Iron kingdoms excursions.., p.1
Iron Kingdoms Excursions Season One: Volume Three, page 1
IRON KINGDOMS
EXCURSIONS
SEASON ONE, VOLUME THREE
ORRIN GREY
AERYN RUDEL
HOWARD TAYLER
Cover by
MATT DIXON, MAREK OKON,
AND BRIAN SNODDY
CONTENTS
MAP
WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS
WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY
TONGUE-TIED
MOUTHS TO FEED
GLOSSARY
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!
WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY
By ORRIN GREY
The mask I wear is not made for my comfort. It forces my breath and the stench of hot iron back into my nose and mouth. When the mask comes off at night, it feels like pulling open a wound. Still, when I lie on my cot in the darkness, I long for it again, closing me off, closing me up.
The shackles on my wrists bite into my skin. They’re removed only when I sleep or when I work. Even when I’m not wearing them they leave behind red welts, brands that will stay with me forever and mark me even if I live to be an old man.
The chains that crisscross my body bind my arms to my sides so I cannot lift them. The chains are hooked to my shackles and to the collar at my neck with heavy locks that clank when I walk. They weigh me down, give me something to strain against, and when they are gone, I feel their phantom weight.
My bonds are heavy, but I wear them gladly. They are nothing compared to the burden I bear, and their presence serves as a constant reminder of that shame.
On the first day I came to the House of Truth, Scrutator Solas told me, “Sometimes we are forced to take up the weapons of the enemy so they cannot overpower us.” He was talking about the warjack cortexes I help build; he was also talking about me and those like me. That is what we are: weapons of the enemy.
In the House of Truth I work with artificers and heretic wizards who wear bonds like mine, though not by choice. Together we assemble the cortexes. The others complete their tasks through careful study, I complete mine by instinct. Like putting together a puzzle with my eyes closed, my hands somehow know where the next piece will fit, and then the next, and the next. I know this work requires us to draw on unholy energy, and each time we do so the sin is compounded, but I also know each sin is cleansed by a blessing. Just as the sins of imperfect mortals can be redressed through faith, unclean arcane artifices can be sanctified by the priests watching over our work. The machines are necessary for the Great Crusade, and I gladly accept my burden, compounding my own sins indefinitely so others can march to war for the glory of the Creator of Man.
As a child, it frightened me when I first began to make inexplicable things happen. My mother took me aside and told me it was nothing to be ashamed of. It was the will of Menoth, a gift so I might serve him better. She told me no one else needed to know—it was between the Creator and me.
I wanted to believe her. I tried to be worthy of her love for me, to be worthy of Menoth, but even then I knew she was mistaken. I could feel the wrongness
At first I wanted to take my own life, though I knew what waited for me on the other side. I was afraid there was nothing I could do, no way I could serve Menoth. So long as I lived, I would be working against his will.
Instead, I turned myself over to the House of Truth, and the scrutators confirmed what I already knew, what I had always known, but they also showed me what I could be, how I could serve. They showed me how even my curse fit into Menoth’s great plans and gave me a purpose.
When they learned what my mother had told me, I knew they would come for her. I watched as they took her and saw the tears on her face. She didn’t understand, not yet, but I knew she would. She had only wanted to protect me, but she was wrong to do so. No mortal can protect another from the Lawgiver’s judgment. Instead, I would protect her and deliver her from any blame for my sin. The scrutators would help her find her way and restore her obedience. Unlike me, she could be spared.
Sometimes, I am led onto the battlefield. When I see the warjacks, I have a connection to them. I can sense the cortexes inside them I helped create and assemble. I know the men and women who command them are heroes, great champions of the Lawgiver. They can touch the cortexes with their minds and wield awe-inspiring magic. Their power is blessed and delivered to them by the Creator. I am different. I am not a champion. My power comes from a dark and profane source. I am a weapon turned to righteous purpose, but when that purpose is fulfilled, I will still be an abomination. No matter how it is held, a sword with no hilt is dangerous to friend and foe.
On the battlefield I can use my power, the poison that is always inside me. I can turn it loose against Menoth’s enemies. I can make our warjacks stronger or I can simply reach out with my curse and kill. The magic inside me is coiled like a snake, and it feels good to let it strike. Though it is upon enemies of the faith that I loose this power, I know it is proof I am accursed.
The battles are filled with fire and blood and a distant roaring. The mask cuts off the sound, deadens it. The smell of burning flesh and scorched metal is lost in the stench of my own breath. All the sights of the battlefield, the crashing of machines and men, the churning of the sands to crimson mud, are reduced to the two tiny windows through which I view the world. I see only what I need to see, do only what I need to do. I am a tool at Menoth’s disposal, a weapon in the hands of the righteous.
