Unleashed legends blood.., p.1
Unleashed Legends: Blood in the Water, page 1
UNLEASHED LEGENDS:
BLOOD IN THE WATER
AERYN RUDEL
Cover by
Néstor Ossandón
CONTENTS
MAP
WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS
608 AR, THE CLOUTSDOWN FEN
EPILOGUE
MAP
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!
608 AR,
THE CLOUTSDOWN FEN
Alfric pulled on the rope jutting from the murky water, smiling at the firm resistance. The crayfish trap rose to the surface, its cylindrical wicker basket squirming with the slick gray carapaces of marsh crayfish. Alfric grabbed the trap and upended it into the basin set into the middle of his raft. The basin was already half-full, and he’d only checked four traps. His father would be happy—he’d just started letting Alfric bait the traps himself and set them where he thought they’d bring in the best catch. A good catch showed Alfric had learned his trade well.
He baited the empty trap and tossed it back into the water, and then poled the raft along one of the many narrow waterways running though the Cloutsdown Fen toward his next trap. A piece of red ribbon affixed to a stake sunk into the peat bank told him where it had been set.
The fen was quiet and cold, a vast expanse of brown sedge grass and mud and peat islands crisscrossed with ribbons of dark water. Tall, straight conifers jutted from the morass here and there. Many had died, and their trunks stretched up from the water like skeletal fingers. In many ways, the swamp appeared and even smelled dead, yet Alfric knew it seethed with life: fish, turtles, crayfish. His people, the Gnasir, had fished the fen for generations. It was a simple existence, but they pulled enough out of the fen to eat well and sell a bit of their catch in the village markets on the coast. It was their life.
Alfric poled his raft closer to the bank. He reached into the water, grimacing at the chill, and found the rope connected to the next trap. The water was deep here, and if the trap was full, he’d have aching shoulders by the time it reached the surface. He hauled on the rope, and to his surprise there was little resistance. That only meant one thing: an empty trap.
The wicker cage came to the surface, and Alfric frowned. It was empty, but it hadn’t been a short time ago. The trap had been ripped in two, and the other half—presumably along with the crayfish it had held—was simply gone. He pulled what remained of the trap onto the raft and examined it closely.
He’d seen traps plundered by the snapping turtles that lived in the fen, but they never mangled a trap to this extent. This one looked like it had been bitten in half by something much bigger than a turtle. But there was nothing big enough in the swamp to do that. Maybe in the Gnarls to the north. That forest held all manner of monstrous beasts—trolls, gorax, and worse—but nothing like that had been seen in the Cloutsdown for generations.
Alfric set the ruined trap in the raft and opened the small toolbox attached to the stern. He dug around for a moment before finding what he was looking for. The pistol was old—it had belonged to his grandfather—but his father had taught him how to load it. They had only five packets of powder and ball.
He knew it was likely just an oversized turtle or pike that had destroyed the trap, but his best friend Wulfsig said that a gatorman and a bog trog had been seen in the area. He’d heard ghastly tales about those two savage peoples. They seemed the type to destroy a crayfish trap. They also seemed the type to kill and eat the poor fisherman to whom the trap belonged. The weight of the pistol in his belt made him feel better.
He pushed off the bank and maneuvered his raft back into the waterway. The next trap was close, and he felt a sudden urge to get to it quickly. He plunged his pole into the water and pushed. The movement should have propelled the raft forward, but the pole became stuck in the thick mud on the bottom of the waterway. This was not uncommon, and Alfric yanked upward to dislodge the pole—but it was immovable, as if it had taken root in the swamp floor. He pulled again, grunting with the effort. The pole did not come loose; instead, it suddenly whipped back and forth in his hands with terrible force, and he fell on his backside with a short cry of pain and surprise.
He stood and pulled the pistol from his belt, looking down the waterway; nothing moved . . . then, a ripple. The ripple grew into a frothing wake moving toward him. The water was dark, yet there was a shadow of something beneath that wake, something impossibly huge.
He pointed the pistol, trying to keep his hands from shaking. The wake moved closer, then stopped, and the shadow beneath it disappeared. Alfric kept the pistol pointed at where he’d seen the shape. He realized he hadn’t drawn a breath for nearly a minute, and he sucked in a great gulp of air.
He turned around in a complete circle, but the fen was an empty expanse of brown and green stretching in all directions. Alfric lowered the pistol. His heart was hammering in his chest. He’d seen something. Something big.
He waited, standing still in the middle of his raft, trying to keep his balance as it rocked back and forth. A bit of fortune got him moving—his pole floated down the waterway toward him. He breathed a sigh of relief and moved to the edge of his raft to retrieve it. He’d at least be able to get out of the fen and get back to his village. There he could tell his father what he’d seen.
He reached down to grab the pole, and when his hand slipped into the cold water, he realized his mistake. The shadow returned. It came up beneath the raft, rapidly gaining terrible form and substance. He saw two massive yellow eyes surging toward him, and he fell backward, pulling the trigger on the pistol. The sudden crack of the gun wasn’t enough to drown out the sound of the creature breaking the water’s surface. This time the shadow fell over him, and he looked up into a forest of teeth descending on him.
