THE BLOOD OF KINGS

Douglas Seacat

Cover by Grzegorz Rutkowski

Dedication The novel has family as one of its major themes, albeit covering terrible or unlucky parents and extended attempts at fratricide. I dedicate this book to my own mother, father, and brother, none of whom resemble anyone in these pages—thankfully!

Acknowledgements First and foremost I’d like to thank my editor, Darla Kennerud, for helping me transform this epic story from a rough idea into a tangible reality. I’d also like to thank Matt Wilson for his great feedback and helping me nail down a difficult and complicated outline, Matt Goetz and Zach Parker for brainstorming sessions and invaluable suggestions, and finally Mike Ryan and Cal Moore for helping eradicate a few of my pernicious mistakes. CONTENTS

PROLOGUE...... 1

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE...... 53

CHAPTER TWO...... 78

CHAPTER THREE...... 86

CHAPTER FOUR...... 106

CHAPTER FIVE...... 134

CHAPTER SIX...... 152

CHAPTER SEVEN...... 168

CHAPTER EIGHT...... 201 PART TWO

CHAPTER NINE...... 213

CHAPTER TEN...... 234

CHAPTER ELEVEN...... 244

CHAPTER TWELVE...... 259

CHAPTER THIRTEEN...... 274

CHAPTER FOURTEEN...... 291

CHAPTER FIFTEEN...... 306

PART THREE

CHAPTER SIXTEEN...... 319

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN...... 336

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN...... 359

CHAPTER NINETEEN...... 373

CHAPTER TWENTY...... 383

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE...... 402 PART FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO...... 416

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE...... 440

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR...... 448

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE...... 470

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX...... 486

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN...... 500

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT...... 519

EPILOGUE...... 539 PROLOGUE

591 AR, Castle Raelthorne

Adeline Dunning paused as she rested her hand against the cold panel blocking the narrow corridor in front of her. Slender glass cylinders set into sconces along the wall, each filled with a faintly glowing alchemical liquid, provided only enough light to avoid tripping over her own feet, but she had no fear of the gloom. The path had become so well known to her over the last several months that she would have been able to make her way even in complete darkness. Nevertheless, her heart was pounding and she took a moment to compose herself. Not so long ago her arrival at the threshold of the king’s chambers had been an occasion for excitement and anticipation. The king’s mistress. The phrase still sent a small shiver down her spine. It had not taken long for the thrill of forbidden love to be supplanted by fear of discovery. Now that fear had transformed into something else. There were worse fates than scandal. Her left hand rose to rest upon her abdomen as she considered her earlier conversation with the apothecary. She took a breath, then smoothed her robe and pressed the switch that prompted the panel to The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

slide silently to the side. The bright warm light of the room blinded her for a moment as she stepped into the king’s chambers high in Castle Raelthorne, where it loomed over the walled city of Caspia. Vinter Raelthorne IV did not turn from where he was bent over his desk. She waited, certain he knew she was there. His awareness of his surroundings could be unnerving. He wore the loose tunic and breeches he preferred before sleep, free from the armor he generally wore as well as the other aspects of his formal regalia he wore when sitting in state. His black hair was unkempt and the quill in his hand moved swiftly across the page. She knew better than to interrupt. More governance transpired in these private moments than when he sat the throne, or so he had told her. At last he turned her. “Adeline,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her closer for a brief kiss. The smile on his lips did not reach his eyes. He was clearly distracted, his mind on the papers. He had covered them with a length of folded cloth on his desk, as was his habit. She did not take offense at this, knowing he was careful and scrupulous with even his most trusted subordinates. He was a man who saw potential spies in every corner and had reason to be cautious. This was understandable—on his decisions rested the fate of the nation, and his enemies were myriad. When they retired to the bed she sought to be accommodating, to put aside all other thoughts and savor their time together, but the tension would not leave her. Though he said no words of reproach she could see his eyes darken at her lack of enthusiasm. Afterward, she did not feel comforted by his presence lying beside her. He loomed in the bed, blocking the table’s lamp, and she was cast in his shadow. Often they would speak together at such times, and

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she had once treasured these moments, when his stern demeanor melted away and she saw a side of him no one else ever witnessed. This night he was disinclined to converse and she felt the silence yawning into a gulf that made her heart hammer. She rose and slipped back into her robe, as the room was cold, the night’s chill seeping through the thick walls of stone despite the layers of tapestries. She lay down again and spoke softly toward the shadow. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to have a family?” “I have a family,” he said. His voice was soft, and she could hear a hint of humor in his tone, which encouraged her. She knew he meant his brother, though two more different siblings she could not imagine. “No,” she said, moving closer to him. “I mean a wife of your own.” She felt his body tense, but the tenor of his voice did not change. “Eventually, perhaps. There have been many prospects brought before me. None pleasing.” Adeline knew he did not say this to mollify her; that was not his way. She appreciated his truthfulness to her, though at the moment she longed for reassurance. She said, “And little children scampering about underfoot.” “In time an heir will be necessary,” he said in a measured tone. “I do not much care for children.” She felt a cold pit in her stomach. She wanted to hear something, anything, to make it go away. “You could marry whomever you wished, could you not?” “Yes,” he said. She could hear the annoyance in his voice, a warning. “Though it is an opportunity for an alliance. Marriage is a tool in the arsenal of state that should not be squandered.”

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His tone was aloof, abstracted, lacking the warmth she sought. She swallowed and considered his words. Her family was of good standing, her father prosperous and useful to the king. But her blood was not noble. She’d known from the first time he had taken an interest in her that marrying Vinter would be impossible. Were her father to find out what she’d done, he would be furious at her for despoiling herself. He already had plans for her, someone lined up to whom she would be given, like a prize animal. She had avoided confronting that fact and had enjoyed being the king’s mistress. She’d felt as though she were making her life her own. A few words with the apothecary had changed everything. “For many, marriage is an act of love.” She could not stop the words from tumbling out. “You are king. No one can defy your choices. You need not marry for politics. Who would challenge you?” He pulled back and his shadow lengthened as he sat up and turned to stare down at her. She could not see his face. “Why are you asking these questions?” “What?” She felt an icy wash of dread. “It was just a flight of fancy, a game!” His entire demeanor had changed and she swallowed in fear. “Did someone put you up to this? Who have you told about us?” His questions had become more pointed, his tone more menacing. “No one! It’s our secret. Forget what I asked. It means nothing.” “Nothing?” He grabbed her arm in a vise-like grip, and she gasped in pain. She tried to pull away, which seemed to infuriate him even more. “Let me go!” she cried, fighting to free herself.

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She suddenly felt his other hand close upon her throat and tighten, his cold and hard fingers choking off her air. Stunned, she could do nothing but struggle to breath, grasping at his arm with her free hand to no effect. He brought his face close and spoke quietly but intensely into her ear. “No one such as you will ever be queen. Do you understand me? Did someone send you here to trap me with a child? I’d sooner hurl such an ill-begotten whelp from the tower. I will allow no child of my blood to become leverage against me. Do you understand? Tell me!” A glimmer of reflected light in his eyes made his dark orbs seem filled with flame. She had never seen such a hateful look. She gasped and struggled, pulling her other hand free and batting at the unyielding hand strangling her with both of hers. He blinked and his expression became like stone as he seemed to realize he was choking her. He let her throat go. “Yes! I understand!” she gasped. She pulled back and fell out of the bed, scrabbling away in panic until her back was against the nearest cold wall. She coughed and looked up at him in terror, tears streaming down her face. He had turned away from her and was lying back in the bed. “Leave,” he said coldly. She fled. • • • There was only one person with whom Adeline could speak—her priest, who was bound by his oaths to preserve her secrets better than his own. He had made himself available at odd times before, and she went to him at once. They spoke quietly by the fire he stoked in the back room of the small church he maintained, a

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humble edifice easily overlooked amid the splendor near Castle Raelthorne. It was notable only for the inscribed symbol above the arched door of Ascendant Rowan, patron of the poor and downtrodden. The temple existed here not to tend a congregation but to manage donations from wealthy patrons who gave to the Morrowan priests for charitable works. It was a way the aristocracy could show compassion for the poor without facing them directly. Adeline had found satisfaction volunteering to help their efforts and in the process had befriended Father Niel Kalvor, finding him a good listener. Over time she had taken to confiding in him. He gave honest advice and did not judge her for her failings. She stammered initially as she began to tell him of the attack, but soon she found her courage and told him everything, including her pregnancy and Vinter’s hurtful words. Already feeling humiliated and raw, she was chilled when his reaction to her story was to go pale and tremble. Rather than reassuring her, he bade her accompany him at once to speak to his superior. She tried to brush off the suggestion, to excuse her mood as nerves, but he was adamant. She had come to trust his judgment and so followed his instructions. She hid her face in the cowl of her robe and they rushed to the Sancteum, the heart of the Church of Morrow, starting at every movement from the shadows. Dazed, Adeline noticed only how different the city-within-a-city appeared at this late hour; the quiet pressed upon her as they passed through the narrow alleys. Before she quite realized how she had gotten there she was sitting in a small but well-appointed chamber, Father Kalvor at her side and Exarch Sebastian Dargule sitting opposite them. He

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was garbed in simple robes, not his formal vestments, and his thin, disheveled blond hair suggested he had been roused from sleep. Though he was at least twenty years older than Kalvor, the exarch had a youthful air about him and a friendlier face than she would have expected for someone so highly placed in the church hierarchy. He was one of the Exordeum, the council of priests that oversaw clergy across all the kingdoms where Morrow was worshiped. She did not feel worthy of his attention. At Father Kalvor’s urging, Adeline haltingly repeated her story. She kept her eyes on the embroidered hem of the exarch’s robe, trying to ignore the fact that she was relating very personal details to an extremely important stranger. That she was revealing her shame, the illicit relationship she had for so long kept hidden from everyone but her priest. By the tenets of their faith, the expectations of her family, and the common expectations of basic decency, her relationship with Vinter was wrong. And it was always the women who faced the harshest scrutiny in such circumstances, especially given her paramour was the king. Such a man was above judgment, but she was not. “I apologize for the bother,” she said into the silence when she was done. “I did not mean to cause a fuss. His black tempers come and go. I am sure things will be better when I see him next.” “You must not return to him,” Dargule said, his voice gentle but firm. “It would be terribly irresponsible of us to let you do that.” Her eyes widened. “What do you mean?” He sighed and sat back, looking weary. “I am afraid your life is in danger, young sister. More than your own life, you must consider the safety of your unborn child.”

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Her right hand went to her abdomen. “Over this? A few ill- chosen words? No, I don’t think so. He favors me,” she said, her voice holding a tinge of panic. “He loves me. We are in love. He would never see any harm come to me.” Even as she said the words she remembered his hand on her throat and knew it was untrue. Dargule leaned forward and took her hand. “This will not be easy for you to hear, but you must. The king has grown increasingly paranoid, increasingly thorough in his efforts to eliminate those he perceives as a threat. I am sure you have heard the rumors. Every night members of his Inquisition are arresting innocent people who are taken away and never heard from again. Some of those who have been taken were once King Vinter’s friends. It takes very little to lose his love—if he is even capable of that emotion. You are not his first mistress, and the one before you did not come to a good end. There is a darkness in this man, and it grows stronger.” The chill she had felt intensified and her hand in his trembled. She remembered the cold look in Vinter’s eyes, the feel of her air being choked off. There had been no hint of love for her in that. She wondered if there ever had been. Had she dreamed it? It was very hard for her to imagine the man she loved, who had once held her with such tenderness, could do her harm. Still, he had promised he would hurl his own child from the tower. She believed him. A bastard child of his, born without his permission, would be hated, viewed as a knife held to his throat. “What should I do?” she asked, her voice a whisper. “If you ask, sanctuary will be provided.” The exarch inclined his head as he spoke. “It is our responsibility, from the earliest days of the Church, when we were hiding in the mountains from

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Menite persecution. We will shelter those who fear for their lives. We can protect you and your child, though it will mean giving up everything and everyone you know. It may be a long time before you could return to your family, if ever.” She looked to Father Kalvor, who had been listening silently. He nodded, his expression intent but reassuring. The thought of leaving behind her family, her friends—it was terrifying, and there was no chance for goodbye. Though she had pulled away from them during her time with the king, she had taken comfort in knowing they were there, that she could always return to them. Now that was denied her. She wrung her hands and blinked back tears, then sat straight on the bench and cleared her throat, struggling to prevent her voice from shaking as she looked back to Exarch Dargule. “Very well. I, Adeline Dunning, formally ask sanctuary of the Church of Morrow. I fear for my life and have nowhere else to turn.”

592 AR, the Sancteum, Ascendant Solovin Hospital

The midwife wiped Adeline’s sweat-soaked brow as she gave out a great gasping cry and sagged back, spent. Her eyes rolled up into her head and closed. Another attendant had gathered the blood- soaked bundle and took the screaming child to a table in the corner to be cleaned, while the midwife checked Adeline’s condition and turned to face the two priests who watched tensely from the far side of the bed.

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“I think she will live,” she said, “though she lost a great deal of blood. She needs rest. I will put her on heavy broth when she awakes, likely no sooner than tomorrow.” Father Kalvor sighed in relief and stepped forward, his chain with the talisman of Ascendant Rowan and the Morrowan Sunburst gripped tightly in his hand. He leaned down and performed a simple benediction over Adeline’s head, then gently touched her brow. He straightened and turned to the midwife. “The baby . . . ?” “A boy,” she answered curtly. “And healthy.” She returned to her work. Kalvor performed a similar blessing over the baby, then turned to Exarch Dargule and said, “It was good of you to attend, Exarch. I am sure she appreciated your support.” The exarch gave a small smile. “I doubt she knew I was here. She had more important matters on her mind.” After a considered pause he said, “The miracle of life. Always remarkable. Of course, this birth is more significant than most, and it has the potential for very dire consequences. An unfair burden on an infant that just took his first breath.” Kalvor looked to where the newborn was being tended and said, “Julius. That was the name she wanted him to have. We discussed a number of possibilities as her time neared, but that was the one she preferred, if she had a son.” He added after a moment, “I am sorry I have not been available to you for other tasks recently, Exarch.” “Nonsense.” Dargule waved a hand and made a dismissive sound. “This was more important. You have been a good friend to her in these long months of seclusion. Without you it would have been a lonely existence for her.”

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The younger priest smiled. “She has taken to cloistered life surprisingly well. I think she would be at home with the Order of Keeping.” He referred to a monastic order within the church which often preferred to keep to isolated shrines and libraries, protecting the sacred relics of the faith. “A path I have considered,” Dargule said. “Vinter’s people still have not given up the search for her, even after her family conducted a funeral, at my request. Even with a false name or other efforts to disguise her identity, it may never be safe for her to step from protected grounds.” A voice came from behind them. “That may suffice for her, but we must also consider the child.” They turned and made respectful genuflections. The man who had joined them was none other than Primarch Arius, holiest of priests and supreme pontiff of the Church. He wore simple white robes fringed with threads of gold, and his beard was as white as his robe. Though in his early sixties, the primarch was tall and broad shouldered, his blue eyes keen. He invited the two other priests to stand and follow him to an adjoining chamber where they could speak privately. “I did not expect Your Holiness,” Exarch Dargule said after closing the door. “I intended to bring you news of the outcome.” “Yes, I know,” the primarch said. “There are hard decisions to be made, and I will not delegate them, even to you. I know you are comfortable with clandestine doings, Sebastian. I cannot take such efforts for granted, or pretend we are not all affected by plans hatched in shadow.” Kalvor watched the exchange but remained quiet. He had long served Dargule, who was the keeper of the Church’s secrets and

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its most industrious gatherer of information, a selfless servant of the faith but also a man with a cunning and devious mind. Until Kalvor had met Adeline Dunning, he had only passed along the occasional piece of gossip or news heard from visiting aristocrats. His friendship with Adeline and hers with the king had made their conversations more frequent, a fact that he had accepted though not without some reservations. Still, he knew the only man to whom the exarch would ever speak of what he had heard was the primarch himself, chosen by and serving as direct conduit to the divine. All their secrets belonged to Morrow the Prophet, who could pierce their hearts with a thought. Dargule asked the primarch, “Have you come to a decision?” “I have,” Arius said with a sigh, “and not an easy one. You are right. We have a responsibility to her but also to the child. We must safeguard both if we can. We have been fortunate so far, but even the Sancteum is not inviolate from intrigues, as you know. The Inquisition has many eyes and ears. It would be easy for Adeline to draw attention to herself while caring for a newborn. We must separate them, in a way that betrays no hint of the truth.” Kalvor could not maintain his silence. “You will take her child?” “Yes, and worse.” The primarch’s voice was somber. “She must be told he died in childbirth.” Kalvor was shocked, and they were silent a moment as he struggled to come to grips with the idea. The primarch added, “It is a cruelty, I know, but a necessary one for the safety of both. She will mourn him, but grief eventually fades.” “What of the boy?” It was Dargule who asked, though Kalvor had the same thought. “We will need to find him a home away from Caspia, with

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a family that knows nothing of his origins. Someone who will consent to raising him as their own without complaint.” Dargule mused, “I believe I can find a candidate. Someone who has recently lost a son would be ideal.” “It must be handled in such a way that there is nothing to connect his foster parents with us or Adeline’s family. That is the only way he will have a hope of reaching adulthood, at least so long as Vinter sits the throne—which, by Morrow’s grace, may not be as long as we had feared.” At Dargule’s questioning look, the primarch explained, “Prince Leto has become increasingly appalled at his brother’s tyranny, and he may eventually feel compelled to act. Still, we cannot wait for that. This child must be dealt with now.” “Leave it to me, Your Holiness.” Dargule said. “I will see it done.” With that assurance, the primarch inclined his head, thanked them, and made his exit. After he left, Dargule turned to Father Kalvor and said, “I think it best I be the one to give the news to Adeline. I am far more accustomed than you are to telling such lies.” Kalvor swallowed and nodded. Then he said, “If you would grant me one request, Exarch? Please, allow me to be the one to deliver Julius to his foster parents when the times comes. I feel it is my responsibility.”

594 AR, Town of Oldlow

The house was a small and simple one, but well built, warm, and comfortable. Miles Bradiger was proud of the work he had done on

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the structure, using it as a testimonial of his skill as a carpenter and woodworker. Several times he had secured such work by inviting a prospective employer to see it. In the main hall when he got home his wife was taking needle and thread to one of their winter blankets that had seen better days, while their two-year-old son played on the floor with wooden blocks, repeatedly stacking them and knocking them over. He kissed Sarah on the top of her head and stopped moving long enough for Julius to rush over to him and squeeze his leg. As soon as Miles extracted himself the boy returned to his blocks. The carpenter stowed his tools on the bench near the back of the room and took the time to rinse his hands in the bowl, pouring water from a bucket kept there for that purpose. “You look tired,” Sarah said as he came back into the room, limping slightly and wincing. “What’d you do to yourself?” “Just work,” he grunted. He sat down heavily on a chair across the table from her. “They let Foster go even though we’re still four weeks from finishing. He was never the brightest ember in the fire, but at least he was another pair of hands.” His sour expression lightened at the sound of blocks falling over behind him, together with a growling noise from Julius. Sarah watched with a bemused smile as he gave up the chair to hunker down and wrestle with the boy, forgetting the pain in his leg. They were both startled by the clamor of a bell in the distance, muffled by the walls of their house but still clear as it pealed repeatedly. Young Julius had cocked his head, then clapped his hands, liking the sound. Miles stood, his body tense, and shared a concerned look with Sarah.

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“What’s that all about?” she asked. “A fire?” “Could be,” he said. “I’d better go see.” He was already setting about strapping on his boots as she found him his heavier jacket. A sudden insistent pounding shook the door. Sarah picked up Julius and stepped toward the back door, while Miles took up the iron poker leaned against their stove and moved hesitantly forward. “Miles! Sarah! Open up! Come on, hurry!” Recognizing the excited voice, Miles blew out a breath in relief. He put the poker to the side and opened the door to find his wide-framed neighbor standing there, a grin across his reddened face. The bell was still tolling, and behind the man Miles could see a crowd gathering in the street, everyone talking and laughing. He said, “What is it, Ulster? Almost made my heart jump out of my chest with all your hammering.” “It’s the king! He’s been overthrown! Vinter’s lost the crown! The tyrant is fallen!” “What’s that?” Miles looked at him, incredulous. “Watch your tongue, man! You can’t say things like that aloud.” “We can now! It’s happened! Prince Leto, he’s seized the palace! A coup! Everyone’s talking about it. Word came from the priests at the church. It’s all on the up and up. Leto is to be crowned king! Morrow save him!” Sarah had come forward while he spoke, her expression a mix of wonder and disbelief. Julius was waving at Ulster from her hip and chattering. “Is King Vinter dead?” Miles asked. “Don’t think so. Locked up, I heard, though I expect they’ll have his head off soon enough. Things will be looking up from here. Tomorrow is a brighter day!”

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Ulster’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Miles and Sarah couldn’t help laughing in relief as they looked at one another. They had known several people taken by the Inquisition and never heard from again. Ulster seized them both in a wide hug, then pulled back, his eyes wide as he had a sudden thought. “I’ll fetch us drinks! The whole town will be celebrating. No, the whole kingdom! Let’s make a toast for Good King Leto!”

595 AR, Caspia

The chamber was cold and dank, the stone walls gleaming with moisture. Several torches provided flickering light, casting long and disorienting shadows as another of Father Kalvor’s persecutors stepped down the long flight of steps to join his two peers. Kalvor watched him come through one watering eye, the other swollen shut. He shifted in the hard wooden chair he was chained to, his arms tied tight behind its back. There was no relief in any posture he could take; even this slight movement delivered renewed spikes of pain. Several of his fingers had been broken, and his arms were lined with small cuts. The man to Kalvor’s left was the one he could see most clearly. He had been leaning close, threatening and cajoling, applying the wicked instruments laid out on a wooden table where Kalvor could see them and anticipate their use. He was a slender and nondescript man who wore thin spectacles, looking more like a clerk or a shopkeeper than an inquisitor. When wielding his instruments, however, an intense look entered his eyes. His enjoyment of cruelty

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was plain. The other man was more thickly set, with a vapid face that seemed designed to be forgotten the moment it was not in view. That one was clearly the more junior of the two, left such menial tasks as tying Kalvor’s hands, pulling up his head, and delivering the occasional slap or punch, though they had quickly moved beyond such methods. Kalvor tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. He looked past these two at the newcomer as the man walked into the light. He was older, with a bald head, a short groomed beard gone entirely white, and wildly bushy eyebrows. He put aside his heavy overcoat, revealing blood-red garments similar to the garb worn by the other two. The sigil hanging from a thick chain around his neck bore a jagged lightning bolt behind a watchful eye—the symbol of the Inquisition. This sigil had terrified the people of Cygnar for over a decade. It still had an impact today, even though the Inquisition had been officially disbanded last year, as soon as Leto took the throne, its members immediately declared wanted criminals. “He lied to you, Garhaus,” said the newcomer, addressing the man who had been torturing Kalvor. “The name he gave was a fabrication.” “I thought as much,” Garhaus said with a sigh. “I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, one last chance to earn a merciful end. He’s a stubborn one, Senior Inquisitor.” The man was rubbing a piece of stained cloth over the saw-toothed instrument he gripped in his right hand. “These religious types are a nuisance. Just a matter of time, though. This one started weeping an hour ago. Good sign, that.” “What is the point of this?” Kalvor rasped, his voice raw. “Your king is gone. He’s dead by now, his bones lost in the Marches and

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picked clean by vultures.” The one that hadn’t spoken backhanded him, causing an explosion of fresh pain. His ears rang and spots danced under his eyelids. Garhaus said, “Don’t let him rile you up, Cobb. He wants us to kill him, but it won’t be that easy. Not without some truth.” He leaned forward and pressed the tip of his blade into Kalvor’s cheek. The senior inquisitor reached out to place his hand on the torturer’s wrist and said, “Easy, Garhaus. I’m sure that given time, you could finish this. But pain can be unreliable with men of conviction. You’ve paved the way, worn him down. He’s receptive now. Let me handle the rest.” The torturer made a disappointed noise and withdrew the blade. “Fine, then,” he said. “Have at it. He’s all yours.” He stepped back, letting the newcomer take his place. As the white-bearded inquisitor reached forward, Kalvor tried to pull back but found he could not. He gritted his teeth as a ring of glowing runes manifested around the inquisitor’s hand. “Black magic,” Kalvor hissed. “No!” Even before the hand reached his brow he felt a pressure inside his head, like his mind was in a closing vise. He sputtered and tried to fight it off, muttering a prayer under his breath, though he found it hard to remember the words. The inquisitor’s eyes loomed before his and seemed to glow. Kalvor knew this had to be mesmerism, one of the forbidden arcane arts. He felt the world fade. He had fainted several times while being tortured, but this was different. There was a long moment of blissful relief from the sharp pangs and aches, freedom from his fear and worry. He felt confused. Was he dreaming? He could not

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remember where he was, what he had been doing, or why he was breathing so hard. Everything was hazy. He heard distant words, a soothing voice saying, “Someone you trust above all others. See them before you now.” He opened his eyes and saw the face of Exarch Dargule, his expression frantic and worried. Kalvor could not quite make out where he was, though he seemed to be lying down somewhere. A hospital bed? The flickering light made him think the building might be on fire, or perhaps it was simply the glow of a nearby hearth. He coughed wetly. Dargule gripped him by the shoulders and said, “Quick, Father! Tell me, the town and the family name. They are in great danger. We need to get to them. Where did you take the boy? Vinter’s boy?” “You know where he is,” he said. Even as he spoke he felt growing doubt about the words. It was painful to think, and he was so tired. His memories were scattered. Something was wrong, but he could not focus on it. It was clear the exarch needed an answer. He wanted to help him. Some distant voice urged him to fight this, to resist, but it faded. Dargule said, “I can’t remember. Remind me, quickly. The town and family name. Two simple things, and you can rest. You will be saving them. Only you can do so.” He felt an unrelenting pressure upon his brow, and a heat like flame. He could not think, could not remember what was wrong. The urgency in Dargule’s face and voice reached him. He knew the answer. That certainty brought a sense of relief. He could help. “Oldlow,” he whispered, with his last strength. “The Bradigers, in Oldlow.” The exarch smiled and was pleased. The pressure and

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heat abated. Kalvor closed his eyes. He felt as though he were drifting off to sleep, though he heard voices talking. They did not seem important. One asked, “What if he lied again? Should we keep him alive?” Another answered, “No. He spoke truth. Finish him and then both of you will come with me. We have him now.”

The Sancteum, Archcourt Cathedral

Exarch Sebastian Dargule was rarely interrupted while preparing his notes for meeting with the rest of the Exordeum. He knew something serious must have happened when Prelate Hess Wayley burst into his private office. She said, “I’m sorry, Exarch, but there’s an urgent matter.” He set down his pen. “Of course. Close the door.” The room was small and close, filled with what seemed a disordered array of books and manuscripts. The office was in one of the rear rooms of the administrative wing of the Archcourt Cathedral, on the second floor. Despite the room’s humble appearance, it was one of the most secure places in western Immoren. Surrounding Dargule were countless secrets and mysteries. He looked at the middle-aged woman, one of his most trusted subordinates, a very capable and organized priest who coordinated the reports from his far-flung contacts. She wore the grey robes of the Walkers faith, as Dargule sometimes did when on pilgrimage. She seemed to be struggling with where to begin. He said, “Out with it, Hess.”

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She swallowed and said, “I have received news on two different matters, both tragic, and possibly connected. First, Rector Niel Kalvor was found murdered.” “My god,” Dargule said, closing his eyes for a moment in prayer. Hess continued, “He has been missing for almost a week, a fact I should have been made aware of earlier. I’m looking into that. He was found in the basement of an abandoned house in western Caspia, and it was obvious he had been tortured. Extensively.” Dargule felt his stomach drop. No man deserved such treatment, but Kalvor least of them, his life having been devoted entirely to helping others. “Are there suspects? Any leads?” She said, “There are. The evidence suggests inquisitors. Now, I know we hear such rumors anytime something bad happens to anyone nowadays, but these have some backing. Several suspicious types had been seen lurking around the building where they found Father Kalvor. Descriptions are in line with several suspected inquisitors, including one that resembled Senior Inquisitor Wilkes Quinn.” Dargule said softly, “I thought Quinn killed in the coup.” “Yes, that was what we believed,” Hess said. “But those reports have proven to be unreliable. Our investigator who checked Father Kalvor’s body said she suspected forbidden arts had been employed against him. His head bore peculiar burn marks that match what we know of Quinn’s interrogation methods.” The exarch looked up and asked, “Has the Order of Illumination gotten word of this?” He asked after the arm of the Church of Morrow dedicated to tracking down and eliminating those deemed guilty of black magic. That order had diminished during Vinter’s

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reign, due in large part to the Inquisition taking over the task of hunting down practitioners of unsanctioned magic, but it had experienced a resurgence since the crowning of King Leto. “Not that I’m aware of, no. Very few individuals saw Kalvor’s body, and the evidence of what had been done to him—beyond the torture—was not obvious.” Her expression showed strong distaste at the words. After a pause the exarch said, “Let’s be sure it stays that way. Not a hint of this to anyone.” Though their goals had been very different, the Inquisition and the Order of Illumination had cooperated occasionally, before it became apparent the former was hunting people other than sorcerers and alleged witches. Inquisitors had become particularly skilled at forcing confessions, caring little for facts. A number of inquisitors were suspected of practicing black magic themselves, protected by Vinter’s authority. This had eventually prompted even the most pragmatic of illuminated ones to condemn the other group. Still, Dargule did not want the order meddling. He did not entirely trust them. He recalled her original words and said, “You said two incidents?” She gathered a breath and said, “Yes. There was also a suspected arson in the town of Oldlow, possibly committed by the same inquisitors. Individuals of a similar description were asking about a family shortly before their house burned down. We had people keeping an eye on the house, though they were too late to intervene. The Bradigers. I’m afraid the entire family perished in the fire. I don’t know what the connection might be.” Dargule felt the blood leave his face. “All were lost?” “The bodies were badly burned, but there were sufficient . . .

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indicators of the identities. No survivors.” Dargule was silent a moment, absorbing that horrific information. Hess of course knew nothing of the significance of the family, nor had any of their people, other than Father Kalvor himself. “Tomorrow we’ll discuss our investigation,” he said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.” He reached out and put a hand on hers. She smiled slightly and nodded, then took her leave. Dargule did not feel he had been very convincing. The inquisitors that were still at large had proven nearly impossible to track down. They had been Vinter’s spies as well as torturers. Many were skilled arcanists, and they were all very good at keeping to the shadows. They had friends in unlikely places. Some few had even claimed to have been overcome by guilt and remorse and begged sanctuary of the Church of Morrow. Dargule had advised against accepting them, but had been outvoted. The law of sanctuary was held sacrosanct. It turned his stomach to offer any protection to such vile individuals. The other exarchs argued it was not their place to gauge the sincerity of supplicants who were being hunted, regardless of their crimes. He sighed. A wave of grief, sadness, and regret for lost possibilities washed over him. Julius had been murdered—an innocent child. He prayed the death had been swift. Perhaps it was fortunate Adeline had already grieved her son. He had always hoped that someday the two would be reunited. They could have been by now, except that even after the coup the threat of the Inquisition had lingered. Its people still lurked in the shadows, fanatically loyal to their absent master, who had escaped imprisonment and vanished into the Bloodstone Marches. King Leto’s own newly minted spies

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were hunting the remaining inquisitors, but with little apparent success. Dargule had never felt it was safe enough to bring them together, and now it was too late. Dargule realized he could not avoid inflicting fresh grief on Adeline. She must be told about Father Kalvor. He would spare her the gruesome details, but she must know. The two had become very close. Kalvor had told Dargule just three weeks ago that he was considering proposing marriage to her. Dargule stood from his desk. He must be the one to tell her, to break her heart once again.

596 AR, The Sancteum

Scout General Bolden Rebald, leader of the Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service and spymaster of Cygnar, wore no insignia or sigil of his station as he walked past the outer gates of the Sancteum. He was dressed as an ordinary man of means like many others that came to this place to pay respects. The busy streets and avenues of the holy city were filled with countless pilgrims from all walks of life. They provided a comforting anonymity. He followed his instructions exactly, taking several twists and turns down less crowded streets into the periphery of the Church’s holdings. In these areas the buildings were less grand, simple living quarters and offices of no interest to visitors. The Sancteum was a fully functional town in its own right, with its own smiths, carpenters, masons, shopkeepers, tailors, cobblers, and even a tasteful tavern or two. It just happened that most of its residents worked for the preservation of the Church of Morrow, western

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Immoren’s most pervasive religious institution. Ahead was a small, nondescript building with a small plaque neatly inscribed with the words “ARCHIVE REPOSITORY D7.” It looked dark inside, and he knocked softly on the door. A muffled voice bid him enter and the door opened into darkness, with just a faint glimmer of candlelight down a short hall. He closed the door behind him after he entered and proceeded into a small room. Within waited Exarch Dargule, who smiled and bid him enter. He offered wine or water, a silver pitcher of each at the ready. Rebald declined, though he was reasonably certain he was at no risk of being poisoned. “Greetings, Exarch,” he said. “I appreciate your willingness to meet me and to keep this informal.” He took the seat offered. The warm illumination of candles in the chamber revealed austere shelves filled with boxes and books, each neatly labeled. “Of course. It is my pleasure to do what I can to assist you, Scout General, at least so far as I am able. I doubt I will be of much use.” The exarch spoke fluent Cygnaran with a hint of his native Llaelese accent, though he had lived in Caspia for several years. Rebald smiled and said, “You do yourself a disservice. I know you to be perhaps one of the best-informed people in Caspia. Your knowledge extends far beyond the city walls.” The exarch waved a hand dismissively. “Your sources flatter me, but they exaggerate. If you are interested in priestly appointments, it is true you will find no one better informed. Are you in need of information on some member of the clergy?” Cygnar’s spymaster shifted and said, “No, not precisely. I did not come here to ask questions but to offer my services and expertise to you.”

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“Oh? I am intrigued.” “It has come to my attention that there is one area of overlapping interest between us.” He paused before adding, “The Inquisition.” The exarch looked confused. “Aside from being relieved it was disbanded, given the suffering it caused, I’m not sure what you mean.” “Come now,” Rebald said. “I have it on good authority you have been conducting an investigation into one or several inquisitors to see if they may be connected to violence done to you a year ago.” The exarch sat back, eyebrows raised. “You are well informed. As, I suppose, you should be.” Rebald chuckled. “I know how elusive inquisitors can be. It is no discredit to your people that you have made such little progress. Perhaps we can combine resources. Together we might accomplish what individually we could not.” He watched the priest fold his hands before him, clearly considering. Dargule said, “What is it you seek to gain, and what is it you are offering?” “Bringing inquisitors to justice is my primary goal. My network of contacts is likely complementary to your own. I think we could help one another considerably. In particular, I know there are inquisitors who were given sanctuary by the Church. It is possible those individuals know more than they have been yet willing to divulge.” Dargule scowled. “It was not my decision to shelter such people,” he said, his nostrils flaring in indignation. “But sanctuary, once given, is sacred. You cannot have access to them.” “Of course, of course,” Rebald said. “I understand. Still, my

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inability to speak with them doesn’t prevent you from doing the same. There might be ways to persuade them to be forthcoming— for their own good, as well as the fate of their immortal souls.” He appeared to ponder for a moment, then continued, “I imagine it must be frustrating to you that such people are sheltered under your own roof. It seems likely, does it not, that whoever was responsible for your friend’s murder must have had some previous contact with him, and perhaps been spying on him for some time?” “Regardless of your suppositions,” Dargule said, “I can’t help you find anyone who has thrown themselves on the mercy of the Church. In fairness, I have checked into them, and I do not believe any of those people are responsible. Your visit here has been a waste of time, for which I apologize.” “No, it is I who apologize, if I have caused offense. My offer remains, should you decide to avail yourself of our resources. I ask nothing in return. You have lost people to the Inquisition, and I would see those responsible punished. Each of these individuals is a murderer ten times over.” He hesitated and said, “I did have a related matter I was hoping you might shed some light on. I was wondering whether your investigation might have revealed any possible connection to an unusual disappearance late in King Vinter’s reign—a woman named Adeline Dunning.” He watched the exarch’s face closely, but it revealed little other than mild curiosity. “That name is not familiar. What sort of connection do you mean?” “Ah, our sources identified that she was a woman who volunteered to help Rector Niel Kalvor, your subordinate who was murdered. She attended his church.”

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“Interesting. I do not know much about his congregation, except that his church was not well attended. They subsisted on donations. Was she from a prominent family?” “Her lineage was unimportant. There is the possibility, however, that she was secretly one of Vinter Raelthorne’s last mistresses. She may even have been pregnant at the time of her disappearance.” In saying these things, Rebald played a careful game. A fishing expedition, giving a bit of bait in the hopes of a nibble in return. “The Inquisition was hunting her before the coup.” “I see.” Dargule considered at some length and then said, “No, I am afraid I know nothing about this. Though it might explain the Inquisition’s interest in Father Kalvor, which was a mystery to me. It seemed unlikely he would be mixed up in something nefarious.” When the exarch seemed disinclined to offer more, Rebald slowly stood. “Well, I should be off. Thank you again for meeting with me. Should anything arise where I or my people can help, do not hesitate to ask.” He was turning to go when the exarch spoke again, hesitantly. “I should tell you,” he said, as Rebald faced him again. “I cannot confirm anything about this mistress or her child. But if such an offspring of Vinter the Fourth existed, it might explain a loose thread.” The exarch’s tone had changed, as he chose his words carefully. Rebald listened closely, anticipating the priest had decided to pass something along. “Just when Father Kalvor’s murder was discovered, another tragedy came to my attention: an arson, in a town in the Midlunds. A boy who was of an age that matches your alleged offspring died in that fire. A tragedy. It may be entirely unrelated, of course, though it is called to mind as inquisitors were

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also involved. If there was a connection, his death would mean any search for such a child, or his mother, would be fruitless.” Rebald said, “Thank you, Exarch. I’m sure you’re right. I’ll put any such thoughts from my mind.” As he left the Sancteum, Bolden Rebald felt rising excitement. He thought he knew why the exarch had given him that last fact— to protect the mother. It also meant the exarch truly believed the bastard son was dead. This was just the sort of confirmation Rebald had hoped for. Until this day he had only suspected Vinter’s mistress had been pregnant. Now he knew for sure. • • • It was not altogether surprising to Bolden Rebald that he would find the young gun mage and warcaster in a tavern. A small crowd had gathered and were in the midst of wagering, exchanging coins and shouting. Lieutenant Allister Caine stood near the fireplace, a rune-inscribed Spellstorm pistol in each hand. He faced a portly and extremely nervous-looking man who stood ramrod-straight with his back against the opposite wall, an old, pocked dartboard behind him. His wide eyes and the sweat covering his brow attested to his being terrified, though he was trying to be brave and to stand still. One of the serving staff was balancing items on the man’s head: first an inverted clay mug, atop that a smaller cup of opaque glass, then what looked like a playing card over its wide mouth to provide a platform for a narrow shot glass at the top. Rebald’s lips pursed as he realized what he was witnessing. One of the deadliest men in western Immoren was about to perform a trick shot in a tavern. Caine looked unsteady on his feet, and he spoke in a slur to an

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attractive brunette next to him, who flashed a smile and stroked his arm. Though Rebald had no doubt the gun mage had been drinking, to his experienced eye it was clearly a sham, every movement and mispronounced word an exaggeration. “Heresh whah’s gonna happen, Hobard. I’m gonna earn that sum yeh promished, and yer gonna feel the fool!” It looked like he was talking to the bartender, not the unfortunate man with the glassware on his head. “I’m gonna shoot all three glasses, from largesht to smallesht. An extra ten gold crowns to Liepner if he doesn’t flinch. Don’t move, Liepner. Yer looking a mite blurry.” He winked at the man, and the glasses trembled atop his head. As Caine raised his pistols, he deliberately wavered them and pretended to have trouble keeping his balance. Rebald could see his stance was relaxed and sure. The spymaster made his way around the crowd to get in the gun mage’s line of sight, not wanting to interrupt. A silence had fallen over the room and many of the patrons were holding their breath. Liepner was turning red. Rebald saw Caine’s eye flicker to his face but then the gun mage focused on his target. It happened so fast it was hard to follow. Rebald shifted his gaze from Caine to Liepner the moment he saw the finger on the gunman’s right hand begin to squeeze. The first shot rang out loudly, exploding the clay mug, and there was a slight pause before the glass and shot glass began to fall. The second and third shots came together as if they were one, and there was only the shattering of glass. Rebald saw the shot glass falling, glinting just over Liepner’s thinning hair when it exploded. The man whimpered, his eyes scrunched closed, until he realized he was still alive. He

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opened them and let out a ragged sigh of relief even as the patrons erupted into applause. Caine made a bow, his eyes on Rebald. The spymaster pointed to the quieter second floor before turning to make his way to the stairs. It was another few minutes before Caine had extracted himself from his admirers to join Rebald at a dark table set back from the railing and blocked from the nearest hanging light. Rebald said, “I’d not have thought you’d be so eager to get arrested for murder again. It wasn’t so long ago I was pulling you out of prison.” The gun mage smiled and said, “Liepner was never in any danger. I am surprised to see yeh again so soon. Doesn’t feel that long ago yeh sent me off to Merywyn on that dirty business that got me demoted.” For all his bravado, Rebald sensed the gun mage was nervous to see him again. That last mission had stuck with him, forced him to seek solace in a bottle. The spymaster noted this without feeling much sympathy. He had asked better people to do worse. “From what I heard, you didn’t mind the demotion.” Caine gave a chuckle with a slight rolling of his shoulders. “It has some advantages. No one seems that eager to trust me with anything resembling responsibility. I’m left to my own devices so long as I answer my superiors when they call. Which isn’t often.” “Good. That can work to our advantage. Your ample free time has come to an end.” The gun mage looked glum. “I thought yeh’d say that. What is it now?” Rebald said, “This won’t be a short mission. Not a narrow task you can tackle and be done with. We have something rather more

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serious and likely protracted to deal with.” “I don’t like the sound of that.” Rebald waved Caine closer, not wanting to speak above a whisper even though he felt certain they were unobserved. “I have been investigating a matter of grave importance to the safety and security of Cygnar. It has come to my attention that Vinter sired a bastard son before he was deposed.” Caine’s eyes widened at that, his insolence vanishing. Rebald continued, “I wasn’t certain until today. A little meeting with Exarch Dargule gave me my confirmation. I had thought perhaps the child was being raised by the Church of Morrow, which would have been a thorny problem. But they think he’s dead, crisped in a fire. My own investigation was more thorough than theirs. I discovered the true identity of the unfortunate youth that was fed to the flames. The only explanation that fits the facts is that the Inquisition captured Vinter’s bastard and hid him away somewhere. The boy who burned was an imposter.” “What?” Caine hissed. “I suspect when they were first searching for Vinter’s pregnant mistress, the inquisitors intended to murder her and her child. A bastard would have been seen as a threat to the king. However, they didn’t find the child until after the coup, at which point their priorities had changed. The inquisitors are as fanatical as ever, but they don’t know if Vinter will ever return or if he’s even alive. What better than to raise his child to replace him?” The gun mage listened closely, all the while scratching at the table surface with a fingernail. “Quite a conspiracy. What’s it have to do with us?” “We need to find this bastard. Those who took him intend to

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use him as a pistol aimed at King Leto’s head. It’s up to us to stop them. It won’t be easy. Likely only a very few within the Inquisition were involved, and they have gone deep into hiding. This will be painstaking work, as we have little to nothing to go on.” “So less of a readied gun than a bomb with a slow fuse,” Caine said. Then his eyes narrowed. He said, “What are yeh going to do when we find this boy? What happens to him?” “We’ll cross that rather narrow bridge when we come to it. Our first priority is finding inquisitors and questioning them without giving ourselves away. This is a sensitive matter, one I can’t delegate. It must stay between us. Above all else, it’s vital that what we are doing does not reach the ears of the king.” Caine scoffed. “Real risk of that. I’m always having tea and gossiping with King Leto.” After a pause he asked, “But why? Isn’t yer entire job keeping him informed?” “My job is to gather intelligence,” Rebald said, his tone icy, “and to neutralize subversive threats to the crown before they manifest. If I’m doing my job properly, the king needn’t be troubled by such details. In this matter, we will be acting on the thinnest of suppositions. We have no evidence, and may not secure any for some time. I will not jeopardize the king’s mental state with rumors of ghosts.” He realized he was lecturing and stopped. He softened his tone and began again. “King Leto is the only person I know who did not rejoice at overthrowing his brother. It went against his personal beliefs, even though he knew it had to be done. He’s not a pragmatic man, King Leto. I would argue that very quality is what makes him better than his brother. But his idealism can only endure while

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he has more realistic men seeing to his interests. People like you and me. The thought that he might have a nephew—however illegitimate—that was kidnapped by inquisitors would distract and upset him. When we have concrete evidence I will decide whether to bring it before him. For now, it must remain a secret. Can I rely on you?” Caine slid back in his chair. “Do I have any choice?” His eyes glinted with dark humor. “No, you do not.” Rebald smiled. “I need you for this, and I need you at your best.” “You know I’ll get it done.” Caine said. “Where do we begin?”

606 AR, Caspia

Had Allister Caine known this covert crusade would stretch across ten years, most of that spent in fruitless hunts down blind alleyways, he might not have been so cavalier. He considered this as he walked down a lightless passage alongside Bolden Rebald, his sometimes mentor, superior, and co-conspirator. Their hands traced along smooth stones as they passed through one of the lesser-used byways inside the thick walls of Caspia. Caine suspected the scout general was leading him to one of countless secret hideouts secured for covert purposes. He felt a level of anticipation he had not experienced in years. He had to remind himself there was always the chance things wouldn’t pan out. There had been other moments where they had thought themselves on the verge of a big break, only to be disappointed.