When I was a child I wanted to die, and there are still times I long for death. I pray a bullet will find me or the flames will consume me. I wear my bonds gladly, but they are heavy, and there are times when I look forward to the day when my usefulness ends, so I may finally rest.
Still, I cannot falter. I know the fire can never cleanse me. I know death will not release me. I could not take my life when I was a child, and I cannot throw it away now. It belongs to Menoth, and I cannot die until the Lawgiver reclaims my soul. All my pain I send as a prayer to him. In spite of what others may say, I cannot believe there is any salvation for me in death. How could the Creator accept me into the City of Man, unclean as I am? The nearest I come to grace is letting Menoth wield me and turn everything I am against those who would deny his truth. Even then I will not be forgiven, but I will know, when I finally fall wherever my body is destined to lie, that I was not any worse than I had to be.
TONGUE-TIED
By AERYN RUDEL
The tent flap opened abruptly, letting in the cloying reek of the swamp. Torfal looked up from his scroll, waved his hand to dismiss the smell, and glared at the young trollkin warrior bursting into his tent. “Torfal,” the warrior said, “you have to come!”
“Burnok,” Torfal said slowly, “how many times must I tell you to leave me alone when I’m translating?”
“I’m sorry, Elder.” Burnok was breathing heavily and his eyes were wide. “I wouldn’t bother you unless I had no choice. But you should come before Gorthane . . .”
“Before what?” Torfal asked and set his quill down on the makeshift desk—a knotty board propped across two stumps. “Gets drunk, drops his axe, and chops off two of his toes again? Or is it something more dire?”
“Some . . . things came out of the swamp,” Burnok said. “Gorthane wants to kill them.”
“What things? Farrow? Gatormen?” It wasn’t uncommon for bands of those savage peoples to offer their services to the kriels, and they sometimes made useful, if unreliable, allies. They also frequently raided for food and treasure, and Gorthane and his champions had been called upon to defend the kriel from their marauding more than once.
“No, Elder. I don’t know what they are. No one does.”
“Then why is Gorthane considering attacking?” The brainless oaf, Torfal thought. Always itching for battle even when it isn’t in the kriel’s best interest.
This was intriguing, though, and now Burnok’s urgency seemed reasonable. The young trollkin had more sense than most of the young warriors did, and he knew that Torfal, unlike many stone scribes, did more than simply record the deeds of great trollkin heroes. Over the years the elder had developed a keen interest in the tales and myths of other races, which had forced him to learn at least a smattering of many human tongues as well as farrow, gatorman, and other more obscure languages.
“Very well,” Torfal said and stood. He lifted his axe from where it leaned against his desk, grunting slightly at its weight. It had been some time since he’d had reason to take it up, but the kin were at war, and the young warriors expected their leaders to be armed. He offered a silent prayer to Dhunia that he wouldn’t have to use it. “Take me to Gorthane.”
The ground was a thick mire as Torfal made his way toward the outskirts of the camp. The swamps around Lake Scarleforth were treacherously deep, and the only firm footing amounted to mud that didn’t rise past the ankles. It was a tiring slog to where Gorthane and the other warriors were gathered; Torfal was breathing heavily by the time they arrived.
Gorthane was a massive trollkin, almost ogrun-sized, and his war maul had crushed more enemies than could easily be counted. His champions—sizable kin but nowhere near as big as their leader—stood clustered at the edge of the swamp, weapons in hand, where the firmer mud gave way to a soup of brown water, tangled vines, and rotting vegetation.
“We were handling this, old one,” Gorthane said as Torfal approached. The champion held his maul before him, and his face was set in a petulant frown. “This doesn’t concern you or your . . . studies.” Gorthane had little use for kin who didn’t fight, and although he saw the chronicling of heroic deeds as important, he had less respect for Torfal’s other interests.
“I’m sure,” Torfal said. “Show me these creatures you are so eager to slaughter.”
“There.” Gorthane pointed to a weedy boulder about ten feet into the swamp. When the boulder shifted and a pair of great yellow eyes opened on its surface, Torfal realized he was looking at the massive head of a swamp troll. “They’re hiding in the water next to Blugg.”
“I don’t see—” Torfal began, and then three shapes rose up out of the swamp. They were humanoid and roughly the size of trollkin, but beyond that they seemed completely alien. The first word that leaped into Torfal’s mind was frog. That’s what they most resembled: tall, gangly, humanoid frogs. Their slick skin was bright green, and their eyes jutted from their heads on short stalks. Each carried a short spear in a four-fingered hand, the fingers ending in round suckers. The frogmen held their weapons before them point-first—a defensive stance but not overtly hostile. Torfal noticed an iron manacle around the wrist of the lead frogman, trailing a short length of broken chain.
“They fled into the water before my boys and I could attack,” Gorthane said. “I thought Blugg would just eat them, but the stinking, ornery troll seems to like them, if you can imagine that.”
