more garbage to be hauled away.

  The men who watched the guards from the belly of a small fishing boat knew the type of justice the mercenaries would dole out. The prospect of being dragged before the courts was to be avoided at all costs. Their orders didn’t allow for answering a magistrate’s questions.

  As soon as the sound of boots on wood faded, the men concealed in the fishing boat climbed out and onto the walkway. Each was dressed in a black tunic and breeches, the cotton soaked in oil to waterproof it. Their oiled-leather shoes made their progress nearly soundless as they stole down the dock.

  The big merchantman moored near the end of the pier was their objective, a hulking clipper of Cygnaran design. The ship had arrived three days before, and its cargo of timber and grain had been unloaded. Now it was waiting while its captain tried to secure fresh cargo. It was common practice for merchants to haggle with independent captains for days, playing upon the loss of tide and time to induce more favorable terms. As many a captain had learned, pirates were as ruthless in port as they were at sea.

  The gang from the fishing boat had different ideas about why the clipper remained in Five Fingers. There were incongruities about the cargo that had been unloaded, questions that had stirred suspicions in certain quarters. Proved, those suspicions would present certain opportunities. To that end, they needed proof.

  Without a sound the men caught hold of the ropes tethering the Black Anne to the pier and scrambled up and onto the deck. The lone sentry, a sailor more interested in the tobacco in his pipe than in his duty, failed to notice the intruders creeping across the deck. The crack of a blackjack against his skull ensured he wouldn’t notice anything for hours to come.

  “The forward hold,” the leader whispered, gesturing with a grease-blackened hand at the covered hatch. Two of his fellows hurried forward to loosen the bolts that held the cover in place.

  Cautiously, the gang descended into the hold, small metal lanterns hooked to their belts lighting the way. The last to climb down slid the hatch cover partly back into place—anyone discovering the unconscious sentry might think the sailor had simply fallen asleep, but an open hatch would certainly indicate something was amiss.

  The hold should have been empty. Instead, it was packed with crates and boxes. The gang prowled between the stacked crates, inspecting each for some mark that might indicate the nature of its contents. The boxes bore no mark or sign. As the men moved deeper into the hold, they could smell a musty, unpleasant odor.

  Some of them turned anxiously to their leader. Each man suspected what would come next, but he wanted the decision to be made by someone else. There was an air of nebulous dread in the dark hold.

  “Open it,” the gang chief said, gesturing with a drawn pistol at one of the crates. Without a word, his men removed iron bars from beneath their tunics and went to work.

  The screeching sound of nails being wrenched from wood occasionally interrupted the silence, and each time the men glanced up at the hatch with worried faces. They quickly finished their task and leaned the front panel of the crate against the side of a neighboring box. The odor was stronger now; it was magnified along with a stinging, sulfuric reek. The gang chief stepped forward to shine his lantern into the crate, revealing the merchandise they had come to find.

  The gang knew some sort of contraband was in the hold, as any lawful goods would have been unloaded with the timber and grain. Never had they imagined the crates held such a horror as they looked upon now. The source of the sharp odor dominating the hold was revealed.

  The thing in the crate would have been taller than a man but for its hunched, squat construction. Two legs of steel and bone supported a barrel-shaped metal torso from which protruded a set of monstrous skeletal jaws. Razor-sharp, tusk-like teeth, bolted directly to the bone, lined the thing’s maw. A chaotic array of pipes and tubes snaked from the head back into the steel body. A ridge of exhaust pipes, like the dorsal fins of some oceanic beast, sprouted from the rear of the horror’s hull. Great talons of steel-plated bone tipped each of its feet, and a faint green luminance smoldered behind the grated vent in its belly.

  Each man stared at the thing in mute terror. They recognized that ghastly glow, knew it from tavern tales and ghost stories, from the shuddersome recollections of war veterans, and from the dour warnings of aged priests.

  “Open the others,” the chief said, his voice hoarse. His gang first stared at him with fear-filled eyes but then moved to obey. As they pried open the other crates, none of the men noticed a stirring in the darkness between the crates behind them. None of them saw what was watching them from the shadows with malicious fascination.