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“Here,” Rebald said. With a loud creak Rebald shouldered open a heavy iron door. A moment later came the sound of a flint striker and the amber glow of a tallow candle flickering to life, providing just enough light to illuminate the chamber. The walls were slick with moisture and the small room was occupied by three wooden chairs, a small table, a burlap cot, and an open footlocker containing some few amenities. Caine had been to similar bolt holes before. Some were prepared well in advance, stocked with hard tack or other imperishable food, set aside in case a CRS agent needed to stay hidden for an extended period. “Nice digs,” he said. “Got anything to—” He stopped short as Rebald removed a dusty green bottle from the trunk and tossed it at him. Caine caught it nimbly as Rebald withdrew and set a pair of small clay cups on the table. “Yeh know me too well, Rebald. I shouldn’t have thought you’d take me to a place devoid of the niceties.” He uncorked the bottle with his teeth and poured a healthy dose into each of the cups, revealing a dark, red rum. He shot his back in a single gulp and it hit his throat with a familiar burning fire. Caine remembered the last time he thought they might get a break—three years ago, when Vinter IV had first returned to the west and revealed he was still alive. He had shown up at the gates of the northern city of Corvis with an army of inhuman invaders gathered from eastern Immoren—the skorne, who lived beyond the vast Bloodstone Desert and the Stormlands. The former king had not been idle, having spent the intervening years conquering a foreign empire before pointing its soldiers west. His return had been unexpected and unprepared for, and Corvis had quickly fallen to his advance army.

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As shocked as everyone to learn of Vinter’s return, Caine and Rebald had also seen it as an opportunity to get to some of their key targets. The spymaster’s contacts in the city had reported numerous inquisitors crawling from the shadows to rejoin their old master. During the invasion these individuals began walking the streets openly, wearing their old sigil and serving once more as Vinter’s eyes and ears. But by the time Caine and Rebald hatched a plan to enter the city and secure these targets, the invasion was over. It was still unclear to Caine what had gone down at the Battle of Corvis except that it involved a powerful necromantic sword and a ghost army of long-dead mercenaries. The Morrowans celebrated it as an unlikely miracle, fulfilling some forgotten prophecy. Whatever the case, Vinter and his vanguard had been driven back into the desert to regroup and scheme. In the course of the battle, High Inquisitor Dexer Sirac had been killed, together with a number of his lackeys. Those inquisitors who survived had scattered and hidden, their fanaticism reinforced by the knowledge that their king lived and needed them. Those few Rebald and Caine had tracked down knew nothing. The possible existence of Vinter’s bastard had taken on a mythical quality. It had been enough to make Caine wonder if Rebald hadn’t been deluded all these years, though he didn’t mind the excuse to hunt inquisitors. He’d developed a hatred for them. They were loathsome, each and every one, all guilty of terrible things during their time in power. To Caine their elimination was the only satisfying aspect of this conspiracy. Rebald had been speaking, and Caine focused on his words. “. . . Tell me how our plan is coming together.”

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Caine refilled his cup and tipped it toward the scout general. “Couldn’t be better if the old boys were lining up outside this room right now. I can’t believe that redheaded bleeding heart pulled off their reinstatement, but he’s playing Leto’s guilt like a lute.” The old boys in question were a number of the most elusive inquisitors they had been tracking, and the redhead bleeding heart was Leto’s favored commander, Coleman Stryker. Caine went on to explain how Lord Commander Stryker’s recent decree had brought a good number of inquisitors out of hiding to join his retinue in Caspia, with more to meet him in Corvis, where Caine was headed next. During the Llaelese War, Commander Stryker had witnessed one too many atrocities on the part of Cygnar’s enemies, pushing him past the breaking point. Upon his return from the front he had marched into the throne room, thrown his sword down in front of the king, and demanded he be empowered to do anything and everything necessary to defeat their enemies. He had persuaded King Leto to give him the authority to free and pardon their imprisoned inquisitors, including those sheltered by the Order of Illumination. Rather than chasing down sorcerers and political subversives, he had another job in mind for them—they would be tasked to interrogate members of the kingdom’s Menite minority, looking for potential traitors. It was a shocking move no one would have expected of either Leto or Stryker. Hard years of war had worn them both down. Caine had mixed feelings about the arrangement. Most Menites were ordinary hard-working citizens, as likely to be loyal to Cygnar as any Morrowan. But the fact was, the Protectorate of Menoth had declared war on Cygnar, and its people lived just across the

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Black River that flowed past Caspia. Protectorate preachers and missionaries could easily reach and influence Cygnar’s Menites. They were an insidious threat, fully willing to incite violence. The Protectorate had launched attacks on Caspia’s gates and performed bloody incursions into the interior. It was impossible to deny there were Menites inside Cygnar sympathetic to their cause, some of whom had already provided aid and shelter to those bent on murdering other Cygnarans. Caine could understand why Commander Stryker felt the need to take extreme measures. That said, the man had gone off the deep end, seeing potential traitors in anyone with a Menofix. He didn’t see them as Cygnarans anymore. Stryker’s extreme actions had provided a breakthrough for Caine’s hunt, however. The commander had given the inquisitors a sanctioned job, pulling them into the light of day—where Caine could reach them, question them, and end them. He just had to do so in a way that wouldn’t reveal himself to Stryker. Then again, he’d been pulling things over on that man his entire career. Rebald said, “Things are coming to a head. It’s possible our elusive Inquisition cabal might become twitchy and expose the bastard in the middle of all this. Leto is a good king—probably too good—and if he learns the truth, I fear he will abdicate the throne in favor of Vinter’s son.” “I’ve been on this trail ten years, Rebald. I’m ready for it to come to an end.” Caine sighed and stared into the bottom of his empty cup. “I haven’t met an inquisitor yet who wouldn’t turn over his own mother to save his skin. Once I get to the top of this food chain, there’s just one more stop.” Rebald finished his own drink, which he had been nursing.

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He gave Caine a level stare and asked, “Are you prepared for what you will have to do? Had we found him ten years ago, even five, there might have been other options. Now he’s nearly at the age of majority. There is only one solution.” They had talked about this before, and Caine had come to grips with it. He said, “When we’re done, our good king’s head will be the only one in this kingdom fit for that crown.”

607 AR

Caine had been in the thick of it during the Caspia-Sul War when the fighting between Cygnar and the Protectorate of Menoth took to the streets between the connected twin cities. It was a grueling conflict lasting over a year. In an attempt to keep the gun mage occupied, Lord Commander Stryker promoted Caine back to Captain, a move that left the gun mage with more men to oversee and greater responsibilities— the last thing he wanted. It became increasingly difficult to balance military orders against his secret missions for Rebald. Caine’s successful hunts eventually attracted more dangerous attention, that of the infamous warcaster Asheth Magnus. Magnus had once been a Cygnaran Army commander, one of King Vinter IV’s most loyal supporters. Magnus had refused to accept a pardon and had gone rogue. Driven into exile, Magnus turned mercenary, selling his sword and expertise to anyone willing to hire him—especially Cygnar’s enemies. Given his past association with the inquisitors, a confrontation between Caine and Magnus had perhaps been inevitable.

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This came to pass as the Caspia-Sul War neared its violent conclusion and Rebald brought Caine news that he had spotted Senior Inquisitor Orin Midwinter in the city. Caine violated his orders and outright abandoned his post to get to the man, one of the highest-placed surviving members of the Inquisition. Applying just the right amount of bargaining and intimidation gave Caine the information he needed, a true lead in his quest: an alchemist using a false identity was in actuality Inquisitor Asler Gerhaus, a skilled torturer. Caine was so convinced this was the final piece of the puzzle that in a moment of rare compassion he let Midwinter go. Caine immediately set out to find Gerhaus. It took numerous back alleys and hidden passages amid the Caspian walls to reach the house of his target, a man who knew precisely where Vinter’s son was hidden. He found the door unlocked and quietly slipped inside, wondering if his quarry had already been scared off by the sounds of approaching gunfire. He had only an instant of warning thanks to the familiar smell of smoke from a warcaster’s arcane turbine. “Stop!” ordered a familiar voice. “Do not move a single muscle. Drop your pistol into that stove by the door. Do it now!” Across the large entry room a thin man with wide eyes was being held by the mechanikal hand of a hulking figure Caine realized was Asheth Magnus. The mercenary’s living hand pointed a scattergun at Caine. “You have one second to put your pistols in that stove or I kill Gerhaus, taking with him everything he knows.” The gun mage could see the terror on Gerhaus’ face. Caine knew

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he could easily shoot Magnus without hitting his hostage—it was a trivial shot—but the other warcaster’s power field, provided by the turbine in his armor, would make it nearly impossible to kill him quickly or easily. The trick to gunning down a warcaster was to choose your moment and strike when he was distracted and overextended, preferably after drawing on his energy reserves to cast a powerful spell. Generally this required multiple shots. As it was, Caine couldn’t count on putting Magnus down before he killed Gerhaus. A wood stove just left of the door already pumped heat into the room. Caine had no choice. He kicked open the front grill and lay his pistols amid the smoldering wood. Unless he recovered them quickly, the fire would ruin them. The steel alloy used for the Spellstorm barrels and cylinders could sustain extreme heat, but the pistols included other less resilient mechanisms. “And drop the belt,” Magnus insisted. Caine clenched his teeth and dropped his ammunition belt to the floor. “Now, power down your armor.” Caine almost balked at this last indignity but did as asked, clicking a switch on the compact arcane turbine on his back, set into the armored leather greatcoat he wore over his light warcaster armor. Though his was the least bulky variant of such equipment, built to his specifications for maximum mobility, without power it became an uncomfortable weight pressing down on him. More importantly, the hinged joints of his armor now resisted his every move. “How did you find this place?” Magnus asked. “Likely the same way you did.” “Ah, Midwinter. I knew I should have killed him.”

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“Likely I should have too,” Caine said. He was anxious and itchy to retrieve his pistols. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. He was ready to act if he had to, though he was all too aware of how vulnerable he was without his power field. He almost jumped out of his skin as the popping noise of the bullets left in his pistols igniting erupted from the stove. “That,” Magnus said with an ugly smile. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish?” Caine asked. Magnus said with evident good humor, “An excellent question. I was puzzling over why you were killing inquisitors.” He looked toward his prisoner. “I couldn’t decide if it was a personal vendetta or something deeper. Now I know. Vinter has an heir, however dubious his legitimacy. I doubt you have his best interests at heart. Does your softhearted king know what you intend? I think not. A word of advice. Don’t rely on old loyalties and friendships. They disappoint. Better a man carves his own destiny. Thanks to Gerhaus here I know where the bastard is hiding. I’ll admit I hoped to have time to learn a few additional details, but things don’t always go according to plan.” “Wait!” Caine shouted, but it was too late. Magnus slammed Garhaus headfirst into the nearest wall with the sound of bones shattering. A brutal end. His corpse dropped to the floor even as Magnus fired his scattergun. Caine rolled awkwardly out of the way as a spray of metal shredded the doorframe and wall. A number of metal shards bit into his armor but did not penetrate. He had barely regained his feet when he sensed Magnus draw on his power. Glowing runes manifested around his hand just before the room exploded in a massive spray of debris. The burning wood

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stove splintered into fire-laden shrapnel. Caine focused his will and simply vanished. He appeared just outside the apartment and rolled to the cover of a nearby wall. Coughing against the dust and smoke, he scrambled back toward the rear alley on wobbly legs. He could see no sign of Magnus anywhere. He sighed and ignited his armor’s arcane turbine before turning to comb the rubble for what remained of his pistols. Magnus had thoroughly beaten him, and he did not expect the man would be easy to find.

607 AR, 1 Week Later, Town of Wexmere

Julius stood on one side of the basement complex’s sparring pit in a relaxed but ready fencing stance, his backsword at guard position. He had decided against fighting with rapier and dagger, his previous preference. That style left him too inclined to rest on the defensive and he had come to dislike its stances and forms. He had switched to a single heavier and more versatile sword. Facing him was “Lieutenant” Largo—Julius was certain their ranks did not represent actual military commissions. He was a tall and gangly man in his mid-thirties whose long face bore a drooping moustache and a hangdog look. Of all of Julius’ tutors, Largo was his preferred opponent, especially after it had become clear that the man feared fencing him. This was a sensation Julius was still learning to savor; it had not been so long ago he had been afraid every time he stepped into this sparring pit. For years it had been the most dreaded aspect of his daily training regimen; each time he chalked his hands and gripped

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the hilt of a practice sword, he knew he was about to get a sound beating. It had taken quite some time before he understood that not all his tutors were equally skilled in swordsmanship. They had all undergone some sort of formal training, of course, but under the intensive regimen Julius endured, their limitations eventually revealed themselves. A few months ago he had come to the rather startling realization that he had already exceeded several. It might not be long before he could beat all of them. Largo had lost his confidence weeks ago, and it showed in his posture and timidity. Julius stood still, taking deep and steady breaths, forcing his adversary to initiate the attack. Largo tried an obvious feint, which Julius ignored, and when he came in for a lunge the younger man performed a cut-over after parrying the blade, riposting with a stinging hit. Largo’s nostrils flared and Julius smirked in satisfaction. He intended to return some of the countless bruises he had received. The notion was especially appealing given it was Largo’s lectures on history and politics which Julius found the most tedious. Before he could shift to full offensive, the high note of a warning bell rang out. Everyone reacted instantly to the distinct tone. Largo tossed aside his sparring weapon and went to arm himself before taking up his position closer to the entryway. Julius dropped his own weapon and withdrew to the safe room, going past Sergeant Fowler. The pale and greasy-haired man nodded once in greeting, then slid the armored panel closed behind him. The panel was designed to blend into the wall of the large main basement chamber to obscure its presence. It also included a thin slit at eye level, allowing Julius to peer out with limited visibility.

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He glanced back at the only other person in the dimly lit room—Sergeant Layne Bristol, a wiry and intense woman with short-cropped black hair. Her posture seemed to Julius like a coiled spring. She was one of his few tutors who still intimidated him and whose swordplay he had yet to unravel. Bristol stood ready at the barred metal door that led to the back exit, in case they had to flee that way. She chambered a round into the breech of a large military pistol. Next to her was the grated opening of a wide-mouthed pipe that went up into the ceiling and into the main chamber, letting her hear what happened in there as if she were standing in the room. There was something about her expression that put Julius on edge. This did not feel like a drill, though he’d never heard the bell ring otherwise. It put his stomach in knots and set his heart beating rapidly. The alarm bell was there to warn of an incoming intruder or visitor. A single toll was the mildest warning, indicating there might not be an actual threat. Julius had often wondered what it would be like to meet and talk to someone other than the few faces he had come to know—but it had never happened. He had been allowed occasional carefully supervised trips out of the underground complex, to walk along the grounds of the walled- off estate whose basement chambers they occupied. No one had been allowed to come near him, and he had seen other people only through a spyglass, at a distance. He knew a great deal about various people, but only from his studies. What he knew had come from books and lectures. Meeting someone new provoked an extreme curiosity, almost a hunger, but also fear.

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“Stay steady, son,” Bristol said, her hoarse voice nonetheless reassuring. “Remember your training.” Julius put his eyes to the viewing slit again and saw the main door into the central chamber open. Largo and Cobb were at their positions, behind partial cover and with guns at the ready. They looked tense. Walking into the chamber alongside the stranger was Old Man Quinn. Julius had picked up the nickname from the others, though no one ever said it to Captain Quinn’s face. Old as he was, Quinn could still freeze Julius with a look. His piercing eyes and commanding demeanor left no question as to his being the ultimate authority and a man who would tolerate no insubordination. At present he was the only one of Julius’ tutors who seemed relaxed. It was the stranger that drew Julius’ attention. He was a tall and wide man who walked with a heavy limp, his steps giving the sound of metal on stone. He wore heavy mechanikal armor. Julius saw a single wide smokestack protruding from behind his head, with just a thin wisp of smoke coming from it, and thick pipes running below the main breastplate, likely protecting arcane conduits to strengthen the armor. The young man’s eyes narrowed as he realized this had to be warcaster armor. It looked as though the man’s right arm had been replaced with an oversized mechanikal prosthesis, and his right leg was supported by an uncomfortable looking metal brace. Julius knew at once this had to be Asheth Magnus, the warcaster who had served his father in the Scharde Invasions and who had refused to bow to Leto. His tutors had made him study this man’s background extensively, along with that of the other warcasters they knew.

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The warcaster looked at the men who had guns trained on him and sneered. “What’s this, Quinn? Do you think these people could do anything if I wanted to force my way in? I could kill everyone here if I chose and you’d be powerless to prevent it.” Julius heard Bristol begin unbarring the door behind him. She whispered, “Get ready to make a quick exit.” Her voice held a note of urgency he’d never heard from her before. But he was too fascinated by what was unfolding to take his eyes from the slit. “Just standard procedure, Magnus,” Quinn replied affably. His own pistol was holstered. He waved a hand to Largo and Cobb, who reluctantly lowered their weapons. “We don’t receive visitors. You’re a special exception.” Asheth Magnus swept the room with his eyes and then turned back to Old Man Quinn. “Where’s the boy?” Bristol had opened the bolts and thrown the heavy lever that pulled back a number of thick rods serving to reinforce the metal door. The mechanism was well oiled but still made a distinct noise as the rods were withdrawn. “Come on!” she hissed at him. “We need to move. Now.” Magnus raised his voice, speaking more loudly, “And if any of your people are in the back about to flee, I should warn you I have warjacks at your escape route. You might as well come out.” Julius turned and saw that Bristol had frozen, her hands clenching the door handle. Her eyes had gone wide. She held a finger to her lips. Julius frowned, considering the entire exchange and finding the incident both fascinating and exciting. From everything he had learned, his tutors and Magnus were on the same side. Had something changed? He felt certain Quinn would not have brought

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someone hostile into their main chamber, not without a different tolling of the bell. Clearly there were unanswered questions. Captain Quinn called out, “Sergeant Bristol, abort any exit plans. Come on out, and bring the boy.” She gritted her teeth and sealed the back door again. She said under her breath, “What are you doing, Old Man?” Julius stepped back as she undid the interior clasps on the panel that closed them off from the main room. She rapped on it twice, and Fowler helped pull it back to reveal the opening. Bristol put her hand on Julius’ shoulder and urged him forward, and the two of them walked out into the main room. As they got closer, Julius could see the handles of weapons strapped to Magnus’ back, what looked like the hilt of a sword and the stock of some sort of carbine or rifle. His posture was twisted from whatever damage had been done to his side and leg, leaving him slightly hunched, but he was a large and intimidating figure nonetheless. Julius kept his head high and met the man’s stare squarely, remembering his training. He was of royal blood and would not be cowed. Fowler approached with them, staying just slightly behind, his hand still on the grip of his pistol, which he had holstered. Quinn stepped forward to stand somewhat between Magnus and Julius, though to the side. Magnus ignored him, staring at the sixteen-year-old. “What’s your name, boy?” He looked briefly to Quinn, who inclined his head slightly, his expression inscrutable. “Julius Raelthorne, eldest son of Vinter Raelthorne the Fourth, blood heir to the throne of Cygnar.” Something in his words made Magnus smile. Julius wondered if he

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was being mocked, and scowled. The warcaster had turned to face Quinn. He asked, “Do you lot still consider yourselves part of the Inquisition? I do not see the uniform.” “No,” Quinn said without hesitation. “We were initially, but we long ago abandoned those oaths for a higher calling. We still have friends and allies among that organization. Our aims are not necessarily in opposition.” “Are you sure about that?” Magnus asked. “Their purpose is to restore Vinter to the throne. It would seem you have other goals.” Despite having lowered them, Cobb, Fowler, Bristol, and Largo had hands on weapons and were ready to bring them to bear. Quinn still seemed calm, yet his position suggested he was ready to act to intervene if need be. He weighed Magnus’ words, then said, “We aim to see Julius crowned as king. That is our purpose. Doesn’t matter to us who’s sitting on the throne when we make our move. Leto or Vinter: either will have to go.” Magnus inclined his head and his expression suggested a certain respect. “I don’t expect you’ve been so forthcoming with your remaining inquisitor friends. Were I in service to Vinter still, by this declaration you would risk becoming my enemy. It is fortunate for you that the man who was once my king has since betrayed my loyalties and rewarded my efforts with scorn, mistrust, and abuse. He has proven himself unworthy of the dedication and sacrifice so many gave him. If Julius is to become king, it will require removing Leto the Usurper and thwarting the return of Vinter the Exile. You are not in a position to see this happen, but I am. If this is truly your goal, from this point forward you answer to me.”

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Largo had become red-faced during this speech, his moustache quivering. He shouted, “Like hell! Who do you think you are? We’re not doing a damned thing you—” In a swift motion Magnus reached with his living hand to grip and draw his short-barreled scattergun, leveled it at Largo’s chest, and fired. The explosion seemed impossibly loud in the contained space, setting Julius’ ears ringing. Largo’s chest was torn apart and he toppled backward and collapsed. The wall behind him was splattered with blood and gore and pocked with deeply embedded hunks of metal shot. Julius was unsure what to do, but the three sergeants had immediately begun to draw their pistols. Quinn barked, “Stop! No one move!” His eyes gleamed with inner power and they froze. Julius did not move or jump with the gunshot but also felt frozen in place. “Holster your pistols and stand down!” Had he a pistol, Julius knew he would have secured it, the compulsion was so strong. Magnus seemed unaffected. He raised the scattergun to point at the ceiling and asked, “Is there anyone else here unwilling to follow my orders and see this through?” The others felt the invisible pressure relent and one by one shook their heads. Quinn said, “That was wasteful, Magnus. My people are highly skilled and not easily replaced. I could have brought Largo on board.” “Now you don’t need to,” the warcaster said, sliding the scattergun back into its holster on his back. He faced Julius and said, “My apologies, Julius. I realize you may be close to these people, after all these years. But dangerous days are ahead. Not all who join us will make it through. Each of these people is ultimately

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disposable, though also potentially useful.” Julius folded his arms. “What of me? Will you require me to follow your orders as well?” Magnus nodded. “I will. Your instruction has not yet ended. I have much to teach you. They will be hard lessons. If you value your survival, you will heed me closely in the days ahead. Once we have placed you on the throne and you wear the crown, your word will be law. Until that day, you answer to me. Are you prepared to leave this place and embrace your destiny?” Julius looked toward the open doorway and considered how much there was to see of the world, and all that lay ahead of him. He tried to put aside the image of Largo’s bloody death. He said, “More than ready. But if you desire my obedience, you must promise never to kill my people. Not without my permission.” Magnus considered this and then inclined his head in agreement. The two of them walked out the entrance, the ex- inquisitors following behind. Julius felt a rising excitement that he was embarking on precisely what he had been born to do. He was taking the first step on the path to his throne.

51 PART ONE CHAPTER ONE

Early 609 AR, Fellig

“It was that Thamar-loving Ordsman Allesari who let the traitor Magnus into the city. So if you’re here about that, you’re talking to the wrong man. Go find Commander Caralo Allesari of the Ordic Army. Besides, I’m still a general, Captain, and that might still mean something. Or it should. Clearly it doesn’t here, not anymore.” General Mathern ended with something in Ordic that seemed to suggest an intimate relationship between Allesari’s mother and a rank-smelling gorax. The tirade was delivered with a half-drunken slur and a Morridane accent of the northern Thornwood. Captain Allister Caine, gun mage and warcaster of the Cygnaran Army, held out a hand to placate the drunken general. He’d been lurking around in the city looking for information on Magnus, and questioning the veteran general had seemed a good idea. He had found the man, predictably, in the main tavern catering to Fellig’s few remaining military personnel—and had pulled him to a back room for a private conversation. The general had clearly gotten the wrong impression. Caine said, “General, even if I’d forgotten yer rank—which I didn’t—I’m not here to make accusations. I know things have been hard here.” The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

“Hard? Is that what we’re calling it?” This provoked a renewed bout of cursing and complaining. “You—” he jabbed a finger into Caine’s chest, “the Cygnaran Army—you abandoned Fellig! You don’t give a damn about it or about me.” Caine listened to these invectives calmly. He had experience with drunken officers, though rarely one as highly placed as General Dargus Mathern, decorated war veteran and hero of the First Army. This one also happened to be a man the rest of the army thought had been killed in the last siege of the beleaguered city. Caine had spoken to Mathern before, in better days, and it was painful to see him in such a diminished state. He wore a patch over his left eye that rested above extensive scar tissue on that side of his face. A blotched complexion suggested routine hard drinking. The left sleeve of his uniform was pinned up to his shoulder—that arm was gone, lost in the same fight that had claimed his eye. A man of his position could have arranged for a mechanikal prosthetic. That he had not done so suggested stubbornness, neglect, or both. As Caine considered that, he realized acquiring a new arm would have required traveling far from the forest city, something Mathern was clearly unwilling to do. The old general had become a fixture here, a symbol—a battered and maimed symbol of Cygnaran authority in Fellig, what little there now was. The northern city had been cut off from the rest of Cygnar by the wars and was reliant on the neighboring kingdom of Ord for both supplies and protection. Until recently only the presence of the Ordic Army had kept the city from being seized and pillaged by the Khadoran Empire. Fellig, perched on the shared borders between Cygnar, Ord, and Khador, had been repeatedly battered

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and assailed. The stalemate between Ord and Khador had begun to escalate toward violence, which had created an opening for opportunists seeking to exploit the situation. Foremost among those was Asheth Magnus and his mercenary army. Caine stepped out of the room and flagged down a serving woman, paying for the general’s next drink and suggesting she water it down. Returning to Mathern, he said, “Let me see if I’ve got this right. So the Ordic commander—yes, I know yer opinion of him—he feared the Khadorans surrounding Fellig were going to use the fact that Ordic soldiers were manning the walls as an excuse to attack. Khador would ‘liberate’ Fellig for their new allies—us— then take the city and keep it for themselves. Is that right?” “That’s right. Don’t put anything past the reds! This alliance is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done.” Mathern’s face turned purple as he spoke. “You can’t trust a Khadoran to do anything but swing an axe at your face! Whatever idiot agreed to all this—” “Yeh don’t have to convince me. I know. I agree with yeh. The alliance is stupid,” Caine said agreeably. The ‘idiots’ responsible were the top brass of the army in Point Bourne, together with their Khadoran counterparts. They had entered into a desperate arrangement to deal with a more terrible enemy: the Nightmare Empire of Cryx. There were good reasons for this—the situation at Point Bourne had been horrific. Thousands of innocent civilians had been murdered and transformed into undead thralls by Cryxian necromancers. It was enough to remind both armies fighting over the city of their shared humanity. Despite this, no one on either side thought the alliance would last. “That’s what I was saying,” Mathern said, nodding.

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“But let’s get back to Fellig. If I heard you correctly, what happened next was Allesari decides to bring in some hired swords to defend the city so Ord wouldn’t have to fight directly. He sends a lucrative offer to everyone in Five Fingers, and before long a train shows up with every available mercenary in western Immoren, including our friend Asheth Magnus.” “That damned traitor!” Mathern sputtered. “And don’t forget pirates! It was Broadsides Bart that Allesari thought he was hiring in the first place. He showed up with what looked to be half his mangy crew. Only the lure of a lot of gold would bring a pirate to this gods-forsaken forest. More gold than just an Ordic commander can throw around. I put the pieces together when I saw Magnus, Vinter’s right-hand man, here in the flesh! Whatever he’s up to, I’m sure it’s bad for Cygnar. But the deal was struck, Morrow help us, and it’s too late now.” “If it was Allesari that hired them, no one will hold yeh to fault,” Caine said reassuringly. “I don’t care about blame.” The general had become maudlin again. He said, “The Ordic Army will be pulling out soon, I’d bet. That’ll leave no one else to defend the city. I’ve got some men, of course, but not many. Not enough. Most of my people are in bad shape—the walking wounded. Shell-shocked, maimed, drunk, ill fit for duty. Also heroes, every one! Each has bled for this city, lost loved ones, friends. What else could we do? Turn over the keys to Khador? So now I have to endure that traitor breathing the same air as me.” “Yeh did the right thing,” Caine said, clapping the increasingly morose general on his good shoulder. “Better mercenaries than reds in yer streets, alliance or no.”

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“Damned straight!” Mathern agreed, raising his mug. “To Urcaen with all the dirty reds! They took my arm, my eye, killed damn near everyone. Did you see the scars on the walls from the Butcher of Khardov? A monster, that man! They’ll not walk these streets while I’m breathing. Not a single damnable red gets past the gates—you can tell them that back in Point Bourne, or Caspia, or wherever!” “About Magnus,” Caine said, before the rant fully derailed Mathern. “Did yeh see anyone notable with him? Someone too young to be a veteran Steelhead or pirate? Black-haired, more refined and better spoken than the rest?” Caine had no idea what the youth looked like and could only go by hunches and conjecture. The general frowned as he considered this, then shook his head. “I don’t know, maybe. I didn’t talk to his people. Never been that fond of mercenaries. We set them up with lodging at the east garrison barracks, which were mostly empty. You can go look for yourself.” “I’ll do that. I’d appreciate if yeh didn’t mention to anyone that I’m here. Trying to keep a low profile. I’d especially prefer if Magnus didn’t know about me.” He winked. Mathern smiled for the first time as he stared at Caine through bloodshot eyes. “Already forgot you,” he said. “Hey, when you go back, tell the king or his generals we’re still here. Still holding the fort. Tell them I’m not dead yet. Heard there were rumors.” The gun mage returned the smile and said, “Glad to see that particular rumor was untrue. I’ll tell them—if I make it back myself.”

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• • • There was no getting around the fact that there were limits to how quietly an eight-foot-tall, three-ton warjack could move through the trees, though Ace managed quite well, all things considered. Caine crept carefully through the underbrush, following not far behind his heavily modified warjack. Ace’s inhuman stride was too long for Caine to shadow its steps exactly, though he fell into an easy rhythm behind it, letting it clear the way for him while he looked ahead through its eyes. Recently he had been forced to get comfortable lurking about in the trees. Ace was built on a similar chassis as the reliable Hunter, a warjack designed from the outset to traverse the wilderness. Its sophisticated cortex—its artificial brain—guided the steam-powered machine efficiently and relatively quietly through the forest. Its design had been optimized to help it remain silent and unseen so it could serve on reconnaissance missions. It was also equipped with an experimental infiltration system that made it more difficult to see, especially when partially obscured by branches or moving through deep shadows. Caine didn’t know exactly how this system worked except that when it was active light seemed to bend around the warjack. So long as Caine stayed close by, he benefitted from this field as well. Most of the time the system ran at a low level and its effects were subtle. If Caine gave the mental command, the infiltration field could intensify to make them both nearly invisible for a brief time. This wasn’t an option he could rely on often, though, as using it would likely fry some of its conduits and put the system out of commission until it could be repaired.

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In this instance full stealth was unnecessary, as the people he followed were making what could only be characterized as a racket. Beyond the noise of a thousand or more marching soldiers, they were talking and laughing, some of them quite loudly. Among them were also a good number of their own warjacks, every one noisier than Ace, their engines rumbling and occasionally whistling steam. The mercenaries had their own scouts around their perimeter, but Caine found it relatively easy to avoid their notice, given they were looking for larger threats. Caine’s plans had changed as soon as he went to check the garrison barracks Mathern had mentioned and discovered the mercenaries were already on the move. Magnus had apparently opted to seize the initiative by preemptively attacking the Khadorans before they could get in position to assault the city. Caine had quickly recovered Ace from where he had hidden it outside Fellig’s walls and was now shadowing a sizable—and noisy—army of sell-swords. It was an impressive, if motley, collection. All manner of races and ethnicities were represented, including dozens of the large and muscular blue-skinned trollkin wearing their clans’ quitari patterns on their sashes. These were a familiar crew led by a tough old campaigner named Greygore Boomhowler. Aside from Boomhowler’s gang, the bulk of the mercenaries were human, mostly professional Steelhead soldiers—including riflemen, halberdiers, and a smaller number of heavy cavalry. The next most numerous were hundreds of rugged-looking privateers, most armed with pistols and hand axes or cutlasses. It was strange to see such men and women so far from the sea, though Caine knew they could be hired for odd jobs like this, if the money

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was right. Each of those sea dogs led a rough life, fighting for every coin they earned or stole on ships sailing the dangerous waters off the coast of western Immoren. Caine did not underestimate them just because they weren’t soldiers. Pirates might not have discipline, but they knew how to kill. The pirates had brought several deck cannons on wheeled frames to serve as light artillery. While these were useful, the army’s heaviest firepower came from their warjacks. Striding in the midst of the sea dogs was Bartolo “Broadsides Bart” Montador, a boisterous warcaster famous for his love of cannons—the more and bigger, the better. Under his control were several converted laborjacks, each carrying a large ship cannon. Towering over even them were a pair of thirty-foot tall colossals, each with a half-dozen smaller cannons poking from its chest. Caine had never seen mercenary colossals before, and they cut an impressive figure as they lumbered forward, smoke pouring from multiple exhausts into the cloudy sky. He’d heard these machines referred to as Galleons, an appropriate name given they resembled walking ships. They looked right at home alongside the privateers. Montador was what had drawn Caine to Fellig in the first place. A Cygnaran spy had spotted the privateer with Asheth Magnus in Clockers Cove at the foundry that had worked on Montador’s famous flagship. The pair was there to purchase the first of these Galleons, fresh off the factory floor. They had then moved up the Broken Coast, through the pirates’ haven of Five Fingers, and eventually to Fellig. Caine was glad to have caught up with them at last. Magnus had kept a low profile until he had started throwing

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gold around, hiring whatever mercenaries he could secure. Caine knew the former Cygnaran commander had earlier intercepted an army payroll caravan, heisting a small fortune in gold and silver bullion intended to cover officer salaries. It gave him a considerable war chest, one he was now using. The size of the force Magnus had assembled was daunting, and Caine had to search to find the so-called warlord amid the crowd. Eventually he spotted the other warcaster by looking for his escorting warjacks. Magnus was quite a skilled mechanik and had modified and rebuilt a number of ’jacks to his specifications, several of which he had in tow now. Whatever Magnus needed this army for, it couldn’t be good for Cygnar. The man had assembled a force sufficient to challenge many small military garrisons or even threaten a full army regiment. Caine had no idea how Vinter’s bastard fit into all this—and with any luck, he’d get rid of that problem before he had to find out. Even hidden in the forest, Caine took care not to draw attention to himself. He was taking a risk even being this close—some warcasters could sense the presence of others like themselves nearby. He’d never had a knack for this, though, and he didn’t think it likely Magnus or Broadsides Bart did either. So long as he wasn’t actively drawing on his magic or mentally controlling Ace, he felt confident he could stay undetected. Ace scanned the mercenary force, its eyes glowing with a cunning and intelligence unusual for such machines. Caine was fond of the warjack. It had been through quite a lot in its twelve-plus years. Though its cortex was still the same, Ace’s original body had been destroyed over a decade ago during a secret mission in Llael. The

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machine had managed to throw him clear of an explosion before sinking to the bottom of the Black River. At Caine’s urging, Scout General Rebald had eventually sent a team to recover its cortex so the warjack could be rebuilt while preserving its personality, its quirks, and its experience fighting at his side. Now that cortex inhabited an entirely new and mostly improved body, including a powerful rune-shot cannon in the place of its left arm and a steam engine with an insulated framework that minimized engine sound and had a muffled exhaust system to help disperse its smoke. Unfortunately this new infiltration system wasn’t as reliable as the older one, but the genius inventor responsible for it had died years ago, taking his knowledge to the grave. After less than an hour on the march they reached a hill occupied by Khadoran Winter Guard. The northern soldiers were dug-in with improvised fortifications to augment the natural ones—sandbags were placed to seal the gaps between large boulders around the flat top of the hill. Things got noisy and bloody in a hurry as Montador set his men and ’jacks to shelling the top of the hill during their approach, soon followed by staggered rifle fire. Halberdiers and privateers advanced under the cover of this onslaught from one direction while cavalry circled around to threaten from the rear. The Winter Guard never stood a chance. The hill had been offered good cover and visibility for a small force, but now the defenders were surrounded and tremendously outgunned. From the shouting of orders and quick shifting of manpower, it was clear the mercenary army anticipated additional Khadorans moving on their position and intended to use the hill’s defensive advantages themselves.

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Caine took the risk of linking his mind with Ace’s cortex and watched through its visual apparatus, gaining a higher and magnified perspective. Through the ’jack’s advanced optics, he fixed his attention on Magnus, ignoring everything else on the hill. Caine waited to see if the warcaster gave any of his subordinates special treatment. Somewhere in this group, he felt certain, was his quarry, Vinter’s bastard son. There was always the question of whether Magnus would risk him in this battle at all. Bringing him might be considered foolish, but Caine suspected Magnus wouldn’t leave him behind. With two warcasters on their side, Vinter’s bastard was arguably safer here than he would be back in Fellig, where an assassin would have readier access. If things went poorly Magnus could use his warjacks to protect the youth, sacrificing men as necessary. Caine just about jumped out of his skin when the two Galleon colossals turned his direction and began tromping heavily toward the trees where he and Ace hid. “Back up, back up,” he whispered. Ace was already moving, responding to his will, not his words. It became apparent the oversized warjacks were not looking at them, just repositioning. Magnus was keeping them in reserve. They crashed through the trees, splintering smaller ones entirely, until they arrived where they had been directed. Caine and Ace quietly circled the hillside, moving more adroitly through the underbrush, trying to maintain line of sight to Magnus atop the hill. He spotted distant smoke over the trees opposite. This proved to be Khadorans approaching with their own ’jacks and heavy infantry in steam-powered Man-O-War armor. Rising above the other noise came a great bellowing, joined

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by others chanting and singing. Caine winced as he realized the trollkin fell caller Boomhowler was in a good mood, entertaining his gang. Trollkin fell callers had unnaturally powerful voices, and what they thought of as music wasn’t exactly pleasing to human ears. He could make out some few of the words, just enough to tell that the song Boomhowler was singing was raunchy. The pirates joined in, perhaps inventing their own lyrics, while Magnus ignored them. Ace tilted his head and across their mental connection the warjack sent a prod suggesting he should pay attention. Caine connected again with its eyes and saw a Steelhead cavalry officer ride up to Magnus, reining in his horse. Magnus yelled at Boomhowler to pipe down and turned to talk to this arrival, who raised his visor to reveal a very youthful face. Black hair was pressed to his forehead, and his features were sharp and familiar. Caine nodded at Ace in approval, impressed at the ’jack’s instincts. The youth looked a Raelthorne, without doubt. His armor was different from his peers—similar to Steelhead issue, but heavier and set with different straps. Mercenaries often customized their gear, but behind his saddle there was also a heavy sword sheathed and strapped, one that to Caine’s eye looked mechanikal. It was unlikely an ordinary Steelhead lieutenant could afford to be outfitted with such a weapon. Even together these elements were not absolute confirmation, and Caine tempered his excitement, reminding himself not to jump to conclusions. Caine was too far away to hear their conversation, but from the lieutenant’s posture and the way he pointed at his axe it seemed he was complaining about the weapon. They argued briefly, then

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Magnus pointed and gave him an order. The visor came down, and the horseman rode back to rejoin his unit. A quick and simple exchange, but Caine was smiling. He trusted his instincts. The man’s youth, the casual way he had addressed Magnus, the fact that Magnus had not rebuked him, his familiar features and hair, the unusual sword and armor. It had to be him. After twelve years of hunting, his goal was in reach. The Khadorans came out of the trees to be met by rifle and cannon fire, but Caine’s mind was elsewhere, plotting, weighing options. He had to pick his moment. One wrong move and he might as well shoot himself and be done with it. • • • Caine found no good opportunity during the fight, though the noise and chaos might otherwise have been convenient. There was no chance to slip in closer and line up a shot, not without being surrounded by hundreds of hostile soldiers and confronted by a pair of dangerous warcasters. He had the ability to teleport himself short distances, something that had saved his neck in similarly sticky situations, but doing that sort of magic took a toll and he had to be careful not to rely on it. He could flash to get close to a target and make a kill or flash away to escape after taking a shot, but not both—not without an unavoidable delay during which he was vulnerable. Focused as he was on his quarry, Caine paid less attention to the battle, which Magnus quickly won. It was clear the man had not lost his tactical acumen over the years. He lost very few men while managing to drive off a numerically superior Khadoran force that included heavy infantry supported by multiple heavy warjacks. He

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knew precisely when and where to exert pressure, exactly how to position his soldiers. He waited until the last moment to unleash his colossals, ensuring they arrived pristine and undamaged as enemy morale began to waver. The sight of those machines charging into battle forced the speedy withdrawal of an otherwise disciplined enemy. The spirits of the mercenaries were high as they returned to Fellig. There would be celebration and drinking. The Khadorans were not gone, but the preemptive attack had discouraged any immediate siege, buying time. Given they had hoped to grab Fellig bloodlessly by calling the bluff of the Ordic Army, it was possible they would decide its capture was no longer worth the eventual cost. This was good news for Fellig—and for Cygnar—even if the man responsible was a wanted traitor. On their return Caine followed without difficulty. He had an uneasy moment when he thought he caught Magnus looking in his direction. The man was constantly checking his surroundings, a habit developed from long years surviving in hostile environments. Nothing came of it. Caine expected his best chance to isolate Julius and take his shot would be once they had gotten back into the city streets and the mercenaries split up to stow their gear. Magnus was keeping Vinter’s bastard with the Steelheads for a reason—both to disguise him and to teach him a soldier’s discipline and habits. But because of this, the youth could not stay in the warcaster’s company all the time. He would be quartered with his men. Caine reluctantly left Ace outside the city again. The advanced light warjack did not resemble anything available in town. This

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meant he wouldn’t have its assistance when he made his move, but he didn’t see any way around that, not while Magnus’ people were on patrol and helping guard the gates. His own entry into the city was managed using his magic to flash up to an unoccupied section of the battlements, keeping to the shadows while he recovered, then flashing again to an empty alleyway inside the city below. This was less risky than climbing a slippery wall in the middle of the day. Caine had never been against using his magic as a shortcut, when he could get away with it. The more difficult call was deciding to leave his warcaster armor behind. Fellig was a small town and its people would take note of even his light armor with the pair of small smokestacks extending from his arcane turbine. Even turned to its lowest setting, the wisps of smoke would be visible, making it difficult to get near his quarry without drawing attention. With Ace and its infiltration field at his side he might have managed, but without that he knew he’d have to blend in. A warcaster always got noticed, while an ordinary man in a dusty greatcoat with his collar turned up against the biting wind might not. His presence was known to a few soldiers who had agreed to keep quiet, men loyal to General Mathern and glad to see a Cygnaran warcaster here, even one that was hiding. They had loaned him a corner of a room in one of the undermanned barracks, giving him a place to operate from and to sleep. After returning from watching Magnus’ battle he stowed his gear there, taking only his Spellstorm pistols, holstered inside a borrowed greatcoat. Though he had operated like this on occasion before, he felt especially vulnerable without his armor’s power field.