Alfric felt sharp pain across his body and terrible pressure, and then nothing.
“Something must be done, Dugald,” Aigan Begbie said. The village smith stood in front of the raised platform at the end of the longhouse where the three elders of Fenwald sat. Aigan was a large man, barrel-chested and thick armed. His voice was every bit as loud as the ring of hammer on iron. “I say we go into the fen, find this thing, and kill it.”
Behind the smith rose a small chorus of agreement from the gathered villagers, but from the deep frown on Aigan’s ruddy face, it was not nearly the response he’d been looking for. The majority of the seventy men and women who lived in the Gnasir village of Fenwald were packed into the elders’ longhouse, faces turned toward the three villagers elected to lead them: Dugald Findly, the town reeve; Aileen Ewart, the steward of the small shrine to Morrow in Fenwald; and Ranulf Lyne, the most prosperous fisherman in the village.
“Don’t be a fool,” Dugald Finley said to Aigan. The town reeve was the only man in the village larger than the smith. He was also one of the few with military training. He’d served with the Cygnaran Army as a scout, taking part in the defense of Cygnar during Scharde Invasions thirty years earlier. When he spoke, the entire village listened. “We lack the means to kill such a beast.”
“Five men have been killed,” Aigan said. “What are we to do? Let this thing eat its fill? Let it keep us from the fen and our livelihood?”
“You haven’t see it, Aigan,” a man said, stepping forward from the assembled townsfolk. Killian Dunn was tall and willowy, but despite his slight form and soft voice, he was well respected. As the town shipwright, every working man in the village depended on him for their rafts and canoes. “But I have.” His voice was barely above a whisper. A hush fell over the hall as all strained to listen to him. “It’s a monster like nothing you’ve seen. I saw it take Viloff. It came out of the water, bigger than the dire trolls in the Gnarls, and it just swallowed him whole.”
“I hope your story wasn’t meant to frighten me,” Aigan said, a mocking smile on his face. “It’s still a beast of flesh and blood. Any man who values the lives of his sons . . .” On the dais, Ranulf Lyne’s looked away, his face set in a hard line. Aigan saw the elder’s reaction to his words, and it extinguished the fire in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Ranulf. My words were spoken in haste. Alfric was a good boy; I just want to see his death avenged.”
“We all do,” Aileen Ewart said. “But we cannot act rashly, or more lives will be lost.”
Aigan nodded. “Then what shall we do?”
Others in the assembled villagers behind the smith echoed his question. There was fear in their voices.
Dugald held his hands out palms up, and the longhouse grew quiet. “We have not been idle; the safety and prosperity of Fenwald is our chief concern. To that end, I have sent my son Liam to New Larkholm to seek aid from the garrison there.”
An approving susurrus arose from the villagers—Liam was young but well respected in the village, much like his father. Aigan was not satisfied. “New Larkholm is two hundred miles to the south. We cannot enter the fen until Liam returns, and that’s only if he can convince anyone to help us.”
“There is another way.” Ranulf Lyne’s voice drew everyone’s attention. “Two hunters passed through here a few days ago. They might know how to deal with this beast.”
“What hunters?” Aileen said, turning to face Ranulf.
Dugald shook his head. “You cannot mean that bog trog and his gatorman companion. Ranulf, I know you’re grieving, but—”
“No,” Ranulf said. “You do not know.” The pain in the man’s voice was undeniable, and Dugald closed his mouth and leaned back in his chair. “My boy was eaten alive. I found pieces . . .” he trailed off and swallowed hard. His eyes were bright with tears. He was silent for a moment, then said, “Who knows a swamp or the monsters within it better than a bog trog and a gatorman?”
Dugald drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “They seem peaceable enough, I suppose. Perhaps they can help us.”
“They are little more than monsters themselves,” Aigan said and spat. “How can we trust creatures like that?”
Ranulf wiped one arm across his eyes and stared down at the smith. His face was a mask of grief and quiet rage. “Sometimes it takes a monster to kill a monster, Aigan.”
To that, the smith had no reply.
“Humans approaching,” Longchops said and rose from the ground where he’d been sleeping. He’d smelled the intruders, and it had awoken him. The gatorman left his rifle on the ground.
“Where?” Lurk said, looking up from gutting the large pike they’d pulled from the marsh earlier. Longchops pointed one taloned finger to the west. Four humans moved toward them over the sedge grass. “Pick up your gun,” Lurk said and shook the fish blood from his long knife.
Longchops rumbled low in his throat and scratched the ground with one hind foot. “No,” he said. “They do not want to fight. I smell fear, not anger.”
The fin atop Lurk’s head quivered in irritation, but he returned his knife to his belt. He didn’t need a weapon to fight the humans if it came to that.
The humans continued to approach. They were all males, large as humans went, though still puny compared to Longchops. They stopped about twenty feet from the campsite. “Can you speak Cygnaran?” one of the humans said.