  The gang had opened four crates, each containing another of the alarming mechanical horrors. As they were opening a fifth, the stench in the hold became still more oppressive. The air became sour, foul, defiled in some fashion. Several of the men covered their mouths, gagging.

  The sinister amalgamations of steel and bone suddenly changed, and the faint, smoldering gleam in their bellies burst into a full gibbous brilliance. A thin wail rose from each machine’s furnace. Before the men could react, the awakened bonejacks scrambled from their boxes.

  Three of the gang were cut down immediately, torn to ribbons by the snapping jaws of the abominations. A fourth man was hurled to the ground when the crate he and his fellows had been prying open exploded in a shower of splinters. The bonejack within leaped atop him and brought a clawed foot slamming down to pulverize his legs. Blood streamed from ruptured flesh, spraying the monster’s hull with crimson. The bonejack ripped at the man pinned beneath it, tearing strips of meat from his body and eliciting piercing shrieks of pain and terror.

  Only the gang’s chief, who had avoided direct contact with the crates, was afforded a chance to flee. He did not hesitate; to linger even a moment would have been to squander the opportunity fate had given him. He fled back across the hold, retreating toward the hatch as he tried to ignore the screams behind him.

  Halfway up the ladder, the chief could not resist one look back. The sight of one of his men’s thrashing body in the jaws of a bonejack was horrifying, but the spiderlike monstrosity scuttling from the shadows to inspect the bonejack’s victim was more than the chief could stand. He stopped, leveled his pistol at the horror—a terrifying amalgamation of rotting corpse and dread mechanika—and fired. His aim was true, and the bullet struck the creature’s chest. A thick, filthy liquid bubbled from the wound, and the creature pressed a bony talon to the hole. It turned and regarded him through the tinted lenses that covered its eyes, its skeletal face split in a ghastly smile.

  The gang chief threw open the hatch and started to scramble onto the Black Anne’s deck. Instead of a making a mad dash to freedom, he found himself staring into the barrel of a gun. The man behind that gun was lean and wolfish, his clothing well cut and elaborately embellished. He wore soft grey breeches, and his grey frock coat shone with rich embroidery, the silver thread outlining maritime shapes that flowed up to a luxurio
us fur collar. Rubies glittered from the beveled neck of his sharkskin boots, and gold chains lay atop his silken shirt and vest. The gunman smiled when he saw that his victim recognized him.

  “Lorca,” the chief said, fairly spitting the name.

  The gunman’s eyes glittered like chips of ice. “Aren’t you glad you found what you were looking for?” He discharged the pistol into the gang chief’s face and kicked the twitching body back into the hold.

  Lorca imagined his friends below would appreciate something to play with.

  CHAPTER I

  The street was properly known as Tordoran Way. In ages past, it had entertained pretensions of grandeur, even displaying a line of iron lampposts along most of its length. Jewelers and gem-setters of the best caliber had congregated here, the concentration of wares and services throwing the neighborhood into such prominence that no wealthy visitor to Five Fingers would imagine leaving the city without at least once making a pilgrimage to Tordoran Way. As the fame of the area spread, sculptors, painters, and other craftsmen of artistic mind were drawn to it. Soon, a thriving artist’s colony had grown up around the street.

  Such a concentration of prosperity drew many greedy, envious eyes. First the pickpockets and cutpurses came, jackals who fleeced the wealthy clientele. After the scavengers came the gangs who preyed upon the shops themselves, hijacking shipments and robbing merchants. Finally, as the reputation of the neighborhood blackened, the racketeers arrived, promising protection in exchange for a percentage from each business. Such evolution from prosperity to extortion was the unwritten law in Five Fingers. The arrival of the racketeers should have brought with it a measure of badly needed security and stability. Unfortunately, Tordoran Way had grown too fast and become too lucrative by that time. The high captains, masters of the city’s criminal underworld, all coveted the street. None of them would compromise, and the result was months of gang warfare.