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Before he stepped into the open he called on his magic, focusing his thoughts into a series of sharply defined runes that manifested before his eyes in white-blue light and then faded. He felt their energy settle into his body, latent and ready. To the naked eye he looked no different, but the magic would amplify his reflexes and reaction time if he came under attack. Maintaining this protective spell required only a small bit of mental effort and a trickle of power that Caine was well accustomed to maintaining. Fellig was an odd city in the best of times, a claustrophobic place of tight streets and alleys, its thick sloped outer walls surrounded by the imposing trees of the Thornwood. Even with so few soldiers still here it felt like a fortress town. Every structure seemed built with defense in mind, and many of them showed signs of damage from various conflicts over the last few years. The walls of Fellig were not so high that they could entirely prevent incoming artillery fire, and many of its outer structures had collapsed or been burned and rebuilt, leaving less of a sense of history than in other towns of its size. The citizens of Fellig were quiet and wary, moving quickly from one building to another without congregating in the streets. All of them were accustomed to alarms and drills requiring them to seek shelter or to take up arms as militia in defense of their homes. They only seemed to relax in their taverns and ale houses, facilitated by bitter and strong Morridane ale. Caine was keenly aware of the lack of heavy street traffic as he sought to reach the mercenaries without being identified. He was able to catch up with his target just as the Steelheads were breaking into different groups. He cursed under his breath as

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he saw Magnus not far behind them, walking in a similar direction as the cavalry, escorting his warjacks. He hoped that was temporary. The warcaster was likely taking his machines to a garage or ’jack shop where they could be serviced, refueled, and left until needed again. His patience was rewarded when Magnus and the ’jacks turned down a wider northern road as the Steelheads continued toward the eastern wall. The light was dimming as evening neared, and the Steelheads were starting to blend together, each with helmet and plated armor and mail. He confirmed his target after they dismounted and turned over their horses to the garrison stable hands. The youth had removed his helmet as he spoke to one of his older peers. Caine stepped closer, walking with a casual demeanor, not looking at him directly and keeping up against the buildings to the side of the street. A dozen Steelheads remained nearby, loudly discussing their plans. Despite the lieutenant stripes on his shoulder armor, the youth was receiving the typical light harassment given a greenhorn: they were threatening to get him so drunk he wouldn’t be able to tell his horse from a tavern wench. From this closer vantage, Caine took a moment to examine the person he was about to kill. If what Rebald had told him was accurate, the black-haired young man with sharp features would be celebrating his seventeenth birthday in a couple of months. He was taller than average, closer to Vinter’s height than Leto’s, as was to be expected. His facial features were strikingly familiar. Caine had never seen any portraits of Vinter IV at this age, but it did not seem a stretch to imagine a strong similarity. The mercenaries broke into groups of twos and threes. Most

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of them wanted to head to the taverns immediately. The youth joined a couple of grizzled campaigners, one male and one female, who intended to head back to their barracks to stow armor and weapons before going to drink with their peers. It was clear they had quarters close by. Caine’s heart was pounding and an urgent agitation somewhat akin to what he felt when entering battle overcame him. His palms itched for the feel of his Spellstorms. He wondered if he should kill the other two Steelheads as well. He didn’t feel much sympathy for them, but they hadn’t done anything to deserve a bullet. Hell of a way to repay a day spent defending a Cygnaran city from Khadorans, he thought. He gritted his teeth and steeled himself, reaching inside his coat with his right hand to feel the familiar handle of one of his pistols. He drew this Spellstorm slowly, keeping it low and to his side. Like the magelock pistols wielded by other gun mages, the barrels of his pistols were inscribed with runes, customized to channel the intense arcane energies he could summon and instill into a similarly rune-inscribed bullet. In other ways his Spellstorms were special, each a finely crafted revolver with a smoothly rotating cylinder allowing multiple shots before reloading. He had bought them on his own dime from a master gunsmith, and each was a work of art, perfectly balanced and beautiful. Caine still got a thrill every time he drew these sublime pistols, and he savored his skill with them. Time seemed to compress when he readied to fire. He let himself enter that mental state, seeing those around appear to slow and stop moving. One shot should do, even with his target in armor. The padding, the steel plates,

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the connective mail—none of it mattered if Caine hit the sixteen- year-old youth in the head. The distance was long for a pistol, but otherwise it was a relatively easy shot. It would be a fast death. What had Caine been doing at sixteen? That was a year before the end of the Scharde Invasions, living hard in Bainsmarket. As a street tough he had never paid much mind to the far-off war. Days and nights spent struggling to survive on the streets blurred together. It wasn’t until he was twenty that a chain of events had led to his confronting Boss Dakin’s enforcer Horace and nearly getting himself killed. Only the intervention of Asheth Magnus had pulled his bacon out of the fire; he had met the warcaster for the first time then, when the Cygnaran officer saved his life. He had been four years older than Vinter’s bastard was now, yet still a young fool. Since then Caine had killed many men, plenty of them young— conscripts in the Khadoran Army or youths sent by zealous Protectorate priests to throw flaming bombs. He’d taken some with cheap shots, firing on them from behind or before they could draw. They had still been enemy soldiers. This felt different. He raised the pistol. Life wasn’t fair, and Caine had a job to do, for the good of the realm. Time was about to resume its flow. His aim was true, his hand steady as stone. He just had to squeeze a finger. Yet did he know for a fact that this youth—just barely a man—was really his target? He had felt sure, but why? All supposition. Still, that was all he’d ever get. He gritted his teeth. “Sorry, kid,” he said under his breath, and he began to pull the trigger. A shot rang out, but not from his gun. Everyone on the street flinched and ducked. Before Caine completed a simple motion that would have ended a life, he felt a cold barrel against the back of

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his neck. “Don’t even think about it,” a harsh voice said in his ear. The gun mage was so accustomed to being keenly aware of his surroundings that he froze, genuinely surprised. There was shouting and the pounding of heavy footsteps as people flew into motion around him. Across the street Vinter’s bastard looked straight at Caine, his mouth slightly open and his eyes wide. Then he was yanked aside by the female Steelhead next to him, who dragged him toward the nearest doorway. Caine could have gotten him. His pistol followed the target as if of its own accord. He could kill both of them. “You heard me!” the man behind him said, digging the barrel into his skin. Turning his head Caine saw a familiar blond-haired man in black leathers. He couldn’t see the pistol, but he could sure feel it. Hiss was its name, a pistol that could stop a gifted man from casting spells—if he managed to survive the bullet. “Jarok Croe,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here. Thought I shot yeh already.” “It didn’t stick,” Croe said, grinning above the tall leather collar that covered his neck and chin. The man was a cutthroat wanted for numerous murders and countless other crimes, though he liked to pretend he was a legitimate mercenary. He had broken every code of behavior associated with his profession. He was also skilled at passing unseen, so Caine felt a little better about being caught flat-footed. Croe added, “Lower your pistol. Now! Last warning.” If Caine had been wearing his warcaster armor he might have fired anyway, counting on his power field to deflect the lethal energy from Croe’s bullet. His reflexes were good enough and he still had his protective spell going, so he likely would have made it out of the way. Without his armor, if he miscalculated or if Croe

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got lucky, he’d be dead. A point-blank shot to the head rarely failed. The moment was lost. Vinter’s bastard had been pushed into the building opposite and was gone. Clearly the Steelheads with him were serving as bodyguards, likely on instructions from Magnus. Caine lowered his pistol even as he became aware of others approaching. He felt the impact of warjack treads on the pavement underfoot. From the corner of his eye he saw a hulking Mangler and a much less massive Renegade escorting the familiar silhouette of Asheth Magnus. The warcaster had his blunderbuss in his left hand, the living one, wisps of smoke drifting from the barrel—he had been the one to fire the warning shot. Magnus growled, “If I sense so much as a hint of magic, we’ll take you down before you can blink.” Caine’s eyes had betrayed him. He had glanced at the doorway where the bastard had vanished, thinking he could still flash over there, get inside the hall, kill both the boy and his protector, and escape out the back. He nearly called Magnus’ bluff, but caution got the better of him. Teleporting was fast, but it still required an effort of will, and Croe had good reflexes. What’s more, he had no idea what the situation was in that building or who else Magnus had around. A number of shadowy figures lined the rooftops above, people he had not noticed earlier, most with crossbows—Croe’s people, who preferred that weapon for its silence—and others with rifles. Magnus must have had some of these people in place ahead of time, which meant Caine had likely been spotted at some point. Caine holstered the pistol and raised his hands, his posture relaxing as he turned to face Magnus directly. He offered the man a smile and said, “Good to see yeh, Magnus. Can’t say I care for yer hospitality.”

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Magnus looked him up and down, shaking his head slightly. “No warcaster armor, and no ’jacks anywhere in sight. Brave but foolish, even for you.” “Sometimes a man has to take risks,” Caine said with a shrug. “Didn’t see Croe’s people in that last fight. Guess yeh held them back. Smart move.” “I knew I’d have to deal with you eventually,” Magnus said with a sigh. “I’m surprised you’ve turned assassin. Had I known you were willing to take such work, I could have made you a more lucrative offer.” “You’re horning in on my profession,” Croe said from behind him. “Leave it to the pros.” Magnus gave the cutthroat a stern look to silence him before returning his attention to Caine. “What am I to do with you?” he mused. “I could kill you now if I wanted to. Many might say that’d be the smart move.” Caine did not have to look over his shoulder to know Croe was nodding to show his own opinion. “Yeh could try,” Caine said. He refused to show fear, though he knew this was no idle threat. His position was far from ideal. He might dodge Croe’s gun and perhaps evade Magnus’ as well, but there were a dozen men on the rooftops, and next to Magnus a Renegade outfitted with a massive obliterator rocket, the explosion of which could take out both Caine and the building behind him. “The truth is, I don’t want to kill you, Allister.” Magnus looked him square in the face, stepping closer. “You’ve been put on a bad course. I don’t hold it against you. I know it’s Rebald’s fault. You’ve been led astray. You need to open your eyes.” “Interesting choice of words,” Caine said. “Correct me if I’m

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wrong, but I think quite a few of the people who followed yer lead have been hanged for treason.” The mercenary warcaster scowled and shifted with a metallic scraping noise from the metal brace on his right leg. He said, “You’ve never struck me as someone to follow orders without questioning them. Does he have some kind of hold on you? Tell me what it is, and I’ll make it go away. You could come work for me instead. I’ve said it before: I could use a man like you. Now more than ever.” Caine laughed. “You’d never trust me to work for yeh. And I’m not going to discuss my orders, or my relationship with my superiors.” Magnus gave a grim smile. He said, “There’s no point in denying it. You came here to kill Julius—yes, that’s his name. Julius Raelthorne. Harder to kill someone once you know their name. Tell me, does Leto know about this? This isn’t an inquisitor you’re gunning for. Did Good King Leto sanction the assassination of an innocent boy not yet at his majority? His own nephew? Somehow I don’t think so. Doesn’t the fact that Rebald has you working behind Leto’s back seem odd?” Caine refused to answer and kept his expression neutral, though Magnus’ words cut close to the bone. He didn’t want to give the mercenary the satisfaction of seeing that. They stared at one another, and then he said, “Why are yeh taking a hand in helping Vinter’s bastard, Magnus? Charity? Does yer master know about this?” “I have no master,” Magnus said, his nostrils flaring in a way that suggested Caine had gotten under his skin. Caine looked at Magnus’ face more closely and saw something that had not been there the last time they had spoken—a fine web of countless scars.

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He wondered what story lay behind them. Had Magnus been tortured? By whom? Magnus went on, “The only thing I intend is for Julius to get his due, his birthright. A little acknowledgement from his family. Perhaps, in the course of that, he might find himself wearing a crown.” Caine could not help but scoff. It seemed so ridiculous. Vinter had no more loyal servant than Asheth Magnus, though he could see no way in which what Magnus was doing served the ex-king’s interests. But the fact that Caine couldn’t see all the angles did not mean they weren’t there; Magnus had wanted Leto dead for fifteen years. Baiting him, Caine said, “That particular crown is fine where it is.” Magnus surprised him. “I’m going to let you go,” he said. Croe made a disappointed sound. “Stay away from Julius—my generosity is limited. But return to your king. Tell Leto about his nephew. Let him decide what should happen next. You can free yourself from Rebald with a few simple words. Let the spymaster pay the consequences for his plots. Meanwhile, I will be introducing Julius to some important people. It’s time he found his place in the world. If Leto would like to meet a forgotten member of his family, it can be arranged—but only through me.” “Yer letting me go?” Caine found it hard to believe. He wasn’t sure why, but the offer galled him. “Yes, and while you’re delivering messages and asking questions, you should ask Rebald about Julius’ mother, Vinter’s mistress. Watch his reaction.” Caine’s eyes narrowed and he wondered at Magnus’ knowing look. “You and I, Caine, we go way back. I’m

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not so different from you. I love Cygnar, even after it turned its back on me. Ask yourself what’s best for the kingdom. If you’re the one who kills the true heir to the throne, you’ll always be Rebald’s dog. It will bind you to him forever. Break the leash.” A familiar anger rose in Caine, one he had not felt in years. He wanted to gun them all down. For a moment he entertained the possibility of trying. Without warning he slammed his elbow sharply back, cracking into Croe’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Even as the cutthroat staggered, Caine summoned his power. He flashed away with a pop of imploding air, appearing in an instant on the one rooftop nearby that was clear of snipers and crossbowmen. The world around him spun and whirled. He ran and vaulted from that roof to the next and flashed again to another farther away, avoiding moving in a straight line. He did not take the time to look back and see if anyone followed.

77 CHAPTER TWO

Fellig

“What was that all about?” Julius demanded when Magnus came for him in the basement of an abandoned warehouse adjacent to the barracks. It was a dusty and dark room, lit only by a single lantern. A number of Steelhead soldiers were tensely positioned around the youth, while others had barred the door and stood ready. The distinctive voice of Boomhowler came from up above, and Julius expected the trollkin were watching the first floor. Sergeant Bristol was standing at his side, still dressed in Steelhead armor but holding a customized pistol in one hand and a long-bladed knife in the other. She had been acting as a member of his cavalry unit but he knew she was really there as his bodyguard. Several of the other former inquisitors who had joined Magnus were similarly disguised. The only one he had not seen in a while was Old Man Quinn. Magnus ignored his question initially, checking in with the lieutenant in charge of the unit protecting him, then congratulating Sergeant Bristol on her quick reflexes. After that the warcaster turned to face him, his expression inscrutable. Julius drew himself The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

up, fighting the natural instinct to be intimidated by Magnus, who had been training him for months. Their sessions had been even harder than the ones he had gone through as a boy. Every day he emerged bruised and battered. He reminded himself that he was of royal blood, and that this man, for all his power and capability, would one day kneel before him. “That,” Magnus said at last, “was you nearly being assassinated.” Julius swallowed but restrained his emotions. He had been trained since he was a child to expect attempts on his life, but the reality was not the same as theory. He had seen the gunman across the street. Their eyes had met. He tried to recall any details of the man’s face—an older man with black hair with streaks of white above the ears, his features lean and hardened. “Who was it?” “Captain Allister Caine, gun mage extraordinaire of the Cygnaran Army. Precocious graduate of the Arcane Tempest Academy, former wanted criminal of Bainsmarket, and the foremost weapon in the arsenal of Scout General Bolden Rebald.” Magnus’ tone suggested ironic amusement, and Julius realized the warcaster was actually in good spirits. “I know of him,” Julius said, thinking back through the information that had been drilled into him over the years. He knew something about all of Cygnar’s most noteworthy warcasters. “He is described as an exceptionally dangerous man, but he didn’t look like much.” “Looks aren’t everything,” Magnus replied, stepping closer. “I know of no individual more capable of putting bullets into people and removing them from the land of the living. You are very fortunate to still be breathing.”

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“What happened to him? Is he dead?” Magnus chuckled and said, “No. He is quite alive and well.” “So he is to be my enemy, then.” Julius considered this calmly, weighing the matter. “From what I understand he is valuable to the realm. It would be a shame if he must be eliminated. I realize such losses are inevitable, but I would prefer the kingdom not be weakened by our actions.” “A wise attitude,” Magnus allowed. “Though to some degree that is unavoidable. However, I am not yet certain Caine must be an enemy. I let him go, in hopes of bringing him around.” Julius stared at the warcaster in shock, prompting him to nod and say, “Yes, you heard me right. Caine could have killed you, but he hesitated. Your true enemy is Bolden Rebald, Leto’s spymaster. It was on his orders that Caine came here. I do not believe Caine appreciates his orders. I offered him the chance to alter the nature of their working relationship. Only time will tell if he takes my advice.” “Why should he listen to you? They consider you a traitor.” Julius knew he was entering dangerous territory and risked Magnus losing his temper. Yet he also knew the man sought to teach him, to convey his experience. Julius felt eager for any scraps of information, even if the source was biased. His life had been spent examining biased words, digesting them, and making his own interpretations. He had learned not to believe everything he was told. Sometimes it was worth asking uncomfortable questions. “I saved his life once,” Magnus mused, more introspective than usual. “When he was not much older than you are now. I do not expect that old debt will hold. He was also my journeyman once.

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We have a complicated relationship. I do not know if he will do what I asked. There is every possibility he will not. Time will tell. But I think it was worth taking a risk to reinforce his doubts.” Julius would not have expected such a move of Magnus and realized he might have formed the wrong opinion of the man’s temperament. “So what now?” Magnus took a breath and drew himself up again, as stern as before. “Now we must be on the move. To be safe, we must presume Caine will try again. I hope he will put aside his plan to murder you, but it is a slim chance. He has been Rebald’s creature too long. We must anticipate his next moves. I have plans in mind for that, and we will refine them as we go. We cannot stand idle. Unless you desire to be King of Fellig?” Julius shook his head with a small smile and Magnus continued, “As I thought. We must gather real support for your cause. I know where to begin.” “We are taking your army with us?” “Yes, though I would prefer you to think of it as your army.” Julius said, “I am not in charge of anything yet, as you have gone to great lengths to remind me.” That provoked a genuine laugh. Magnus said, “True. Nonetheless, you should begin to think of these men and women as your soldiers. It’s an important attitude to adopt. I will leave some behind in Fellig on an extended contract, to retain this place should things go badly. Also, I am afraid we are losing Broadsides Bart.” “And his pirates?” Julius was disappointed. He had enjoyed the company of the surly sea dogs and their like and had enjoyed hearing Bartolo Montador’s stories. He had also come to appreciate

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the pirates’ ferocity in combat in the limited battles he had seen with them. “Privateers,” Magnus corrected. “Never call Montador a pirate to his face. But yes, I’m afraid he wants to get back to his ship. The forest was too much for him. I let him have the next shipment of Galleons instead of the coin I owed.” “You gave up colossals?” Julius was startled, given the pains Magnus had gone to in order to acquire them in the first place. “I’m keeping the ones we have, but we won’t be anywhere we can receive the others on order. Even if we shipped them by train, we would be long gone before they arrived. We have enough logistical difficulties with the machines we have. Losing a warcaster is a more serious matter, but I have a replacement on the way, along with more men. We will meet them as we travel south. Such is life with mercenaries. Hired swords are temporary, and eventually not even regular coin will compel them to remain. It is one of our vulnerabilities compared to our adversaries.” Julius glanced at Sergeant Bristol, feeling a certain appreciation for her constancy, at least. One of the few since he was little. The black-haired soldier narrowed her eyes and gave him a stern look. She did not make an especially ideal mother figure, he mused. Then again, parents were a luxury he had not been afforded. He had a dim recollection of someone else, of a pair of adults he had thought of as parents, though he mistrusted that memory. He put it from his mind. They followed Magnus out of the warehouse, rejoining the other soldiers there. Magnus had him put on his helmet and took his sword, noting that he would need to change some of the aspects

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of his armor. He was surprised how much it bothered him to hand over the sword Magnus had given him even though the warcaster promised its return eventually. Julius had not used the weapon in the recent fighting, as he was pretending to be Steelhead heavy cavalry and they wielded axes. He knew a skilled warrior must be prepared to fight with a variety of weapons, but the axe just felt wrong. It was the sword he wanted in his hand. The sword was heavy and crude-looking, but he had become fond of it. It was mechanikally augmented, with elements powered by an arcane capacitor that kept its edge and added cutting force to his blows. It was deadlier than an ordinary blade, especially the narrow dueling ones he had trained with. After practicing with it he had come to like its heft, even its bulkier elements, as well as the countless scratches and scuffs he could trace with his fingertips. It had been forged and assembled by Magnus himself, utilizing scrap metal from old destroyed warjacks and broken weapons. Julius had loathed it at first, but now he enjoyed that every piece of it told a story. It was also one of the few gifts he had ever been allowed to keep. He watched Magnus shout orders, collecting his men. Julius had gained an appreciation for the way the warcaster so effortlessly coordinated large groups of very different men and women, a skill gained from decades of hard-earned experience. Magnus oversaw all the details in ensuring they were quickly ready to leave Fellig, together with sufficient supply wagons and support personnel to keep their machines fueled and their soldiers fed. He put one of his younger Steelhead captains in charge of those remaining with the garrison, including most of his wounded from the last battle.

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He arranged a healthy bonus for those—motivation for them to stay on even after they were on the mend. Overhearing Magnus talking to Jarok Croe he gathered the Warlord intended to secure additional specialists. Throughout this it was difficult for Julius’ thoughts not to return to the fact that a warcaster and gun mage had just about blown a hole in his head. He liked to think the situation had not thrown him, but he found himself jumping at shadows. The people who gathered in the streets to watch the bulk of the mercenary army prepare to leave were a mixed bunch, and it was difficult to gauge their mood. From their conversations, Julius gathered most of them were relieved to see the mercenaries moving on, though others were concerned about whether their departure might provoke the Khadorans to besiege the city again. Julius had no particular sense for whether the soldiers they were leaving to bolster the garrison were sufficient to discourage such an effort. The Warlord was clearly not adverse to risk or to swiftly changing plans. More than any other quality the man possessed, it was this flexibility that Julius admired most, this area where he felt he had the most to learn. How much more complex were the variables in running a nation? In negotiating the wildly different needs of a society’s classes? He did not feel sufficiently prepared and knew he likely never would. Yet if there was one thing he did believe, of all that his upbringing had put before him, it was that the throne of Cygnar was his by right. It was the single defining aspect of his life, a responsibility and destiny he did not intend to surrender. There was no fanfare or recognition as they marched through the gates of Fellig out into the Thornwood. Julius rode his steed,

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Folly, near the middle of the column, one soldier among many. He saw many stern faces watching them pass, not least among them the grim visage of the one-eyed and one-armed Cygnaran general he knew to be the commander of the Cygnaran garrison. That was one man glad to see Warlord Magnus and his sell-swords go. To his mind, they had stolen the city from underneath him. Julius remembered Magnus’ words and considered that this old and battered general might one day serve him. He vowed to do what he could to earn that man’s respect, eventually, when the war was over.

85 CHAPTER THREE

Just Outside Bainsmarket

General Gralan Deckley asked, “Are you prepared to welcome your true king?” He was wearing his dress uniform for the first time in years and seemed at pains to try to appear comfortable in it. The commander ostensibly in charge of Cygnar’s oft-overlooked Fourth Army was not a man especially fond of formality or strict discipline. A heavyset man in his late fifties, he had grown soft over the years, indulging himself at Duke Dergeral of Thuria’s well-attended parties. His reddish hair was thinning, though he had taken the time to groom his short beard and moustache and he seemed properly dignified in his uniform and medals. A discerning eye might have noticed how few of these shiny medallions were noteworthy, representing length of service more than heroism or accomplishment. Colonel Lynn Hawkins gave him a sardonic smile, her arms folded in front of her, and said, “I’d feel much better if I had a drink. Or three. Sadly, this is one of those rare times I’m better off sober.” Hawkins was almost of an age with the general, though in most The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

other regards she was a sharp contrast. Her hair had gone mostly white and her face was lined, but she was a lean and fit woman, tall and broad-shouldered, and she occupied her warcaster armor comfortably. Her green eyes were cold but her expression was more amused than stern. She had never found it useful to take things too seriously, an attitude that together with her checkered service record had not endeared her to Cygnar’s chain of command. “I should say so, yes! His Majesty has need of us, for which I am thankful. But I daresay he would have picked others in our places were he at liberty to do so. Don’t push your luck, Colonel Hawkins.” He used a piece of silk cloth to mop sweat from his brow. It was no secret in the Fourth Army or beyond that General Deckley only had his position thanks to the support and influence of the Duke of Thuria. He was a competent officer and bureaucrat but was no great leader. In another army it was doubtful he would have risen to command rank. “Never fear, I will show him proper respect,” Hawkins said, adjusting her armor and trying to ignore a twinge of pain in her back. She was getting no younger. Strapped across her back was a heavy mechanikal Thurian hammer, a relatively short polearm with the head of a war hammer backed by a sharp spike and tipped with a second sharpened point that made it as effective for thrusting as for smashing. It was a versatile and useful weapon, especially effective against heavy armor. She was in all regards attired for war, not a military parade, and so wore none of her few medals. She felt they conveyed a lack of confidence. They had assembled a small but well-armed force that had gathered on a short rise outside the city of Bainsmarket, a readied

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battalion at attention to receive their sovereign. All of those arrayed here, including Hawkins herself, wore uniforms and armor that displayed not the bright sapphire blue most common among Leto’s armies but the midnight hue from the time of his elder brother. This was a distinction that could easily be overlooked, as many older warjacks and banners still used the darker color. In the last several weeks more and more officers and soldiers in the Fourth had been encouraged to take it up. Looking over the battalion, Hawkins admired the perfect lines of soldiers with rifles held at the exact same angle, both the repeating rifles of the long gunner companies and the heavier bayonet-affixed military rifles of their trencher counterparts. In front of the rest stood a smaller platoon of hardened and elite trencher commandos. They held their carbines at parade rest in one hand, while the other held trench knives drawn and pointing downward from fists pressed against their chests. She could not remember ever seeing soldiers of the Fourth Army so neatly arrayed. It was a sad fact that the Fourth was the dumping ground of the Cygnaran Army, the place they sent the discipline problems, the insubordinate, the drunk and disorderly. It was the last place a soldier might retain a uniform and a government wage before being dishonorably discharged. Commanding officers like General Deckley and Colonel Hawkins had worked over the last few years to forge a dedicated force of handpicked soldiers into something more. These soldiers were given the hope of transforming Cygnar through bloodshed into a place where they could hold their heads high. At the end of the coming war, they would be heroes—no longer disdained but feared and respected.

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The army’s reputation was not entirely a lie. The Fourth included plenty of worthless soldiers, though recent fighting against trollkin uprisings had culled the worst of them. The army retained this core of dedicated warriors willing to lay down their lives and fight their countrymen to cast down the usurper. Hawkins had selected the most hard-headed and defiant soldiers, taking them under her command to turn those flaws into virtues. For the battles ahead, they needed soldiers who could think for themselves and improvise. As yet most of their army stood their posts, awaiting the call to action. It would not do for too many to begin assembling, not until they were ready. The main army did not trust the Fourth to fight on the front line but were willing to use them to hold fortified positions to which the active armies could retreat. Deckley had carefully positioned his people, adjusting their numbers as necessary. Their long wait was almost over. Loyalist nobles gathered in Bainsmarket had brought with them their households, including as many armed vassals and liegemen as each could muster. This was a dangerous move that could betray their conspiracy, but the long period of secrecy was ending. Final confirmation had been word that the king himself was on his way. “The men look good, Major Faulker,” Hawkins said to her immediate subordinate in charge of the battalion. He accepted the compliment with a simple nod. Her attention was diverted when she caught sight of the approaching wagons, seeing them through the eyes of a Defender warjack positioned at the highest point of the hill overlooking the road. Hawkins had brought with her a small battlegroup. It was more a matter of pride than of necessity; she felt the need to display

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a tangible reminder that she was still a warcaster. She had the single Defender and an equally war-seasoned Sentinel she kept nearer to herself and the general. The Defender, an old and reliable machine she called Bellringer, was equipped with a powerful long-ranged cannon for its right arm and wielded a voltaic hammer in its left. These warjacks had lasted almost unchanged in the Cygnaran Army for more than forty years for a reason—they excelled both at range and in melee, and the Ironclad chassis they were built on was known for reliability. The Sentinel she called Lodestone, since it had a knack for attracting bullets. Equipped with a chain gun on one arm and a thick, heavy combat shield on the other, each Sentinel was built and trained to protect nearby allies, but some were better at it than others. Several of Hawkins’ officers owed their lives to Lodestone, though its reflexes had not been tested in years. The foremost wagon bore a distinct diagonal splash of white paint, the indicator they had been told to look for. All three wagons were of the sort preferred for military troop transport, though they did not show the Cygnus. The draft horses pulling them looked lathered and wild-eyed, suggesting they had been pushed hard. They came to a halt a couple dozen yards from where the colonel and general stood, Lodestone just behind them. The warjack’s head with its glowing red eyes fixated intently on the wagon, picking up on the tension and posture of its controlling warcaster. From the wagons spilled a number of ragtag soldiers, as dusty and disheveled as Hawkins’ people were crisp and clean. They carried their rifles loosely or bore them strapped across their backs in a familiar, comfortable style. Most were unshaven and unkempt and

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had a wild look about them. Amid the ragged cloaks and uniforms she could see long gunner and trencher armor as well as a few who might once have once been rangers. Their uniforms displayed torn holes and patches where military insignia used to be. These were men and women who had long ago deserted their posts, some of them back at the first hint of the king’s return to Corvis. It was clear the last few years had been difficult for them. Every one of these arrivals was gaunt, their eyes a bit unsettled. They stared at the arrayed soldiers awaiting them with barely restrained resentment. Hawkins couldn’t blame them. They had been risking their lives for some time now, while her people had lived comfortably, guarding the peaceful shared border with Ord. Stepping down from the nearest wagon was a legend from the past come to life. He was a powerfully built man, six-and-a-half feet tall, dressed in imposing plated armor painted black and showing gold accents. Subtle patterns of thorny vines were inscribed into its broad pauldrons. He wore a cloak the rich color of fresh blood. Though he was fifty-five years old, his shoulder-length hair was still raven black with just a few hints of grey. His features were square and hard, made sharper by a short goatee, an aquiline nose, and the studded patch over his left eye. His good eye locked onto hers with a piercing stare as he stepped toward them. He moved with easy power and grace, not at all impaired by his heavy armor. The famous greatsword Kingslayer was strapped across his back, its hilt and blade together nearly equal to his height. She felt overcome by awe as he approached. She had thought herself inured to such feelings. General Deckley spoke first, his voice quavering a little. “King

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Vinter Raelthorne the Fourth, we your loyal subjects greet you and offer our renewed and undying fealty.” With this he went to a knee, managing the maneuver reasonably well despite his weight. Hawkins also took a knee just a few seconds after, and with her simultaneously knelt her warjacks and all the soldiers of her battalion. She felt proud of her people and relieved they had not embarrassed her. King Vinter inclined his head, then bade them rise. “General Deckley, I am glad to accept your service. I know you worked long and hard to ready the Fourth Army for this moment, accepting no small risk to do so.” He looked out upon the lines of soldiers and after a pause said, “I had expected a larger force.” The general hastened to reply, “Consider these men and women your honor guard, Your Majesty. I await your order to assemble the entire army. Most of my people remain in place as reserves at garrisons across the northern region, prepared should we require them to seize control where they are. Your loyal nobles assemble not far from here, and each has brought what loyal knights and soldiers they could muster. It will be a formidable army, ready to do your bidding.” It was difficult to read Vinter’s expression but the answer seemed to satisfy. After a moment he turned his attention to her. “Colonel Hawkins,” he said, “I was pleased to discover you would be among those leading our forces.” She inclined her head, “Thank you, Your Majesty. It is a great honor.” He gave her an appraising look and said, “I understand it has been some time since you saw combat.”

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She gave a pained smile. “That is true, I’m afraid.” She knew not to offer excuses. “We have only had a few skirmishes with bandits and trollkin recently. Little other action of note.” There was no warning before Vinter was in motion, his sword drawn and closing on her. She had sensed the change in his stance an instant before he drew—not enough time to consciously realize his intent, but enough so she could put all her will into the arcane turbine connected to her armor. The previously invisible power field shimmered to full strength around her even as Vinter’s sword fell. She stepped back and raised her arm with her right vambrace to intercept the downward sweeping blade. There was a surge of light and sparks flew as Kingslayer crashed through the power field. She felt the impact all the way through her arm, though the field and armor robbed the blow of its momentum. She leapt back as Vinter’s second swing took his blade through the space where she had been. She recovered her Thurian hammer from her back and brought it up to block as Vinter’s third swing came down to meet the haft with a jarring clang of metal on metal. It sent her skidding back several inches even with the augmented strength of her warcaster armor. She drew on her arcane power and visualized the runes of a battle spell but stopped when she saw the king halt his attack as swiftly as he had begun it. Lodestone had lumbered forward, its protective instincts activated at the outset of the exchange, but Hawkins commanded it to halt. Vinter gave a short chuckle and smiled more fully, and returned Kingslayer to his back. He said, “I’m glad to see your reflexes are intact.” “As am I,” she said. She let loose a breath in relief. Looking down

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she saw the steel of her right vambrace was deeply scored where the sword had kissed it. Managing this through an overboosted power field was remarkable. The blade he wielded was not mechanikal like her hammer but held some older magic that kept its edge pristine and as keen as broken glass. Rumors said it could cut through warjack armor, and she believed it. He said, “You do not appear to have suffered from your years of neglect. You know, had I kept you closer to the palace in those final months of 594, perhaps things might have turned out differently.” It was an unexpected compliment, and Hawkins felt gratified to hear it. She said, “I like to think that might be true. Certainly my life would have been different. I wish I had been there, Your Majesty.” She was stationed along the northern border when reports of the palace coup had reached her. Even then she had been on the outs with her commanding officers, who had isolated and watched her in case she decided to interfere with the changeover. It had all happened so quickly that there had not been any opportunity, even if she had been so inclined. “I understand you took Leto’s pardon rather than taking to the countryside and joining those who refused to bow to my brother.” He said this flatly, without obvious condemnation. She knew he referred to Commander Asheth Magnus, who had fought beside him in the coup and who had remained defiant to Leto after. “I’m afraid I’ve never had much tolerance for living off the land or chasing down my supper. Not that accepting the pardon did much to help my career.” He smiled. “Does my brother have so many warcasters that he can spare to have veterans sitting idle in a time of war?”

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“I’d think not, Your Majesty. But I stand disgraced. They didn’t trust me to follow orders and worried I would imperil any missions I was assigned. I had a reputation for not getting along with others. They kept me in reserve, like most in the Fourth, against some potential need. But no matter how bad things got, they never seemed inclined to send for me.” She realized she might be letting her tongue run away from her. Before the Lion’s Coup she’d had only limited contact with King Vinter, not enough to gauge his temperament or his sense of humor. He stared at her levelly. It was hard to tell if there was censure in those eyes. He said, “Disgraced, dishonored, and banished to Thuria, there to become self-indulgent and corrupt. As with General Deckley, you were bought by Duke Dergeral, become a sell-sword in all but name. Is your loyalty only to coin?” She took in a deeper breath and considered his words. Clearly he was testing her, though she was not certain where the buried mines lay. “What caused my disgrace had nothing to do with corruption. Rather, an unwillingness to endure a fool of a superior officer. Once they pulled me from the front lines, everything changed. Perhaps I let myself be bought, but only after they took my livelihood. Gold is good against boredom, of which I’ve had plenty. The main thing I longed for was not wealth or comfort but the chance to fight for someone I respected. Duke Dergeral is a clever man, powerful and a shrewd politician, but I’ve never felt any special loyalty to him or his coin. He lives in a different world.” She looked back to the lines of soldiers with their rifles and inclined her head toward them as she said, “That’s my world.” He nodded once, seeming pleased at her explanation. He turned

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back to Deckley and said, “And you, General? Where do you stand? What use are you to me?” “Ah, well, Your Majesty, you know me. I’m rusty at being a commander on the battlefield. I’d be lying if I said otherwise. But I can spot natural leaders, and I can help them do their jobs. Hawkins has my trust and my confidence. You won’t find better. We’re both committed, fully and entirely. We are yours. I serve the duke because I know him to be your man.” This last seemed unlikely, Hawkins thought, as Deckley owed the duke everything he had. Still, the words had to be said. Vinter was not a man who was comfortable with divided loyalties, as anyone who had lived through the Inquisition knew full well. Deckley added, “I will serve you however you see fit.” “I need many sorts of talents to rule this realm,” Vinter said after a moment. “There is a place for men like our mutual friend Duke Dergeral and also one for men like yourself, General. An army has various needs. It requires its battlefield commanders but also those who ensure its soldiers are where they need to be, equipped properly, and trained for the tasks ahead. So long as you do what I ask, I will not demand you lead any charges into barbed-wire trenches.” Deckley inclined his head gratefully. “That is a relief. I serve at your pleasure.” Vinter looked between them before he nodded, apparently satisfied. He said, “Let us greet the rest of my loyal subjects.” • • • They entered Bainsmarket with the returned king seated inside one of the closed troop transport wagons and made their way to

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the sizable estate of Baron Wolfe Blackwood, who was hosting the others already gathered. The people in the street, with no idea what was transpiring, paid their passage little mind. These people had long become inured to troop movements through the city; Bainsmarket was one of the main stops along the railway from northern to southern Cygnar. It was clear to Hawkins that Vinter had chosen this city as a starting point for strategic reasons. Seizing control of Bainsmarket would put the former king in a powerful position, for it served as a hub for commerce and ensured vital commodities like grain and meat reached the far corners of the realm. Once he made his move, Vinter’s forces would have access to ample food stores while also being able to cut Leto’s military garrisons off from those same supplies. At the estate they were greeted by a procession of nobles who had joined the conspiracy to overthrow Leto the Usurper. Colonel Hawkins had little interest in the pomp and circumstance and soon became bored with the repetition of people approaching Vinter to offer loyalty and service. That said, she did find it gratifying to stand at Vinter’s side as he was received by some of the most powerful men in the kingdom. His choosing to arrive alongside his ranking military officers was no accident. It created the impression Vinter had a ready army standing by, one to which their own swords and banners would be joined. Vinter always preferred to act from a position of strength, whether real or perceived. Discredited though the Fourth might be, they were still army regulars, with the training, discipline, and armament that afforded. Well, maybe not all of the discipline,

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Hawkins thought, considering how debauched some of their officers had become over the years, herself included. Their meeting with Duke Dergeral of Thuria was more interesting. Both Hawkins and Deckley had been working closely for the duke for some time. Vinter’s initial conversation with him was carefully worded to reinforce that the armed forces the duke had sponsored were now under Vinter’s absolute control. “Thank you,” Vinter said, “for hosting the Fourth Army for so many years and ensuring they were made ready for my arrival.” Dergeral’s ample frame was draped in his typical finery, not hiding his wealth, and he held a goblet of wine as he bowed deeply. He took Vinter’s greeting in stride, as if oblivious to its underlying meaning. He was more than willing to leave the messy details of seizing the throne to others. In some ways he was the opposite of Vinter—a man who preferred to look weak and indolent, though Hawkins knew from experience that his mind was keenly sharp. There were only a few other individuals present who had done as much to pave the way for Vinter’s return. Of those gathered, the most powerful by far was Archduke Fergus Laddermore of the Southern Midlunds, who approached next. He was a tall and stately man possessed of considerable dignity and gravitas, his thin beard and moustache impeccably groomed. Unlike Dergeral, his attire was elegant but simple, showing no sign of the vast wealth he had accumulated controlling the farmlands that fed Caspia. Vinter met Laddermore warmly, as though reuniting with an old friend. Colonel Hawkins had had little contact with the archduke but knew him to be one of the most influential men in the kingdom, a dominating presence in the

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Cygnaran Royal Assembly in Caspia. His animosity to King Leto was longstanding and deep. Under Vinter his family had ruled all the Midlunds, not just a quarter of them. Hawkins also knew from her early days as a soldier that King Vinter had executed Laddermore’s father for treason. At the time the senior Laddermore had held the position of Warmaster General. After his execution, that post was given to Vinter’s younger brother, Prince Leto. One could make the argument that this had been the primary mistake that had led to Vinter’s overthrow. Regardless, it seemed clear the present archduke held no grudge over his father’s death—perhaps because that execution let him inherit his family’s estates earlier rather than later. Laddermore had brought with him several seasoned mercenary companies that had long been in his employ—altogether more soldiers, knights, and warjacks than any of Vinter’s other supporters. Final preparations were underway for the grand feast to celebrate Vinter’s return and his eventual restoration to the throne, but before the festivities could get underway the king excused himself. He gathered a small number of his key leaders and retired with them to a private chamber upstairs from the feast hall to discuss urgent plans. Those asked to join him included Colonel Hawkins, General Deckley, Archduke Laddermore, Duke Dergeral, and a grizzled and tough-looking older man Hawkins did not at first recognize, one of the few at the gathering who was not dressed formally or in uniform. His bearing betrayed him as a military man, and his well-lined, leathery face suggested he spent a good portion of his time outside exposed to the elements, unlike nearly everyone else.

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The way Vinter walked alongside him and listened to his whispers suggested considerable familiarity. Once the doors were sealed, King Vinter turned to them and said, “He is known to several of you, but let me introduce Saxon Orrik, one of my most trusted advisors.” He indicated the man Hawkins had been studying. Many pieces fell in place in her mind. She had never met the man, but she knew of him—a former army ranger whose military career predated her own, stretching all the way back to Vinter III. He had suffered scandal and been forced out of the service but remained a legendary figure among those— like her—who had fought along the Khadoran border. Orrik had been known as a man who would go to any lengths to demoralize the enemy. Vinter said, “Orrik has been coordinating several vital aspects of my plans.” Vinter waved for them to take their seats around the thick wooden table. “I will keep this brief. There are many uncertainties and variables in play that may determine our actions in the days ahead. I will be relying on each of you to be swiftly responsive to my orders. We must exploit every opportunity offered us. Do not be thrown by sudden changes. Rather, anticipate and exploit them. I will not accept excuses or failure.” He looked at each of their faces in turn. Apparently unfazed, Archduke Laddermore said, “We all risk execution for treason to sit here with you, my king. Any weak links have been removed. The stakes could not be higher. We are eager to do your bidding.” The king inclined his head and continued. “We have gathered an impressive force of arms, thanks to your dedication. It does not

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go unnoticed. But make no mistake: even with the full control of Cygnar’s Fourth Army, we are greatly outnumbered and outgunned by our enemies. Is that a fair assessment, General?” Deckley shifted and said, “It is. Even with the forces gathered here by your loyal nobles, we are no match for any of Leto’s three primary armies in open battle. For one thing, our access to warjacks is limited and includes primarily older machines with less advanced weaponry. We are also sorely lacking for warcasters”—his eye caught Hawkins and he gave her a small smile—“present company excepted. We all know the tactical importance of such individuals.” Vinter said, “We do have some additional support on that front. I have entered into an arrangement with a highly placed and ambitious military leader of the Protectorate of Menoth—Feora, Priestess of the Flame.” It was clear as he said this who already knew this fact and who did not, as surprise was evident on the faces of Deckley and Dergeral, and certainly Hawkins herself was startled. Laddermore and Orrik clearly already knew. Their king went on, “She has already proven useful, cooperating with Archduke Laddermore’s people to eliminate several of Leto’s supporters. Feora will initiate additional military actions in support of our efforts once we begin. Orrik, what is your level of confidence in the Priestess of Flame fulfilling her agreements?” The old ex-ranger spoke in a gruff voice. “I think she will work with us, to a point. My people report she is mustering a substantial portion of her collective armed forces. At the very least they should serve to distract Caspia and the southern garrisons. I have less confidence they can be relied upon for an extended campaign. Once they begin to suffer casualties, expect them to withdraw.

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Feora risks much, inviting retaliation from her hierarch. She will not expend undue resources.” Vinter nodded. He said, “Even with outside help, we cannot rely upon conventional military tactics and strength alone. Should my brother have time to rally any of Cygnar’s armies, or should he seal himself inside Caspia to await our approach, we will be defeated. Fortunately, a number of events have transpired that work to our advantage. The Third Army is needed to remain where it is, watching against Cryx. Our Protectorate friends will hopefully distract the Second Army. Most importantly, my brother has found his courage at last—after years of meekly hiding in my palace. He has left Caspia and traveled to visit the soldiers of the First Army in the north. This offers an unexpected opportunity.” Duke Dergeral was toying with the signet ring on one of his thick fingers. He said, “I have heard from my spies that Leto was in Point Bourne until recently. He then joined a military column marching into the Thornwood. Some of my hastier peers proposed hiring an assassin to kill him while he was in the open, but Laddermore and I knew not to arrange anything like that without your permission.” “You were wise to avoid that particular mistake,” Vinter said, his eyes narrowing. Laddermore said, “Such a move would have been too much a gamble, as prone to backfire as to succeed, especially with the people Leto keeps around him.” Vinter nodded. “Yes. While I have many criticisms of my brother, he would not be an easy mark for a hired killer, even a skilled one. An ill-timed attack would only make subsequent attempts less likely to succeed. Above all else, we must keep Leto from returning to the

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City of Walls. So long as we can force a confrontation anywhere else, I am confident we can succeed. We need to close the noose while most of Leto’s armed forces are occupied and unavailable.” General Deckley sighed and said, “Too bad about this alliance between Cygnar and Khador. Things looked a right mess before that. My people are in position, but they are few in number and most cannot be relied upon to sacrifice their lives in fights where they are outnumbered.” Laddermore steepled his fingers as he spoke. “In his speech before the Royal Assembly, Leto claimed he would go north to legitimize and strengthen this alliance. I believe he intended to meet Empress Vanar personally. He hoped to secure a longer peace.” Vinter frowned and a muscle in his cheek twitched. “On this matter, my brother is a fool. This so-called alliance will not last once the fighting against Cryx resolves. There is no greater hatred than the one between our two peoples. Only the horror of the walking dead gave unity. The First Army will be too preoccupied to help Leto if we choose our moment with care.” Hawkins had been listening closely. She knew it was dangerous to speak up among such company, but she had never let that stop her before. She said, “As soon as hostilities renew, Leto will withdraw south. He is cautious by nature. We should prepare an ambush along the Dragon’s Tongue. We have sufficient manpower for something like that.” They were all quiet a moment, waiting for Vinter’s reaction, but he remained still, watching them. Deckley spoke into the silence. “The Dragon’s Tongue is a long stretch of river, Colonel. We can’t know where he’ll go. Point Bourne, Corvis, Stonebridge? Though

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there are soldiers from the Fourth at each of those garrisons, we can’t be everywhere in force.” After another pause, Vinter said, “Each of those places is a significant stronghold. As they stand it would not be strategically sound to tie up resources seizing and controlling any of them. That would pin our armies down and leave them vulnerable to retaliation. But we also cannot wait and react. We need to remain mobile. We must force our enemies to do as we require.” He brooded on that and then smiled. Turning to the general, he said, “Deckley, your forces at Stonebridge. Withdraw them. Bring them to join our forces here.” The general looked puzzled. He said, “Give up that fortress entirely? It’s a key position, Your Majesty. I have more soldiers there than elsewhere. It’d be the main place I’d expect Leto to go once trouble begins.” “Do you have enough men on the inside to seize control? Without alerting the rest of the Cygnaran chain of command?” Deckley hesitated, then said, “Unfortunately, no. Taking it would be a real bear, and we’d lose a lot of men. We don’t have loyal people on both sides of the bridge, for one thing. Most of my people are in the main fortress on the south shore.” “Withdraw them,” Vinter said. “It will leave its remaining garrison in a state of confusion and pave the way for Khador. They won’t be able to resist that lure. This can serve as the opening salvo I require to demonstrate to our discontented northern nobles their need of a stronger king to protect them.” “Very shrewd, Your Majesty,” Duke Dergeral said with unfeigned admiration. “We will bait Khador into taking the prize and then

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take it back from them.” “This war will be about more than cornering my brother,” Vinter said, his voice rising. “There are many other actions to initiate. We must obscure our presence and our goals by having our people seize control across the northern region, arresting or eliminating any who would oppose us.” His intensity increased with every word. “There will be considerable turmoil and chaos. It will cause hardship for many. If there is one thing I learned in the east, it is that true strength comes only from suffering. This is not a time to coddle the weak. As we gather our army, let us also pave the way for the usurper’s downfall. This is not about one man, one traitor, but all of those who forgot their true king and in so doing brought Cygnar to the brink of ruin. We will lance the wound and expunge the poison, and in the aftermath, the kingdom can heal. But first we must drown our enemies in their own blood.”

