Iron Kingdoms Excursions: Season One Collection Read online

  IRON KINGDOMS

  EXCURSIONS

  SEASON ONE COLLECTION

  LARRY CORREIA

  ERIK SCOTT DE BIE

  ORRIN GREY

  DARLA KENNERUD

  MICHAEL G. RYAN

  AERYN RUDEL

  DOUGLAS SEACAT

  WILLIAM SHICK

  HOWARD TAYLER

  Cover by

  NÉSTOR OSSANDÓN

  CONTENTS

  MAP

  WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

  STEP OUTSIDE

  By Larry Correia

  MOUTHS TO FEED

  By Howard Tayler

  A HERO’S END

  By Aeryn Rudel

  FAILURE TO IMPRESS

  By Douglas Seacat

  BEFORE DEATH, RETRIBUTION

  By Erik Scott de Bie

  STRAIGHT SHOOTER

  By Aeryn Rudel

  THE LAST HUNT

  By William Shick

  MURDER IN THE HONOR FIELDS

  By Larry Correia

  BOUND FOR HOME

  By Michael G. Ryan

  CALL OF THE CABER

  By Howard Tayler

  RAIDERS IN THE NIGHT

  By William Shick

  TONGUE-TIED

  By Aeryn Rudel

  SCRAP ANTE

  By Howard Tayler

  THE WORTHY

  By Larry Correia

  WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY

  By Orrin Grey

  REPLACEMENT PARTS

  By Darla Kennerud

  ANSWERING THE CALL

  By Douglas Seacat

  GENTLEMAN’S GAME

  By William Shick

  GLOSSARY

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  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!

  STEP OUTSIDE

  By Larry Correia

  Doleth Island, Five Fingers, Ord, 602 AR

  “Greetings, my large blue friend. I am Savio Montero Acosta, and I am hoping to engage you in a sword fight today.”

  The trollkin pirate, Captain Gorth Splitskull, looked up at the human mercenary interrupting his supper. “Huh?”

  The human swept his wide-brimmed hat off and made the sort of grand bow Tordorans favored. “A sword fight,” the man restated as he returned the hat to his shaved head. “My apologies for the interruption. Please, do not rush on my account. Once you finish, we can step outside and fight to the death at your convenience.”

  There were two other trollkin warriors sitting at the table. Gorth looked to Skurl and Tormak, but they both looked as confused as he felt. Their ship, a heavy frigate, was between jobs, so they were passing time by spreading their coin across Five Finger’s seediest gambling halls, brothels, and taverns. Gorth had been having a good day up until now.

  “Acosta, is it? Get lost before I have Tormak here pull your arms off,” Gorth warned.

  Tormak gave a menacing growl. The sound carried through the packed establishment well enough to make all the thugs, criminals, cutthroats, and pirates at the nearest tables back away.

  Not Acosta. “Ah, but unlike with your kind, my limbs would not grow back should you tear them off. How could the two of us have a proper sword fight then?”

  Gorth shoved the rest of his pigeon into his mouth and chewed it, bones and all, as he sized up the Ordsman. The man looked lean and tough. Acosta was one of the darker-skinned humans, so he probably had some Sinari ancestry, but he talked and acted like a Tordoran. His armored great coat was open, revealing the hilt of a sword.

  Gorth pointed a gigantic finger at Acosta’s chest. “I’m gonna finish my ale, and if you’re still here when I’m done, I’m gonna squish you like a bug. The owner’ll have to buy new carpet on account of all the bloodstains. Then me and my boys are gonna drag you out into the street and kick your head around until your body parts are spread so far the Watch accuses me of littering. And then I’m gonna take my ship to whatever backwater hole spawned you and bombard it so hard your mother will think the Orgoth are back.”

  Acosta smiled. “Convenient. I was born just across the channel on Captain’s Isle. You would not have far to go.”

  Since becoming a pirate Gorth had fought with and against a whole mess of humans from several different kingdoms, so he knew a dangerous human when he met one. It was the way Acosta’s face smiled but his eyes didn’t that tipped him off. It was a very eerie smile, and for the first time, Gorth felt a twinge of nervousness. This particular Ordsman was a stone-cold killer.

  “Are you insane?”

  “Some have said such things, but I do not believe so, no. Do you mind if I join you?” Rather than wait for a response, he pulled out the last empty chair at their table and sat down between Tormak and Skurl. Acosta was tall for a human, but he looked tiny between Gorth’s muscular crewmembers. “It would be polite to offer to buy you another drink, but I do not wish for your abilities to be in any way impaired when we duel.”

  Gorth ran one big hand through his quills. This madman’s interruption was growing tiresome. “Time’s about up.” To show how little he cared about being drunk, he began chugging down the rest of his gigantic pitcher of ale.

  Acosta shook his head sadly. “Now you shall be at a disadvantage.”

  “Don’t you know who you’re talking at?” Skurl demanded.

  “Of course. Do you think I go about challenging every pirate I see to a duel? That would be very wearying in Five Fingers, I assure you. This is Gorth Splitskull, captain of the Rampage and a rather fearsome combatant by his reputation.”