105 CHAPTER FOUR

Fellig

Caine dropped from the window ledge into the vacated barracks room and made his way over to his belongings, eager to put his warcaster armor back on. His eyes were still adjusting to the darkness when one of the shadows moved and came toward him. His right Spellstorm was in hand and he nearly pulled the trigger before a familiar face came into the light. “Easy, Captain!” said General Mathern. “Let’s not add shooting a superior officer to your service record.” The Morridane seemed sober, or at least less drunk than he had been earlier. Caine shook his head and holstered his pistol, then moved past the general to pick up the first pieces of his armor and begin putting them on. “Help me with this?” “Sure, as much as I can,” Mathern said with a grimace, indicating his single arm. “Er, right. Well, here, hang onto this for a moment.” Caine felt abashed, having forgotten for a moment the man’s condition. “So, who did you gun down? You seem to be in a hurry. What kind of chaos have you unleashed on my city?” The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

“Strangely, I haven’t gunned down anyone. Yet. Check with me in a few hours.” The breastplate was always the most annoying part, but it didn’t take Caine long to strap it into place, followed by his greaves, vambraces, and finally the leather greatcoat into which his small arcane turbine had been built. Then it was a matter of affixing the conduit hoses from the engine into sockets elsewhere on the armor. His long greatcoat and the fact that the armor was light helped disguise the warcaster armor at a quick glance, though the exhaust pipes on the back gave it away on a longer look. “Magnus and I had a nice little chat, but I’d just as soon not be here if he comes looking. Did yeh tell anyone else about me?” “Course not,” the general said, offended. “Listen, Caine, I came here for a reason. While you were gone, I came upon some information you’ll want to hear. Stop fiddling about and listen.” Caine made the final adjustments to his holsters and ammunition bandoleer to pay heed. If whatever Mathern had heard had prompted him to stop drinking, it had to be serious. “What? I’m listening.” The man’s expression was grave. “Some Steelheads showed up at the tavern, apparently come to Fellig looking for work. They’d heard rumors of the coin Magnus was throwing around. Turns out this particular platoon tried to hire on with the Khadorans but had been turned away at a small encampment not too far from here, to the southeast. I think I know where it is, since we used to make use of that clearing when training soldiers back in—” “Do I need to know this place’s history?” Caine interrupted. His face reddened. He said, “Fine, I’ll cut to it. These fellows, they claim to have overheard a Winter Guardsman talking about

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a wounded Cygnaran warcaster they had locked up in their triage hospital. The Khadorans didn’t know this merc could understand their language. Turns out it’s Major Brisbane. The Khadorans have him!” “Hold on, hold on,” Caine said, scowling. “That’s a lot of nonsense. No way in hell do the Khadorans have Siege as a prisoner. I don’t believe a word of it.” “I don’t think this fellow was telling tall tales, Captain. The story sounded legitimate. He had no reason to lie. He was just talking to his mates, didn’t even know I was listening or who I was. He thought it was funny—the great Markus Brisbane tied to a Khadoran hospital bed. I about wrung his neck, the disrespectful sod.” “You know Siege,” Caine insisted. “Does this sound likely? Major Brisbane wounded badly enough he can’t get out of a hospital bed? The same man who has reduced entire fortresses to rubble? Who fought a Menite interdiction to a standstill in Caspia, using the bodies of men he’d personally killed as cover?” “All the same, that’s where we’re at,” Mathern insisted. “Did they say how he was allegedly injured?” The general pursed his lips. “The Butcher. Almost cut him in half, or so they said.” “Ok, now I know yer having me on.” Caine went to push past the general, but the man gripped his arm and stood in his way. “I’m not joking! If there’s one person who could take out Siege, it’s the Butcher of Khardov. Why would they lie about this? Why would I?” Caine scowled, for a moment forgetting the man’s rank and what

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he had been through. “Maybe because you’re half-crazy after all you’ve been through and you’re also obsessed with Orsus Zoktavir because of what he did to your city. He’s all you can talk about when you’re drunk.” To his surprise the general seemed to shrink inward, as if the words were a blow. “Fair point,” he said more quietly. Then a bit of the fire returned to his eyes and he poked Caine in the chest. “Just the same, I didn’t make this up. And I’m not drunk! I don’t know if any of this is true, but it might be. If there’s even the smallest chance, someone needs to check it out. The only one around here who might get away with that is you. If Brisbane is bleeding to death in some Khadoran tent, I won’t be the one who didn’t say anything since I didn’t believe it.” Caine chewed the inside of his lip. The truth was, he hadn’t been sure what he was doing next. Magnus’ last words had gotten to him—his willingness to let Caine go and urging him to tell Leto about Julius. That was something he hadn’t expected. He knew his next step should be finding wherever they’d stowed Vinter’s bastard and putting a bullet in him. His hesitation last time had lost him the shot, which was inexcusable. Killing the youth now would be more difficult since Magnus knew he was here and could take precautions. Taking out the bastard might require patience and lengthy stalking, waiting for just the right moment, all while trying to avoid getting murdered in the process. But now he wasn’t so sure. Could what the general had heard about Brisbane be true? It didn’t seem like the sort of story a random mercenary would invent to impress his mates. And life could be unpredictable.

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Caine and Brisbane had never gotten along well. Siege was a by-the-books type, a no-nonsense military officer who despised Caine’s lack of discipline and disregard for orders. The last time they’d fought together had been near the end of the Caspia- Sul War, when Caine had abandoned his post to reach that last inquisitor, the one Magnus had beat him to. He’d been under direct orders from Siege at the time, and his failure to be where he was directed had likely destroyed the last shred of respect Brisbane might have held for him. It was a hard fact to face, since despite it all, Caine admired Siege. The major was a pain in the ass but also a great soldier, a warcaster like they were supposed to be. Siege was perhaps the most decorated officer in the service, and for good reason. The man was a more valuable asset to Cygnar than Caine was, all things considered. Not that he was eager to exchange his life for the major’s. Mathern watched Caine’s face as he was chewing on this. He said, “Look, I’ve a man out front waiting for you, a young ranger. He knows the way. Don’t be too hard on him; he’s had a rough go of it. But he’ll get you there. I won’t order you to go, since I know that won’t matter, but you know it’s the right thing to do. We’re allied to Khador”—Mathern spit to the side as if the words left a bad taste—“so no one else is going to stir up trouble to find him. Would you want your life in the hands of a Khadoran military surgeon? Think about it.” With that, he stomped off. • • • “Yer a ranger, kid?” Caine asked, trying not to sound too skeptical. He had his hands sunk into the pockets of his greatcoat against the cold of the northern Thornwood. It had been a relatively mild

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winter so far, with very little snow, but the chill crept in regardless. The arcane turbine on his back helped, but he was not otherwise dressed warmly enough for an extended hike. His breath plumed before him as he spoke. The ranger Mathern had brought to him, Private Clay Vernor, looked even younger than Vinter’s bastard, though that might have been because he was small-framed and smooth-faced. He had cropped brown hair beneath a knit cap, and the uniform he was wearing looked both ragged and oversized. That also afforded him the luxury of layers, at least, and he seemed to be suffering less from the cold than Caine was. Rangers preferred fatigues that blended in to the environment, mostly green and browns, with usually just a spot of the Cygnar blue, often painted onto the metal plates set into their leather leggings to protect their knees. Because of the private’s size, the military rifle slung across his back also looked too large. “I was,” Clay answered. “Not sure if I am anymore. My sergeant hasn’t asked me to do anything in months.” “Once a ranger, always a ranger, or so they say. Does he still send reports to Scout General Rebald?” “I think so. No idea if any are getting through. Glad they’ve not asked me to be a runner. You worked with rangers much?” “I have a passing familiarity with the CRS,” Caine said with a smirk. Officially he had no attachment to that government organization, though he had served Rebald both on and off the record so frequently he felt like a member. Of course, the CRS had two faces. One was the rangers, the military scouts who did field reconnaissance. The other was the spies, many of them working

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in secret, quite a few of them former criminals. Caine had worked with both sides of the CRS, but his affiliation was more with the latter than the former. They made their way through the forest as swiftly as they could for two days, following Clay’s directions but with Ace sent out ahead of them, watching for any patrols. Clay had sought to find a path through less dense areas of the forest, where the underbrush allowed easier passage. Behind Caine was a field mechanik named Reed Samuels, a dour Midlunder who had considerable experience repairing ’jacks but was presently in charge of the four large pack horses that followed them, each carrying a heavy load of supplies. Aside from rations for the men, most of what the horses carried was coal and water to keep Ace running. Even with its relatively advanced and efficient steam engine, the warjack had to be fueled periodically. They had more coal than water, hoping to supplement from local streams. The horses were well trained and quiet, as were Reed and Clay. Caine felt he was the loudest of the bunch. If they were spotted, chances were good the Khadorans would take some shots at them despite the alliance. Given Caine’s group was skulking through the trees and were not obviously dressed as Cygnaran soldiers, the reds could easily claim they had found spies. Even in times of peace, there had always been bloodshed between Khadorans and Cygnarans in the Thornwood. It was a truth the people of Fellig lived with every day, giving rise to crusty old veterans like General Mathern. Caine considered what Mathern had said about Clay and figured he needed to know who he was working with. “I’d heard yeh’ve been through a rough patch, Private?”

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The ranger turned red and swallowed. “That’s one way of putting it, sir. Another would be I was a coward. Turned tail during that last siege and hid while my mates got killed.” The warcaster hadn’t expecting such brutal honesty. It was clear Clay had been brooding over his failings for some time. Caine had seen the same from other young soldiers. Often the first taste of combat provoked unexpected reactions, even from those who had gone through intensive training. Senior rangers liked to throw their recruits into the deep end. Theirs was a tough branch of the service, and for different reasons than some of the others. Trenchers were put through worse, but much of their training was to harden them to deal with what they would encounter when dug in on the front lines. Rangers were more often left to fend for themselves and had to learn through trial by fire. It was not unknown for ranger recruits to disappear on their first active missions, sent to find the enemy and report back. One wrong move, one wrong step, and they’d get a bullet instead of whatever recon they were sent find. Rangers liked to recruit youths from the local areas where they would be serving so they’d already be familiar with the lay of the land. Likely Clay had been a regular kid from some local village around this region with dreams of a career in the army and becoming a hero. Before the Siege of Fellig he’d never been shot at, never seen his friends killed. That last attack before the city was cut off from the rest of Cygnar had been especially brutal. As Mathern had said, there weren’t any soldiers left at the garrison who weren’t scarred, either physically or mentally, from that battle. “Whatever happened before, it doesn’t matter for what we’re

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about,” Caine said. “I need someone who can hide and avoid the enemy. Think yeh can manage that?” Clay seemed encouraged. He said, “That I can do. I’m good at hiding.” They walked in silence for a long while before he said, “We’re getting close now. We should wait for nightfall.” Caine could see no particular difference in this stretch of the forest from what they had been walking through until now, though through Ace’s eyes he glimpsed a narrow road through the trees ahead, likely a recently cleared resupply route. They moved up closer, then stopped and hunkered down to wait until nightfall, eating sparingly from their rations and refueling Ace. Caine positioned the warjack between them and the Khadoran encampment, on high alert. Dusk fell, sending long rays of dim orange light filtering through the branches and bringing with it a cold chill. Through Ace’s eyes, Caine spotted a small Khadoran patrol making its rounds, checking the nearest stretch of the resupply road. They looked to be regular Winter Guard, which was a good sign. Despite that, he had to prepare for the possibility of Widowmakers protecting the encampment. Those elite Khadoran snipers were well versed in remaining undetected in the forest and were armed with powerful scoped rifles. A man shot by a Widowmaker didn’t usually live long enough to hear the distant report of the rifle. Caine had gotten to know and like Clay and could see that despite the fact that the youth was so skittish and introverted, he was the only one qualified to scout the encampment. Caine would have done it himself if he were alone, but of the two of them he was more likely to draw attention. At his mental summons Ace came

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through the trees, its eyes glowing like dark red coals. Caine said, “Clay, I need yeh to creep up on the Khadorans and get a good look at what we’re dealing with. Take yer time. Be invisible. I’ll have Ace shadow yeh so I can borrow its eyes, but you’ll notice things it won’t. If yeh get spotted, run. Let Ace handle any pursuit.” Clay looked the eight-and-a-half-foot-tall warjack up and down. Ace stared back at him, rocking its weight from one foot to the other as though impatient. “It’s a bit shiny, isn’t it?” The ranger pointed at the glowing blue runes along Ace’s cannon as well as the similarly glowing circles and vents along the hump atop its chassis, above its head. Ace tilted its cannon and looked down at it, as if seeing the gleaming runes for the first time. “Ace, power yer infiltration field, lowest setting.” Caine could have done this mentally but he spoke aloud for Clay’s benefit. The warjack let a trickle of power flow from its arcane turbine into its infiltration system. The entire machine slowly faded and dimmed, becoming almost ghostly. The glowing elements were no longer as visible, and it was hard for a person to stare at Ace for long before his eyes wanted to slide right off its surface. Focusing hard on the ’jack made it somewhat more visible, but it took effort. This trick worked far better at night. Ace stepped backward, between the nearest trees. In a few steps it was swallowed by darkness. Then it emerged from the side, moving adjacent to the ranger and making him jump. “That’s enough, Ace,” Caine said wryly, amused at the ’jack’s antics. The machine seemed to take a little too much enjoyment in exploiting its abilities.

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“Spooky,” Clay said. “That’s handy.” Reed spoke for the first time in hours. “It breaks easily,” he said. “I’d rather not find out whether I can repair it in the field, if it’s all the same.” “We won’t push it if we don’t have to,” Caine told him. “On the lowest setting it’ll be fine over extended use. At least, it has been so far.” The infiltration system was prototype technology, and one that no one seemed to entirely understand. “We’re still working out the kinks. It’s one reason I need yeh to take the lead, Clay. I can’t be sure we can keep Ace hidden if I bring it close.” “You know ranger signals?” Clay asked. At Caine’s nod, the ranger slapped his hands together, rubbing them to warm them. “All right then, let’s do this.” He was nervous but seemed determined to try. Caine hoped he wasn’t sending the kid to his death, but he kept his expression confident and gave Clay an encouraging wink. The ranger withdrew a small collapsible spyglass from his kit and kept it palmed as he slipped off into the trees, crouching and moving slowly. Caine turned to Reed and said, “Stay here with the horses and be ready for a hasty exit, if we need to run. I’m going to follow those two.” Reed nodded. “Good luck, sir.” He had Ace wait a bit and then follow after Clay, while he himself maintained a tight link to the warjack’s cortex. After letting them get a bit farther away he followed as well. By now he was quite accustomed to partitioning his awareness when looking through the machine’s eyes as well as his own. Seeing this way was a little

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trickier at night, given the intense darkness between the trees. Very little moon or starlight filtered down to them. He called on his training as a gun mage and pulled on a thread of his arcane power to augment his eyes, creating a thin sheen of power that would filer and amplify any trace light. Even with this assistance bringing the world around him into sharper relief, it was still difficult to see. He decided it would be easier to view their surroundings through Ace’s advanced optics. He just had to be careful not to trip on things under his own feet. Meanwhile he let Clay and Ace slip farther away but remained keenly aware of the distance between them. The mental connection to a warjack cortex was a gradual continuum dependent on a few things, most importantly distance. While Ace was within a couple dozen yards of Caine, he could take control of the machine swiftly and easily, effortlessly guiding its steps or attacks and making use of its body like an extension of his own. As it got farther away he lost the ability to control it directly and had to rely on mental instructions. Ace could still “hear” him at such a distance but had to interpret his will, akin to a ’jack receiving verbal instructions from a ’jack marshal, like how laborjacks were operated on the docks. If Caine concentrated hard enough he could maintain a link to Ace’s eyes from a distance, but eventually this also faded. He might still be able to sense the ’jack’s general direction, distance, and status, sometimes from miles away, but at that point he could only broadcast the simplest imperatives like “Come back!” If separated farther, he would eventually feel no connection to the machine at all, like a faraway voice lost to the wind.

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So Caine worked to stay close enough to borrow Ace’s eyes. Soon they reached the outer perimeter of the clearing where the Khadorans were encamped. Clay was creeping low to the ground and taking extra precautions and did not seem to have garnered any attention yet. Caine discovered the clearing was considerably more built-up than he had imagined. He had hoped for a few simple tents, but the Khadorans had raised three basic structures at the center and surrounded them with four watchtowers. The central buildings were rectangular with flat roofs and looked hastily erected, not built to last. These were surrounded by a half-dozen smaller tents. It looked like a full field hospital arrangement, perhaps created to tend to the injured from ongoing operations in the northern forest. It occurred to Caine that the facility might have received wounded from the battle led by Magnus outside Fellig a few days ago. It was not readily apparent how many able-bodied soldiers were protecting the location, though he suspected they might number several dozen, allocated to the tents. He guessed at least two of the structures were filled with cots for the wounded. Any important prisoners would be isolated and apart from Khadoran casualties. There needed to be space for hospital staff as well, including surgeons, nurses, and support staff, which might be divided between the structures or allocated to one of them. As Clay circled the perimeter, Caine watched the guard towers closely through Ace’s advanced optics. A single Winter Guard was in each tower, none of them especially vigilant. He saw no sign of Widowmaker snipers, which was a relief. He had confidence in Ace’s knack for spotting people who were trying to hide.

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As they came around the third building he saw the unmistakable hulking form of a Destroyer, a heavily armored Khadoran warjack armed with a massive executioner axe and a powerful, if inaccurate, bombard cannon. Ace froze at the sight of it, perhaps prompted by Caine’s sense of alarm. On further examination, Caine determined the ’jack was powered down. Its eyes were dark and there was no smoke rising from the six tightly clustered smokestacks on its back. Likely it was fueled and standing ready and could be made active in a few minutes once its engine was ignited, such as after an alarm was raised. There must be a trained ’jack marshal bunked nearby whose first priority that would be. Clay also froze on seeing the machine, but then he gathered his nerve and crept on, as did Ace. Coming around the side of that building they saw a Winter Guardsman next to the door, drowsing in a chair he’d rocked back against the wall and resting his chin on his chest. It occurred to Caine that this place, with the extra sentry and a warjack standing close by, was the most likely place to put Siege, if he was here at all. Trying to stay close enough to remain linked to Ace, Caine suddenly found his leg caught up in something in the darkness and nearly tripped. He managed to regain his balance and catch himself, but not before his leg broke through a dried root with a sharp snap. As he repositioned, his leg sank through a dense, thorny bush with a rattling of dried leaves. Where he was standing the racket seemed extremely loud. He immediately ducked behind the nearest thick tree and froze, his back against the rough bark. Through Ace’s eyes he peered up at the watchtower nearest to him, where the Winter Guardsman

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had come to attention and was leaning against the rail to look out along the trees. He held a rifle equipped with a simple scope, which he used to peer out to the edge of the clearing. He was looking in Caine’s general direction but did not appear to have spotted him. After a few long breaths with no other noise, the guard stepped back and adopted a more neutral stance. Caine felt a mental nudge from Ace that prompted him to pay attention to Clay. To his surprise he saw the young ranger had taken the bold move of entering the encampment, keeping to the shadows as he moved closer to the building where the warjack was positioned. He had noticed an unguarded back entrance opposite. That area was relatively well lit from several weak alchemical lights attached to roof overhangs on the permanent structures, creating a small pool of light at their center. Caine was amazed when Clay took the risk of slipping through the light and to this unguarded door, which he then pried open. He slipped inside. Caine took the risk of moving—this time more slowly—to get closer, near the perimeter, while Ace went around for a different perspective. He half-expected to hear a sudden gunshot or alarm, but all remained quiet. He waited tensely and saw the door open again. Clay peeked out and made several quick CRS signals which Caine recognized. One. Target. Safe to advance. “Ace, stand ready and watch my back,” he thought at the warjack, receiving a sense of affirmation back. The gun mage squinted and scanned the layout of the encampment. He felt he had a good idea of the views available to the watchtowers. But he had no faith in his ability to walk across the cleared space between himself and the buildings without drawing attention. Fortunately the distance was

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short enough to allow for other means. He drew on his magic to twist reality and flashed into being on the far side of the nearest tent, where it blocked him from view. While most magic manifested glowing runes, Caine was able to suppress them on a few of his most frequently used spells, including his teleportation trick. He waited a moment and quickly darted across the intervening space and into the door Clay had used. As he went he reached over his shoulder to click the switch on his arcane turbine to its lowest setting. This also choked off any expelled smoke. If left too long in this state the burner would extinguish, leaving his armor unpowered, but he did not intend to keep it that way long. A single alchemical lantern was set into one end of the structure, its shutter mostly closed to provide only dim illumination. “Over here,” Clay whispered, waving past a number of empty cots. Following behind him, Caine arrived at a curtained-off bedframe. Carefully pulling it slightly aside revealed a sturdier portable bed than the majority of the empty cots stacked at the other end of the building. This bed had a metal frame to which a large man had been strapped and cuffed. Manacles were on both his ankles and his wrists, each attached by thick chains to the bedframe. Cords were strapped across his legs, the top of his shoulders, his chin, and his forehead, likely to help keep him in place during procedures. It looked like an uncomfortable arrangement. This side of the building appeared to be a full surgery, with a wide variety of boxes and glass containers of various instruments and substances. There were a number of other large boxes and

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crates in the middle of the room. There did not appear to be any other patients or staff present, despite the other cots. Caine recovered the lantern and brought it closer, cracking open its shutter to allow more light, though he already knew who he would find from the silhouette. There lay Major Markus Brisbane, stretched out and entirely filling the bed, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling evenly. Brisbane was a very dark-skinned and bald man, one with a much more muscular build than Caine, thick through the middle but with no fat on him. Big as he was, Caine was used to seeing the man in full heavy warcaster armor and so he looked diminished. His chest was covered in a dense layer of bandages, from his neck to his waist. “See if yeh can find keys to these manacles,” Caine whispered, setting about untying the heavy cords keeping Siege in place. It was unsettling to see the major in such a vulnerable state, his skin ashen, his face listless. It looked as though he were drugged. Caine saw runed inscriptions on the manacles and his eyes narrowed. Such shackles were made to hold arcanists—groups like the Greylords Covenant employed by the Khadoran military knew how to make such things. So had Cygnar’s Inquisition. They were built to dampen magic and prevent casting spells. Overcome by curiosity, Caine lifted the edge of the bandages on Siege’s chest, tilting the lantern to see. He winced at the long and ragged sewn wound running down the center of the warcaster’s ribcage, the skin around the stitches puckering as it tried to heal. His entire chest had been split open and crudely sewn back together. It looked likely the wound had opened and been sewn closed again

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more than once. He was going to have one hell of a scar. Clay began to rifle through the nearest drawers and crates. “Keep it down,” Caine hissed, thinking about the napping guard outside. Still, they didn’t have a lot of time, so a bit of noise and haste might be necessary. He leaned over Siege and took hold of the man’s face, slapping his cheeks a few times, initially lightly, then harder. “Come on, Markus,” he whispered. Siege stirred slightly, his eyes moving more rapidly under his eyelids, and he mumbled something incomprehensible. “Try this,” Clay said and handed him something, before going back to his search. It wasn’t keys but a small bottle marked with an unfamiliar Khadoran symbol. Caine cautiously opened the top and smelled something sharply pungent, like ammonia. Dissolved smelling salts, presumably. He waved this under Siege’s nostrils and was rewarded by a sharp inhalation and the opening of his eyes. Caine put his hand to the warcaster’s mouth and held a finger to his lips. After a moment of confusion, Siege relaxed and he took his hand away. Brisbane’s eyes did not track him quickly and he still seemed out of it, still impaired by whatever drugs they had been giving him. “Caine?” “Trying to get yeh out of this,” Caine whispered. “Be quiet. There’s reds all around us.” Siege’s eyes darted and he struggled at his manacles, then stopped. There was a jingling sound and Clay pressed a set of keys into his hands. “Found his armor in a crate over here,” he said. “No sign of weapons, though.” Caine freed Siege’s right hand and was startled as the warcaster grabbed his arm with strange intensity, leaning toward him. He was

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clearly struggling to gather his wits. “We need to. . .” he blinked and lost his train of thought then said, as if remembering, “Irusk put me here.” “Sure, sure, hold on, let me get these off you,” Caine said, prying the hand from his arm. Even drugged and injured, Siege was strong. Caine freed his other hand, letting him sit up, which he did with a wince and groan, rubbing his wrists. The gun mage went to the shackles on his legs. “Overheard them talking,” Siege said, his voice slurred. He was struggling to talk, but it looked like he had remembered something important. “Khador’s betraying the alliance. . . . After they finish with Cryx. . . . Need to tell the generals.” Caine felt dread at his words. He wondered if Rebald’s spies had heard any hints of this. Siege’s legs were freed and he slid them off the bed and attempted to stand, prompting a pained groan. He looked wobbly. Caine reached out to steady him and let Siege lean on him for support. “Should you be moving? You’re in bad shape.” “Not staying here,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Get my armor.” Clay rushed to obey, pulling some heavy pieces of gear out of the crate he had found. Ace sent a sharp warning across the connection Caine shared with its cortex. The warcaster looked through its eyes just as the Winter Guardsman outside, who had just stood up, threw open the door. He shouted something in Khadoran and had a blunderbuss in hand, swinging it toward the person closest to him—Clay, who had frozen, his eyes wide. Caine drew a Spellstorm and fired in an instant, the bullet

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glowing blue with the imbued power he’d granted it. It struck the Winter Guardsman just under his nose and crashed a path of gory destruction through his head and out the back of his skull with a spray of blood. The man fell back, the blunderbuss dropping from his dead fingers. “Shit,” Caine said. “Had hoped to get yeh out of here quietly.” “Forget that,” Siege said, his eyes flaring. “Let them come.” Bold words, but he was still impaired, almost falling over as he tried to strap on a leg piece. Clay looked to Caine even as there was a shout outside—one of the tower sentries reacting to the sound of the gunshot. Caine ordered, “Get him into his armor! I’ll handle them.” Through Ace’s eyes he saw one of the tower watchmen going for a bell hung from the simple roof. The warjack’s rune cannon tracked him and with Caine’s guiding will fired, exploding a hole through the man’s chest. Not that it mattered, as a ringing sound began in one of the other towers. Caine directed Ace to take out the other sentries, as their higher vantage and scoped rifles would soon be a problem. The revolving ammunition cylinder at the back of Ace’s cannon cycled, sending another rune-carved shell into the firing chamber. Ace was already in motion, still keeping to the edges of the trees. It shot a second sentry even as figures began to spill from tents, shouting orders. These were half-dressed guardsmen, weapons in hand, their sergeants pointing toward the trees from which the most recent cannon fire had come. There would be some confusion, and likely they would think themselves under attack by a larger group until proven otherwise.

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As advanced as Ace was, it would be in trouble if they concentrated fire on it. The light warjack was a sleek and mobile machine, its armor thin and by no means impervious to small-arms fire. The runes along its cannon barrel glowed brightly after each shot, making it visible despite the subtle effect of the infiltration field. It fired again, its rune cannon imbuing its shell with arcane energy in a way intended to mimic one of Caine’s own abilities. When the shot pierced the nearest guardsman, it seemed to ricochet at a sharp angle to take out the next nearest soldier. Seeing those two go down, the other emerging guards took to the cover of nearby piled sandbags, making them harder to hit. Several fired into the trees but missed. He mentally urged Ace to keep moving and to prioritize the tower sentries, though this would soon put the machine out of his mental control range. The back door they had entered through was thrown open. A burlier Khadoran filled the doorframe, glowering and gripping a hand axe. Caine had been stepping toward the other door and turned, but before he could even lift a pistol, Siege acted. The other warcaster raised a hand and snarled in rage. A vibrant ring of glowing runes sprang into being around his hand as an eruption of pure destructive force ripped the far side of the building asunder and caused even the ground beneath to erupt with fragments of stone. The Winter Guard was obliterated, leaving nothing but a blood mist to settle across the room. A huge hole gaped where most of the wall had been. The ceiling above began to sag and crumble. “I could have just shot him,” Caine said, now holding a Spellstorm in each hand.

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Siege gave a small smile and said, “That would have been less satisfying.” “Fair enough.” The man had been strapped down and drugged for who knew how long—Caine did not begrudge him some payback. But now they had made it obvious there were threats within as well as outside the encampment. Caine remembered to open the smoke vents on his warcaster armor, letting its power level begin to edge back to normal. He went to the edge of the hole Siege had made. Peeking out he took several shots, taking out a pair of the nearest guardsmen and sending the others scrambling for cover. With Ace shooting from one direction and Caine on the other, they were properly motivated to keep their heads down. Siege had his armor on now, if not entirely strapped in place. At his mumbled request, Clay ignited the other warcaster’s arcane turbine. The power field would both protect him and make the armor’s weight easier to bear. He said, “I need my weapons. They’re here somewhere.” He closed his eyes a moment in concentration, then pointed at one of the tents from which Khadoran soldiers were emerging. “There.” It was a good trick; Caine knew he could sense the mechanikal tools to which his mind was intimately bonded. Caine had always been able to sense his Spellstorms in the same way, which had proven handy on several occasions, such as recovering them from a pile of rubble. They walked out of the hole as Caine provided cover fire, Clay behind them taking periodic shots of opportunity with his rifle. Caine felt Ace at the periphery of his range, though he was close

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enough to sense the ’jack’s satisfaction even as he saw a sentry fall from the farthest watchtower. As they rounded the building they saw a man in a half-donned Khadoran uniform behind the Destroyer, reaching up to the machine’s steam engine, which had clearly been ignited. The warjack’s eyes had begun to glow. Siege grimaced and summoned his power again, driving his fist forward as runes came into being to invoke a surge of kinetic force straight into the chest of the massive warjack. There was a booming clang and the ten-ton machine went flying, smashing aside the mechanik. His broken body went sprawling while the ’jack itself landed in a heap several yards beyond him. The machine was too heavily armored to be badly damaged but had been knocked over. It would likely take several minutes for its steam engine pressure to build enough for it to right itself. The other warcaster gave Caine a grim smile and pointed at the Spellstorms in his hands, which were then circled by additional runes and glowed with newly augmented power. The major jerked his head toward the tent where he had sensed his weapons, from which several more Winter Guard were emerging and taking cover. The gun mage had fought alongside Siege enough to know his shots had been imbued with explosive potential. He advanced on the guardsmen behind their sandbags and fired, calling on his own magic while he did so, enchanting his bullets to ricochet and hit additional enemies just as Ace’s had. Each shot exploded into a different guardsmen on either end of the line of sandbags, detonating with sufficient force to take out several men and the sandbags they cowered behind. In the next blink of an eye those bullet fragments then shredded through two more Khadorans.

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The result was horrific carnage, but Caine felt no guilt, only grim satisfaction. The entire tent had been torn apart and tossed aside and no survivors were to be seen. They advanced swiftly in that direction, Clay keeping low behind the two warcasters. Returning fire sparked and deflected off their power fields. Siege unleashed another ground-ripping rift under the nearest intact tent, taking out several more guardsmen there as they were pulped by rocks. Ace moved close enough for Caine to reestablish mental contact, and across their link he received the image of the final tower sentry, neutralized. On its way back, the ’jack came up behind a guardsman facing Caine who was shooting in their direction. Oblivious to the ’jack, the woman never saw the brutal axe blow that finished her. Belatedly, Caine remembered they were at a hospital encampment and said to Siege, “Leave those other buildings alone; there may be wounded.” The major grunted in a noncommittal fashion, focused on reaching the footlockers and cots from the tent they had torn apart. He swayed on his feet and nearly fell over, and Caine got up next to him and grabbed him. The major was heavier now, in all his armor, and he almost dragged Caine down. His eyes were half-lidded and he was clearly struggling to stay conscious. Whatever adrenaline had driven him thus far was fading, perhaps used up casting spells. Clay scrambled to the other side of him and together they kept him on his feet. The gun mage took a moment to check their surroundings, through both his eyes and Ace’s. He saw what looked like the last few Winter Guard hightailing it for the trees. A door to one of the

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remaining buildings was swinging open. Four other Khadorans not in uniform were running to catch up with the soldiers, perhaps the surgeon and other medical personnel. Caine considered sending Ace to finish those fleeing but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Taking out runners was distasteful, plus a handful of soldiers would never have the nerve to chase after warcasters. By the time the Khadorans got together any real pursuit, their trail should be cold. “There they are,” Siege said. He had pulled away from the other two long enough to kick the lock off a long, slender wooden crate, which swung open to reveal two weapons. The first was an unwieldy and peculiar-looking firearm. It was as long as a rifle but had a wide, bulbous end instead of a typical barrel. This was Siege’s rocket cannon, a unique weapon built to his own specifications and capable of delivering an ongoing salvo of powerful explosive ordnance. It was an inelegant device compared to Caine’s Spellstorms but was dangerously effective in Major Brisbane’s hands, at least when he was healthy. Alongside this was the sad remains of Havoc, Siege’s great mechanikal maul, which looked to have been cut in half. The severed handle and head had been haphazardly tossed within the crate atop the other weapon. Siege frowned at seeing this, looking sad. “Forgot about that,” he said. He bent to reach for the rocket cannon. Caine kicked the crate closed again, earning a sharp and disapproving look. He said, “Let Clay carry those for now. Focus on staying conscious and on yer feet.” Ordinarily the major would never have let Caine order him around, but he was too tired and battered to object.

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The gun mage jerked his chin toward the crate and Clay obediently bent down to collect it. He opened its hinged lid and tossed inside the chained manacles that had once held Siege, which he had apparently nicked earlier. At Caine’s questioning noise, Clay shrugged and said, “Seemed they might be useful.” Caine felt a visceral loathing for the Greylord devices, but he had to admit the young ranger was right. Being able to shackle an arcanist might come in handy, so long as no one tried to put those things on him. He was impressed the youth had thought of it; he might be better suited for the CRS than it had originally appeared. They heard a sharp rising and falling whistling noise that Caine immediately recognized—an incoming explosive bombard shell. The blood drained from his face. “Hit the deck!” Runes surrounded all of them as Siege raised one hand in the air, gritting his teeth. Caine felt a strange sensation, as though he were being pulled down into the earth, as reality warped around them. Invisible walls of energy as strong as a concrete bunker encircled them. The sound of the bombard shell detonating above their heads was deafening. Hot air and heat rushed in with the muffled sound of scattering debris, but they were left unharmed. Caine confirmed through Ace’s eyes it was the Destroyer that had fired on them. The enemy warjack was back on its feet and lumbering closer to their position. Another shell dropped from its ammunition clip into its underslung bombard cannon, readied to launch. “Let’s go!” Caine shouted, his ears still ringing. He directed Ace to fire on the machine as the three of them made for the trees. Clay struggled under the weight of the crate, which looked huge in his arms, while Siege leaned on Caine.

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The Destroyer had no controller, neither ’jack marshal nor warcaster, and was operating on the default impulses of its military-grade cortex, which had quite accurately identified them as enemies. Warjacks could think on their own, within limited parameters, and they were especially good at attacking enemies and protecting friendlies. Together Caine and Siege could have tried to destroy the thing, but encased as it was by heavy Khadoran armor, taking it down would have required a considerable outlay of arcane effort and firepower. More than Caine wanted to spare, with Siege already on the verge of passing out. As they moved, Ace’s shot crackled with a sound like thunder. Its rune-empowered shell impacted with arcane force into the Destroyer’s upper torso, driving it back several feet but otherwise only denting the armor. This drew the Khadoran machine’s attention, and it turned to launch its next shell at Ace instead of at them. The nimble lighter warjack was still in motion and easily evaded the arcing explosive, which impacted five feet to its left, shredding several nearby trees. The ’jack was littered with branches but was left otherwise unscathed. They made it to the edge of the clearing and into the underbrush. Caine directed Clay to take the lead and get them back to Reed and the horses. Ace was already following. Checking its status by prodding its cortex, Caine determined the ammunition drum on its rune cannon had only a single shell left, so he told it to hold its fire. The Destroyer turned to follow, but without a controller the machine moved slowly and was ill-prepared to negotiate the forest. They quickly left it behind. Its last explosive shot landed nowhere near them.

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Once they reached Reed, they worked together to pull Siege up on one of the pack horses whose load of coal they had already exhausted. Caine examined Siege’s face with concern, seeing it was again ashen and listless. It was impossible to tell with his armor on whether the man had broken his stitches. He could easily imagine the stubborn major bleeding to death without a word of complaint. There was not much he could do about that now. After tying down the crate with Siege’s weapons behind the warcaster, Clay asked, “Where are we headed, Captain? Back to Fellig?” “We don’t have time. I need yeh to guide us to the operational army HQ in the southern Thornwood. Think yeh can manage that while avoiding running into any Khadorans?” He ignored the widening of Clay’s eyes and his panicked expression. He ordered, “Lead on, Private!”

133 CHAPTER FIVE

Southern Thornwood

The command tent hosting the senior officers of the First Army had been more or less turned over to King Leto Raelthorne’s use, though he had endeavored to let the commanders do their jobs without interference. The tent was filled with military personnel, with couriers, clerks, and other messengers coming and going in a steady stream. Despite the activity, the tent contained fewer senior officers than usual. The majority of the readied forces at their disposal, together with their field commanders, had weeks ago marched into the depths of the Thornwood alongside their Khadoran allies for what they hoped was a final reckoning with Lich Lord Asphyxious and his Cryxian army. Leto and the others could do little at this point other than study the maps of the forest, with their chits and markers to represent large numbers of soldiers, and hope for the best. Other than the king himself, those that remained behind included Lord General Olan Duggan, who led the entire First Army, Scout General Rebald, and a limited number of support staff. Most of the senior officers that had remained—including Duggan The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

himself—were the walking wounded, many going about their tasks wearing bandages, splints, or slings. Leto knew it bothered Duggan not to be at the big battle in person to motivate his soldiers, though as always once the fighting began, most of the decisions would come from the army’s warcasters, not the generals. Traditionally there was a sharp divide between strategy, dictated by older generals—and tactics, left to younger warcasters in the field. The latter were rarely promoted above the rank of commander for this reason. This system had worked in the past, but Leto had found it failing him in the present climate, where the threats they faced evolved so rapidly. It was for similar reasons he had felt the need to go north and get closer to the action rather than remaining in the capital. The ongoing war had in fact prompted Leto to promote two of his most capable and reliable warcasters to those upper ranks, an unusual arrangement. Sebastian Nemo had been promoted to Artificer General to give him total authority over military innovation and production priorities. The brilliant mechanik and eldest active warcaster was responsible for many of their most advanced weapons, especially those that relied on the storm chamber, which he had invented decades ago. Leto had elevated Coleman Stryker to Lord General, the highest command rank. In doing this, he had arguably undermined the authority of his warmaster general, Olson Turpin, who was responsible for coordinating all of Cygnar’s armies. At times a king was obliged to shake up the hierarchy, and Turpin was an old man whose health was starting to fail him, a man increasingly out of touch with events beyond Caspia. Leto considered Turpin a friend

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as well as a seasoned general, for the man had been with him since before he was crowned, but he had to face realities. For his part, Turpin had seemed relieved to remain behind in Caspia with his family. There was no one Leto trusted more than Coleman Stryker, who fifteen years ago had served as a palace guard and had played a significant role in the coup to overthrow Vinter. Leto felt the command staff needed an infusion of ideas from someone like Stryker, a warcaster who was still fighting on the front lines and who had dealt with all of Cygnar’s most dangerous adversaries. So Generals Stryker and Nemo were currently leading their armed forces against Cryx. It was to be their second allied assault against the Cryxian headquarters in the Thornwood. The first had ended disastrously, with heavy casualties. They had learned much in that clash. Armed with knowledge of the foe and a proper plan of attack, Leto felt cautiously optimistic about the second attack— one that would not have been possible without the Khadorans. As much as it had been difficult to work directly alongside them, the Khadorans had provided valuable insights and suggestions. Another reason Leto had risked traveling into the perilous Thornwood was to meet personally with Empress Ayn Vanar, his counterpart in the Khadoran Empire. The two had negotiated and argued at length to find a way to solidify and legitimize the alliance between their nations. Leto was proud of that accomplishment. He had felt reassured by the empress’ sincerity and the solidarity they had forged with one another, a shared purpose he hoped to extend beyond the immediate battle plan. Given the combined might of the Cygnaran and Khadoran armies, it seemed likely

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they could make major gains against Cryx if they held it together. Beyond exterminating the undead infesting the Thornwood, he foresaw the possibility of more ambitious shared efforts to cripple Cryx’s fleets or conduct preemptive strikes against their production facilities on the islands. The king was pondering these matters when the news swept through the military encampment. It began as a sound outside the command tent he did not initially recognize, until realizing it was the escalating excited utterances of dozens of soldiers and officers cheering and congratulating one another. Rebald stepped out to see what the commotion was about. He soon returned, his expression guarded but pleased, which was about as excited as the scout general ever got about anything. “King Leto, I have the honor to inform you that we have the first indications the attack on the Cryxian base was a success. Temper your expectations until I can verify this rumor and determine the scope of our casualties. But soldiers have begun to return from the battle, and they claim Lich Lord Asphyxious was dealt a decisive defeat. It would appear our victory is on hand.” “Praise Morrow,” Leto said fervently, clasping the Radiance he kept around his neck. He had prayed often and at length for such an outcome, even knowing such a matter rested primarily with the courage and ability of mortals, not any god. Lord General Duggan gave a pleased laugh and went so far as to clap the king on his shoulder, a familiarity no one took amiss on this occasion. Rebald still looked relatively dour and skeptical, but Leto found it impossible to doubt the news. A great weight had been lifted from him, leaving his heart lighter.

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“Your Majesty, I know it might be premature,” Duggan said, “but might I give the men permission to celebrate?” Leto smiled and said, “From the commotion outside, I don’t think you could stop them if you wanted to!” • • • It was into an atmosphere of celebration that Caine, Siege, Clay, and Reed found themselves as they passed beyond the outskirts of the primary Cygnaran command encampment. Caine had already identified himself to several strangely cheery outer sentries, who had waved them past without much scrutiny or even apparent recognition, which was in itself unusual. Before they passed many tents the return of Siege was noticed and began to cause a stir, adding to the festive atmosphere. Soldiers began to collect around them, a number of them repeatedly chanting “Siege! Siege!” Brisbane waved a hand and attempted an enthusiastic smile, though to Caine’s eye it was clear he was struggling. Their pace through the forest had been hard on him, and they had not had the chance to properly change his bandages or see to his injuries. His mind was free of whatever drugs they had been giving him, but that had undoubtedly also included something to dull pain. “Everyone, get back! Let us through,” Caine said, as a number of soldiers—mostly trenchers—had pushed in to greet the major personally. He sent Ace forward to help clear the path, prompting the soldiers to reluctantly pull back. “Sergeant!” Caine waved to a thick-set man wearing sergeant stripes who had one arm in a sling and was chomping on a cigar. He obligingly came over and saluted. Caine waved toward the nearest fire, where the men seemed to be having a good time, and several of them had drinks in hand.

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“What’s going on around here?” “We kicked the tar out of Cryx, sir! Or so they say, I missed the last fight myself. They say it got ugly, but we pulled it out in the end. Guess the reds did their part, too.” “Thank yeh, Sergeant. Welcome news.” He tried to muster some enthusiasm, though given what Siege had told him, he worried they might be too late to provide any sort of warning. They pushed forward and made their way to the main command tent, where Caine had heard King Leto himself was present. That bit of news surprised the warcaster, though he remembered Leto feeling compelled to take to the streets alongside his soldiers during the Caspia-Sul War. If his memory served, that had only resulted in Leto getting stabbed. Apparently he hadn’t learned his lesson. “We should get yeh to a medic,” Caine said to Siege. The major was staring blankly forward and took a moment to respond. Then he focused on Caine and shook his head. He growled, “Not until I speak to the king.” Caine sighed. Some men never changed. They spoke to the outer sentries and were ushered past a number of Silver Line Stormguard protecting the final tent. Scout General Rebald spotted Caine and made his way toward him. “Captain, Major,” he said, inclining his head to each. “You are a welcome sight.” He stepped closer to Caine and said in a low voice, “I need to debrief you.” Caine glanced at the other warcaster, still seated up on the pack horse. “Not yet. Brisbane insists we talk to the king first thing.” The scout general narrowed his eyes and compressed his lips. His expression seemed neutral, but Caine had been working with him

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enough to know he was severely displeased. He added, “We’ll talk after.” “Very well,” Rebald said. He quietly added, “If it comes up, you were in Fellig at my request, checking into an unusual mercenary concentration. Don’t mention the Warlord unless it’s unavoidable.” This was a familiar drill with Caine. Rebald escorted them past the remaining guards and helped Brisbane dismount so they could enter the main command tent. King Leto, Lord General and Duke Olan Duggan, and a few other senior officers were waiting. Caine and Brisbane set their warcaster armor to their lowest settings to avoid filling the tent with smoke. As was customary, King Leto wore practical attire that resembled a formal military uniform, with gold braids and cords pinned to his right epaulet and a light blue and white sash over his left shoulder. A sword was at his waist, slender and of a modest style for a sovereign. Caine knew this to be an entirely practical weapon, a fine blade the king had wielded in battle decades ago when he served as a general under his brother. Given his extensive military service, it was no surprise that Leto looked comfortable in these surroundings. Caine realized it had been several years since he had been face-to-face with the king, and he was startled at the signs of aging—some of his black hair had gone to grey and his face bore many new lines. Given the man was forty-nine years old, this was not unusual, and Leto still seemed healthy and fit, but the stresses of the last few years had clearly begun to take a toll. But that was nothing compared to Lord General Duggan, whose head was half-wrapped in bandages, which reminded Caine of General Mathern in Fellig. He knew the two Morridane generals

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were old friends as well as peers, and he made a mental note to talk to Duggan about Mathern’s state if he got the chance. For the moment he let Brisbane take to the fore and receive the grateful exclamations of his superiors. Duggan said, “Major Brisbane! A sight for sore eyes, you are. Welcome back, son.” King Leto stepped forward and clasped the warcaster’s hand. He said, “I never once believed the rumors that you were anything more than missing, Major.” “Thank you, Your Majesty, General.” Brisbane said. He was doing a passable job of looking normal and alert. Caine wondered what it was costing him. The king looked over Brisbane’s shoulder to where Caine was standing and asked, “Was tracking him down a task given to you, Captain? If so, fine work.” Caine glanced briefly at Rebald before he said, “It worked out that way, Yer Majesty, though not quite as smoothly as all that. I’ll be filling in the scout general on the details. Most of it is rather boring, I’m afraid.” He cleared his throat and said, “Yeh should know, since the major won’t likely mention it, that the man is severely injured and in need of medical attention.” Siege shot him a murderous look, making Caine wince, but he had felt obligated to speak. He added, “The Butcher almost cut him in half—he’s got an ugly wound running all the way up his chest. Khadorans clearly can’t sew.” Leto paled and looked back to the other warcaster. “Let’s get you to a surgeon at once! We can talk after.” “No,” Brisbane said in a loud voice, then seemed to recall who

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was present. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but my news can’t wait. I’m fine. Good enough to talk.” The king glanced back to Caine as if wondering if this were true. Caine hardly felt qualified to speak to the major’s health, but he shrugged and said, “If he was going to die, I’d have expected him to do it on the way.” “Very well, but make it brief, Major.” While the king spoke, Duggan had already turned to a nearby colonel and ordered him to fetch their most experienced surgeons. Siege stood to attention and his voice became formal and clipped. “This began when I arrived at Khadoran Encampment 13, north of Stonebridge, per my orders from then Lord Commander Stryker. I was to rendezvous with Kommander Leichvich there and assemble our combined forces to join with the main army in preparation of the first assault.” Caine interjected, “Yeh don’t need to give all the details.” The other warcaster pointedly ignored him. “Kommander Orsus Zoktavir, whom we had thought killed in action at the Siege of Fellig, arrived and immediately went berserk. His anger and violence were initially directed at Kommander Leichvich, whom he accused of being a traitor, presumably because of my presence. The kommander was maimed, then Zoktavir charged and attacked me as well. I was disarmed, injured, and taken into Zoktavir’s custody. From their conversations I believe Zoktavir was ignorant of the alliance and did not believe Leichvich when told. We undertook a march of some unknown number of days, after which the kommander delivered me to Supreme Kommandant Irusk, who apologized for the attack and promised I would be treated by his

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surgeons. He had me sent to an isolated hospital encampment where I became a prisoner. I was kept drugged and was chained with arcane-dampening manacles. During my time in Zoktavir’s custody, my wound became infected and I developed a fever. As a result, I do not remember some of the details clearly.” “Understandable, son,” Duggan said, looking appalled. He turned to Leto and said, “If this happened before the first coordinated assault, Irusk was lying to us from that point forward. He knew we were searching for Major Brisbane.” “There is more,” Brisbane interjected. “I overheard my surgeon—when he thought I was unconscious—discussing plans for after victory against Cryx. The Khadorans intend to betray the alliance and attack us as soon as they are able, striking when our forces are at their most vulnerable. I do not know the details, but their intended timing was clear.” “That isn’t possible,” Leto whispered as though to himself. “I heard what I heard, Your Majesty,” Brisbane insisted, his back ram-rod straight. “No one doubts that, Major.” Duggan said. “You’ve done admirably, but your health is now your first priority.” The colonel he had sent returned with several military surgeons. “Go with these men, and let them check your wounds. Obey them in every regard. We will handle the rest.” “Yes, sir.” Siege seemed to deflate slightly, his duty fulfilled, and let himself be led away. “Thank you again for your exemplary service,” King Leto added as the warcaster went. Caine and Siege shared a look as he passed. Caine felt obliged

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to say, “About what happened in Caspia—” but stopped when Brisbane shook his head. “We’re square. Just obey your orders next time.” The major gave a small smile and Caine inclined his head in agreement and from respect. After the major was gone, the king turned back to his lord general. He said, “The timing of this seems significant. Major Brisbane was captured before my meeting with Empress Vanar. It is possible these plans he overheard were a contingency put in place by Irusk or another kommandant that were later invalidated by the empress. I believe she was sincere.” The Morridane’s face transitioned from a grimace to a scowl as he struggled to control his emotions. “Empress Vanar is well versed in deception, Your Highness.” He left it unsaid that Leto, by contrast, was not. He went on, “You know my feelings toward the Khadorans. I’ll admit to being biased. But I think it likely that these plans to exploit our vulnerabilities remain in place. Khadorans never fail to seize an opportunity.” Caine interjected, “I saw some action near Fellig that underscores the reds might not be taking this alliance seriously.” Rebald shot him a sharp look and he decided it was best not to elaborate. Cygnar’s spymaster smoothly entered the conversation himself. “I am quite troubled by what Brisbane has reported. I had thought Irusk, for all his faults, to be honorable. That he had the major imprisoned and hidden so early suggests plotting. I do not entirely fault him; he could not resist the opportunity to deprive us of a military asset. But I think it no exaggeration to suggest that Brisbane’s absence from that first assault may have cost us

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thousands of lives. Perhaps even an early victory.” “I don’t know if even Siege could have turned around that nightmare,” Duggan said. “But his presence would have made a difference. Perhaps a significant one, if his wounds would have even let him fight. Under our care I am sure he could have been restored more swiftly.” Caine was made more than a little uncomfortable by this topic, given he also had been absent from the battles at the heart of the Thornwood, occupied following leads for Rebald. He wasn’t sure whether to feel more relieved or annoyed that they hadn’t suggested his involvement might have been similarly helpful. Leto said, “I find it impossible to believe Empress Vanar would begin planning to turn on us even while our soldiers are fighting side-by-side against the Nightmare Empire! She is a Morrowan.” Caine thought the general’s eyes were going to bug out of his head at that last, but he kept his tongue. Rebald interjected, “It is entirely possible no treachery is planned, or that if something has been plotted, the empress may not have initiated it. She gives her kommandants considerable autonomy. Regardless, we must take measures.” He also wisely avoided the religious issue. Leto was an extremely pious man, a close friend of Primarch Arius, leader of the Church of Morrow. The king was someone who too often expected others to share his values and sense of honor. Duggan said, “The Khadoran command encampment, our counterpart, is less than an hour’s march from here. There are a number of other mixed encampments, and our withdrawal plans after the main battle involved utilizing combined mustering points.

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All of our soldiers will be in peril should Khador betray us.” “We need to get you to safety, Your Majesty.” Rebald said. “You should withdraw from the Thornwood at once. This place is far from secure, as we know all too well.” “I came to the front to demonstrate to our soldiers that their king stands with them,” Leto said, scowling. “What message does it send if I leave now?” “Only that the task which brought you here is completed. Your army has achieved its victory over Cryx. There is no more for you to do here. It does us no good for you to come to harm.” As Rebald spoke, Duggan nodded his agreement. “I do not ask you to return all the way to Caspia. I understand if you want to stay in the north, to track the situation as it unfolds. But until we assess this potential threat and the First Army has regrouped, the forest is unsafe.” Duggan said, “I suggest relocating to Stonebridge Castle, Your Majesty. It is considerably more secure than Point Bourne.” “Very well,” Leto said, his expression grim. “I sincerely hope all this alarm is for naught.” The lord general nodded. “As do we all. We’ll get your escort underway immediately. It will by necessity be limited.” He looked to Caine and said, “Given we cannot predict when any other warcasters will return from the battle, it falls to you to ensure the king’s safety, Captain. We’ll arrange for what warjack support we can. If the surgeons think he can move, we should send Siege with you; he must be taken somewhere with better medical accommodations.” Caine nodded. “Yes, sir.” He did not take offense to the implication that Duggan would have preferred any other warcaster.

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After all, he had spent most of his military career establishing a reputation for unreliability. “I’ll go with the king as well,” Rebald said, “and coordinate with Colonel Maken on military reconnaissance for the First Army. It will be his first priority to unite our scattered forces and separate them from the Khadorans, if we still have time. With Your Majesty’s permission, I would like to have a brief private discussion with Captain Caine regarding his most recent mission.” Leto waved a hand dismissively and said, “Of course. We will make ready to move.” Caine knew this would be the time to talk to Leto, if ever, to come clean about what he and Rebald had been doing. It was a thought that arose unbidden, together with the memory of his last exchange with Magnus, when the mercenary had taunted him to break the conspiracy. Rebald would be furious with him if he revealed their secrets, but at the moment that thought did not trouble Caine as much as it might once have. Regardless of Magnus’ motives, his words had left an impression. The fact was over the last couple years Caine had become increasingly uncomfortable about hiding their actions from the king. All he had to do was speak now and tell Leto that he had a nephew, one who was presently being tutored by Asheth Magnus. He could leave this burden in the king’s hands. But, after a moment’s pause, the impulse left him and he followed Rebald. • • • The gun mage went with Cygnar’s spymaster to a nearby tent, one made of especially thick cloth to help dampen sound. A number of rangers and a pair of Rebald’s most trusted CRS agents

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were standing, vigilant, around its perimeter. Secure as it was, the two of them spoke quietly once they were inside. Rebald said, “We do not have much time. I need to know if you achieved your goal in Fellig. Given your expression, I presume not.” “I did get eyes on him. I can say with certainty that I have identified our quarry. His name is Julius, by the way. Yeh might already know that.” Caine was accustomed to Rebald withholding information. The spymaster did not react, leaving no indication whether he knew the name. “How is it possible that you identified him and he is still alive? I am perplexed.” “It isn’t always as straightforward as pulling a trigger, Rebald.” “With you, it has always been exactly that straightforward.” Caine did not hide his exasperation. “Magnus assembled quite the army and was watching the bastard like a hawk. Things got messy the one time I managed to get close, and I missed my chance. Magnus got him to safety while I was busy keeping my head from getting blown off. Taking him down would have required me getting myself killed.” “I would like to hear all the details,” the scout general said. “Though we do not have time right now.” “Agreed,” Caine said, having no desire to relate every detail since he started following Magnus. He was certain the scout general would want to know a complete assessment of the strength of the Warlord’s forces, the warjacks at his disposal, and so on. Such interviews were tedious. Rebald said, “I fear you are underestimating how important this

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mission is. Maybe it has become too much a matter of routine over the years, and you found yourself reluctant to end it.” “Don’t be ridiculous! No one is more eager to see this over than I am.” “You are the greatest weapon in my arsenal, the only person I have been able to trust with these tasks. Know that I value you. But let us face facts. The kingdom would be more secure today had you killed the bastard even if you had died in the attempt. That’s how grave this matter is.” Caine gritted his teeth. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint yeh by being alive.” “You know that’s not what I’m saying, Allister. Setbacks will happen. Magnus is a formidable adversary. But I had expected more doggedness. Why did you not try again? I fail to understand how you could return with the job undone.” “Immediately after the first attempt, I discovered Brisbane was being held. That seemed a more urgent priority.” “That was a mistake,” Rebald said. “You can’t be distracted from this task.” Though this sort of conversation was typical of others he’d had with Rebald, Caine felt his temper getting the better of him. “I’d hardly call the rescue of a warcaster with Major Brisbane’s service record a ‘distraction.’” “Clearly. Do not mistake me—I am glad for his recovery. But the hard truth is, he could have remained where he was. His life was not in immediate peril. When you discovered where he was being held, you should have found a way to pass that information on while you continued your mission. It was not a matter you had

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to handle personally. You may have lost your best chance. Magnus will take safeguards and hide the bastard. Finding him again has become more complicated, even as the urgency is greater!” The gun mage considered these words, acknowledging there was some truth to what Rebald said. Maybe he should have sent Clay on with the information. But the spymaster had not been the one to find Siege, to see him strapped down and unconscious. Caine could not imagine just walking away. Maybe Rebald could have done so, but Caine could not. He said, “I don’t think Magnus will be hiding the boy. He wants to make him known. He’s going to put him up as a pretender for the throne. Can’t do that while hiding him.” “Really?” The spymaster’s eyes narrowed in thought. “That is strange. How could that advance Vinter’s agenda? Unless Magnus intends to use Julius as a distraction before Vinter makes his move on Caspia? Or perhaps he intends him as a safeguard?” Caine shrugged. He did not offer his opinion that Magnus might not be working for Vinter any longer. He had no proof, just a feeling, accumulated during that last conversation, together with some of Magnus’ other recent actions. “Trying to put yerself in Asheth Magnus’ skull is a good way to get a headache.” “Regardless,” Rebald said, “you are presently tasked with seeing us to Stonebridge. As soon as that is accomplished, I need you back on the hunt. Let us just pray Magnus does not find a way to use the bastard to harm the kingdom before you correct your mistake.” Caine turned to leave the tent, clamping down on any retort over the reprimand. He recalled his conversation with Magnus near the end, and the suggestion the Warlord had made about Rebald. He

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turned back and asked, “Rebald, what do yeh know about Julius’ mother? Vinter’s mistress?” He acted casual but watched Rebald’s face closely. He saw the spymaster’s eyes narrow, his head move back, before his expression sharpened. “Nothing,” he said. “Why? What possible relevance could she be? She’s probably dead, and regardless the boy never met her.” “True,” Caine said, waving a hand. “Just a stray thought. Never mind.” He left the tent thinking that Rebald’s reaction had been quite strong for a man so versed in hiding his thoughts. He had caught the spymaster off guard and the mention of Julius’ mother had struck a nerve, as Magnus had known it would. He tried to put the matter out of his mind. Soon he and a minimal escort would be held responsible for the safety of the king of Cygnar just as the alliance keeping two nations from ripping out each other’s throats failed.

151 CHAPTER SIX

Approaching Stonebridge

It was only a few hours after King Leto and his escort marched from the Thornwood command encampment that rangers returned with word that fighting with the Khadorans had begun. Initial reports were sketchy and confusing, making it difficult to assess the scope of hostilities. Were it not for Major Brisbane’s warning the situation would have been even more chaotic. It would have been easy to mistake the first reports as the result of accidental friendly fire or isolated skirmishes where old hostilities erupted between Khadoran and Cygnaran soldiers. Even as the evidence began to mount, King Leto seemed reluctant to accept that they had been so completely betrayed. Caine hoped they had gotten the word out quickly enough so their soldiers could prepare. Even a little warning might make all the difference. Marching alongside the soldiers of Leto’s escort, Caine took an opportunity to check on Major Brisbane, whom the surgeons had insisted neither mount a horse nor march on foot, but instead ride on one of the column’s few narrow supply wagons. The forest they The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

crossed was too dense for larger ones. To Caine’s eye he looked considerably better than before, though his expression suggested he was not comfortable riding while others walked. “Major Brisbane,” Caine said, “how are yeh?” “I’m wishing people would stop asking me that,” the gruff warcaster growled. “What did the surgeons say?” He hesitated. Glancing around he seemed satisfied that there was some distance from his subordinates. The nearest men were drovers, cooks, and supply sergeants. “They said I’m lucky to be alive, but also that I’m past the worst of it, so long as I don’t rip my stitches open again. They advised me to engage in nothing more strenuous than lying in a bed for at least three weeks. I expect I’ll have to disappoint them, sooner or later.” “Yes, I’d expect so,” Caine agreed with a chuckle. “Caine,” Brisbane said after a pause. The gun mage looked over and raised an eyebrow, and the other warcaster added, “Thanks for coming to get me. That was well done.” The gun mage inclined his head. “No problem. You did most of the work. All we did was find the keys.” Caine felt relieved that there seemed to be a new accord between them, though he knew it would last only until the next time secret orders required him to abandon his responsibilities. The worlds he and Brisbane occupied were very different, only tenuously connected when they shared a battlefield. Before leaving the command encampment they had scrounged up several warjacks and divided them between the two warcasters. The major had made it clear he would not allow himself to be

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entirely sidelined, and it was hoped he could control a couple of warjacks without straining himself unduly. In dividing the ’jacks, Caine had taken the light ’jacks and left the heavies to Siege. In addition to Ace, Caine controlled a quirky old Charger, an aggressive Minuteman, and a somewhat dim-witted but loyal Sentinel. The latter he instructed to stick close by the king to serve as a metal bodyguard. Siege had taken control of an old Ironclad and a battered Avenger, both currently guarding the column’s rear. Not a single one of these ’jacks was in perfect condition. They were machines that had been nearly wrecked in earlier fighting before being patched back together by mechaniks. Each was repaired enough to fight, but there were reasons they had been left behind from the main Thornwood assault. Other than these machines the escort included a few ranger squads, a mixed company of veteran Storm Knights, and a similarly seasoned and decorated trencher company. These soldiers were all skilled and experienced, but their numbers represented less than a single battalion. Some had not fought together before, having been combined into new companies blending the king’s men and the most able-bodied soldiers of the First Army they had on hand. These soldiers came with a small support and supply train, such as was always required for an army on the move. Given they were taking a route that did not include a well-cleared road, they had opted against many supply wagons, using pack horses and human labor instead. Every soldier capable of carrying twenty or thirty extra pounds to support the column was ordered to do so. Caine ordinarily liked fighting alongside smaller groups, preferring the platoon or squad level, but for protecting the king,

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the force felt thin. King Leto had insisted on leaving behind enough soldiers so those senior officers and wounded at the encampment would be protected. An admirable move, but consequently putting himself at additional risk. Caine was gratified to see that most of the column’s senior officers had taken to reporting to Major Brisbane rather than to the gun mage, which would otherwise have been the case. For a military mission like this, the senior warcaster was expected to take charge, and Caine had no desire to command over five hundred men. Rebald sent their rangers out into the forest both ahead and fanning to either side as they moved, standard procedure for a military column moving through dense terrain. Caine had been pleased to see that Private Clay Vernor had been given a place among them. He had personally recommended the young ranger to Rebald. Caine felt protective of the youth and had been glad not to send him back to Fellig. It remained to be seen whether Clay would be safer with them, but at least he was performing a more meaningful duty than he had been in Fellig. When Caine had informed Clay he’d be helping safeguard the king, the youth’s eyes had gotten big as dinner plates. It was clear he understood the honor. Caine wasn’t sure why he had taken such an interest in the ranger, but he didn’t want the youth to keep thinking of himself as a coward because of getting overwhelmed in his first serious fight. Things got tense after their first night, when they could hear the distant booms of what might be cannons as well as the muffled rattling of far-off rifle fire. The sounds were indistinct and at times seemed to be coming from more than one direction. It was difficult

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for anyone to get proper sleep, but wherever the trouble was, it had not found them yet. Despite the dense foliage they made good speed through the trees, halting only as they neared Stonebridge so a ranger squad could check ahead of them. It was the sort of routine activity no one gave any thought to, and Caine overheard conversations regarding how long they would stay at Stonebridge and whether any of them might be reallocated to return to the forest to help deal with the Khadorans. Most of these veteran soldiers did not shy from the action and had no interest in being shackled to bodyguard duty, even one as prestigious as watching the king. Any casual attitudes faded immediately on the return of the first rangers, whose expressions were grim. Caine intercepted them first, seeing it as his duty. Once he’d heard what they had to say he immediately arranged to meet with Rebald, King Leto, and Major Brisbane. They moved off the path a few feet for privacy while staying near the middle of the column, with rangers and trencher snipers keeping an eye out for any potential threats. Once they had gathered, Caine said, “The rangers say the Khadoran Anvil is flying from Stonebridge’s ramparts. And there’s evidence of a recent battle on the surrounding grounds.” “Impossible,” Siege said, his teeth clenched. King Leto and Scout General Rebald shared a grave look, the latter shaking his head. Rebald said, “Admittedly we had a smaller garrison at Stonebridge, but there were substantial reserves. It’s an extremely fortified position, with all the advantages to the defenders. I can’t imagine a scenario whereby the Khadorans could take it so quickly.” “Given their treachery,” Leto said, his voice suggesting rising

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anger, “they could have picked their timing to best effect. Perhaps some sort of ruse was played on the fortress commander.” Siege said, “That would be General Kierlan Krismoor, unless he was with the Thornwood assault. He’s no fool.” “I can’t recall if he remained behind,” Rebald said. “Either way, whether it was him or one of his senior officers, I would not expect them to be susceptible to any simple ruse. He used to call Deepwood Tower his home, before the Khadorans took it. He and his men have every reason to distrust and despise the reds.” Cygnar had been on the defensive ever since the fall of Deepwood Tower, eventually pulling back to the Dragon’s Tongue. It was an uncomfortable thought to imagine the Khadorans pushing them beyond even the river. It was the last significant geographical barrier protecting the heartlands. “I’d like to go and take a look for myself,” Caine said. “We might not be able to see much from the trees, but I’d like to check it out.” “I’m going as well,” Siege said, in a way that brooked no argument. Rebald nodded, “As am I.” He turned to Leto and said, “I’ll return immediately with any news and recommendations.” “Very well,” King Leto said, inclining his head. Rebald said to the others, “Be extremely careful. They’ll be watching the road for any approach, and they’ll have snipers. Everyone needs to be covered up, no insignia, no smoke from warcaster armor, nothing to give us away.” • • • “That’s the Anvil, all right,” Caine whispered after peering through one of the spyglasses they were sharing. The three-sided black

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symbol on the red Khadoran flag could be clearly seen with even the naked eye, displayed prominently on both the northern and southern elements of the fortress complex with its heavy stone bridge between them. Stonebridge was aptly named, though it was far more than a bridge, being one of the largest and most imposing edifices along the Dragon’s Tongue River. It was two fortresses in one, with a smaller battlement on the north shore of the river, controlling access to this side of the landing, and the larger main fortress on the southern side, backed by a small protected town that had grown up in its shadow. The river itself rushed noisily below the span, which was high enough to allow boats to pass by beneath. The noise of the river served to cover their conversation, though no one was taking unnecessary chances. The mighty Dragon’s Tongue flowed here from Corvis and on into Lake Thornmere, then through the locks of Point Bourne. The lake had formed at a widening of the river where it was joined by the Banwick River flowing down from the Wyrmwall Mountains to the south. The way the river flowed through had carved the stones here to create a jutting promontory atop which the southern fortress sat overlooking the bridge and waterway, making approaching or attacking it from the north exceptionally difficult. This was by design, given it was the narrowest portion of the Dragon’s Tongue. To seize Stonebridge from the north would have required the Khadorans to take the smaller fortress, cross the relatively narrow bridge—while exposed to fire from the southern battlements— then to break the gatehouse or assail the high tiered walls of that

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greater castle. Quite a feat. But there was no refuting the red flags. It had been done. The scout general had dispatched rangers to the nearest forest villages in the hopes of finding any witnesses who might know what happened. Even had such an attack been swiftly accomplished, as it must have, there had to be someone who had fled to seek shelter nearby. Through the spyglasses they could see evidence of recent fighting, including damage to the northern fortress where the battlements had endured cannon fire. The southern fortress walls also displayed fresh scars, though they looked relatively intact. “Your assessment, Major?” Rebald asked quietly, looking to Siege, who had earned his moniker as Cygnar’s foremost expert on both seizing and defending fortified positions. “The damage isn’t consistent with a proper defense,” he answered. “We should see more scarring to the surface of the bridge. And debris along the approach road. I’d say most cannons on both battlements were not manned or fired during the attack. The southern gate and portcullis are intact, so they likely took the southern castle conventionally, by climbing the walls with ladders. That should have required tremendous Khadoran casualties. I’d have expected to see evidence of carnage. I’d think they’d be forced to burn the bodies, but we see no sign of that, no thick smoke across the river, no evidence of hasty burials. I have to presume Stonebridge’s defenders were dealing with an internal crisis or were severely depleted before the Khadorans arrived.” “Mass poisoning?” Caine suggested. “If the food stores had been compromised. . .” “Maybe,” Rebald said slowly. “Though that would be atypical

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of their tactics. Then again, a mass poisoning would still produce bodies. Unless they just dumped them in the river.” Given what Point Bourne had already been through, the thought of thousands of corpses sent floating down the river and into the locks was a horrific image. As yet the Khadorans had never been so cavalier with even enemy dead. Caine said, “If the poison wasn’t lethal, it might have incapacitated enough of the garrison to facilitate an easy takeover without killing everyone.” He had seen entire companies of soldiers taken out by dysentery. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter now,” Siege said, still peering through the lenses at the battlements. “I’m more interested in the current defenders.” Caine returned his own spyglass to his eye and scanned as well, seeing a variety of Winter Guard and Widowmakers on both battlements. He was also certain snipers must be lurking in the forest around them, looking for people just like them approaching the castle. They had followed a route the rangers felt was safe from observation, and those ranger squads and trencher commandos were busy now looking for hidden sentries. This was part of an old ongoing dance that had been happening in wooded areas contested between the two nations for centuries. Before any larger- scale skirmish in such places, there was usually a quieter stealthy preliminary battle between forest scouts. He passed his spyglass back to Rebald, who took his turn. “I don’t think the Khadorans have fully manned the fortress yet,” the scout general said. “But I’d be willing to bet more will be coming soon. They will turn this place into a gateway for future invasion. From here, they can seize Bainsmarket and eventually cut off

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Point Bourne and Corvis. That would isolate the First Army from resupply.” “We can take them,” Siege said, with a confidence Caine himself did not feel at all. Rebald shook his head. “No, we can’t.” “I’m positive,” Siege said, turning to glare at him. “I can take this fortress, with our men.” “And five half-broken warjacks?” Caine chuckled. “You’re missing the point, Siege. Even if it were possible, we’re supposed to escort the king to safety. Taking Stonebridge is not that. It’s the opposite.” “It’d be safe after we secured it,” he groused, though less adamantly. “We can’t leave it in Khadoran hands.” “Not for long,” Rebald said, “but Caine is correct. We must see to Leto first. We should withdraw to Point Bourne. Corvis is too far. Let’s inform the king.” • • • “At the very least,” Brisbane said when they had reconvened with King Leto, “we need to take down the bridge. That will delay or even prevent its use for invasion and force the Khadorans to work for their crossing.” “Is that possible with what we have at our disposal?” Leto asked skeptically. “Stonebridge is an extremely solid structure.” “I think it can be done.” The major’s voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty. “Though without taking the time to secure the northern fortress, it will be risky.” “How?” Caine asked. “We have no cannons, no Defenders.” “I have the means. I can take all the seismic cannon shells from

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my Avenger and create a single focused explosive charge.” A certain light had entered Siege’s eyes as he detailed his idea. “If we place it properly, the detonation and subsequent localized earthquake should suffice to collapse the arch at the center, weakening the rest.” The ammunition used for the Avenger’s cannon was unusual, each shell being essentially a massive mechanikal impact grenade designed to unleash intense seismic energies. Caine had no idea what effect they would have on a bridge, though he imagined it wouldn’t be good. “This bridge has stood for a thousand years. It’s a piece of ancient history, along with being a vital fortress.” Leto said. “Do we have the right to destroy it?” It was apparent he was alone in these particular concerns. Caine said, “Despite what the major says, I’m not convinced we can make this happen. Even if you can find a way to link those shells, I don’t think we have the means to deliver them properly, not without revealing ourselves and instigating an attack.” “Let’s take a bit of time to see if we can come up with a feasible plan of attack,” Rebald said. “Though we can’t stall long. My people have eliminated the nearest hidden sentries, but their disappearance will not go unnoticed. Every hour we remain, we risk being discovered and attacked. I’m waiting to hear from my scouts. See what you can come up with before they return, but we should stand ready to withdraw.” King Leto nodded his assent and left them to it. • • • A plan was soon derived, and though Caine remained skeptical of it, Rebald approved the attempt. Caine worried Siege was pushing

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himself too hard, too soon. He saw the other warcaster lose his train of thought and waver on his feet in the midst of a discussion with his trencher commando captain. The commandos were ready to take the explosive charge and felt they could approach the bridge from below, along the riverbanks, and reach its understructure without being spotted. They would place the bomb and withdraw. The mechaniks had improvised a way to link the Avenger shells together, connecting them to a mechanism that would detonate them simultaneously if struck by a bullet. This should allow a sharpshooter to trigger the seismic explosives from a distance. Once Rebald’s people had cleared the nearby forest, the command felt more confident bringing a few people forward to scrutinize the lay of the land a few hundred yards downriver of the bridge. King Leto, who had insisted he be on hand to observe as the demolition expedition unfolded, awaited word of their progress not far into the dense, thorny trees. Additional soldiers from their column had repositioned closer just in case, though the rest remained where they were, standing ready to march for Point Bourne. Caine had his warjacks standing fueled and ready not far into the trees, near Leto’s position. The seismic bomb was draped with a brown oiled tarp and set on an improvised stretcher between two commandos. The squad set off, carefully negotiating the steep incline to descend closer to the river’s edge. They wore armor intended to camouflage them, and Caine was relieved to note they were indeed difficult to discern once they had gone down along the shadowed riverbank. They began to work their way toward the bridge. Rebald came back from where Leto waited, calling Brisbane and

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Caine over. He whispered, “I’ve had several reports from my people. They were able to find a carpenter who fled from Stonebridge Village at the outset of the fighting. According to this man, the entire Fourth Army reserves left their posts at Stonebridge a week ago. They pulled out as if following new orders and marched south, though no one knows why. That left a skeleton crew of First Army soldiers here for when the Khadorans arrived, three days later.” Caine said, “Presumably you know of no orders that would have taken them away?” The scout general’s lips were compressed into a thin line. “Absolutely not. I find it impossible to credit that anyone higher up the chain of command would deliver such an order. This suggests something more insidious, such as a conspiracy.” Brisbane’s eyes narrowed. He said, “Are you suggesting they were bought off by the Khadorans? There were thousands of Fourth Army soldiers stationed as reserves here.” “The Fourth Army has a bad reputation,” Caine said, “but something on this scale would require corruption beyond anything we’ve ever seen.” Rebald said, “Not necessarily. The rank and file needn’t be complicit, nor the NCO’s and junior officers. They would follow the commands of their superiors. But this does mean at least one and possibly several senior officers are guilty of treason. I will find them.” His voice suggested no uncertainty as to the fate of such people. They returned their attention to the progress of the commandos. It took Caine some squinting to spot them, even after using his magic to augment his vision and with Ace providing a second

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pair of eyes. The soldiers had reached the bridge, and several were utilizing specialized gear to clamber up the supporting rock face on the near side. Given the violence of the river passing below, Caine had no doubt the surface was wet and treacherous. Yet the first commandos made it up, attaching metal pitons and rope as they went, until one was dangling beneath the apex of the bridge. The others followed, positioning themselves as a chain, and then used a sequence of carefully threaded ropes to pull the heavy seismic bomb up and begin to maneuver it into position. Rebald sent one of his subordinates for the king. “Scout General,” one of the nearest rangers said, “something is happening on the other side. The approach to the southern keep.” He had barely spoken before there was the distant sound of rifle fire, then the booming of cannons. The commandos below the bridge froze. When there was no evidence they were the targets they quickly resumed what they were doing, eager to position their charge and stealthily return. Eyes turned to the southern castle, across the river, where they could see what proved to be a sizable army approaching. It was difficult to get a sense of the scope of the force from their vantage, as the approaching road emerged from beyond an obscuring hillside. But they saw smoke from rifles and cannons and it was clear the defenders on the walls were firing back. It looked as though each side was ranging in on the other. Rebald said, “Those are Cygnaran colors.” He was scrutinizing the approaching force through his spyglass. “Although. . .” his voice trailed off as he squinted intently. Behind them King Leto approached, wearing a plain brown

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hooded cloak to make it easier for him to pass unseen. “What’s happening?” he asked, “Who has come to retake the castle for us?” “You need to see this for yourself, Your Majesty,” Rebald said. There was something unusual in his tone, a hushed note. He offered his spyglass to the king. “Look there, near the hillside, farther back where the road tops the rise.” Leto focused as bid, following along the approaching army. To Caine’s eye there was little to see, the distant figures indistinct. His augmented vision might allow him to find nearby figures in hiding, or to pierce fog, smoke, or intervening foliage, but they did not bring distant sights closer. Leto spoke, his voice flat. “It is my brother. Vinter leads this army.” Rebald said, “It does look that way. The soldiers at the fore with him are Fourth Army. Farther back I see the banners of Blackwood, Dergeral, and several others. Traitors. They will not be retaking the castle for us.” There was a stunned silence. Each of them looked to the others, all equally grim. Vinter Raelthorne IV was back and there could be no question this time he was truly making his move, supported by men who had sworn fealty to King Leto but who now displayed their true loyalties. From the trees came another ranger, out of breath and looking as though he had run hard to meet them. He was paid little mind by most of them, who were focused on the southern bank of the river, as he reached Scout General Rebald. Caine was near enough to hear him when he spoke. “Sir, there’s a sizable Khadoran force approaching from the north, down the main road, also headed toward Stonebridge. We don’t have their numbers yet, but I’d

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estimate at least two thousand, mostly Iron Fangs, pikemen and cavalry, supported by several additional Winter Guard kompanies. Among the vanguard were several warjacks.” Caine asked Rebald, “Should we blow the bridge?” The spymaster frowned, weighing the options. But it was Leto who answered, “No. If the Khadorans come, let them be a thorn in my brother’s side.” “We cannot stay here, Your Majesty,” said Rebald. “Both the Khadorans and Vinter will be searching for you. We must get to Point Bourne at once.” “Past Point Bourne and farther south,” Leto said. His eyes looked tired, but his voice was strong, clearly decided on a course. “This changes everything. We must assemble an army sufficient to confront my brother, and we will not find it in the north. The Khadorans are no longer the greatest of our concerns.”

167 CHAPTER SEVEN

Stonebridge

Great Prince Vladimir Tzepesci rode at the fore of a weary if determined army, his forces composed mostly of Umbreans brought hundreds of miles to fight Cryx in the Thornwood. He felt at home in the saddle, the leather creaking beneath him, his war horse Vsada feeling like an extension of himself. Though he never tired of riding, his armor felt heavy on his body, no longer a second skin. He had been fighting without pause for too long. Ahead through the trees they could hear the river, its sound reaching them well before they saw the bridge fortress that was their immediate destination. The sound of its waters made him consider how long it had been since he had plunged into the icy streams of his homeland. They had all hoped to be returning to Umbrey by now, celebrating their triumph. The satisfaction Vladimir had taken from their success against Cryx had been short lived; the supreme kommandant had passed orders from the empress to march south rather than north. The truth was he had every reason to be proud of what he had accomplished. He felt certain Cryx would not have been defeated if not for his reinforcements, including the soldiers The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

of the Northern Crusade that had only joined them after he convinced Hierarch Severius to contribute the strength of his army. Empress Vanar had not been pleased with the great prince for negotiating with the Protectorate leader. He felt certain this current expedition had a punitive element, to remind him that he was not at liberty to do whatever he wished. In Umbrey he may be viewed as akin to a king, but his lands were just a small corner of the empire. Still, that was not the empress’ sole or even primary motivation. She had every reason to want to plunder Cygnar, to strike at this ancient foe and deal them a serious blow while their guard was down. He had been sent with his forces to join those already at Stonebridge and await additional soldiers to muster that he would then lead into the southern heartlands. There were many aspects of this plan that Vladimir found personally distasteful, though he intended to do his duty. He had no qualms taking the fight deeper into Cygnaran lands for the glory of the Motherland. But the way they had immediately broken their alliance with the southerners did not sit well with his sense of honor, especially on the heels of a glorious fight against the malignancy embodied by Lich Lord Asphyxious and his army of the walking dead. Yet it was Empress Vanar who ruled the Khadoran Empire, not Vladimir Tzepesci, and he was glad for that. He was content to see to his own realm, the ancient lands of his people—Umbrey, recently united after centuries of division. He was profoundly grateful to the empress for uniting his people, even if they did not agree on many other matters. She faced difficult decisions, as every ruler must, and in every case the prosperity and safety of the empire

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should be her first priority. The Cygnarans were not their friends, and they never would be. Giving the southerners time to recover their strength and solidify their borders would only have resulted in more Khadoran deaths in times to come. And so his Umbreans could not rest, would not return to their anxious families, their homes and lands. They would instead march across Stonebridge—seized with surprising ease, having been left vulnerable by the foolish Cygnarans—and from there into lands little touched by the northern wars. They would make fresh widows and orphans and plant fresh corpses in southern graves. Such was the toll of war. As they neared the northern fortress of that castle the sounds of battle reached their ears, the rumble of not-so-distant cannon and rifle fire. He led the vanguard in hastening ahead, bringing with him the three active warjacks presently linked to his mind: his favored Berserker, Drago, and a pair of old and unstable Mad Dogs named Kinzal and Myatez. He had a number of other warjacks at his disposal, but the others were currently powered down and being hauled on wagons at the end of the advancing column. When the castle came in view, it did not take long to ascertain Stonebridge was under attack from the south. The northern keep was not yet being assaulted directly, and defenders atop the battlements were firing on adversaries besieging the larger but more exposed southern castle. It did not appear the enemy had made its push across the bridge itself. Still, the southern castle looked to be in the midst of a major conflict, with smoke rising from several places and an ongoing exchange of escalating fire. The enemy, wearing the blue of Cygnar, had made quick progress in pushing the defenders

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back. It seemed likely they had breached the southern gateway. Vladimir cursed under his breath as he took this in, considering the unfortunate timing of their arrival. Had he pushed his soldiers harder or gone ahead with a smaller advance force, perhaps he could have arrived in time to bolster the Khadoran garrisons before the attackers had breached the first gate. The kommandants had not thought Cygnar capable of mustering any concentrated counterattack on this fortress yet. A kapitan escorted by several Winter Guard emerged from a small sally port beside the main gateway of the northern keep and rushed to meet the warcaster as he rode up. The kapitan lost no time in getting to his point, speaking rapidly. “Great Prince, we still control the upper levels of the southern castle, but I fear not for long! The enemy has gained the interior. If they seize the upper battlements, regaining the bridge will become doubly perilous. It looks as though they are mustering a force to cross and advance on our position. We do not have sufficient men to repulse them!” “I’ll take it from here, Kapitan,” Vladimir said. “Command your men to provide what cover fire they can muster for us. My own Winter Guard will join you.” The kapitan saluted and hastened back through the sally port, shouting orders to those inside manning the northern gate and portcullis, which were slowly cranked open even as Vladimir Tzepesci advanced alongside his warjacks. He knew he did not have time to wait for the rest of his forces to arrive. It would be vital to take the fight to the enemy before they secured the bridge itself. Through the opening he could see what looked like ranks of heavily armored Cygnaran knights stepping from the shattered

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southern gateway to advance onto the bridge’s span, shields held up to provide some limited protection from incoming rifle fire. Though they lacked the heavy tower shields used by infantry like his own Iron Fang pikemen, the curved surfaces of the steel shields had a chance to deflect incoming fire if not hit squarely. A number of the knights fell to rifle bullets from the battlements as Vlad watched. Others stepped up to replace the fallen and they began to cross the bridge in disciplined ranks. “Ignite the heartfires of my other warjacks and send them up when they are ready,” he ordered one of his kapitans, who saluted and hastened back along the column. He then signaled to the Iron Fang kovnik at the fore, who brought his soldiers at double-time on approach to the bridge. His forward cavalry, the uhlans, made way for these infantry, moving past the gateway to a covered position further along—they would not be useful on the narrow confines of the bridge. Knowing this, Vladimir dismounted. Vsada whinnied and nosed his hair. “There, there,” He murmured to the creature, patting his neck as he said, “we will fight together soon.” He handed the reins and his spear to a junior officer serving as one of his adjutants, then recovered his greatsword Dominion from where it was strapped behind the saddle. In recent battles he had preferred to fight on horseback, with flail and spear, but the sword felt welcome in his hands. Dominion was a blade of power forged with the help of Zevanna Agha, the Old Witch of Khador, using the broken metal of his ancestral swords Skirmisher and Ruin, which had been passed down through his family for generations. Its undulating scallop-bladed edges were unnaturally sharp and especially suited for cutting flesh, living or dead. Nor would its

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edge dull as it passed through mail links or the vulnerable joins in plated armor. So too was Vladimir wearing armor dissimilar from that employed by most warcasters, ancient plated mail that had been washed in the blood of countless friends and enemies. It also had been reforged recently, though it had lost none of its ancient resilience. Clad in this armor of the Umbrean kings, he had no need for a coal-fed arcane turbine or its power field. He summoned the sorcery that was his birthright, feeling its power burn through his veins with the beating of his heart, and his form was limned in ice-blue runes. The world around him sharpened. The sword felt lighter in his hands, and a joy that could only come in battle filled him. He knew the feeling of invincibility was an illusion and must not be relied upon, but he welcomed the sensation, casting aside all doubt and fatigue. The armored men upon that bridge were pampered southern dogs, his sworn enemies, and would soon taste death. He mentally commanded Drago to remain back near the gateway, wanting to keep that warjack in reserve and concerned about its ability to control itself amid what would be a crowded melee. It vented steam at him in a high-pitched screech, its frustration palpable—its cortex was fused to his mind and felt the same readiness for battle. He clamped down on its temper and forced it to stay put, directing his two Mad Dogs forward with him instead. Those old warjacks were simple in form, their primary weaponry being nothing more than thick spikes at the ends of their arms intended to pierce through metal. They were engineered to move quickly, especially if compelled by a warcaster. While not as heavily armored as more modern Khadoran heavies, their steel

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frames would still serve to soak up bullets intended for Vladimir and his men. He sent them ahead before he stepped through the gate and out onto the stone bridge, advancing without hesitation. The Iron Fang pikemen came with him, rushing to keep pace, heavy shields raised and long weapons ready. For the moment, most of the rifle fire from above was directed at the enemy, though it looked as though the Cygnarans were seizing some of the lower battlements above the gateway ahead. A cold wind picked up as they advanced across the bridge, and the roaring of the river below was in their ears. The Cygnaran knights at the fore ahead of them rushed forward and gave their own war cries, raising heavy Caspian battle blades, though the sight of the Mad Dogs coming at them caused some to falter. “Raise shields! Brace for impact!” He heard the orders of a Cygnaran officer, and the forward line did as bid, for what little it mattered. Vladimir’s two warjacks crashed into the line with a sound of crunching metal and the screams of the dying. Bodies went flying from the impact, some of them over the sides of the bridge and down into the rushing waters below. Vladimir himself arrived not long after, sending the ’jacks to push ahead as he stayed to the center of the bridge. They smashed enemies to bloody pulp with each spiked arm and moved to either side of the bridge. Through the gap between the warjacks a number of knights rushed to engage him and were met by the edge of Dominion. The front of the Cygnaran line had collapsed entirely, and the other knights were pulling back even as Vladimir and his ’jacks took the ground they abandoned, his pikemen coming up behind him.

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The Khadoran great prince and warcaster paused a moment, his mind divided between his ’jacks, which continued to advance and strike. He felt something in the back of his mind, a familiar tingle that suggested another warcaster—and probably warjacks—were near. They were above, perhaps fighting to gain the battlements and upper levels of the main fortress. He caught sight of someone between the crenellations just above the gates, with the shimmer of what might have been a power field. Several enemy ’jacks appeared there, looking down at the Khadoran forces. A tall Defender, armed with a powerful long cannon, and a smaller Charger, its right arm set with a more slender dual-cannon arrangement. Both of these machines began to fire down onto his men, sending enormous shells to punch through their armor. There was the sound of additional gunfire; the Khadoran soldiers would not allow the gatehouse to fall without a fight, though it seemed they were being driven back. The nearest Cygnaran knights had rallied, several rushing forward with their heavy blades to batter the Mad Dogs. It was for this sort of combat that the broad Caspian swords had been built, serving at present more like cleavers than some more refined weapon. Even Khadoran steel was not invulnerable to repeated hits. He saw Kinzal falter as its left leg was crumpled at the knee, its pistons snapping and breaking. Above, the Defender fired a heavy shell to impact Myatez in its left shoulder, piercing through armor and into the delicate mechanisms beneath. It retaliated with quick strikes, killing several of the knights attacking it, while Vladimir went to carve through those around Kinzal. Pikemen pushed forward, striking with their own explosive-tipped weapons to kill several more.

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The melee became chaotic, with Vladimir cutting down anyone in silver and dark blue near him. Then he felt something give in Kinzal’s cortex, as the old mechanism had taken too much, been pushed too hard. “Step back! Clear back!” Vladimir shouted to the nearest pikemen. A high whining noise had begun from the Mad Dog and a strange different light was shining through its eyes, then its chest, as the energies within built up, its cortex overloading. Vladimir mentally urged Myatez to pull back as well, going against its nature. It vented steam in protest but obeyed. Vladimir’s men, disciplined and professional, executed the ordered withdrawal with the same alacrity with which they had advanced. Not far, but a dozen paces, closer to the center of the bridge, then they planted their tower shields against the stone surface and hunched behind them. Two pikemen put their shields before Vladimir to shield the great prince as he ducked down and turned his helmeted head away. Through the eyes of his warjacks Vladimir saw that the enemy knights did not understand the peril. When the Khadorans and one of the warjacks pulled back, the Cygnarans seized the opportunity, many of them rushing to renew their attack. Even as they converged to finish the shuddering warjack that remained there was a blaze of blinding light as Kinzal exploded with a roar. All the energies in its cortex shredded its iron and steel body, sending deadly chunks of shrapnel flying in all directions. None of the nearest knights survived, and the parapet of the bridge nearest the machine was blasted outward, leaving only rubble. Smoking blood and gore splattered across all the nearest surfaces. Vladimir stood to his feet

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as the nearest pikemen cheered the carnage. Together, they resumed their advance. Several knights ahead of Vladimir had been knocked off their feet and now staggered unsteadily upright, raising their weapons again. The warcaster pointed at the nearest with his left hand, drawing on his arcane power to unleash a sharp blade of cold wind that sliced through the man like an invisible blade. The knight toppled and his sword fell, while the others near him stepped warily back, shouting for support from those inside the southern gate behind them. The clanking sound of additional metal boots rang out as more Cygnarans approached to replace their fallen. Iron Fangs moved up and locked shields together, pikes forward. Vlad let them move past him, looking upward as he felt the regard of the Cygnaran warjacks on the battlements. The Defender and Charger cannons ceased firing deeper into the Iron Fang ranks and aimed at him instead. He could sense the will behind them and knew the Cygnaran warcaster was directing their fire. He closed his eyes a moment and gathered his arcane power once again, letting the cold winds swirl around his body. They shrieked and howled as the cannons above fired, and the deadly shells slipped past by the narrowest of margins to smash into the stone surface of the bridge behind him. So too did the rifle fire sent his way fail to find its mark. The wall of winds was powerful magic, but it was highly localized and would not protect anyone except those closest to him. Vladimir looked up and used his blade of wind to strike down several rifleman in sequence that he saw peeking through the gaps in the battlement. He hoped to draw

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additional fire to himself as his pikemen surged ahead. A sudden change in the tenor of the melee drew his attention. The knights and pikemen had been engaged, but the Cygnaran heavy infantry disengaged and those at the center parted to the side, making way for a tall and imposing man in black armor gilded with gold. Something in his bearing seemed familiar. He was a black-haired, middle-aged man who would have looked at home in Umbrey, though his skin was perhaps too pale. He wore no helmet, but a metal-studded patch covered his left eye. In his hands he carried a powerful and distinct greatsword: its blade was wide and thick, with a design that resembled an open eye shaped into the center of its crossguard, between the two quillons. Vlad froze for a moment on seeing him. The great prince had never met this man, he had no doubt of his identity or that of the sword he bore. It must be Vinter Raelthorne IV, former king of Cygnar—and in his hands he wielded Kingslayer. That sword had earned its name in the hands of Vinter II, this man’s grandfather, who had used it to kill King Ruslan Vygor during the First Thornwood War nearly a hundred years ago. Vinter IV was no less legendary, despite being dethroned by his younger brother. He had vanished into the east well over a decade ago and had there conquered an entire empire solely by his skill with the sword, or so they said. A tale that seemed preposterous, yet Vladimir knew the mettle of warriors, and his instincts told him this former king was a force to be reckoned with. Time froze for a moment, but only for the space of a single breath, before Vinter was in motion. He gripped Kingslayer in both hands and stepped to the forward pikemen, evading several

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thrusts in what seemed an effortless movement. Then he swept his sword forward and back in a clanging strike, cutting through pike shafts and battering aside Iron Fang shields. Like Dominion, the sword he bore would not be easily stopped by lesser steel. Iron Fangs fell one after the other, spurting blood from gaping wounds. After a moment Vinter stood alone. There was a sharp ping and sparks flew as a bullet from one of the tower snipers bounced off his breastplate, leaving not the smallest dent. Vinter did not react to this shot but simply advanced to slay the next Iron Fangs, whose enthusiasm for battle was already on the wane. The carnage Vinter inflicted with so little effort reminded Vladimir of no one so much as the Butcher of Khardov. The blood surged in his veins and he found himself feeling an unfamiliar exhilaration. Here was a formidable foe, and he felt unprepared, caught unready. He sent his will into Myatez and directed the warjack at Vinter, sending it speeding across the bridge. The machine surged past Iron Fangs that were trying to regroup and reform their shattered lines. Vinter was in mid-blow, bringing his blade down to shatter the helmet of an Iron Fang, as the Mad Dog came at him from the side. Vlad guided its right hammer spike toward one of the seams between his armored mail. Vinter must have seen the movement from the corner of his eye. He completed his swing but then leapt back and spun toward the warjack, letting its massive spike slide harmlessly along the armor below his breastplate. The former Cygnaran king used his spin to leverage his blade up into a diagonal slash, bringing Kingslayer’s edge against Myatez’s elbow joint with a screech of torn metal. The bulky right arm crashed to the surface of the bridge.