  “So you know us, but you’re still picking a fight?” Skurl asked as he pulled a dagger from his vest. “I’m about done with the likes of y—”

  There was a flash of movement, a cry of pain, and a thud, and by the time Gorth had lowered his pitcher, Skurl was staring at his lost dagger and severed fingers, which lay on top of his supper plate, still wiggling. Acosta hadn’t moved from his chair, but his arms were spread wide and a knife had appeared in each hand. Their razor-sharp tips were pressed against Gorth’s warriors’ throats. Tormak had frozen, too afraid even to swallow.

  The room had heard the dagger hitting the table and had gone quiet. The only sound was Skurl’s whimpering.

  Gorth nodded and set down the empty pitcher. “You’re quick.”

  “In Five Fingers, you don’t live long otherwise.” The knives didn’t waver from the necks of the two trollkin. The politeness was gone, replaced with a menacing tone. “Are you ready to step outside, Captain? I’d rather not kill you here. I often gamble in this establishment, and sometimes I even win.”

  “Why do you want to fight me so bad?”

  “A reasonable question with two answers. Recently you sank a vessel that had a friend of mine aboard. My friend drowned. I do not have many friends.”

  “Well, that’s surprising.”

  “That alone would necessitate revenge, but you are also reputed to be very good with the blade, and I am something of a collector of challenges. You could say it is a personal quest. Be thankful for that, otherwise I would have simply shot you in the face already. I hope you provide enough of a challenge that I may gain something from the experience, but either way, you die.”

  Gorth went for his sword.

  “Disappointing.” There had been nothing new to be learned from this event.

  Standing over the three dead trollkin, Savio Montero Acosta glanced around the room as he cleaned his sword on the cloth Splitskull had worn that showed his kriel’s quitari. The patrons, despite being a rough and seedy lot, were all staring at him in astonishment. At least there had been many witnesses to the fight. As his legend grew, more interesting challengers would seek him out, looking to test themselves.

  He would best every last one or die trying.

  The owner of the establishment rushed in with his guards, saw the bodies, and then saw Acosta sheathing his sword. “Damn it, Acosta! Not again!”

  The swordsman tossed him Gorth’s coin purse.

  “I did ask him to step outside.”

  MOUTHS TO FEED

  By Howard Tayler

  Omok was tired and hungry, and he was only going to get hungrier. But hunger was not his primary concern now.

  “You greedy-dumb fish-brains,” hissed Mamman-Shiha, the swamp gobber clan matriarch. She clenched her gnarled grey hands into fists and planted them firmly on her hips. Omok shrank away from her and looked to his younger sister Lili for support.

  “It’s Omok’s fault, Mamman,” Lili said. “Omok is greedy-dumb and strong-smelly.” She waved at the tank on Omok’s back. “He is good for carrying the smoke but terrible for talking. He talked to the she-gator, Grakka the bokor, and told her all our scouting, then asked for more food. Grakka said no, said she was hungry too, said leave or she’d eat us.”

  Mamman’s deep-set eyes widened with anger. “Liliganamatakka PFFTHAK,” she spat. “If you knew him to be sm
elly-strong and talking clumsy, why didn’t you speak to Grakka? I’ll tell you why. You are just as greedy-dumb. You hold the hose to his tank, and he pumps the smoke to your cloud, but you turn on him? You feed him to me like he is actual fish, not just fish-brained? Shame-filth, Lili.”

  Omok groaned under the weight of his full smoke tank. “Mamman-Shiha, I am sorry,” he said. “I know the family is hungry-tired. Grakka paid only scrimpy-scant, enough food only for Lili and me. I thought maybe for the best sneaking she would pay more.”

  Mamman lowered her ears and narrowed her eyes. “Talk deeper into the dark water, little deep-thinking fish-brain,” she said, a traditional warning that this conversation might have a hungry dracodile at its end, ready to swallow those who thought themselves too clever.

  Omok shut his mouth.

  “I am sorry, Mamman,” said Lili. She turned to Omok. “Sorry to you too. Scared and hungry, not thinking.”

  Mamman nodded.

  “Omok did do good scouting,” his sister said, her head lowered. “We found the farrow camp, and Omok counted every snout. No stitch-monsters, no rockets. Besides one bristle-boar they had only guns and blades. Then clever Omok thought maybe they were actually tasty-bait, a trap for Grakka’s pod, so he looked further.” She turned to Omok, and shrugged. “You tell her.”

  “These farrow are wandering-lost, fish-brains. They camped too close to the dark water. Grakka’s pod could sneak-swim close, then pounce. Kill all, take all, maybe without losing a single tooth or tail,” Omok said.

  Mamman-Chief shook her head. “Oh deep-thinker, the water had you undone. You planned for Grakka a battle that gobbers had no part in. Grakka has never wanted my poisons or potions and laughs at the clan’s short blades. With the cover of black water and darkest morning, the ever-hungry, never-happy bokor does not need your smoke. So why pay you, or any of us?”