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The move brought him behind the warjack, and in a second powerful backswing he hacked open the engine’s pressure chamber to release a burst of scalding steam. Vlad was mentally inhabiting the ’jack and sought to retaliate, urging the machine to turn and punish the Cygnaran royal with its other hammer spike. Vinter evaded that as well, his metal boot sliding on blood- slicked stone as he scrambled to the side, almost losing his balance. Vlad and several Iron Fangs advanced, hoping to pin him against the warjack. Vlad heard the booming cannons above and two of the Iron Fangs at the fore fell back, breastplates and chests shattered by warjack shells. Vinter did not wait for Myatez to lose power from its compromised engine. His sword blurred as he struck again, wrecking the join connecting its left leg and sending the ’jack tumbling awkwardly forward onto its side. Though not quite wrecked, it was so severely damaged as to be all but useless. Vladimir rushed Vinter, gritting his teeth as he brought his sword down, hoping to catch the Cygnaran’s neck with Dominion’s scalloped blade. It was not the most honorable move, but he knew better than to worry about such niceties when lives were at stake. He was facing an adversary who had singlehandedly crippled a Khadoran heavy warjack, though an old and simple one. Not many warcasters could manage such a feat. Vinter Raelthorne was not a warcaster, but it was clear that neither was he in any way ordinary. The Cygnaran was too aware of his surroundings, too agile by far. He did not move like a man encumbered by heavy plated armor nor one wielding a massive length of steel heavy enough to cut through warjacks. He twisted sideways and Kingslayer flicked

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upward to protect his neck, its flat slapping Dominion’s edge askew and sending Vladimir’s downward cut into the stone at their feet. Vinter kicked out with his left foot, catching Vladimir’s hip and sending him back, reeling to recover his balance. He barely managed to keep his grip on Dominion. Three Iron Fangs rushed into the gap and as quickly met their deaths when Vinter Raelthorne cut through them with an almost maddened grin on his face. His eyes seemed filled with fire as he stepped over them to strike at Vladimir, who parried and riposted, then had to scramble and fall back to avoid an incoming strike. Vladimir’s palms stung from the force of the blow he had parried. He reversed his grip with his left hand to feign a stab but advanced to Vinter’s right instead, ducking under a blow and swinging back, hoping to catch the other swordsman before his own motion finished. He nearly succeeded, but Vinter managed to interpose his armored forearm to deflect Dominion this time. Lesser metal might have parted, but Vinter’s blackened armor held, clearly as singular a piece of war artistry as the sword he wielded. They spun and faced one another again, taking a short pause, each man adjusting the grip on his weapon and appraising the stance of the other. Vladimir took a deep breath, his eyes narrowed, and noticed his adversary was not breathing hard at all, which seemed impossible. He looked calm and steady, almost cheerful. Indeed, he was smiling broadly, as though he were truly enjoying himself for the first time in a long while. “Prince Vladimir Tzepesci, I presume,” he said in Cygnaran. “It is an honor to cross blades with a man of real skill.” “Vinter Raelthorne,” Vladimir said in the same language,

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though he did not consider himself especially facile in Cygnaran. “I would not have thought to find you here.” “King Vinter Raelthorne,” the other said, his eyes narrowing. “You could return the courtesy I offered you.” “Another sits the throne. Your brother, Leto.” “Not for long,” Vinter returned. “Regardless, you are not my intended foe. There has been enough carnage here. Leave here, and I will let you go in peace. This is not your battle.” “So long as you are killing my countrymen, this is my fight,” Vlad said, indicating the battlements behind Vinter, where they could hear the sounds of gunfire. “We have need of this castle.” Vinter said, “As do I. So be it.” His grin turned feral as he beckoned Vlad with his gauntlet, his right holding Kingslayer raised and at the ready. • • • Captain Allister Caine inched closer by slow degrees, quite well aware that there could be many hostile eyes on his vicinity, though he hoped most were preoccupied with the battle transpiring on the bridge. During the withdrawal Rebald had given him permission to linger long enough to see how the initial clash between the Khadorans and the traitor army went and to decide whether he should trigger the explosive under the bridge. It was clear the spymaster felt the move was necessary, despite the king’s orders. Caine would not have stayed if an extended siege seemed the likely outcome, but when he saw the Khadoran warcaster arrive and rush to engage the enemy across the bridge, he knew this would not be an extended battle. The duel between Great Prince Tzepesci and Vinter Raelthorne

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was an unexpected development. Observing the pair of them humbled Caine. He recognized his own skill with pistols was exceptional—a true gift, as singular as his warcaster talent and augmented by his arcane skill as a gun mage. He had become quite cocky over the years about what could be accomplished by a bullet fired from his Spellstorms. He saw a similar quality in the fight between these two men. He was no particular aficionado of dueling, but he could not help but admire what he was witnessing. This was swordplay on a level few had ever seen. He’d heard it said that Vinter was the greatest swordsman on Immoren, but he’d thought it an exaggeration. Now he was beginning to believe. It was equally clear that Vladimir Tzepesci was in the same class, though it was impossible to know how much of his skill was inherent talent and how much was reliant on his arcane power. The Tzepescis were alleged to have as much sorcery as blood flowing through their veins. Caine’s augmented vision told him the great prince was calling on that power continuously—a haze of icy blue energy limned the man’s form, like cold fire dancing across his red armor. The two paused in their duel to speak a few words. Insults? Threats? Caine was too far away and the river too loud for him to hear. He was crouched amid the underbrush covering the steep incline down to the riverbank—the best vantage to see the seismic bomb installed under the bridge, but lower than was ideal to watch the clash atop it. This was as close as he could get to the explosive device without giving up concealment. Caine shook his head, feeling that the gods must be smiling on him this day. The placement of the two swordsmen could not have

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been more ideal. They were directly above where the bomb was placed, both slightly nearer the northern tower than the southern. The Cygnarans had hoped only to destroy the bridge, but here was a chance for much more. He might not get a better opportunity. He’d already seen several bullets bounce off Vinter’s armor and had started to believe the man might be invulnerable to such nuisances. Caine was unwilling to commit suicide to find out, even if he could manage a clean shot, which looked unlikely. The range was a problem. Surely, however, even Vinter Raelthorne could not endure an explosion and a fall from such a height into the rushing Dragon’s Tongue. Even if he somehow survived the blast and the fall, his armor would pull him under to drown. This had not been his orders, but he felt certain Rebald would agree such a chance could not be ignored. He expelled a breath and raised his pistol. As he inhaled he brought with him his power, focusing his will into the runes necessary to extend his range. He hadn’t kept this spell practiced and racked for some months, preferring to employ his pistols at closer range, which was sufficient for most battles. The aborted attempt on Julius had made him reappraise the tools he should keep ready. The runes that surrounded his pistol glowed brightly for a moment, making him considerably more visible, but they would quickly fade. He needed to fire only once. His hands were steady, his aim true, and he squeezed, aiming for a bright spot of shiny metal under the bridge. Despite the distance, his bullet flew unerringly, impacting the mechanism to unleash with a blinding flash a loud explosion and a brutally powerful seismic quake.

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• • • Vinter Raelthorne felt it beneath the soles of his feet when the explosion went off. The ground seemed to pull away and then smash back into him. He was sent tumbling, and the world felt uncertain and unreliable for several long seconds, making it impossible to tell up from down. He slid toward a jagged edge but managed to jam his right gauntlet into the space of a mortared crack between two stones and then pulled himself back toward where he had been. Kingslayer was still in his left hand, and he clambered to his feet, feeling the world unsteady under him. Vladimir Tzepesci had also fallen but was similarly regaining his feet, as were several of the Iron Fangs behind him. Glancing back, Vinter noted a rift of variable depth across the center of the stone bridge, about three yards across on average. Pieces of stone were still breaking off and falling, though the quaking had ceased. The section Vinter had been standing on was now gone, and he had nearly followed those stones down to the river below. The gap in the bridge stood between Vinter and his allies, leaving him stranded with the Khadorans. Across the gap the nearest knights were also recovering their feet, and now shouting in alarm. Vinter paid them no mind, turning back to his adversary, taking Kingslayer in both hands even as the great prince gave a shout and charged. Vinter was aware of the gap behind him as he caught the incoming blow with his blade and the two of them tested each others’ strength. He pushed the prince slowly back, before Tzepesci growled and unleashed several powerful blows in sequence, attempting to overwhelm his adversary by sheer speed and ferocity.

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Vinter remained defensive for a time, blocking and parrying as he gauged the Khadoran’s speed and preferred angles of attack. He recognized the Umbrean style of fighting by greatsword, a technique that rewarded aggression over defense. It would be easy to judge this form as lacking finesse, but Vinter knew better. The great prince was no brute, and his eyes were sharp and fixed on his own, certainly gauging his own reactions in turn. Vinter deliberately slowed his moves with each blow and then took a step back, nearer the edge, gritting his teeth. Vinter sensed a kindred spirit in the man he faced. They were both of royal blood, as Tzepescis had once sat upon the Khadoran throne. They were worthy, better than the common man. Yet Vinter was no longer a young man, a fact he faced every morning when he arose, looking at his aging face in the mirror, feeling the aches and pains of a body that would not last forever. He had conditioned himself daily his entire life, maintaining a disciplined drill of exercise starting in his youth, under the stern eye of his father, Vinter the Stoneheart. His physical regimen had improved during his time with the skorne, those warlike easterners who understood better than most the science of anatomy and the limits of living flesh. Yet age took its toll, unavoidably. The curse of mortality. This might have mattered more except he wore the ancient Mail of the Grim King, the armor that had been his greatest treasure since he had reached adulthood. Many knew the legend of his sword, Kingslayer, but fewer understood the armor that he wore, seeing it merely as a preference, an idiosyncratic tie to his ancestors. Before Vinter had taken the throne, this armor had been wasted as a piece of art, kept polished but unworn on a rack inside Castle

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Raelthorne, a reminder of the legacy of kings who had once ruled Calacia, before Caspia. It was a relic from a darker and simpler time, when civilization was young, when priests and mystics understood the primal power of blood. Vinter had recognized in this armor something more. It had called to him. He disdained wizards, even those he sometimes employed to safeguard his goals. Their power was fickle, unreliable, and it tainted their minds. It gave them ideas, a feeling of being equal to or superior to their true betters. Such people never knew their place. Warcasters were similar, if necessary on the modern battlefield. But true power was in the blood. And the greatest power lay in the blood of kings. Sometimes the blood of common men must be spilled to preserve a lord. This was the principle behind the Mail of the Grim King. When Vinter wore this armor in battle and shed sufficient blood, all his aches and pains, all the reminders of his mortality, quickly faded and were forgotten. Even severe injury could be ignored and recovered from swiftly. It did not make him invulnerable—several of its past wearers had died in battle—but it gave him fortitude beyond even the hardy trollkin. When he had marched through eastern Immoren, conquering one skorne village after another, toppling tyrants and dominars, he had never ceased, never allowed himself rest. Those around him had marveled, as they should have, but it was their own life’s blood, so eagerly offered in duel after duel, that had sustained him. It might seem a small thing to remain tireless in combat, but Vinter knew in war it was everything. Every match between equals in blades, between armies of similar numbers, discipline, and

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armament—they would all be resolved by whichever side outlasted the other. Nothing eroded the will more than fatigue and pain. It was one of many reasons the Nightmare Empire of Cryx was so dangerous; many of their soldiers were not alive and so did not suffer from exhaustion, or hunger, or doubt. The skorne had learned ways around this also, drawing on the occult art they called mortitheurgy to achieve what Vinter’s armor allowed him: the ability to ignore mortal limits, to be free of aches and pains. So as he was pressed back toward the shattered gap in the bridge, Vinter feigned that he was being worn down, that the fight had taken its toll. Cues Vladimir Tzepesci was trained to expect and eager to exploit. Vladimir came at him again with a wide, powerful strike, one giving him no choice but to block it with his own sword. Vinter let the blow knock his blade wide and lost his grip with his left hand, leaving himself open. The great prince saw his opening and took it, reversing his grip to execute a much faster slash in the other direction, counting on the fact that Vinter would not be able to recover from his broken parry in time. But Vinter knew precisely what was coming and simply stepped smoothly back, just to the edge of the bridge and barely out of reach of the enemy’s sword, which cut the air near his neck. Moving with a swiftness Vladimir thought him incapable of, Vinter lunged forward, holding Kingslayer in a single hand to provide full reach and plunging its point into a join at the great prince’s waist. The metal parted beneath the power of the blow and the sword’s point pierced flesh to draw a gout of blood as Vinter pulled it free. Then it was Vinter on the offensive, driving Vladimir back in

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a sequence of rapid blows. The Iron Fangs were behind the great prince, weapons in hand, yet they were uncertain how to help rather than to hinder their lord amid the frantic melee. Vinter realized he was grinning, savoring the contest, amazed that Vladimir was able to hold onto his blade. He had thought to disarm the man swiftly in this last sequence, even as his royal Khadoran blood poured down onto his left leg, yet if anything the man seemed stronger now, fiercer. His eyes blazed with rage and an unvanquished spirit. The injury had not weakened him—far from it. Vinter had the initiative, and his moves were flawless, powerful, and swift. He gave his adversary no chance to retaliate. There was a sound like an engine’s growl followed by venting steam and an enraged warjack rushed through the gateway carrying an oversized axe in each hand. A fearsome machine, an old and battle-scarred Berserker. It knocked aside several Iron Fangs in its way as it charged Vinter, its single intact glowing red eye glaring at him. Broken lengths of chain were wrapped around its arms and affixed to rings set into its chassis, and they jangled as it moved. Around its neck hung another chain bearing bleached skulls. Vladimir smiled at him and said, “Meet Drago, my old friend.” Vinter did not have time to regard it long, as the bloodthirsty machine raced toward him swinging an executioner axe downward at his head. Vinter was forced to check his attack on Vladimir and tumble to the side, his armor clanking as he rolled along the stone. It was a roughly executed maneuver, and the edges of his armor pressed through the padding beneath to pinch his sides. The warjack’s second axe clipped the side of his breastplate as he tried to regain

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his feet, the strike failing to penetrate the armor but sending him flying against the parapet on the side of the bridge. He felt ribs break, but his armor saved him from the pain. That would come later, if his armor did not mend the injuries before he removed it. He stood again even as Vladimir was upon him and got Kingslayer up just in time to block a downward chop. Vinter spun and disengaged, punching Vlad in the face with his left gauntleted fist before stepping back. There was the sound of cannons firing from the warjacks under Colonel Hawkens’ command, and shells impacted Drago. Unslowed, the machine came for Vinter again, eager to sink its axes into his flesh. Vinter moved to the very edge of the precipice and turned to face the warjack, holding his arms open. He shouted, “Come for me, Drago! Stop me from slaying your master!” The taunt had an impact. The Berserker—its posture resembling that of an enraged boar—gave another howl of venting steam and rushed him at full speed. Its axes were spread like Vinter’s own arms, then came together in a scissor motion. The warjack had greater mobility of its arms than any Khadoran ’jack Vinter had seen before, its movements uncannily like a living thing. Vinter had nowhere to go, no room or time to dodge to the side. Even as the warjack closed he slung Kingslayer behind him and stepped back into the open air where the center of the bridge had been. He fell but was prepared and grabbed the lip of the stone in his gauntleted fingers, stopping his descent. Drago went past overhead, only to discover no stone beneath its feet. It crashed into the edge of the bridge on the southern side, hitting at mid-torso. It sought to find purchase on the bridge with the axes, the lower edges serving

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as hooks, but its weight was too great. With a frustrated roar it fell to crash down into the waters of the river below. Vinter grunted and pulled himself up, leveraging all his strength to vault back up onto the bridge, pulling himself forward on his chest. He had to immediately roll to the side as the great prince’s sword came down, and the blade sparked as it clanged off the stone. Vladimir Tzepesci’s eyes were intense, and the sense of his body being limned in icy blue flames was enhanced. The Khadoran did not give Vinter time to draw his sword. Even as he reached for the hilt, Dominion crashed into his side, biting through the armor for the first time and deep into his flesh. It carved a wedge three inches deep, striking through the lower portion of his ribcage and entering his lung. The sword stopped and was held fast by the rough edges of his armor. Triumph gleamed in Vladimir’s eyes as he snarled words in Khadoran Vinter did not understand. If not an instantly mortal blow, it was one that should have incapacitated any man. Vinter could feel his lung on that side had been collapsed and it was difficult to draw breath. Yet still he felt no pain. There was a sound like the ocean’s roar in his ears. Was it the river below? He felt his heart beating rapidly, a rhythm against the stillness coming upon the world, but his senses did not leave him. He smiled and coughed, blood-spittle wetting his lips. He seized the edge of Dominion in his gauntleted fist and tore the blade free from his side. A great gout of his blood burst forth as Tzepesci watched, his eyes wide in disbelief. In his shock the great prince’s fingers loosened and Vinter wrenched the sword’s hilt free and threw the weapon to clatter across the stone. A moan of disbelief and terror rose up from the watching Iron Fangs, who

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stepped back. Vladimir also began to withdraw but Vinter was too fast, drawing Kingslayer in his right hand as he reached out and seized the great prince’s arm with his left. He yanked the warcaster closer and set Kingslayer’s edge against his neck. “You are a worthy adversary,” Vinter rasped. “Surrender. Tell your men to back away.” He inclined his head to indicate the Iron Fangs that had rushed forward, pikes extended, ready to hurl themselves on the man who held a sword to the neck of their lord. Vinter could feel his bleeding slowing, the wound in his side slowly closing of its own accord as his entire torso was filled with an intense and uncomfortable heat. It felt as though his armor had been placed in a blacksmith’s forge, the bellows intensifying the coals. From past experience, he knew the armor would eventually mend itself as well, if soaked in blood. The great prince held up a hand behind him to forestall his men. He was breathing hard from the earlier exertion as he asked, “What are your terms?” His eyes were hard and cold. “I am willing to be generous,” Vinter said with a small smile. “Out of respect for you, Great Prince Tzepesci, and because I have no wish to battle your people, not today or tomorrow. Withdraw from here and give up your plans of seizing this fortress. Also, you must agree not to allow any Khadoran soldiers to advance south of the Dragon’s Tongue River, not until I am crowned again and we can meet to discuss lasting terms. You are free to fight the armies of my brother, the usurper, in this forest. I will not interfere. In return, I will allow all the soldiers that remain in this fortress to go with you free and unharmed.” Vladimir pondered this for several long seconds and then said,

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“I have no authority to command the armies of the empress. It is her decision where they march. I can speak only for myself and those loyal to me.” Vinter inclined his head, his breathing beginning to ease, though the burning sensation had increased. It felt as though a white-hot poker were resting against his ribs, a pain his armor did not prevent. He put it from his mind. “Understood,” he said. “Go to your empress and tell her what I have said. Convince her to remain north of the river until I have regained the throne and can negotiate terms more to her liking. It will be to her benefit not to interfere in matters between my brother and me.” Vinter could almost see Vladimir’s thoughts. The notion of an internal civil war between the Cygnarans would appeal to the empress. She might be willing to forestall her invasion plans while the southerners wasted resources killing one another. “Very well,” Tzepesci said at last. “I agree to your terms. Now, command your officers to stop fighting and release my countrymen.” • • • Even from a distance the roar of the seismic bomb going off was loud, though not quite deafening to Caine. This was fortunate, as he was able to hear the sudden zipping and pinging noises of bullets hitting close to him. He had been spotted by snipers in one or the other of the towers. Caine focused his will to overboost his power field as another shot from much closer deflected off its surface. The shimmer of light from the field which protected him would also mark his position. Gathering his power again, he flashed away to appear next to Ace, which had been a few dozen yards farther back and was already scanning the trees, its rune cannon tracking. Its optics had

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spotted the nearest Widowmaker, sighting down the scope of her rifle toward his former hiding place. Caine mentally clamped down on the warjack, preventing it from taking the shot. There would be an entire Widowmaker team, and he did not want to provoke a hunt through the forest while the Khadorans could call upon an unknown number of reinforcements. Instead he urged Ace to fully activate its infiltration system. The air around both of them shifted as an umbrella of force bent and refracted the light, making them seem to be nothing more than a blur. He compelled the ’jack to run and they both made haste to take advantage of their granted stealth to reposition. Before long there was a crackling sound from Ace and he sensed alarm from the warjack’s cortex. Shut it down, he sent, and the fried infiltration system deactivated, its delicate conduits and mechanisms once again overloaded. He had hoped it might hold this time, but at least there were no more shots being fired in their direction. With the system damaged, the warjack would be considerably easier to spot than Caine was himself. He directed it to move away as quietly as it could and return back to the main military column. There was mental resistance to this command, and the ’jack did not turn to obey until Caine bore down on it by force of will. Go, he urged, and it reluctantly moved away. Caine directed it to return to the column only if it was certain it was not followed and to otherwise take any pursuers on a merry chase. This was the sort of complex directive he could not have trusted to a less intelligent warjack, but he knew Ace’s cortex had the spark to understand. After being sure the machine was away, Caine carefully approached the bridge again, wanting to check on the results of

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what he had done. He reached the river from a different direction and was disappointed to see that the destruction to the bridge was not nearly as extensive as he had hoped. If Major Brisbane had been present, perhaps he might have employed his arcane expertise to magnify the explosion or weaken the bridge to ensure its full collapse. Without that assistance, it seemed he had only managed to open a narrow gap at the apex. He was even more dismayed to see Vinter had survived and was still fighting the great prince. He watched the final moments of that duel with growing amazement, especially when Vinter casually shrugged off what should have been a mortal wound before taking the great prince captive. He was not near enough to hear the words they exchanged, but that an arrangement was negotiated was made clear when the gunfire from both towers ceased and the fighting on the southern tower halted. Not long thereafter, soldiers of the traitor army set about laying several stout lengths of thick wood across the gap to create an improvised repair, steadying the boards with weights of stone. A stream of Khadoran soldiers crossed, sent to rejoin the great prince while Vinter’s army watched on, rifles and swords at the ready. The Khadorans appeared to have agreed to leave, likely as a condition of Vladimir Tzepesci’s release. Among the traitors Caine spotted Colonel Lynn Hawkins, a disgraced veteran warcaster of the Fourth Army who had not seen active duty in years. Seeing her with Vinter was not surprising, though Caine felt disappointed. He had exchanged drinks with Hawkins in the past and had found her amusing and personable, someone who knew how to tell a story and didn’t take her rank too seriously. He knew less about her capabilities as a warcaster, though

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she had once enjoyed a formidable reputation. He did not look forward to facing her across the battlefield. He took note of what he could of Vinter’s army—its composition and strength, the banners of the nobles who had joined him, and so on—and then decided he must leave. Tempting as it was to find some other way to interfere with the traitors, he had to report back to Rebald. He took one more look at Vinter Raelthorne before he went, noticing the man was not being tended by any surgeon or medic and seemed unaffected by the wound that should have killed him. This defied all reason and filled Caine with unfamiliar dread. • • • The Khadorans dealt with, Vinter Raelthorne gathered his nobles and officers in the main hall of Stonebridge and let them savor their triumph. Spirits were high. Their casualties during the engagement were considered quite acceptable, though the slain included knights important to his various vassals. He left it to others to speak of their merits and to offer condolences to those who would mourn them. It was not his concern. He stood at the top of a series of stairs that circled the southern tower, giving him a high vantage down to the room below, where the leaders of his army lifted goblets and voices in his honor. He raised a hand to quiet them. His voice carried easily to them as he said, “All who have joined me in this great endeavor, know that this is just the first victory of many. Before the morning, I want each of you to send messengers and runners to others in the north, your peers and rivals, letting them know what you have seen here today. There are some who doubt our purpose, our conviction, who find it easier not to pick a side. Those who do not join us will be crushed,

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while any who lend their strength and wealth to our success will be remembered and rewarded.” He paused to allow the weight of that to be felt and then continued. “We saw how this castle, one of Cygnar’s greatest, fell so easily to Khadoran hands under the feeble stewardship of my brother. So many lands have been seized by Khador or ravaged by other enemies because Leto the Usurper is weak. Here, today, we have done what he could not. In time, we will reclaim other lands our enemies have stolen. We will not stop there but shall march to their capitals and force them to surrender and pour their riches into our coffers to appease us. But first, we must unite this kingdom under its rightful king. Savor your victory, spread word of our deeds, but stand ready to fight again on the morrow.” With that he inclined his head and let them resume their toasts. He turned and climbed into one of the towers, there to meet with those to whom he entrusted some details of his plans. This included Archduke Laddermore, Saxon Orrik, General Deckley, and Colonel Hawkins. They awaited in a room that was still in disarray from earlier fighting. Vinter said, “There are a few preparations to discuss. Orrik, what word from your agents?” The old grizzled desert scout inclined his head and said, “I am told Leto decided to leave the Thornwood. He makes for Stonebridge even now, with fewer than a thousand men. We should expect him any time. We have already taken down the Khadoran flags and restored the Cygnus. That might lure him in.” “Good. There were some slain Khadorans we did not return for burial. See those bodies in their uniforms scattered near the

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northern tower, to explain the damage to the structure. With any luck, Leto’s officers will hasten to investigate.” He looked to the general and asked, “What of the explosion on the bridge?” Deckley swallowed uncertainly and seemed genuinely at a loss. Vinter’s eyes were locked upon him, studying his face, looking for any signs of withholding or deception. The general said, “I can’t explain it. Such a device was not set in place by any of my people, either before or after the Khadorans arrived.” He scratched an ear. “Only thing I can figure, maybe the remaining defenders had made ready to blow the bridge when the Khadorans first attacked but never got the chance to trigger it.” “Plausible,” Vinter said, though he kept the general’s eye for several long moments. Hawkins said, “It was definitely a Cygnaran device, not a Khadoran one. From the explosion, I’d guess Avenger shells were utilized.” She smiled. “They pack a good kick and were made to knock things down.” Orrik said, “I had come to the same conclusion. I asked our soldiers that had been stationed here, and there were no Avengers or their ammunition at this fortress after the 3rd Division marched for the Thornwood. Avengers are relatively new and have not been produced in quantity.” “It is possible we have a saboteur in our ranks,” Vinter said. “I advise you all to watch your subordinates closely. Let the senior officers know they will be held responsible for any failings or disobedience by men under their command. Trust no one.” Laddermore cleared his throat and said, “If I may make a suggestion, Your Majesty?”

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He inclined his head, “Of course.” “I’m sure Orrik’s information was accurate, but it’s possible Leto’s spies may detect something amiss here or change their course to intentionally throw off anyone watching. I’d advise sending soldiers to establish a roadblock south of Point Bourne just in case. We should also keep an eye on Corvis, though I doubt they will go there.” Vinter considered this, once again weighing the possibility that Laddermore might be working at cross-purposes to his own goals. He could see no fault in the man’s logic, though the notion of dividing his army at this juncture displeased him, given their strength was less than he would have preferred. That said, if Leto were traveling with so small a force, it must indicate he was desperate. He would be no match for Vinter’s people. Especially if they could convince him to enter the fortress, putting himself at their mercy. After due deliberation Vinter turned to the warcaster and said, “Colonel Hawkins, take two regiments to establish such a roadblock. Additionally, secure the railway stations nearest Point Bourne and ensure no one slips through. It’s possible Leto will use his soldiers as a diversion and attempt a more cowardly escape back to Caspia. If you should encounter him with a small enough force to overwhelm, take him alive if at all possible. Otherwise, send word to me immediately.” She bowed and said, “It will be done, Your Majesty.” Vinter stared at the smoke-stained and bullet-scarred wall behind them while his mind churned. He did not expect Leto to be so easily cornered, though he did not betray his doubts to his

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people. He felt a growing suspicion that the explosion on the bridge signified his brother already knew he was here. He had no evidence upon which to base this conclusion, and so he did not feel he could entirely trust his instincts. A king must not jump at shadows nor change his plans every time the wind shifted. Orrik’s intelligence suggested Leto on his way to this place, so he would remain here, for now. Still, it was wise to prepare contingencies. He turned to Saxon Orrik and said, “The time has come to put our southern allies in motion. Go to the Priestess of Flame and bid her to bring an army into the interior, as we discussed. As soon as it can be arranged I want the Market Line railway cut off north of Caspia and Steelwater.” Even if they captured Leto, there would be weeks or months of turmoil and it would be best to keep Cygnar’s various armies divided, scattered, and hungry. “As you wish,” Orrik said simply. “I will leave at once.” Laddermore said to Orrik, “My people are in place to facilitate a Protectorate army border crossing near King’s Vine. They will work with you. I have no influence over the army garrisons stationed at Eastwall, but hopefully Feora’s people can distract them.” Vinter nodded to them. “You all serve me well. I will not forget.” They looked back at him gratefully and with no small degree of fear, a fact he savored. As his father had taught him, it was better for a sovereign to be feared than loved.

200 CHAPTER EIGHT

Approaching Point Bourne

Allister Caine managed to catch up with the column escorting King Leto without additional incident, glad to find that they had not been slaughtered during his absence. They were marching along a trail that took them most of the way through the shelter of the trees rather than the more direct route along the north shore of Lake Thornmere, though they would soon veer that way. Ace was the first to greet him. The warjack emerged from the trees to stand in his path a moment, glaring, before moving to walk alongside him. Warjacks had a limited number of means to express what passed for emotions in their strange artificial minds, but Caine gathered the machine was agitated at his having sent it ahead rather than keeping it with him. Like a trained hound, most warjacks developed strong bonds of loyalty. He was a bit more surprised when Reed Samuels came stumbling after the warjack, an oversized wrench in hand, looking agitated and a bit disheveled from his rougher passage through the trees. Caine noticed one of the upper panels atop Ace’s chassis was hanging open, not properly latched. When Reed saw Ace with Caine he The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

looked relieved. “Oh, hello, Captain. That explains it. I was trying to fix that pesky infiltration system, since it looked fried. I take it you had to use it?” “Yes, and it worked for a little while. I think it lasted a bit longer than before. Whatever you did last time seemed to help.” He wasn’t entirely sure if this was true, but a little encouragement didn’t seem a bad thing. Reed drew himself up and seemed pleased. Caine told the warjack to stay with the mechanik this time and not run off in the middle of repairs. He could sense the cortexes of the rest of his battlegroup as he caught up with the rear of the military column. He discovered Leto’s escort had grown substantially. He greeted several officers he recognized as they moved up the column, accepting the quiet murmurs of welcome from a variety of soldiers. Some of these he knew, while others simply knew of him. Though he was not as famous as Siege, most of Cygnar’s warcasters were known to the rank and file, and Caine had fought alongside some of these troops directly. The faces he encountered as well as the soldiers’ patches and insignia told him the force had been joined by elements of the 6th Division, the so-called Storm Division led by Coleman Stryker. It looked as though their escort had doubled in size or more, though the Storm Knights and other soldiers that had joined them were just a fraction of the strength of the 6th Division. Still, those men and women were among the most seasoned and accomplished soldiers currently serving, veterans of the Llaelese War, the Caspia- Sul War, and recent battles in the Thornwood. For that reason he was not surprised to find Stryker himself up

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ahead, his shock of red hair making him immediately noticeable atop his war horse. The pauldron of his voltaic warcaster armor bore the freshly installed insignia of Lord General. He was riding adjacent to several ranking Storm Lances, a few rows behind King Leto’s own steed. In front of the king were the other warjacks Caine controlled, obeying their instructions to protect the sovereign. Caine also spotted the taller and more heavily armored form of Stryker’s favored Ironclad, a temperamental old machine nicknamed Ol’ Rowdy. Stryker sensed his approach and turned to look at him, inclining his head in greeting. Caine grinned in return and touched a finger to his forehead in a mock salute. He’d never felt comfortable around Stryker, despite having fought side-by-side in numerous engagements. They worked well together on the field of battle but less so off it, for similar reasons as Caine had been on Siege’s bad side. Stryker was another by-the-books senior officer. The fact that the younger warcaster’s meteoric rise in rank had reached its ultimate limit did not help. Caine found it frankly ridiculous that Stryker had been promoted so far above veterans like Major Brisbane. Not that Stryker hadn’t earned his accomplishments, as he’d fought for his country since he was a youth. Nor did Caine feel jealous of the man, since he had no desire for greater rank and responsibility. But overall he felt that most people took Stryker a little too seriously and that he had gotten a big head about it. Caine felt it was at least partially his own responsibility to deflate that ego when he could, especially since no one else, except maybe General Nemo, would. “Well, if it isn’t His Most Esteemed and Revered Coleman

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Stryker,” he said as he came alongside. “Lord General, is it now? My, my, have there been that many casualties?” He saw a brief scowl on Stryker’s face, but it passed quickly. In fact, Stryker’s expression was unexpectedly welcoming. He dismounted and clasped Caine’s hand, his rueful smile becoming genuine. “Strange as it might seem, it’s good to see you, Caine.” Caine was immediately wary. “Is that so?” Nothing good had ever followed those words. Stryker chuckled and said, “I was starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost. You missed quite a battle deeper in the Thornwood. Two, actually. We could have used you there.” His tone and expression changed with that last, perhaps unintentionally, becoming more serious. No doubt he was considering the horrors they had seen, the men he had lost. No fight against Cryx was ever clean. They walked on foot alongside the column, Stryker’s horse needing no guidance to keep moving along with the others. Caine endeavored to maintain his jovial expression and said, “Can’t say I feel too bad about missing all that.” This was a lie, but one he preferred to the truth. “Never much cared for fighting the undead. Prefer corpses to stay in the ground.” Stryker said, “As do I, believe me. Hopefully we won’t be dealing with them again for some time. A hard fought victory, but one I think will be lasting. Unfortunately, we have no shortage of other problems.” “That is certainly true,” Caine agreed, losing his own smile. Looking at the red-headed warcaster, Caine saw his face was not the same as he remembered it. There had always been a brash arrogance there, even as recently as the fighting in Caspia. It looked like it

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had been replaced with doubt. Caine was sure Stryker’s arrogance would reassert itself soon enough. He added, “I’m surprised to see you here, what with the Khadorans attacking.” “As was I,” said King Leto as he guided his horse out of the central column to fall back toward them after hearing the two warcasters talking. “Trust me, Captain, Lord General Stryker did not come here on my orders. I’d have preferred him dealing with our former allies.” Caine took amusement in seeing Lord General Stryker made uncomfortable, especially when it involved being called out for something akin to insubordination, though it was clear the king was not genuinely irate. Stryker said, “I wasn’t about to let our king get murdered while I was off in the Thornwood.” While observing this half-joking exchange, Caine considered the fact that he had just witnessed an impossible duel between Great Prince Tzepesci and Vinter Raelthorne IV. The ties between King Leto and Coleman Stryker went back to the original Lion’s Coup, which marked the beginning of both Leto’s reign and Stryker’s military career. In the final moments of the coup, it was said Leto and Vinter had crossed blades and Leto had nearly died as a result. Caine wondered what either of these two men would have thought of the fight he had just seen. He felt a strong urge to tell them, though he knew it was not his place to do so unless specifically asked. Nor did he want to put himself in a position of being forced to tell lies to the king unless it was unavoidable. Given he’d been acting on Rebald’s orders when exploding the bridge—orders the king might not have approved of—it was better to avoid the topic. Leto had gone on to say to Stryker, more seriously, “I accept

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your service here, but only so long as you are confident the First Army can endure the Khadoran assault without your leadership. I remain uncomfortable about taking any of our northern army away at this critical time. It is no accident that Vinter chose this moment to act. He is exploiting our distraction.” “The First Army is in good hands with Generals Duggan and Nemo,” Stryker said. “I believe the forewarning came in time to offset the worst of the initial attacks.” At this he nodded toward Caine in acknowledgement of his role in that, a gesture Caine appreciated. “Your Majesty’s safety is paramount, especially knowing Vinter to be so close.” “Lord General, Your Majesty,” Caine inclined his head and extracted himself from the conversation, which was easily managed. The two would be preoccupied discussing strategy for some time, giving him sufficient opportunity to find the scout general. • • • Caine and Rebald moved away from the main column into the relative privacy of the denser foliage to talk, allowing the rest to continue their slow but steady trek toward Point Bourne. The hour was getting late, but the senior officers intended to push on as long as possible before camping for the night. They would rest only a few hours before being underway again. They all knew they were at their most vulnerable while moving north of the Dragon’s Tongue. A force the size of theirs was impossible to hide or disguise, and it was inevitable that both Khadoran spies and Vinter’s agents would find them. They hoped to make the river crossing first. Rebald told Caine that he felt reasonably confident the Khadorans did not have a readied force nearby of sufficient size to

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defeat theirs, but the situation in the Thornwood was chaotic and changing every hour. From what he understood, the First Army had been split into at least three major segments, along with an unknown number of smaller scattered groups, some already cut off and isolated, all potentially under attack by Khadorans. This also meant there were no additional soldiers expected to come to the king’s defense. Those brought by Lord General Stryker were all they could expect from the north. Rebald believed that if they could reach Fharin or Steelwater they would be able to muster men from the Second and Third Armies instead. Caine filled the scout general in on what he had seen as briefly as possible, keeping to the dry facts. “That bomb didn’t do nearly as much damage as I had hoped,” Caine said after summarizing. “Maybe Siege had some tricks in mind, but most of the bridge is still standing. They’ll be able to use it, though with some difficulty.” “Perhaps,” Rebald said, “but while wooden planks will suffice for soldiers, they won’t hold warjacks. I doubt Khador will attempt to invade by that route again anytime soon. One potential crisis averted, though Stonebridge in the hands of Vinter is another. Tell me in greater detail about Vinter’s forces.” Caine considered that the least interesting aspect of what he had seen, but he acquiesced and answered the questions as best he could. His field of view on Vinter’s army had been limited, but he told Rebald about Colonel Hawkins and the warjacks and soldiers he had seen. “There will be more. I’d hazard any military surplus the Fourth Army had access to is all Vinter’s now. Warjacks, cannons, soldiers, armament, supplies. They might not all be traitors, but it’s safest to think so until proven otherwise.”

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The spymaster sighed and nodded agreement. “In the meanwhile, we are fortunate the lord general arrived. His presence frees you to resume the real task at hand. You must track down Magnus immediately.” Caine stared at Rebald in surprise and said, “I thought Vinter’s arrival might change that. Shouldn’t I be going for him instead?” Rebald gave him a disapproving look. “Not to sound insulting, but do you actually believe you could kill Vinter Raelthorne? I’m asking for a serious assessment.” “How could I possibly be insulted by that?” Caine asked, though the question did give him pause. He considered it, thinking long and hard. He’d never met a man he didn’t think he could gun down, given the opportunity. But he’d also never seen anyone do what Vinter had done. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe not. Before today I’d say anyone can be killed. I’m starting to think Vinter is immune to bullets. Swords too, apparently. Still, I’d be willing to give it a try. The fourth, fifth, or sixth bullet might take. The toughest man will go down if you hit him enough times. Even the undead can die again.” “It might come to that. But I’d rather not risk you prematurely. I have word that the mercenary army at Fellig left, not long after you did. They are on the march, and my sources believe they are headed to Corvis. I need to know what they are doing. More than that, I need Vinter’s bastard gone. That is more important now than ever.” “Very well,” Caine said. “Corvis, eh? That’s bold. Magnus doesn’t expect he can waltz in with his colossals and rent a room?” Rebald shrugged. “I have no idea what Magnus expects. If he’s not going to Stonebridge, there must be a reason. I expect

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he will join his army with Vinter’s, sooner or later. That might be unavoidable, but by the time it happens I need there to be one less illegitimate Raelthorne walking around. If you happen to see the chance to take out Magnus, that would be a nice bonus. Focus first on eliminating one inexperienced sixteen-year-old boy. Wouldn’t want to put too much on you all at once.” “Yer confidence in me is inspiring,” Caine said sardonically. “What men do you need?” Rebald asked. “I don’t want to risk anyone’s neck on something like this. Chances are good anyone caught working with me might get murdered, or arrested.” “I realize you prefer to work alone, but from what you’ve told me, you’re going to need some support. The soldiers of this army are prepared to make the final sacrifice if they must. Just don’t spend them needlessly. The cause is worthy.” Caine glowered and said, “Yeh don’t have to instruct me on that, Rebald. I’m just telling yeh I don’t think having a bunch of people with me is going to make things any easier. If it comes down to a brawl with Magnus’ army, something will have gone wrong.” After a pause he said, “Fine, I’ll take a small complement. A single unit of trencher commandos, a few rangers. My warjacks, minimal support crew. Give me Clay and Reed from Fellig as well. They don’t have anything better to do.” “You form attachments too easily, Caine. I’d have thought you’d be broken of that habit.” A mild dig, but one Caine felt nonetheless. It was true his record of preserving the soldiers under his command was not one of which he was especially proud. Much of that had to do with the missions

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he was given, but it was a fact nonetheless. “Nice to have friends,” he said. “But best to leave them home most of the time. Sadly, I don’t have that luxury.” “I’ll see to it you get the people you require. I suggest leaving immediately. Every hour counts.” Caine said, “A nice bottle of wine and a nap are too much to ask for, I suppose. What are you going to tell Stryker and the king about my absence?” “Something close to the truth,” Rebald said. “We have word of a mercenary army, possibly led by Asheth Magnus, moving out of Fellig and toward Corvis. I’ve sent you to investigate. Stryker knows you’ve been on Magnus’ trail.” “He does, eh?” Caine said. “Wonder what he thinks of that. Those two have quite a history.” “I’m sure he is as eager as the rest of us to see that traitor put in the ground. Just remember, Magnus is not your highest priority. I will not accept failure this time, Allister. Vinter’s bastard must become nothing more than a memory. While you’re at it, see if you can identify any other traitors lurking in the shadows. Magnus attracts such people.” “I got it.” Caine had nothing else to say and left to gather his men and machines. As he left he considered again his conversation with Magnus and Jarok Croe. He had been jokingly referred to as an assassin before, but never had it felt so true. Warcasters were heroes, legends, towering figures on the battlefield every soldier admired and envied. He recalled the trenchers gathering around Major Brisbane. That was the sort of man they remembered, not the ones

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skulking in the shadows shooting people in the back. Not that he wanted fame, accolades, or even admiration. What he most desired was freedom—the freedom to choose his path. But that was something no soldier truly had. There were always orders. His were, at least, simple.

211 PART TWO CHAPTER NINE

Along the Bramblerut Road

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” Magnus said, “what I can do to satisfy you and ensure the swift resumption of our passage through this gods-forsaken forest? I’ve cooperated with you in every regard, but you begin to try my patience.” It was quite clear to Julius that Asheth Magnus had reached his limit with the Khadoran officer in charge of the checkpoint. Watching the exchange between the two men had been fascinating in its own way, like some sort of specialized duel conducted with words rather than weapons. They both spoke Cygnaran, and the Khadoran was fluent. Magnus, Julius, and Sergeant Bristol had left the bulk of the mercenary army farther up the road and gone ahead to deal with the checkpoint. They stood within a small recently built Khadoran guard post set off the side of the Bramblerut, the only road of any permanence that passed through the Thornwood from Fellig to Corvis. The route had been more or less chosen by them, necessitated by the bulk of the Galleon colossals marching alongside Magnus’ army. They could have sought to smash their way through some The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

other portion of the trees, but that would have required them to move at a fraction of the speed they could maintain on the road. Magnus had been optimistic they would run into relatively little interference, as there was only light traffic along this route since Cygnar’s northernmost city of Fellig had been cut off from the rest of the nation. No more travelers or merchants took this route, and it had limited usefulness to the Khadoran supply chain. The mercenary had expected checkpoints but had been confident he could talk his way past them. His mercenary status often afforded him freedom of movement, and when that failed, a few well placed bribes usually removed all obstacles. Until now. “You can start by answering my questions more honestly and completely,” the Khadoran lieutenant said. He was a well groomed and mannered young officer, one who had worked to maintain his uniform in crisp perfection despite being surrounded by a hostile wilderness. Perhaps the untamed forest had motivated him to even more extraordinary efforts in keeping his person and his checkpoint station immaculate. “Do you deny that you were involved in a recent clash near Fellig against the Khadoran Army less than three weeks ago? You claim to be seeking employment elsewhere, without giving me details. I am aware of the cooling-off period required by most mercenary contracts. You expect me to allow you and your heavily armed force to pass? I have no assurance you are not still in the employ of enemies of the Motherland.” “My previous contract was not against Khador but in service to Ord. Regardless of the nature of any conflict I may have engaged in, I remain eligible to be hired and am en route to a potential employer. I am not obligated to provide details. I have worked for

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your superiors on numerous occasions—as you would know were they present to reprimand you for delaying me.” Magnus leaned toward the man, clenching his oversized mechanikal hand—a hand which could have crushed the Khadoran officer’s head like a grape if he desired. The lieutenant gave a cool smile, refusing to be intimidated. “If you would like to encamp your men nearby, I can send word to my superiors. It should not take long, only a few days. This could be expedited if you are interested in hiring on to serve the Motherland. While I am not empowered to initiate such negotiations, I expect we could use your services immediately.” With them in the guard station and backing the lieutenant were six wary Winter Guardsman with their short blunderbuss firearms drawn, though held loosely in their hands. These men all looked nervous and uneasy, eyeing their superior with a certain doubt that suggested they did not entirely agree with his thoroughness in this matter. Their attitude seemed more reasonable, as the outpost was not well defended. There were perhaps twenty soldiers here altogether, plus a single ancient Juggernaut warjack that looked poorly maintained. It would have required the effort of a moment for Magnus and his soldiers to eliminate the whole lot. Only bare civility and the professionalism required as a legitimate mercenary kept these Khadorans from destruction, so far as Julius could see. On the other side, the Khadoran officer appeared to rely on the armor of authority granted him by the Khadoran High Kommand. He clearly took his duties seriously. It seemed his orders were to stop any armed force trying to pass this checkpoint and detain them as long as possible.

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Julius understood Magnus’ reluctance to attack, if it could be avoided. There were additional Khadorans nearby. This checkpoint was only one in a chain of small outposts and emplacements by which the Khadorans regulated passage through this occupied territory. On their journey southeast, they had seen numerous signs of heightened alert and activity. They had also heard the sound of gunfire and cannons through the trees, suggesting active fighting nearby. Magnus seemed unconcerned that they were marching through what seemed to be an active war zone, but he also did not appear eager to pick another fight with Khador. Magnus said, “Let’s discuss what fee might expedite this process and let us go on our way, shall we?” He spoke through gritted teeth, as though making a difficult concession. “Are you offering me a bribe?” the lieutenant asked, with narrowed eyes. There was the sound of an explosion somewhere close by, and the floor and walls rattled. Those inside the checkpoint station exchanged worried looks. The sound of gunfire and shouting followed. The lieutenant pulled his heavy pistol and pointed it at Magnus. He asked, “Is this your doing?” Magnus held up his hands. “Not mine. Those sound like Cygnaran military rifles. I believe you’re under attack.” Not a second later the door was thrown open and another guardsman rushed in and barked something in rapid Khadoran. Julius missed most of it, though he thought he heard an insulting epithet for Cygnarans. He had studied Khadoran but had never heard it from a native speaker.

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The lieutenant did not miss a beat, looking back to Magnus as he said, “I would like to hire you. Details and terms pending negotiation after this crisis. We will pay generously.” There was another explosion outside, followed by the sound of the Juggernaut’s engine being started. Magnus shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Without a contract, that would be foolish. I don’t think you can afford me. Perhaps, if you had been more accommodating. . .” The Khadoran’s face went red. He said to the nearest sergeant, “Take them into custody. They are under arrest!” Then he rushed out of the building. The other Winter Guardsmen looked uncertainly at the mercenary warcaster, then back to their sergeant, who had his blunderbuss pointed at Magnus but did not look pleased. Bristol leaned toward him, her own hand on her pistol handle, and said in her rough voice, “I wouldn’t do that.” He looked at her and his mouth compressed into a thin line. Julius spoke to them in his slower Khadoran, “Your countrymen are dying out there. They could use your help. We are not part of this.” While far from fluent, he could make himself understood. The sergeant’s eyes widened but then he apparently came to a decision. “Forget them. Let’s go!” His men followed as he rushed to exit the building. There was the sound of additional shooting. Magnus gave Julius a look and a small smile. He pointed his chin toward the back of the room they were in, past several military cots and footlockers, where another door could be seen. There was a small stack of firewood in front of it. “That way,” he said. They kicked the wood aside and unbarred the door, then went out into the growing darkness. Night had fallen while they were

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delayed at the checkpoint. The gunfire was louder here, and they could hear movement around them and see flashes of light. Magnus put his living hand on Julius’ shoulder and urged him onward, pointing. Bristol was close on his other side. Magnus had not yet drawn his own scattergun from his back, but Bristol had her pistol in hand. Belatedly Julius drew his also. He was a passable shot but had little confidence of hitting anything in the dark. As they moved through the next section of the trees several shadows loomed ahead and resolved into a number of Cygnaran soldiers. Julius’ eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness, and he could discern that each bore a rifle topped with a long and broad knife, affixed as a bayonet. From their gear, these were trenchers. Their eyes widened and there was a pregnant pause as each side stared at the other. One of the older, grizzled trenchers at the fore stared at Magnus and exclaimed, “The traitor!” He then charged, raising his rifle into position to stab with it even as his finger began to pull the trigger. Julius didn’t even realize he had fired his pistol until the man fell back, choking, a hole in his neck. The others gave a yell and charged as well, but Magnus’ scattergun boomed out even more loudly, sending a spray of metal shot through several. Bristol fired on another who had faltered and stopped, apparently uncertain if he should attack. He looked startled and fell, holding his wound. “Come on, move!” Magnus growled, and they rushed ahead. The gunfire might draw attention, though it was equally possible it would be drowned out amid other fighting. Given their small numbers, Julius expected the defenders at the checkpoint would quickly be overwhelmed.

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They had no additional run-ins with Cygnaran or Khadoran soldiers as they returned to where the rest of Magnus’ army was waiting. Their outer sentries were on high alert but recognized them and did not even bother to challenge Magnus as they rushed by. Once they were safely back amid their own people, Magnus said in a low but intense voice to Julius, “You do understand you didn’t save me from anything back there? We could have taken them down quietly.” Julius gritted his teeth as his temper flared. He said, “I didn’t have time to think. Blame your training. I’ve been drilled not to hesitate when lives are on the line.” Magnus’ eyes bored into his. The warcaster did not appreciate back-talk from someone he was instructing. He poked Julius roughly in the forehead. “There is always time to think. Next time, remember that I am the least vulnerable of us. Their rifles would not have hurt me.” “If you wish me to be prepared to take out our enemies more quietly,” Julius responded calmly, “give me back my sword.” “Not yet,” Magnus said. Having apparently had enough of the argument, he turned away. Several of the ranking mercenaries approached, ready for their orders, including the trollkin Greygore Boomhowler, Captain Rollen, senior of the Steelhead captains, and Jarok Croe. Magnus said to them, “Let’s move. We need to push past this checkpoint before reinforcements investigate. Do not engage. No one returns fire unless on my orders. Is that clear?” Boomhowler said, “Ach! We dunna like being shot at without shooting back. Won’t make any guarantees.” Captain Rollen nodded in agreement.

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Not an answer Magnus liked, but there was also little to be done about it. He glared and said, “If I see anyone firing without my orders, I’ll deal with it personally. Tell your men. We should be able to get past this skirmish without being drawn into it, and there’s no profit to be had getting between Khadorans and Cygnarans. Make that clear.” As soon as their warjacks were fired up they moved out, hoping to take advantage of the darkness and confusion to get through the conflict zone. Out of concern of being recognized by the Cygnarans, Magnus covered himself up and went to one of the supply wagons in the rear. Julius and his cavalry rode just in front of the wagons. Everyone was on high alert. Trying to move like this at night with such limited visibility was ill-advised, but no one was inclined to try to set up camp while the two warring armies were shooting at one another nearby. “I guess that confirms the Cygnar-Khador alliance fell through,” Julius said to Sergeant Bristol, who grunted noncommittally. She had proven unwilling to indulge in much conversation with him, though he occasionally felt obliged to try. Fowler was marching nearby, disguised as a Steelhead rifleman. That former tutor had proven more willing to talk to Julius, though not when Magnus was nearby. It was clear he was intimidated by the warcaster, for which Julius could not fault him. As they neared the now-demolished checkpoint, a trencher sergeant hunkered down alongside his men in the ditch beside the road yelled out at them to stop. Steelhead Captain Rollen, who was near the front, waved in a cavalier way. He yelled out cheerfully, “We’re on our way to Corvis for work! We’re not with

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the Khadorans! Good hunting!” They did not slow down or stop to hear his reply but simply marched on. Rifles stayed on them, but did not fire. Perhaps it was the sight of the towering Galleon colossals marching near the fore, or simply their sheer numbers, but whatever the reason the trenchers let them pass. The next couple of hours were tense, but they made it past the nearest fighting without major incident. After heavy clouds obscured what little light they had from moons and stars, the call to halt was finally given and they were allowed to encamp, though periodic sounds of distant gunfire made it difficult for anyone to sleep well. Julius had become adept at finding what comfort as he could in a bare military tent and a few hours’ sleep. He had discovered a knack for falling asleep almost immediately and waking as quickly. The other Steelheads sometimes harassed him for his energy, blaming it on his youth and inexperience. He usually did not bother to try to reprimand them or call them to task, despite the rank insignia on his uniform. Since their run-in with the gun mage Magnus had changed his uniform and “demoted” him to Sergeant, not that it mattered. It was unclear what actual authority he had over other Steelheads. In battle the men assigned to him obeyed, and it was clear he had Magnus’ favor and backing. But at other times they treated him like a rookie, which was nothing less than the truth. He had learned that the standing rumor among the Steelheads about his identity was that he was Magnus’ bastard son, a fact he did not dispute. It seemed to endear him to them and meant they took their harassment only so far. It also helped explain the fact that Magnus was willing to spend his time personally training him,

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though that, too, had been put on hold. By taking on the role of Magnus’ bastard successor, Julius had become some sort of mercenary royalty, a notion that amused him. Given he had been raised without family and with little contact with anyone but his tutors, it was sometimes overwhelming to be surrounded by so many people. He found their rough conversation, jokes, and songs all equally fascinating. Being a mercenary prince seemed fitting practice for the real thing. And despite their crude manners, he enjoyed the company of the Steelheads. They ran into no additional hassles on the road over the next couple of days, and it seemed they had made it past the areas of heaviest fighting between Khador and Cygnar. As they were following a twisty portion of the road, the column disappearing into the trees ahead and the wagons behind, the column came to an unexpected halt. Before Magnus could start asking pointed questions, Julius saw Captain Rollen working his way back down the line, a smile on his face. He said to Magnus, “We’ve got some company just ahead. Some old friends looking for you, sir. Think you’ll want to greet them personally.” The warcaster swung down from the board where he had been sitting, letting the brace on his leg take the impact as he strode ahead, looking almost cheerful. He waved imperiously to Julius as he passed. “Come on,” he said. Julius nudged his horse Folly out of the column but dismounted and walked so he would be on the same level as Magnus. Bristol followed just behind him, a watchful shadow, Fowler not far behind her. When they reached the front they saw they had come head-to- head with something of a mirror of their own forces. The other

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column comprised Steelhead mercenaries akin to their own, predominantly riflemen and pikemen. At the fore was a large man also in Steelhead attire, seated astride a large warhorse. He was heavily armored but wore unconventional gear. Strapped across his back was a massive greatsword in the Caspian style, one with a wide blade perforated along its length with holes. His armor padding beneath his plated mail was green, and altogether both his armor and his horse’s barding looked of finer make than that used by most Steelhead cavalry. Julius recognized the pendant around his neck as a commander’s seal, making him higher ranking than the other mercenary officers present. Next to the Steelhead commander was a man on foot who had to be a warcaster, given the telltale thick piped conduits running from the breastplate of his heavy, battle-dented mechanikal armor to the smoke-belching turbine on his back. He was a big, thick-bodied man, several inches taller than Magnus and at least a hundred pounds heavier. A single-edged mechanikal cleaver with a long handle was strapped to his back. He wore a pair of goggles pushed up onto his forehead, and he was bald, with a thick moustache, and was chomping on a cigar. Not far behind the warcaster and in front of the Steelheads were several old warjacks, though they looked in good condition. Julius recognized a Mule, a Nomad, and a Rover, all older ’jack designs made by Engines East in Corvis, if he remembered his lessons right. The first two had once been Cygnaran military warjacks that had been decommissioned and sold off. All were a bit outmoded by modern standards, but they were still favored by mercenary companies.

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Asheth Magnus’ pace increased as he neared and he greeted the men warmly. “Commander Stannis Brocker and Drake MacBain. Glad to see the both of you. I appreciate that you’ve answered my call.” “With the money you’re offering, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” said MacBain. Commander Brocker dismounted heavily, looking wearier and more reserved than the warcaster beside him. Still, he smiled at Magnus and inclined his head deeply. “I’ve brought as much of the company from Ternon Crag as was available,” he said. “Thought we’d be marching to Fellig. We’re headed the other way now?” “Plans have accelerated,” Magnus said with a nod. “We’re heading southeast, then south. First through Corvis, then on to Caspia.” MacBain cleared his throat. “Excuse me for pointing this out, but aren’t you wanted for treason there? Or is that where we come in? I should tell you, Magnus, I am confident in my abilities, but I don’t think we can take both Corvis and Caspia. Or either one of them individually. If you want an expert’s opinion.” “My plans aren’t quite that grand,” Magnus said with a chuckle. “I’ll be needing you to serve as my front man for this army. It will, to all outside perspectives, be your army and not mine. I will remain a mostly silent and invisible partner.” “That’s going to cost more,” MacBain said. “We’ll need to revise the exact stipulations of how this arrangement will work into my contract.” “I’d expect nothing less,” the Warlord said. “I’ve already been working on that. I think you’ll find the terms quite generous.

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We’re embarking on an admittedly dangerous endeavor, though the rewards will be substantial.” MacBain’s grin widened and he said, “Things had been a little dull of late anyhow. I’m due for a high risk, high reward scenario, so you’re speaking my language.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, let me see that contract!” Magnus tossed him a leather messenger satchel, which MacBain caught in one hand. “The road doesn’t offer the best conditions for writing, so you’ll have to excuse the state of those documents. I assure you my atrocious handwriting is not a negotiation tactic.” “We’ll see about that,” MacBain said, eagerly pulling out several of the handwritten pages. Julius found it an odd portrait to see the armored, heavyset warrior squinting down at paperwork with such naked enthusiasm. With that matter preoccupying the other warcaster, Magnus turned to Commander Brocker. To him he said, “I realize we have Steelheads from several different branches. I intend to gather the captains and put them under your charge, for simplicity. Do you foresee any issues?” “Shouldn’t matter; we’re all professionals,” Brocker said. He looked back along the lines of Magnus’ column. “I know most of them well enough. I will tell you that while MacBain might be looking for excitement, our people are less eager to get killed for one of your causes. Your stock has gone down with the Steelheads at Ternon Crag. That last business against Eastwall didn’t work out so great for them.” “Are you speaking for them or for yourself?” Magnus asked, staring back at the Steelhead commander.

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Brocker chuckled and said, “Me? I enjoyed that fight. I’m always up for a good battle. Just something to be aware of. These are mercenaries, not dedicated rebels.” Magnus nodded. “Very well. In truth, I hope to avoid large battles if we can. This army exists primarily for insurance, as well as a demonstration to the people I need to meet with that I’m serious. If all goes as it should, we might accomplish my goals without fighting at all. Words may be more important than bullets in the weeks ahead.” “So you say now,” Brocker said with a wink. “All the same, I think I’ll have my men keep their rifles and pistols loaded.” He leaned in closer to say in a quieter voice, “I should mention I did bring a couple of special guests from the Crag. Older gents, very quiet and secretive. One might say paranoid. You know the type.” Magnus nodded and said, “Let’s get our forces integrated and back on the move, then have those two check in with me.” He looked over at where MacBain was squinting at his pages and said, “MacBain, Brocker, I also wanted to introduce you to Sergeant Ramiro Thorner.” He clapped Julius on the shoulder. “Looks young for a sergeant,” Brocker said, with a knowing smirk. “Thorner is something of a protégé of mine,” Magnus said. “I promised I’d look after him, and I intend to keep that promise. His safety is a top priority, is that understood?” The other two consented. “We’ll discuss some details related to that soon enough. But first, let’s get underway.” • • • Magnus had turned one of the emptied covered wagons into his

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quarters and planning chamber. Julius attended to listen in on a portion of his contract negotiations with MacBain, which he found simultaneously fascinating and off-putting. It was an interesting exercise on the sorts of details a nitpicky mercenary prioritized, but such matters did not hold his interest, perhaps because money meant so little to him. Nonetheless, he took it as a lesson in haggling, which he was sure might be applicable to general diplomacy. He found it illuminating to watch Magnus interact with one of his peers. There was a degree of mutual respect between the two warcasters that he had not seen Magnus display toward any other mercenary hirelings. After MacBain was satisfied and left there was another rap on the side of the wagon, and Magnus invited two older men to climb aboard. As the first stepped in and lowered the hood of his cloak, Julius saw a face he recognized and was surprised at the rush of relief he felt. “Captain Quinn!” he said, reaching forward to take his eldest tutor’s hand. The man gave him a small smile and inclined his head. Quinn had never been one for emotional displays. Sergeant Bristol also came forward to greet him, looking similarly relieved. “No need to call me captain, now, my boy. That might confuse your mercenary friends.” “What would you prefer?” Julius asked. Quinn considered, then seemed bemused as he said, “Magus would be easiest. We may need to decide on an alias, akin to the one you’ve adopted. My name is known. The same goes for this old colleague of mine.” He waved to indicate the other man who had entered, who also took down his hood. Julius did not recognize him, though from his reaction it was clear Magnus did. The two

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exchanged a measured look and Magnus inclined his head in greeting. Quinn said, “This is Orin Midwinter, a master of the arcane.” The man introduced as Midwinter looked of an age with Quinn, though more disheveled and with more lines on his face. There was something about him that suggested he had lived a hard life. He was a short man, and thin, and he did not have the same sort of intimidating and regal demeanor as Old Man Quinn. His eyes showed an intensity and focus that suggested inner strength and power. He was looking at Julius with a strange expression, unblinking. Julius shifted where he stood, not quite sure what to make of it. Magnus cleared his throat, “Midwinter, it is good to see you again. I am sure this is all rather confusing. Things have changed quite a bit since last we talked, and I felt it important to bring you up to speed. I hope you don’t mind my sending Quinn to collect you.” “Yes,” the mage said, his voice subdued, though he continued to stare at Julius, “much has changed.” “Let me introduce you to someone with whom you’ll be working closely,” Magnus continued. “Among the mercenaries here, he’s going by Ramiro Thorner, but you should know his real name—” “Is Julius Raelthorne,” Orin Midwinter said, his voice hushed. Taking Julius by surprise, the old arcanist bowed deeply as he went to one knee. He then said, “I swear my service to you, young prince. My life and skills are yours. I shall do what I can to help you secure your throne.” Magnus looked to Quinn and raised an eyebrow. The former

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senior inquisitor said, “In the course of convincing Midwinter to come along, I felt it necessary to explain a few things regarding our cause. It seemed prudent. He understands our situation and the importance of what lies ahead.” This being the first person to swear fealty to him in this way, Julius found himself at a bit of a loss, though he endeavored to look properly dignified. “Thank you, Magus Midwinter. Please, rise. It won’t do for anyone to see you doing that here. You should treat me as a Steelhead sergeant and an apprentice of Magnus’.” He reached out a hand and helped the older man to his feet. “Of course. I wanted to make my loyalties clear at the outset.” Midwinter inclined his head. Magnus said to Julius, “Midwinter is one of the specialists I mentioned before. He will likely prove useful to us in a number of ways, but in particular he should make it difficult for anyone with arcane abilities to threaten you. He’ll be staying close at hand. As will Quinn, of course.” Midwinter turned to Magnus and said, “I was given to understand you might not be entirely pleased with me, given certain events that transpired in the past. In Caspia. I should reassure you—” The warcaster shook his head, adopting a friendlier smile than Julius was accustomed to seeing him wear. He said, “Water under the bridge, Midwinter. Those were exceptional circumstances, I know. We can put that behind us, so long as you serve as required. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like a few words with your colleague in private.” Midwinter’s eyes darted between Magnus and Quinn, then back to Julius, but he inclined his head and climbed down out of the

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wagon again, being helped by one of the soldiers there. After waiting long enough to let Midwinter get out of earshot, Magnus looked to Quinn and said, “That did not go as I thought it would. He took everything rather well. I find that suspicious. I expected he would require persuading. And threats.” Quinn gave a self-satisfied smile and said, “I must admit I did a few things to . . . ease the process. Midwinter was in quite a state when I first came upon him in Ternon Crag. He was very anxious and distrustful. It was clear the intervening years since Vinter was deposed, including long periods spent in total isolation, have resulted in a degree of mental instability. His sanity had suffered.” Magnus folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. “What did you do to him?” “Nothing untoward, I assure you,” Quinn said. “I helped him reassemble the pieces of his shattered mind, as best I could. It was not a simple task, and there is work yet to be done, but we have made great strides. I have returned him closer to what he once was.” The warcaster said to Julius, “Midwinter has always been eccentric. In recent years, I feared he had gone slightly mad. Even at his worst, however, he has had useful skills. I hoped I would find a way to negotiate with him, though I was not expecting him to agree so easily.” “His enthusiasm makes you doubt his sincerity?” Julius asked. Magnus shrugged, “Of course. The more people we convince to join your cause, the better, but we can’t take everyone at face value. There will be those who would get close to you solely to destroy you.” He looked to Quinn and said, “If you did something to his

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mind, to make this easier, what happens when it wears off?” “That’s not how it works,” Quinn said, his expression haughty and a bit smug. “I’m not using my powers to trick him into sanity. Believe me, he is sincere. I will watch him closely, however.” “As you should,” Magnus said, not looking convinced. “Midwinter has always retained fanatical devotion to King Vinter. How did you get past that?” “Many would say the same about you, Magnus. Yet here we are.” Quinn stared at Magnus levelly. It was at this moment that Julius apprehended Old Man Quinn did not fear the warcaster, as his other former tutors clearly did. It made him view the man in a different light. “Answer the question, Quinn,” Magnus growled, his metal hand clenching. “It was not to Vinter specifically that Midwinter was devoted,” Quinn explained. “Since the Inquisition was disbanded, the outlaw life has been hard on him. He desires to be of use, to serve the realm. He has felt out of place, lost. All of his skill and dedication had been directed to Vinter’s restoration. It gave his life meaning. There was an element of desperation feeding this.” Quinn spoke as much to Julius as to Magnus when he talked. Now he faced the youth and said, “One thing you must understand is that Midwinter was one of the best of us. There was a great deal of corruption in the Inquisition. Vinter encouraged it, so long as it served his ends. We turned from our original purpose to please him.” Julius said, “But not Midwinter?” Quinn shook his head. “No, Midwinter stayed true. He hunted dangerous sorcerers, those he thought were a threat to the state. He

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did not participate in the more . . . sordid tasks that fell to others, including myself not least. Our purview expanded, our tasks became more punitive. Midwinter was not a part of this. He is what remains of the old Inquisition, before Dexer Sirac changed it. Changed us. When I approached Midwinter and restored his mind, I convinced him that Julius offers us a chance to redeem Cygnar and restore its strength. I let him see what Vinter had become. His conversion is genuine. He wants a new Cygnar. I believe you can trust him.” Julius could not remember hearing Old Man Quinn speak with such admiration about anyone. He found it had an impact, provoking sympathy for Midwinter as well as respect for his immunity to corruption. Overall the man’s story was tragic. He was a tool of the government that had been cast aside, who had lost his way. Julius inclined his head toward Quinn and said, “I’ll take your word for it.” It was difficult to discern if Magnus had been persuaded. His expression remained skeptical, if thoughtful. No doubt all of these matters involving Vinter took on an extra dimension with him, after such long and dedicated service. Magnus had remained a private person throughout their months of training, a man who did not readily share his thoughts. He had not spoken to Julius of his falling out with Vinter, though his anger at the former king was always there, simmering below the surface of his words. Magnus seemed to shake himself out of his introspection. He said, “Very well. We will take his commitment at face value, for now. We are nearly to Corvis. It will be a significant turning point.” “You haven’t gotten into the details of what you intend,” Julius

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said. “Aside from the city being where you think we can most safely cross the Dragon’s Tongue River.” “That’s the first part of it. The time has come to present you to the men who will eventually be your key vassals. We will reveal your identity first to Kielon Ebonhart the Fourth, Duke of the Northern Midlunds and General of the 12th Division of the Cygnaran Army. He will be our first step to gaining support within the Royal Assembly. If we can convince him.” Julius scratched his chin. “Didn’t you fight Ebonhart in the Lion’s Coup? I was taught that he was one of Leto’s most loyal supporters. He and Archduke Runewood.” “Leto, Kielon Ebonhart, and Alain Runewood were close friends in their youths. They squired together. Ebonhart was one of the first Stormblades. He helped overthrow Vinter. Meeting him will be a risk, in more ways than one. But I believe we can reach him.” He paused and then said, “Also, if Allister Caine will not defy his master, it will be in Corvis that he will choose to strike. There are several ways that everything we are working for could end in the City of Ghosts.” “I see,” Julius said. “So, bearing all that in mind, can I have my sword back?”

233 CHAPTER TEN

Point Bourne

Bolden Rebald inclined his head at his nearest agent, who stood with pistol in hand in front of the door and with a single powerful kick burst it open. A gunshot rang out and a bullet exploded into the wall opposite, then the two waiting agents rushed inside. Others had worked their way around to the back of the building and kicked in that door as well, entering to cut off any possible escape. Several more gunshots followed in quick succession. Rebald shouted, “We need one alive!” He stood outside the building a moment longer, his own smaller and more easily concealed pistol in one hand. He felt it best to be prepared but had no intention of engaging personally or shooting anyone. Captain Hullen shouted, “All clear!” from within. He then added, “We got one. Wounded, but he’ll live.” With that, Rebald entered, finding the dimly lit domicile as threadbare and squalid as he had expected. The place made his organization’s safe houses and bolt-holes seem luxurious in comparison. Those making use of it had not been here long or had The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

decided that living uncomfortably added to their resolve. Blankets showed they had been sleeping on the floor, ample refuse was strewn about—with a variety of weapons—and there were signs of an improvised alchemy laboratory in a corner. He intended to avoid that area until specialists ensured no fire or explosion was likely. Several bodies littered the floor, though thankfully none of his people had been hit. Captain Hullen and his men had a sullen- looking young man cornered and leaning against the wall. He had been shot in the shoulder; blood was dripping down his left arm and hand to patter against the floor. Rebald heard groaning from one of the figures lying on the floor, an older man wearing goggles and an alchemist’s apron, and said, “Get these two bandaged, search them for hidden weapons, and take them in. We’re not questioning them here.” The less-injured man shouted, “We’re not alone! Down with Leto! Long live King Vinter!” His spiel was cut off as his arms were wrenched behind his back, prompting him to exclaim in pain. His arms were bound and his mouth gagged before they bothered with his wound. Rebald did not reprimand his men for being a bit rough with him. • • • “From the interrogation, I am reasonably confident they aren’t part of any specific wider conspiracy,” Rebald said as he and Lord General Coleman Stryker walked side by side. “Just frustrated people susceptible to suggestion.” The lord general asked, “How did they plan to kill the king?” “It wasn’t a sophisticated plan. They had more enthusiasm than skill or coordination. They were making explosives, but I gather

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they were going to arm up, choose a time when they could see Leto, then come at him with everything they had. I don’t think they would have succeeded, but they could have hurt or killed many innocent bystanders in the process.” “Good work by your team finding them so quickly and neutralizing the threat. Well done.” “Thank you, General.” Rebald accepted the compliment, though he found it somewhat irritating. His network of informants, spies, and scouts had intercepted and thwarted countless threats since he had first been given the position of scout general by King Leto, yet most of this would never be known. All he would be remembered for would be the failures, such as their inability to sniff out the full number of traitors even now supporting Vinter’s return. Of course, they had long had suspicions regarding a number of the involved nobles, but without proof they could do nothing. Leto had been adamant about tolerating dissenting opinions on the Royal Assembly, going out of his way to avoid anything that resembled his brother’s methods. This had rather impaired the ability of the CRS to investigate or interfere with potential insurrection. Rebald was starting to wonder if he should not have found a way to weaken or undermine the most vocal of Leto’s critics without consulting the king, who was overly sentimental. At this point in his career, the scout general better understood how and why the Inquisition had begun. Though the organization had been guilty of tremendous excesses under Vinter IV, it had not always been that way. Under the reign of Vinter and Leto’s father, the work it had done had not been so different from his own.

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“So,” Stryker said, “you don’t anticipate any other attempts?” “I wouldn’t go that far. I don’t think these people were part of a larger organized threat, but there could be more like them. Someone has been distributing pamphlets around the city, stirring up resentment and calling for revolt. I need not tell you, there are many unhappy people in Point Bourne who hold King Leto to blame for what happened here.” Lord General Stryker said, “I thought the king’s previous visit to the city after the disaster mitigated such sentiments.” “I’m sure it did, for many. Certainly Leto traveling here showed he is not aloof to the troubles in the north. But there are still many disgruntled people throughout northern Cygnar. The war has taken a heavy toll. The people of Point Bourne have suffered more than most. Even a short time under Cryxian occupation brought horrors they could not have imagined in their worst nightmares. They hold the military to blame. Whatever the merits of their arguments, their numbers provide a fertile recruitment field for Vinter’s advocates. They clearly believe Cygnar would be better under the old king.” Stryker said, “Many are too young to remember his tyrannies or have chosen to forget those dark days.” Rebald smiled, knowing Stryker was himself almost too young, though he had served as a royal guard in Vinter’s palace in the ex- king’s final days. “They have romantic notions of what Cygnar was like then. Vinter’s reign was relatively peaceful, though the educated know the seeds of what we endure today were sown in those years.” “Perhaps,” Stryker said, clearly deeply bothered by this entire chain of thought.

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“Regardless,” Rebald said, changing the topic, “this place is only marginally safer than the Thornwood for King Leto right now. We must hasten south, the sooner the better.” Stryker nodded. “Agreed. I’ll be adding fresh soldiers to our forces from the garrisons here, though not substantially. An army presence must be maintained to protect the city from additional incursions. Its defenses have not been restored since the Khadoran siege. King Leto refuses to reduce them further, and I agree with him. We should begin getting our people onto the train immediately.” The two men talked as they walked through the military quarter of Point Bourne, the one section of the city that had weathered the recent attacks largely intact. When the river town had been first invaded by Khadorans and then overrun by Cryxians, the Cygnaran Army had been forced to pull back to this most fortified area of the city. It was here that the northern branch of the Strategic Academy was located, where many of the kingdom’s military officers and warcasters were trained. That campus also hosted the small but prestigious Tempest Academy, responsible for training military gun mages. That these institutions had survived was a good thing for the Cygnaran military but likely fed the resentment of the locals toward the army that had failed to protect their own neighborhoods. Rebald asked, “Major Brisbane was brought to the military hospital?” “Yes, though I wouldn’t count on him staying for long. It took considerable persuasion to get him to step into the building. He seems to have picked up a suspicion of surgeons—not that I can blame him.” Stryker sighed and said, “Too many warcasters put in the hospitals recently.”

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“Better than putting them in the ground,” Rebald countered. “I can’t argue with that. I had hoped to visit Major Haley while I was there, but apparently she left already on something urgent. Do you know anything about that?” “Not much,” Rebald said. “The report I received from the garrison commander suggested she might have intended to rendezvous with Constance Blaize. She spoke of a pressing need to be elsewhere. It may relate to that artifact you recovered from the Cryxians.” “We should recall her,” Stryker said. “She would be a powerful asset in defending the king.” “I’ll see what I can do, though at the moment I have no ready means of contact. If any of my people get in touch with her or Blaize, they will send word. For now it’s best we consider them unavailable. I have sent a number of messengers abroad to begin the process of gathering reinforcements from the southern garrisons. I’m suggesting Fharin as our mustering point. As you know, gathering an army takes time.” “Time we may not have,” Stryker said under his breath. They reached the largest parade grounds in the military quarter, where the bulk of King Leto’s escort was already gathering and making ready for the next stage of the journey. Initially the plan had been to give the soldiers a short reprieve here while they refreshed their supplies and coordinated with the officers presently engaged in the north. Rebald had cancelled this on hearing how quickly word of Vinter’s actions at Stonebridge was spreading. The thwarted attack on King Leto underscored the peril. While the would-be assassins evidently had not been part of a larger conspiracy, it was clear one existed. Rebald was already

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receiving reports of violent riots and unrest across numerous towns throughout the north. Leto’s appointed officials were being systematically removed or hunted, and he feared the entire Thurian region to the west was already under the control of traitors. The Thurian duchy had always been prone to isolationism, little concerned with proclamations from Caspia. Now they seemed to be in revolt. All of this had been exasperated by recent food shortages and attacks by Cryxians against towns along the Dragon’s Tongue, which had given rise to an escalation of bandit activity and other lawlessness. Throughout northern Cygnar, local governments were struggling. Now all of the kingdom’s ills were pinned on King Leto, with Vinter offered as a returning savior. Rebald was certain there were still a good number of northern barons loyal to their king, but none of them were in any position to answer the call for soldiers. They needed to reach the lands of Archduke Runewood, that portion of the Midlunds still firmly under their control. Rebald and Stryker rejoined the king’s retinue, each checking in with his respective subordinates. These had very little information about the conflict with Khador, though Rebald’s attention was focused more on their immediate vicinity. He knew bad news was incoming when one of his senior ranger sergeants approached wearing a grim expression and a mud-caked uniform. It was clear he had just come from the field. He had been overseeing men on patrol east of Point Bourne, specifically tasked with keeping an eye out for Vinter’s people. He had been asked to verify the safety of their force’s planned route from the city. “Swift Sergeant Gainer.” Rebald greeted him and clasped his

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hand. He caught the lord general’s eye and waved him over so he could also hear the news. “What do you have to report?” “Nothing good, Generals,” the man said glumly. “My people confirm the traitors have Bainsmarket locked down, including the nearest Market Line rail stations.” Stryker and Rebald shared a grim look; their plan had been to take the train from Point Bourne, through Bainsmarket, and south to Fharin. Doing so while the city was held by Vinter would be impossible. The sergeant continued, “They’ve sent soldiers to set up a roadblock on the road south of here. We’re going to have to go overland and through the hills to get to rail stations south of Bainsmarket that are out of their reach. But first we’ll have to fight through the roadblock.” Stryker said, “We can’t allow Vinter to hold Bainsmarket.” “I like it no more than you,” Rebald said, “But so long as Vinter has Stonebridge we aren’t in any position to liberate Bainsmarket or protect the northern Market Line. Until we can muster an army sufficient to defeat his, Bainsmarket must be avoided.” “Leaving the First Army embattled with no way to get reinforcements, food, or ammunition.” Stryker crossed his arms. “We can reroute supplies through Corvis. I’ll send messages to our friends in Ord to see if we can bribe them to help as well. Though I’ve heard the Khadorans attacked Armandor and some of Ord’s eastern fortresses, likely to discourage them from helping us.” Stryker asked the swift sergeant, “How many at the roadblock?” “We’re still investigating. Maybe only a few hundred, though I’d call our situational awareness inadequate at present. There could be four or five times that number.” He blew out a breath. “Mostly

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light infantry, though they have warjacks and horse-drawn artillery. They chose a good spot, five miles south of here, between the hills. Several prime ambush spots along that route. Lots of hiding places and cover.” Rebald said, “Keep me informed and have your men working to get me better numbers.” “Yes, sir, will do.” He left as quickly as he had come, collecting the nearest group of rangers that were waiting for him. Looking at the lord general, Rebald was not surprised to see a gleam in his eye at the thought of fighting the traitors, regardless of the uncertain state of their reconnaissance. “I’d like to get a better sense of where the enemy is and how many there are,” Rebald cautioned him. “We have to push through regardless,” Stryker said. “We can’t afford to wait. They will learn King Leto is here soon. Whatever forces they have in place will only grow. We march at once.” Stryker stepped away to relate more specific orders to his various officers. Knowing he had little time before they would be in the thick of things, Rebald took a moment to deal with a different matter. He had seen one of his people waiting discreetly on the fringes of the command circle, a nondescript thin man in dark clothing noteworthy primarily for his lack of a Cygnaran uniform, though there was a small gold Cygnus pinned to his lapel. This pin was used only rarely, usually by envoys or important military advisors. It signified to soldiers on watch that the individual wearing it should be treated with courtesy and given access to senior commanders. Rebald’s ranking CRS espionage officers wore them so they could come and go as they pleased.

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Rebald said to him, “Greetings, Major Kline. Is my team ready?” The major inclined his head. “Affirmative, General. I picked out a solid group willing to do whatever you ask of them. Hardened men. They will be leaving for Caspia immediately.” “The first stage will be information gathering. I need them to find her, and do so without being noticed. I’d like to be informed as soon as they track her down. I’d prefer you were leading the team, but I need you here.” “It will be as you say,” Kline assured him. “These are skilled professionals, and reliable. Though it may not be possible to find her. Many capable people have tried and failed over the years.” “So long as no one can find her, she is not a threat. But I need to be sure that if she does emerge for any reason, we are ready to get to her first. Much rests on this. We have no margin for error.”

243 CHAPTER ELEVEN

South of Point Bourne

Colonel Lynn Hawkins watched through a spyglass from the trees along the western hills as the Cygnaran Army force marching from Point Bourne advanced on the first of her blockade checkpoints on the road southeast of the city. This first engagement would determine how this conflict would proceed and whether her planning had been successful. She was disconcerted at the size of the military column moving down the road—its troop strength was considerably greater than she had been led to expect. As usual, their intelligence was out of date. She saw a great deal of blue armor, the sort that indicated insulated gear to protect against the dangerous electrical forces generated by storm weaponry. Storm Knights. Her own Fourth Army had never been allocated such advanced mechanika. She could not be certain, but the presence of so many Storm Knights increased the odds that this column protected King Leto. There was no other good explanation for a column of this size traveling south, away from the fighting in the Thornwood. Either Leto had chosen Point Bourne over Stonebridge or his spies had The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

seen Vinter’s army occupying that fortress. Without anything more concrete she was reluctant to send word to Vinter. In truth, the largest concentration of their army was too far away to arrive in time to help her intercept this column. She was on her own. “What do you think, Colonel?” asked Major Faulker, who was with her and the others of her battalion hidden amid the trees. “I think we’re going to get trounced,” she said. “We don’t have enough men. Those are knights of the Storm Division. I’d wager a thousand crowns on it.” “Not taking that bet. Commander Stryker, eh?” He spit to the side. “That’s a bit of bad luck. I’d wager in your favor against some others, Colonel, but not against him.” “Lord General Stryker,” she corrected. “He got promoted.” “Oh yeah? Hadn’t heard.” He stared out at the marching enemy for a moment and then asked, “Should we withdraw?” “No, not yet. We need to bloody their noses first.” He made a noise and she said, “Unless you want to tell Vinter we left without a fight?” She did not like the odds, but Vinter would take it poorly if she withdrew from their first engagement without even a token attempt to enforce the roadblock. It would be viewed as cowardice. Vinter was a man who favored bold tactics, so she would need to do what she could to hinder or slow the enemy. Any enemies she killed today would be unavailable tomorrow. Of course, that applied to her soldiers as well. It was even possible, though highly unlikely, that she might be able to get the upper hand. She had chosen a good site for an ambush. This required patience on her part and a willingness

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on the enemy’s to play into her plans. She was not optimistic, however. Stryker might be an arrogant ass who had reached his position because he had the favor of the king, but he was also one of the finest military commanders in Cygnar. Despite his youth, the man had been fighting on the front lines his entire military career, playing a key role in every recent war. While Hawkins had been cooling her heels, gambling and drinking rum at towns along the quiet border with Ord, Stryker had been hip-deep in Menites fighting street-to-street in Sul and Caspia. It was his hand that had struck down Hierarch Voyle. She would not underestimate him. She had set up barricades along the road ahead and stationed several hundred soldiers there, sufficient to stop any ordinary traffic and even to give a small military force pause. But certainly nothing against the elite army that was approaching. The soldiers at the barricade fired a couple of rifle volleys at long range—to little apparent effect—and then they lost their will and gave up their positions. It did not require any deception for them to look convincing as they turned tail and ran, surrendering the barricades and hastening in the opposite direction. They ran in disordered lines down the road between the rugged sloping and wooded hills of the valley. As predicted, the Storm Lances at the vanguard of the military column spurred into action, hundreds of them racing ahead and away from the rest of their line, galloping to run down the fleeing blockade force. There were some military truths that ran deep, one being that armored cavalry could not resist the opportunity to chase down fleeing or routed foes. A foe that ran and was left alone might recover its will and attack again; it was a pragmatic reality of

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war that such soldiers must be truly shattered to eliminate them as a potential threat. Cavalry were perfectly suited for such ruthless tasks. Luring an enemy by false retreat was an ancient and well-worn tactic, yet it still worked most of the time. Their prey were mostly on foot and had little chance of escaping, though among those at the roadblock had been a small squad of lightly armored horsemen, who raced ahead of the rest. Those might escape. The others were doomed. Through the spyglass Hawkins caught the glowing coils along the back of one of the enemy riders near the fore as well as the distinct flash of red hair—confirmation that Stryker was with them. She frowned and sighed, considering that complicated things. She had hoped he would loose his cavalry but hang back, seeing such butchery as beneath him. Either he was more bloodthirsty than she had given him credit for, or more likely he suspected an ambush. Several warjacks ran all-out behind the horses, struggling to keep up with cavalry. Those ’jacks, she expected, would be directly under Stryker’s control. “Signal Miles to attack,” she ordered. “Already?” Faulker asked, surprised, as this was a deviation from their original plan. She compressed her lips and stared at him. Faulker was a solid officer and soldier, but too much time in the indolent Fourth had encouraged a casual attitude toward his superiors. “Very well.” He waved to a soldier who had been sent to climb up one of the nearest trees earlier and who had a signal mirror readied. From the right angle the glimmer of the sun could be reflected to a watcher on the opposite hillside.

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In the valley below, the cavalry still hadn’t reached those fleeing, though they raced through and around the abandoned barricade. She watched intently as one of them trusted to his warhorse’s armored barding and crashed through a smaller stack of crates, setting off an explosion that echoed across the valley. She hadn’t had enough time to fabricate something truly formidable, but the improvised bomb made of stacked barrels of blasting powder served to set the barricade on fire and took out a number of the nearest horsemen. A small accomplishment, but she savored it nonetheless. “First blood to us,” she said. The rest of the riders raced on with renewed anger against the runners. Hawkins had not informed those soldiers what was going to happen to them. They had taken it at face value that they were to hold the line and stop any wagons or other traffic passing through. They knew their allies to be nearby, though not precisely where Hawkins had positioned them. Likely they had watched the oncoming column with great trepidation, waiting for Hawkins to come bursting out of the woods. When there was no sign of her, they had every reason to think themselves abandoned. Their fear was genuine as they fled before the oncoming tide of heavily armored Cygnaran warhorses topped with riders whose lances could shoot lightning. She had selected some of her less experienced and less promising troops for this duty, knowing a good number of them would be lost. Culling the useless by employing them as diversions was a common tactic in the Fourth. She had not planned to also sacrifice the soldiers and knights under Major Lester Miles on the opposing hillside, but it was the only way to convince the enemy their ambush was sprung.

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She said to Faulker, “We need to double-time it several hundred yards north. Our initial clash won’t happen where we intended.” With quiet intensity and gestured orders, her own force was set in motion, repositioning. The colonel kept periodic watch on the action through the trees as they moved. She felt that old familiar thrill, even though their position was far from ideal. The Storm Lances reached the fleeing forces, and there was a crackle of thunder as flashing light erupted across the front of them. The wave of electrical destruction raked the fleeing soldiers and dropped dozens to the earth. Many more fell in the impacts that followed. Some of the fleeing soldiers turned to fire, knowing running would not avail them, but they were scattered and in poor form to concentrate fire. Only a few knights fell to their bullets. Down from the hill opposite rode additional armored cavalry, knights dedicated to the cause of Vinter Raelthorne IV and willing to give their lives to restore their rightful king. These were not Storm Knights, but bannersmen of the nobles that had risked treason to support Vinter. Some wore the dark blue that was Vinter’s traditional color, others more brightly decorated wore the colors of their noble houses. Sons and daughters of privilege, they had nonetheless been trained since youth in the use of the weapons and armor that were their birthright, and they wore expensive and well-fitted plated armor. They lacked the sophisticated voltaic weaponry of their enemies, but a steel-tipped lance backed by a ton of muscled horseflesh was nothing that could be ignored. Their charge brought them between Stryker’s cavalry force and the rest of the military column, composed primarily of infantry, those at the

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front being armored Storm Knights. Behind Miles’ mounted knights rushed a larger number of lighter infantry, wielding long range rifles. They were aiming not at the cavalry but at the advancing column of knights and soldiers in bright blue rushing to join the fray. Rifle volleys began in earnest, sending lines of smoke up from the hillside. They were answered in kind by volleys from the disciplined soldiers below, who hastened to line up in better positions, taking what cover they could among the ditches and nearest trees. Soldiers fell on both sides, though those on the hillside had the advantage of better coverage and elevation. The alacrity with which the Storm Lances reacted to this new threat was impressive to behold. The so-called Storm Division had earned its fame in the Caspia-Sul War and comprised veterans who had fought side-by-side for years. Their cavalry had not seen much action in those city battles but were no less skilled, especially with a warcaster like Lord General Stryker commanding them. Their charge against the fleeing infantry was swiftly aborted as the cavalry wings flowed in two different directions, veering off and wheeling around to face the incoming horsemen. Even as the more traditionally armored knights closed, brilliant lightning crackled through the air between them, followed by the roar of thunder. Dozens of Vinter’s knights were struck, their armor smoking. Their horses screamed and many also faltered, crushing riders beneath them. Stryker himself leveled his sword Quicksilver and fired a bolt of lightning from its tip, taking out a sergeant that had been racing toward him, lance at the ready. Things became more equalized as the two racing forces crashed

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together with a sound of metal meeting metal and flesh. The screaming of injured horses increased, and the ground was soon soaked with the blood of both mounts and riders. Both sides lost a number of men in that initial clash before it became a mixed melee with swords and flails. The remaining infantry that had been fleeing the Storm Lances regained their composure and worked their way toward the other soldiers with Miles’ force, firing rifles as they went. For the moment they had the backs of the repositioned Storm Knights, though as things became more chaotic they would be as likely to hit friendlies as enemies. This at least had Stryker and his knights tied up for the moment, though to Hawkins’ eye the outcome was not much in doubt, especially with Stryker’s warjacks closing to join the battle. Miles knew his tactics and was using his men well, taking a toll on the enemy, but their initial advantage from the ambush was fading, leaving him outnumbered. The forward elements of Stryker’s military column were now engaging with the hillside opposite Hawkins, setting up their lines and firing in that direction. The lines on both sides began to tatter and fray beneath the onslaught of bullets as Hawkins reached the position she desired. Stryker’s column continued to advance, with the men behind filling in for those fallen ahead of them. Miles had no such luxury and had to pull back up the hillside as the enemy rushed to confront him. Trenchers had taken the fore and were moving swiftly up, firing rifles as they went before engaging with their bayonets. Additional knights on foot were mixed among the rifle infantry and ready to engage in melee to support their comrades, though Miles was losing ground. He was

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smart enough to have anticipated Hawkins’ play and was pulling back to the heights more rapidly than was necessary, stretching the attacking lines out and forcing them to overextend. He had positioned several chain guns atop the hill, and the sound of them firing was pleasing to Hawkins’ ears. So was seeing the effect they had on the pursuing enemy soldiers, who were gunned down amid sprays of bullets from those spinning barrels. “Now!” Hawkins ordered. They descended out of the trees and rushed down the slope of the hill toward the backs of the enemy. All the while her mind connected to the warjacks at her disposal, among them a pair of Defenders and three old Sentinels. The long- ranged guns of the Defenders boomed and were followed by rifle fire from her soldiers raking the forward elements of the column. She sent her Sentinels forward to spin their own chain guns up to speed, delivering more bullets into the nearest lightly armored infantry—mostly long gunners and trenchers. Regular chain gun emplacements were bulky and difficult to move, better at defense than offense. They required one soldier carrying bulky ammunition canisters to reload them while another one operated the gun and fired. The warjacks employing the same weapons were considerably more mobile and also stacked with a large supply of bullets, so long as their mechanisms didn’t jam or misfire. She directed them to advance alongside the most valuable of her officers and to use their oversized assault shields to screen them from returning fire. She drew on her magic, invoking a wide ring of glowing runes that circled her waist to project a region of arcane force that would slow and deflect bullets and shells sent at anyone in her proximity. The rest of her focused attention was directed into her warjacks,

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seeing through their eyes, guiding their fire, and directing them to where they would inflict the most harm. Her forces chewed through the vanguard of the column with admirable speed, attacked as they were on both sides. With her Defenders close by, Hawkins joined battle personally, drawing her Thurian hammer and swinging at a passing Storm Lance to topple him from his steed, which galloped on. The man’s wind was knocked from him with a loud exhalation of breath. Before he could scramble to his feet, she speared his neck with the sharpened point atop her weapon. Several knights on foot charged her, and she and her Defenders met them as an unmovable wall of steel. Her power field shimmered and lit the air around her as it deflected harm away. Her Defenders swung their weighty shock hammers and annihilated knights, throwing them yards away as broken corpses. The plated armor worn by Storm Knights was well made but was intended to protect them from glancing rifle fire, explosive shrapnel, or the blades of human opponents—not direct hits from a six-ton warjack. Her own riflemen advanced behind her in lines, firing on soldiers and knights that were not yet engaged in melee, covering her position. A number of knights loyal to Vinter escorted her, ready to intercept their opposing counterparts. They shouted insults at the nearest Storm Knights, some of whom they recognized. There had long been animosity between the older knightly orders and the Storm Knights. Hawkins cared little for such grudges, nor did she feel sympathy for any in the ruling class, whether on her side or the enemy’s. Still, she was glad to have some armored soldiers at her side. The Fourth had never boasted many knights, having only

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inherited those that were dishonored, like she was. Hawkins enjoyed personally striking down Stormblades and Stormguards, seeing in their young faces the arrogance that was a mirror of their leader’s. None of these knights would have served under her with the Fourth. They thought themselves better than her. Many had come from families of high standing, living pampered lives and destined to join the kingdom’s aristocracy. Others may have come from common birth but had been elevated to Leto’s elite and held themselves above common soldiers. They were not her superior now. She took pleasure in sending her hammer down to crush the helmet and skull of another enemy trying to close on her from the side and found herself panting, feeling her age. Once a light clash like this would not have fazed her. Time took its toll. Still, even with some of her muscles screaming at her over the unfamiliar abuse, she also felt exhilaration. Amid a slight lull in the melee she took a moment to scan the enemy forces through the eyes of her warjacks, giving her a broader perspective than she could have managed alone. Through the northernmost Sentinel she saw amid the advancing soldiers a ring of silver-armored Stormguard surrounding several high-ranking officers and a man that could be none other than King Leto. Several protective warjacks were near him, and she had no easy means to get to him even if she were inclined to suicidal impulses. At least she had confirmation of his presence. Despite having seized the initiative, Hawkins knew her advantage was gone. They had divided the heavy cavalry from the front of the column and wreaked havoc across the forward infantry,

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but already more soldiers and warjacks were rushing to engage, spreading across the front of the new line and shoring up their flanks. The enemy force greatly outnumbered hers, and they would soon realize to what degree. Their morale would be recovered, while that of her own men shivered and would soon crumble. The clouds above darkened and churned as Cygnar’s storm weapons affected the weather. The distinctive scent of ozone filled the air. Bolts from unleashed storm glaives joined lightning called from the sky by stormsmiths to annihilate her soldiers and disrupt the cortexes of her warjacks. With no foes in her reach she drew her hand cannon and fired on the nearest, directing her Defenders to do the same. The earth suddenly heaved and Hawkins barely retained her feet as an explosive shell erupted nearby, knocking down one of her Defenders as well as several of her knights. It was an approaching Avenger warjack, with its seismic grenades, another sophisticated new weapon that the Fourth Army had been deprived of. She urged the fallen Defender to rise and sent the other to charge the approaching machine. Stryker’s other warjacks had yet to reach him, but she saw they were closing. Another horseman neared, and she turned to see Lord General Stryker atop his steed. He reared up as his sword pointed at one of her knights that had courageously but foolishly charged him. A bolt of lightning took the man in the chest before he got halfway there. He groaned in anguish, staggered, and fell. Stryker shouted at her, “Colonel Hawkins, I command you to surrender! I promise you will receive a fair trial!” “And a swift execution, I’m sure!” she yelled back, giving him

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a fierce smile. “I don’t think so. There’s still time for you to visit Stonebridge and bend knee to our true king!” He gritted his teeth and pointed Quicksilver her way, launching another lightning bolt. She slammed her heel into the ground even as she swiftly reloaded her hand cannon. The electrical blast was absorbed by the insulating conduits she had installed in her warcaster armor, sent down with a tingling sensation through her legs and into the metal spike in her boot heel that delivered it safely into the ground. She raised the heavy pistol and fired at her attacker, though she did not expect to penetrate his power field. Sure enough, the field around him flickered into visibility as it deflected the bullet away. Hawkins urged her last unengaged Defender, the one that had just regained its feet, to charge the other warcaster, hoping to occupy him for a bit. Staying would be a losing proposition. Stryker’s customized Ironclad was rushing forward to intercept, while he nudged his horse skillfully to step to the side, evading the Defender’s downward blow as it smashed into the earth beside him. She raised her hand and runes spread around her fist as she pointed toward Stryker. The ground around him erupted into jagged spikes of stone. His horse staggered and he was forced to leap clear to avoid being crushed beneath it. The earth around him remained unstable. She enjoyed using his own tricks against him but knew it would not last long. The Ironclad crashed into her Defender, knocking it off its feet and smashing it with its powerful quake hammer. Stryker finished the ’jack with an overhead blow from Quicksilver. “Sound the withdrawal!” she shouted to Major Faulker, who

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nodded and raised a horn to blow two short notes. Then the two of them raced back toward the eastern hillside. Several of Miles’ mounted knights were nearby, one of them holding the reins of a horse that had lost its rider. She went to it and vaulted into its saddle, then pulled Major Faulker up behind her before spurring the steed forward. As her men began the retreat behind her, she maneuvered her remaining warjacks to assist them. Her Sentinels had carved out an open space among the enemy lines with their chain guns, but more of Leto’s soldiers filled that gap. Her riflemen rushed east behind her in staggered waves, half firing to cover the other half and then alternating. They climbed up into the hills, veering north, while her embattled melee knights held their counterparts at bay. It was time to break for Stonebridge. Her officers conducted the fighting retreat well, inflicting a heavy toll on those of Leto’s forces that attempted to follow. The forested and rocky hillside favored them, giving ample cover and a superior firing position. After the initial fray, Hawkins sent messengers on their fastest remaining horses. One went toward the nearest railway station to tell her soldiers there to do what sabotage they could before withdrawing. Others went ahead to Stonebridge to confirm that Leto had come through Point Bourne. Vinter would muster his army to give chase, though so many people and their equipment could not be moved swiftly even in the best circumstances. She feared Leto had slipped their grasp, for now. He was still a long way from Caspia, though, and his escorting force was not a full army. The presence of Lord General Stryker, together with the elite knights he had brought with him, had been alarming but did not represent all it might have. After her people

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had reached the summit of the steep hill, Hawkins had gained a better perspective to observe the military column marching with Leto, and she estimated they were less than four thousand strong. That was more than she had brought to stop them but nowhere near the strength of Stryker’s full Storm Division. She was certain the division numbered in the tens of thousands—which meant most of Stryker’s armed force remained in the north, dealing with Khador. Leto was vulnerable. She had hoped to inflict additional casualties on Leto’s army if they foolishly extended the chase. This seemed possible if Stryker wanted to deprive Vinter of a warcaster. They didn’t pursue her far into the hills, however. Clearly the safety of their king was their first priority, and they also may have suspected her retreat to be another ruse hiding more ambushes. Given the limited size of her force, Hawkins felt satisfied with the casualties she had inflicted compared to her losses. She had accomplished her goal of bloodying the enemy, though not much more. Now the question was whether this would be enough to satisfy Vinter, whose temper was legendary. Given she was the only warcaster he had at his disposal, she felt reasonably certain he wouldn’t execute her—at least not yet.

258 CHAPTER TWELVE

Arriving at Corvis

The arrival of Magnus’ army at the northern gates of Corvis early in the crisp winter morning was occasion for considerable consternation from the soldiers and town guard manning their posts. They did not to know what to make of the massive mercenary army requesting to enter the city. Julius observed from astride his steed with his helmet on, hopefully looking sufficiently inconspicuous, though he could not resist pushing close enough to hear MacBain talk to those sent to question him. They had escalated from an ordinary watchman through a sergeant and a lieutenant, and now a captain had walked forward to talk to the implacable warcaster. MacBain refused to take no for an answer, insisting he had business in the city. He said he was not inclined to leave the majority of his men, gear, and warjacks outside the gates. This watch captain said to him, “It’s a matter of the law, Master MacBain. We can’t allow private citizens to be marching around with an army! You’re way beyond the limits imposed by law on a non-chartered private contractor. Indeed, unless you happen to be a Cygnaran duke, you’re well beyond the armed staff allowed to The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

most nobles.” This aroused some chuckling from the two watchmen standing with polearms that had escorted him. “I’ve accumulated some nicknames over the years, but Duke wouldn’t be one of them,” MacBain said. “I do have with me a good number of people who belong to an assortment of chartered companies recognized in Cygnar. What if you consider us all arriving here at the same time a coincidence? Or something of a reunion?” “But they are all under your employ,” the captain said. “You already said so.” “I suppose that’s true, but we could keep that between us.” MacBain winked. “I can make it worth your while.” “I don’t think so!” The captain drew himself up and frowned. “You may not have noticed, but we’re hosting a substantial garrison of the Cygnaran Army here. I don’t think they’d take kindly to us letting you through the gates.” “Well, it just so happens those are the people I’m here to meet,” MacBain said. “I have an appointment with Duke Ebonhart, who I believe is also a general in one of Cygnar’s armies. I forget which. I was given to understand he might have need of some mercenaries. Or if you’d prefer, I could go put out my shingle with the reds. I expect they could use some help.” The man’s face darkened at this and he shared a look with his lieutenant before shooting an uneasy glance at several of the nearest soldiers also manning the walls. “Now, now, let’s not have talk like that. We’re at war, you know!” “Exactly!” MacBain said, punctuating the statement with a jab of his cigar. “It is at such times that a mercenary has the most

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opportunities. Now, I was willing to give preference and possibly even a discount to Duke Ebonhart, given his honorable nature and the fact that I have a soft spot for Cygnar in this conflict. But we’re professionals, and we’ll go where the work takes us.” “Hold on a moment,” the captain objected, his forehead beaded with sweat. “You didn’t mention an appointment with the duke earlier. Let me see if I can find someone who can speak for him.” He looked unhappy as he turned and went back through the gates. MacBain showed no sign of impatience as he waited but stood and chatted with a couple of the Steelhead captains as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The two Galleon colossals loomed near the front of their forces, their towering bulk exceeding even Corvis’ high walls and making the soldiers standing atop the battlements uneasy. With a groaning of flexing metal, one of the colossals leaned forward to peer at the nearest large cannon atop the wall, looking like it wanted to add the weapon to its collection. The crew manning the gun drew back in alarm. Julius was feeling anxious himself, and his mind kept returning to Magnus’ warning that he expected the gun mage Allister Caine to make another attempt here. He kept his helmet on despite how uncomfortable it felt. He had convinced Magnus to return his sword, which he had tucked in amid his other gear slung from his horse’s saddle, knowing it was distinctive. He attempted to look nondescript. The two former inquisitors were close by, as were his other guards. Still, he had the sensation of eyes upon him, together with a recurring itch at the back of his shoulder blades. The rest of their mercenary army had formed an encampment off the main road, close to the walls, just beyond a section of

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ramshackle housing used by a small refugee village that had sprouted beyond the northern gates. The recent wars had forced many people from several nations to lose their homes, and a good number of them had decided to travel to Corvis. Some had found housing or work inside, but the rest had been forced to build new homes in the shadow of the city’s walls. Julius heard different accents among the local residents, some of whom were attempting to sell food or other goods to the mercenaries. Most of the refugees were Llaelese. Llael, the kingdom north of Cygnar and east of Khador, had served as one of the primary theaters in the recent wars and had been largely conquered and divided. This fact had been oft-repeated and lamented by Julius’ tutors. Llael, Cygnar’s oldest ally, crushed by Leto’s incompetence. After two hours another gentleman emerged from the gate together with the watch captain, this one escorted by a pair of formidable Stormguards, knights in blue armor wielding halberds backed by voltaic coils. The man at the fore was not in uniform but was well dressed, with gleaming rings upon his fingers— clearly someone of importance. He introduced himself as Sir Nygil Kristof, Chamberlain for the Duke of the Northern Midlunds, Kielon Ebonhart IV. MacBain greeted him warmly. “It is an honor, good sir. Though I must admit I was expecting an officer or another member of his military staff. Are you the one who handles mercenary contracts for the general?” “I manage the duke’s household finances, but more importantly, his appointments, which you allege to have.” Nygil’s expression suggested he was displeased to have been summoned to talk to a

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mercenary warcaster. “I have no record of any such arrangement, and I would be the only one capable of authorizing an appointment.” The warcaster clapped his hands together and said, “It seems we are getting somewhere! I am afraid there may have been a miscommunication. I very much need to meet with Duke Ebonhart, which is what I was telling the watch captain here, and suggested he find someone capable of arranging an appointment.” The watch captain bristled and sputtered at the blatant lie, but the chamberlain took it in stride, gesturing to calm the man down. He said, “The duke’s time is precious, especially now. I do not imagine he will be available for quite some time, if ever. Perhaps you should seek out one of his subordinate officers.” “I understand,” MacBain said. “However, I’m afraid the offer I’m making can only be given to the duke himself. He is the only one of sufficient standing, authority, and wealth to secure my services. I am offering a substantial discount, but only if I can speak to him directly and allow my men the chance for rest and relaxation inside this fine city. They’ve been out in the woods for some time. Additionally, I have machines badly in need of service.” The chamberlain’s eyes narrowed. He said, “Those are impertinent demands.” “Are they?” MacBain went on, “You will note I have brought with me a pair of the finest pieces of military hardware to walk from the forges of Black Anchor Heavy Industries. Those are Galleon colossals you’re looking at there, the first of their kind. The duke knows the value of such hardware, as well as men like myself who can control them. This is a one-time offer. If the duke is too busy to see me, so be it. As I was telling your friend the watch captain,

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I am willing to go on my way. But we need work, and soon. The only other party that can afford my fee would be the Khadorans. I’ve worked for them recently, in fact. I have always found them to be reliable and generous clients.” The chamberlain stared at him for some time, his lips pursed. MacBain never lost his smile. At last Kristof said, “Very well, you may have your appointment.” “Ah, excellent!” MacBain said, offering a slight bow. “Lead the way, good sir.” The chamberlain held up a single finger, as if talking to a wayward youth. He said, “You and your men may enter the city, though I will be arranging for a military escort and we will proceed directly to the duke’s offices. Your men will not be allowed to disperse or make use of the city’s amenities until such a time as Duke Ebonhart agrees to enter into a contract with you. Should an arrangement prove impossible, you must immediately leave. We will take a route that will minimize damage to the city from your colossals, and you must not deviate from it. If so much as a single firearm discharges within the city limits on our way to your appointment, there will be retaliations and you will be arrested.” “Of course! We will be on our best behavior, I assure you. There are a few specific members of my staff that need to be with me at that meeting, by the way.” MacBain caught Julius’ eye and gave him a wink as the chamberlain turned away. Julius shook his head, feeling admiration for the warcaster, who clearly had no shame or fear. He had no doubt such men were uniquely dangerous. • • • Captain Allister Caine had arrived at Corvis two days before the

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mercenary army, making his entrance quietly, lacking any fanfare or indeed much in the way of recognition. This was by design. He was testing out a simple disguise, a means to try to make his status as a warcaster less obvious while retaining the use of his armor. This involved some adjustments to his greatcoat to conceal his rank insignia as well as painting the armored plates of his armor in more neutral tans and grays. He had rigged a soldier’s backpack to obscure the smokestacks of his arcane turbine, which were hidden amid what appeared to be a bedroll and other supplies. These were all alchemically treated to provide some fire resistance—the disguise wouldn’t do him any good if his back lit on fire when he cranked up his turbine. He resembled a mercenary soldier just off a long march and loaded down with his kit, but at least his silhouette was not necessarily that of a warcaster. If he smoked a cigar it was easy to overlook the thin line of smoke emerging behind his head. He had traveled to Corvis with the small armed force he had requested, primarily trencher commandos, rangers, and support crew for his light warjacks. All these he had sent into the city ahead of himself—including Ace, which had once again shown some initial resistance to being separated. The trencher sergeant otherwise in charge of his people was a capable ’jack marshal and knew how to handle warjacks. He’d been given the access passwords to Caine’s warjacks and would verbally command them until Caine recovered them. Caine had also given the codes to Reed, the mechanik he’d brought from Fellig. Caine wanted the soldiers and warjacks in the city in case he needed them, but he also had to stay mobile and be able to lurk around without drawing attention, as several tons of steel and iron would do. Even Ace had an easier time staying out of

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sight in the forest than on crowded city streets. The gun mage had made contact with a few locals he knew and trusted, including a CRS lieutenant named Hugh Langes he had worked with before. Langes was low on the CRS hierarchy, but he was with the espionage arm of the organization and knew Caine sometimes worked for the scout general. It was enough to inspire him to cooperate without asking too many questions. No doubt the man would send a confirmation query on to his boss, which in this event was fine, given Caine was in Corvis on Rebald’s orders. Having a local CRS agent aware of him should make things less complicated in the likely event there was violence within the city limits. The city watch frowned on people being gunned down in their jurisdiction. He’d also made contact with a few of the junior officers in charge of the northern gate watches, as the most likely place where Magnus and company would enter the city. In this instance Magnus didn’t have many choices if he wanted to get to the other side of the Dragon’s Tongue River. Corvis was situated at an unusual river conjunction, where the Black River flowed down from the north and eventually onward south to Caspia, forming Cygnar’s eastern border. A smaller finger of the river split off to flow west toward the Bay of Stone, the start of the Dragon’s Tongue River. This offshoot likely would have died a natural death if local efforts hadn’t preserved it, making use of an oddity in the geography to create a natural division in the river. What was originally a small but steady flow west was strengthened by tributaries downriver, at which point the Dragon’s Tongue swelled into a major waterway in its own right. The rivers brought shipping trade through the city from three

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different directions, though that traffic had been diminished with the outbreak of war to the north. When the Thornwood was firmly held by Cygnar, Corvis had been a relatively safe and sheltered city. It had thrived due to its position, which enabled it to see trade passing from Rhul, Llael, Ord, and even Khador. Even with the advent of the railway, a great deal of Cygnaran goods were shipped by riverboat. The military also made use of these river arteries, now more than ever. Caine saw the city with very different eyes than he would have as a youth; then, it had been the allure of the alleyways that would have occupied his attention. Now, he saw the city’s importance to Cygnar, to the army. The population of the city had swollen greatly in the last five years, both from the glut of refugees and from a massive increase in its army garrison. Nearly a third of the people who called the city home now were soldiers. Caine saw crowding everywhere he went, both inside and outside the walls. It felt a very different place than it had been, and a stark contrast from the diminished forest city of Fellig with its abandoned streets and insular residents. Walking through its streets was a sensory experience, and not always a pleasant one. The stench of filth was as common as the aroma of the sizzling food cooked up by street vendors and restaurants. With so many people crammed behind its walls, it was difficult to tell where the markets started and ended. Corvis was home to a profusion of twisty alleyways and narrow lanes, but to get from one side of the city to the other there were only a few choices. The largest avenues corresponded with the main gates and the three bridges over the rivers. If Magnus intended to get an army through the city, he would be impossible to miss; there was

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only one route that was likely. With that in mind, Caine picked up a room at an inn in the Industrial Bourg with a commanding view over the western bridge, which crossed the Dragon’s Tongue. He did not intend to rely on his eyes alone and had given instructions to his rangers, sending them to the gatehouses and bridges. He needn’t have worried. He was informed quickly after the mercenary army showed up outside the northern gate of the city, where they were forced to remain by the side of the road for some hours. Lieutenant Langes escorted him to a good viewing spot in one of the towers overlooking the road, and he saw that Drake MacBain was acting as front man for the mercenary army. It made sense that Magnus would prefer to remain unseen, being a wanted outlaw. Several others among his followers also had large bounties on their heads, Jarok Croe foremost among them. Caine saw no sign of that man or his gang of cutthroats now, though. Nor was he able to spot his quarry, Julius, though the youth could have been any of a number of nearly identical Steelheads. At this distance there was no way to identify individuals among them. Caine hadn’t expected it would be as easy as shooting the youth from the battlements, though he had mulled over the notion of borrowing a scoped rifle just in case. The truth was, he had never felt as comfortable firing a rifle as his pistols. Some few gun mages enjoyed their use, but to Caine firing such a weapon felt like trying to write with his toes. “Who’s that?” he asked Langes as they observed a well-heeled man emerging with a Stormguard escort to talk to MacBain. “Duke Ebonhart’s chamberlain,” the CRS lieutenant answered. “He’s the one who manages the duke’s non-military affairs. One of

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the most important men in the Northern Midlunds.” “That’s a little odd, isn’t it?” Caine frowned. “Why summon him?” “If I had to guess, I’d say they are arranging for a meeting with the duke. Sir Nygil Kristof is the only person who could make that happen.” Like many nobles in Cygnar, Duke Ebonhart had two sets of responsibilities, one related to his position in the government, the other to his military standing. He was in charge of the Northern Midlunds Duchy, meaning he was the highest governing authority in the region, with extensive ancestral estates, household staff, and vassals. He had considerable sway over the government in cities like Corvis, where he could appoint or dismiss officials as he pleased, so long as the king did not overrule. Additionally, he was a general of one of the large divisions of the Cygnaran Army. He was a man who would not be at all impressed by Caine’s warcaster standing, should things get messy while implementing his mission. Seeing MacBain talking to the duke’s chamberlain was more than a little alarming. He’d have thought Magnus would go out of his way to avoid Duke Ebonhart. After a brief but lively discussion with MacBain, the chamberlain dispatched runners while MacBain ordered his people to form up and make themselves presentable. Then the chamberlain accompanied the mercenary warcaster as they entered the city. It appeared MacBain had talked his way in. Several hundred army soldiers soon arrived to serve as an armed escort, creating altogether something like a military parade. The two Galleon colossals barely fit through the gates. As they passed, one of them knocked stones loose from one of the nearest section

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of ramparts, causing the soldiers on the battlements to shout down and shake their fists. Caine suspected such machines would be able to negotiate only the largest city streets, further limiting their route. Their weight was such that they tore up the cobblestones as they went, leaving giant footprints behind them. MacBain headed along the route Caine had predicted, headed for the bourg that included a number of the more affluent residences in the city as well as those taken over by the Cygnaran Army to serve as their local headquarters. There were enough soldiers in the city that they occupied multiple garrisons ringing the outer walls, but the senior officers had established their central offices west of the river waterfront and just north of the Armorer’s Bourg. That was where Duke and General Ebonhart was likely to be. After watching them go, Caine scratched his chin thoughtfully. Langes asked, “What can I do to assist you, Captain?” Caine had told him very little as yet regarding his plans, and the man seemed anxious. He had no idea what the warcaster was about, and now the evident involvement of the duke had him on edge. Caine asked, “Is there anywhere near the Army HQ where my soldiers and warjacks won’t draw attention?” “Yes,” he answered slowly, suspiciously, “there’s a tavern across the street that caters to military personnel almost exclusively. And warjacks are not unusual in that vicinity. There’s a small private ’jack shop about a block away.” Caine could see in the man’s eyes that he was debating whether he should ask more. “Get my people and take them there. They should keep the ’jacks fueled and ready, then await my orders. Same goes for yeh. Stand by. If yeh have a couple of trusted people, bring them. I’d

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like to see any street maps yeh have of the area.” “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said, reluctantly. Caine could almost see the gears turning in his head, especially the ones wondering if Caine had the authority to give him orders. Chain of command could be strange in the CRS, even without the complication of dealing with a warcaster. He asked, “It might help me help you if there were anything you’d like to share about your plans.” “When I figure them out, I’ll let yeh know,” he replied with a grin. • • • As they marched through Corvis, Julius attempted to remain on his guard without looking jumpy. He also paid attention to the goings-on at the front of the column, where a procession of messengers had approached the chamberlain. From what Julius overheard, arrangements were being made to deal with their men, which was likely creating a hassle for everyone involved. This at least suggested the duke intended to humor MacBain with an audience. From the corner of his eye he saw Bristol make a signal gesture, tapping her thigh twice with a pair of fingers extended. He looked over to her and she nodded, signifying Magnus wanted to speak with him. He slowed his horse and fell back to the enclosed wagon, then dismounted and climbed inside. Magnus was speaking to a scruffy-looking man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, who was wearing soiled clothing and smelled of sweat and grime. They had apparently concluded their conversation, and Magnus inclined his head and thanked him, then handed him a few gleaming coins as they shook hands. The other man pulled up his hood and slipped out of the back of the wagon with a rodent-

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like motion. Through the opening in the canvas covering the back Julius saw him melt easily away into one of the nearest alleyways. “An old friend?” he asked. Magnus gave a small smile and said, “I’ve confirmed Caine is in the city, trying to keep a low profile. We have to presume he’s going to attack again. My words did not reach him.” He said the last in a regretful tone. “Ah well, it was worth a try.” Julius swallowed and felt a quick jolt of fear, which he suppressed. “That is . . . unfortunate.” He wondered, would he even hear a report of the gun before the bullet hit? “We’ve worked and drilled on what to do. Let your training guide you, and heed those risking their lives to protect you.” Magnus had opened a large chest in the back of the wagon and was sorting through its contents as he talked. “I feel reasonably certain that even Caine won’t be foolhardy enough to attack while we’re in the company of Duke Ebonhart. He’ll not want to make an attempt until immediately after. I know precisely where I would do it, were I in his position.” “I’d like him kept alive, if it can be managed,” Julius said. “As would I, in truth,” Magnus said, “but that might not be possible. I’d worry more about your own health.” He stood as straight as his posture allowed him, and Julius noticed he was wearing better clothes than was his habit, and he had taken some efforts to clean up his warcaster armor. He said, “This meeting with Ebonhart is key. He will not want to listen to me. Convincing him will ultimately fall to you.” “I understand,” Julius said. “How are we hiding your identity?” “We aren’t,” Magnus said. “I’ll need to reveal myself at the outset.”

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Julius swallowed. “This seems a risk. What’s to stop him from arresting you, or both of us?” The warcaster nodded. “I have contingencies in place, but hopefully I won’t need them. Ebonhart is a practical man, and Leto has stretched his patience to the breaking point. He’s ready to hear your case. He will do what is best for Cygnar, ultimately. There are other nobles like him. We just have to reach them.” “All contingent on Ebonhart listening to a single word we have to say.” Magnus smiled and said, “The gambit we used to gain entrance here will tempt him—the mercenary force I assembled is formidable. Ebonhart would rather see it employed on his side than Vinter’s, or Khador’s. We are in a better bargaining position than it might appear.” Julius took that in. He wasn’t entirely sure he believed it, but he sought to put his doubts aside. Magnus added, “We’ll also need to leave our weapons behind for the meeting.” “Yet another risk,” Julius said. “I suppose there is no end to them.” “No. Not even when you eventually sit atop the throne.”

273 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Corvis, Army Headquarters

Caine was able to use the rooftops of Corvis to follow the mercenary procession without drawing attention, occasionally flashing from one to the next. This was mentally draining but he had done such operations often enough before to endure it. He paced himself, making use of old-fashioned leg-power most of the time, leaping across the smaller gaps. Doing this sort of thing always made him think of his younger days as a small-time hoodlum in Bainsmarket. There were signs that he was not the only one to make use of such routes, like the occasional plank between buildings, or knotted ropes leading up to easier ledges. It was not the improvised maze of catwalks one could find in places like Five Fingers, but Corvis had its share of rooftop prowlers. Most of them likely preferred to take such courses at night rather than in daylight. Caine was relieved not to run into anyone who might take exception to his presence. Corvis had a lively criminal community, in truth, though more dwelled underground than above it. The city sat atop an extensive undercity, where entire streets and buildings had sunk below the The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

surface yet remained intact. The foundations for the city had always been unstable, surrounded as it was by the swampy Widower’s Wood. None of this had stopped the stubborn Midlunders, who kept erecting new buildings on top of the old ones. As he moved between them, Caine saw several buildings that were leaning at a slight angle, their foundations having shifted. From the rooftops he observed the mercenary army occupy a large park a few blocks from the main army headquarters. A smaller group broke off to follow the chamberlain to that stately building. Once it was clear this was indeed where they were heading, Caine went ahead and made a swift circuit of the building from the adjoining rooftops, being especially cautious. He knew it was possible some of Magnus’ people might also seek an elevated vantage, though the mercenaries did not enjoy the same liberty of movement in Corvis as they had in Fellig. It would be more difficult for Magnus to place snipers and watchmen so long as his mercs were being watched by soldiers in service to Duke Ebonhart. Caine had been in this headquarters before and retained a reasonably good memory of its layout. He thought he knew where Ebonhart would meet his guests. The inner curtains of that room’s windows were drawn, but he had a solution for that. Caine drew on his magic to augment his vision, allowing him to see that which was hidden and to pierce simple and ephemeral barriers like smoke or the gauzy curtain cloth. Attaining a good vantage on the room from a roof opposite took a bit of maneuvering. He eventually got a clear line of sight to the large desk behind which the duke was seated, enough to confirm through his spyglass the man’s identity. It would have been rather

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embarrassing for him to spend his time spying on a random clerk or officer. To gain the best angle, he had to go prone along a cold, narrow ledge down from the main roof. He could feel all the heat of his body draining out of him and into the unyielding surface beneath him. His position was cast into shadow and he hoped to be relatively difficult to spot, so he attempted to make himself as comfortable as possible. He set his arcane turbine to the lowest setting that would not extinguish its fires, confident the tiny wisp of smoke it emitted would not be noticed among the rooftops. Corvis was an industrial city with its share of smokestacks. He wouldn’t be able to hear any conversation from here, though a great deal could be inferred from observing body language and gestures. Primarily he wanted to see if he could identify Julius again. He felt certain the bastard would be present for this meeting. If he was right, and Magnus planned to introduce the boy to Duke Ebonhart, it should be obvious. It would be illuminating to see how the man reacted. Despite passing thoughts about how convenient this endeavor might be if he had any skill with a rifle, Caine did not actually intend to fire on the boy while he was in the chambers of the most powerful man in the Northern Midlunds. But as soon as they bid one another adieu, he would find a way to seize whatever opportunity presented itself. The fact that the boy was in the company of two formidable warcasters was one of those little details he would have to work out. At present his plan was to ignore those two, take his shot, and run like hell. It lacked nuance, but a similar approach had proven quite effective many times in the past.

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• • • The duke was not a man to rely solely on his rank and reputation for security; he took a number of precautions before allowing Magnus entrance. Though they waited to reveal Magnus’ identity until they had arrived at the headquarters, it was clear the chamberlain recognized him. Julius wished he could have heard the conversations between Kristof and his master before they consented to MacBain bringing “members of his staff,” one of whom was the most wanted man in Cygnar. All the same, the army headquarters was protected by dozens of well-armed soldiers in addition to the seasoned officers working within, and several warjacks were stationed outside its doors and operating in the nearby vicinity. Any attempted violence would have consequences. None of them were armed, having left their weapons with Steelhead officers at the headquarters entrance. The people accompanying MacBain to the meeting were very few, only Julius, Magnus, and Old Man Quinn—Magus Quinn, Julius reminded himself. He had been startled to learn Sergeant Bristol would not be joining them. He had become so accustomed to her presence that it felt strange when she was not around. Midwinter had vanished earlier, after receiving instructions from Magnus. The warcasters were allowed to retain their mechanikal armor but were forced to power down the arcane turbines. This proved to be a particular hindrance to Magnus, who relied on the field generated by his armor to compensate for his mangled right leg. The brace that supported it was heavy, with stubborn hinges. His large mechanikal arm was not entirely reliant on the turbine, having a smaller capacitor as a backup power source, but it would

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not be fully functional without a connection. Magnus let it hang at his side, and his posture and movements were pained. He endured this without complaint, though Julius felt certain it impacted his dignity. Among a pair of warcasters—one a wanted traitor in Cygnar— and a former senior inquisitor, Julius was the odd man out, appearing to be nothing more than an extremely young Steelhead sergeant. He had argued with Magnus to be allowed to wear more formal attire for the occasion. Magnus disagreed, noting in this case that superficial aspects of his appearance were trumped by security. After the meeting Julius was to rejoin the Steelheads and needed to blend in. Magnus suggested an old campaigner and soldier like Ebonhart might respond better to a soldier’s uniform than regal finery anyway. “When we go to Caspia, we’ll see about getting you something else to wear,” he’d had said with a smirk that made Julius’ face redden. “For now, you’re a Steelhead.” Though MacBain was not crippled like Magnus, his own heavy warcaster armor was also intended to be powered. Forcing movement through the stiff joints required them both to move with a stilted gait, though MacBain handled it well and seemed accustomed to moving around in unpowered armor. When the thick doors closed behind them, the duke stepped forward to greet them. Other than the chamberlain, he was alone in his office. This showed some courage, Julius considered, as even without weapons, Magnus could have killed the man in seconds with his magic, had he so desired. The duke wore the uniform of a Cygnaran general, though there were suggestions of his history as one of the first Stormblades.

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His uniform was set with steel plates in the Cygnaran blue on the thighs, arms, chest, and shoulders. An old storm glaive was mounted on the wall behind his desk. It glowed with an inner light that indicated its storm chamber was still functional. Julius had studied the man’s background and knew he had taken up that glaive recently against trollkin uprisings on his western lands. He was a tall and wide-shouldered man, likely in his late forties or early fifties, dark of skin and hair, though the latter had begun to go to grey. His eyes looked fierce and his sharp features were augmented by a narrow, neatly groomed beard and moustache. Even past his prime he was a formidable figure. It was not difficult to imagine him in his full armor fighting alongside Leto in the coup that had deposed Vinter IV. “Master MacBain,” Duke Ebonhart said, “I am given to understand you value your reputation as a professional. I do not know what sort of game you are playing, but this ruse seems beneath you. When did you become a minion of Asheth Magnus?” With this last he turned a cold stare upon the other warcaster. The duke’s lip curled in obvious animosity. “While I’ll grant you circumstances are unusual,” MacBain said affably, “this is no ruse, not as you mean it. The mercenaries with me are available for work, and we mean to offer you first refusal before looking for work elsewhere. There are some additional complications as regards the negotiation, given I am myself currently contracted by Asheth Magnus in a lawful and binding arrangement. I remain, as always, a simple mercenary, a professional. The other matters attached to our coming here do not involve me.” The duke continued to stare at Magnus, anger written in his

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expression. After a pause he said, “You are no longer welcome in this kingdom, Magnus. You are not recognized as a lawful mercenary. You are wanted for a long list of crimes, with treason at the top. I am surprised you would place yourself in my power. It is my duty to have you arrested and tried, as you know.” “Given I am in your power, I suggest you listen to what I have to say. If you decide to arrest me, so be it. It is a risk I have accepted. I hope to persuade you that I am still of use to Cygnar and that our mutual well-being is better served by my remaining free.” “I will admit, I am intrigued,” the duke allowed. “This is an unusual day.” He folded his arms behind his back. “I am willing to listen, though given your history I have no reason to trust your words. I presume it is no coincidence that your appearance and boldness coincide with Vinter Raelthorne emerging from the shadows to sow discord. Are you here to convince me to serve your master? If so, you waste your breath.” Magnus shook his head. “It is no coincidence. But I am not here on Vinter’s behalf. Were he aware what I intended and in a position to stop me, he would have me executed.” “So, you claim to have turned your back on him?” Ebonhart asked with clear skepticism. “Do you expect that will garner admiration or sympathy? Your loyalty to our ex-king, while misguided, at least suggested a moral code to which you adhered. Have you abandoned that as well?” “I will not waste your time on my beliefs or my code,” Magnus said. “I am not here to persuade you I am a good man. But I will strive to help you understand my legitimate purpose. I ask you to consider and accept that all I have striven for was to serve the good

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of our nation.” The duke scoffed but did not interrupt. Magnus continued, “I served Vinter because he was our king and a strong ruler, if one with flaws. Leto is a usurper. He has never denied this. I fulfilled my duty as a commander of the Cygnaran Army by rejecting Leto’s authority. The majority of my ‘crimes,’ as you call them, were an extension of this defiance. Will you grant me this fact?” Ebonhart paused, his eyes still angry but also thoughtful. He said, “You are a prideful man, and ambitious. You hoped to earn favor under Vinter, to rise above your station. I do not for a moment believe you acted out of concern for Cygnar. Yet I will grant you that most of your crimes stem from the side you picked during the coup. From your loyalty to Vinter. It seems a bit late to redress that particular misstep.” “I served Vinter too long, it is true. I was guilty of seeing in him more than he was. I did not understand the ways in which his sanity had begun to fail, his paranoia to grow, and his sense of self-importance to eclipse all other thoughts. The man who returned from the Bloodstone Marches after a decade living with the ruthless inhabitants of the Skorne Empire, was not the man he was when he left.” Julius listened to this particular story with fascination. Magnus had never spoken much about his turn from Vinter. Magnus continued, “On his return, Vinter showed his true colors. He betrayed my loyalty to him, subjecting me to torture simply for questioning the wisdom of his clearly flawed attack plan against Fort Falk. While my face was being sliced by a master skorne paingiver, I saw the truth at last: I saw Vinter as

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the monster he is. He had unleashed the skorne against Cygnar to weaken it, not caring who would be enslaved by them. His desire to restore himself to his throne had shattered his sanity, and I saw he would rule over smoking rubble if he must. He had lost all sense of perspective. I had sought to justify his actions, to believe they would strengthen Cygnar in the long run, but this was untrue. He would see the kingdom burn for rejecting him.” Julius had not seen Magnus display his passions on the matter so nakedly. It was as though the animosity in Duke Ebonhart’s eyes had pulled from the warcaster all the indignation that had been smoldering in his heart. It had provoked a rare but powerful moment of utter honesty. “You aided them as well,” Ebonhart said. “The skorne. You worked alongside them, helped them past our borders. I lost many men in that attack on Fort Falk, good men. Others were lost at Eastwall, another attack I know you instigated. You are to blame as much as the skorne, as much as Vinter. You have the blood of thousands of Cygnaran soldiers on your hands.” Magnus sighed and shook his head, looking down. He said, “You and I will never see the world the same way. I am telling you how I realized I was serving the wrong cause.” Magnus looked up and said, “Not long after I saw the true nature of Vinter, I also became aware of a new hope for Cygnar. A chance to bring a fresh start for our kingdom. Let me introduce you to the person who is the reason I have taken the risk to stand before you.” He waved for Julius to step forward, and he placed a hand on his shoulder. “This is Julius Raelthorne, first and only son of Vinter and true heir to the Cygnaran throne. Given the chance, I believe even Leto would welcome him as family. There are people close to your king who

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would instead see Julius killed. They know the truth he represents. It is this truth I serve, not Vinter.” The surprise on the duke’s face was evident. He unclasped his arms and stepped forward to stare at Julius, who sought to match that stern gaze evenly, though his heart was hammering in his chest. It was not the first time Magnus had introduced him to a stranger, but it was the first time he had done so with someone of such importance, one of the realm’s foremost nobles. This was a man he needed to become one of his loyal vassals. Ebonhart said to him, “You claim to be the son of Vinter Raelthorne?” “I do,” Julius said. “Though I have never met my father, or my mother, I have been raised knowing my bloodline—that ruling Cygnar is my first obligation and duty. I have seen paintings of my father and I see aspects of his eyes, his face, when I look at my reflection. I know it to be true.” “Belief in one’s parentage is one thing, but it is far from proof.” His voice was hushed, quiet, and he continued to study Julius’ features. “Though I will admit the resemblance is strong. I would not find it difficult to believe this youth is a Raelthorne.” He looked to Magnus and said, “What proof do you offer of this claim?” Magnus said, “I do not have definitive proof, though I intend to seek it out. It’s possible nothing ironclad exists to verify Julius’ lineage. Yet I am convinced.” He waved for Quinn to also step forward, on the other side of Julius. “This man can speak to Julius’ background better than anyone, having spent over a decade helping raise him and make him ready for his destiny.” “And you are?” Ebonhart asked, crossing his arms.

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Quinn took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for the inevitable reaction. “My name is Wilkes Quinn. I was once a senior inquisitor.” The duke’s eyes widened. “By that admission you also become subject to arrest and execution. You were not among those who came forward to be pardoned by King Leto to serve the crown against its enemies.” “Yes, that is true. When I first set out on this course I decided to put my life on the line for my convictions. I have given up all vows to the Inquisition and have dedicated my life to seeing Julius recognized and crowned.” “You appear sincere,” Ebonhart said after a moment, as if this surprised him. “But I know inquisitors to be skilled at all manner of manipulation and subterfuge. And abandoning your vows does not erase your crimes. Tell me, how did you become associated with this young man?” Quinn placed a hand on Julius’ other shoulder, a rare familiarity. “I have known Julius since he was three years old, when he entered my custody. In helping to raise and instruct him, I have at times felt almost as though he were my own son. I attest and vow upon the name of the Creator and by the Twins that Julius is the true son of Vinter Raelthorne and Adeline Dunning and therefore heir to the throne. Adeline was a woman who was secretly in an intimate relationship with the king several years before the coup. When Julius was born, he was hidden away to keep him from his father. I was among a small group of inquisitors who secured and safeguarded Julius after his foster parents were killed in a fire. Our initial goal was to preserve him to restore the Raelthorne line should Vinter never return from the Bloodstone Marches. In time,

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we abandoned old vows. We came to believe Julius will restore the Raelthorne name to its former prestige. We kept his existence secret from the rest of the Inquisition, except a few trusted associates who are now dead.” “Quite a claim! Yet you are also a person whose character, like Magnus, does not lend itself to trust.” “As you say, Your Grace.” Quinn knew better than to argue this point. The duke asked, “What became of this Adeline Dunning woman?” Quinn said, “We believe she perished, perhaps not long after giving birth to Julius. The Inquisition sought her out but was unable to find her. What little evidence we uncovered suggested she likely took her own life to avoid scandal.” Julius bowed his head at this, more from a sense of propriety and respect for the woman who bore him than any emotional connection. He had not even the faintest hint of memory involving his birth mother and only the haziest of recollections of the foster family that had kept him for several years. His life seemed to begin in the tiny world of a basement in a Wexmere estate. Quinn lifted a small satchel he wore over his shoulder and said, “I have papers and letters, exchanged by other members of the Inquisition, which touch on Julius’ origins. They verify our story.” He handed these to the duke. The duke accepted them and briefly thumbed through the papers, though he was clearly disinclined to pore over them at length. “An illegitimate birth, in any event,” he said, though not in a tone that suggested outright dismissal. “Even if this story is true.”

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“It is my belief,” said Magnus, “that the people of Cygnar, commoner and noble alike, will look past questions of legitimacy when they see Julius with their own eyes. Especially should the more trusted peers of the realm accept him and stand by him. Men such as yourself.” “What you ask is treason, though you are no stranger to that,” Ebonhart said to Magnus, his nostrils flaring. “Even were I to accept what you say is true—and I’ll admit the resemblance on this youth’s face is nearly enough to convince me—why should I do anything you ask?” Julius knew this was his cue. He said, “Duke Ebonhart, I mean to make myself known to the Royal Assembly, to assert my rights by blood. I promise to stand against my father when he tries to reclaim the throne. I know him to be a destructive force. The Assembly was correct, after the coup, to declare his claim to the throne null, to accuse him of many crimes. He abused the power of his office and shattered the trust of the people in the laws of the land and the rectitude of the government.” “And you think you can do better than King Leto?” Ebonhart asked, eyes narrowed. “You do not know the troubles he faced early in his reign. I have never known a more intelligent man.” “My uncle did an admirable job in the aftermath of the coup, I know. He has been a fine steward for Cygnar. He restored the kingdom’s economy and the faith of the people, but he is not a legitimate king—a fact he knows as well as anyone. Doubts have eaten at him, and he has become indecisive, leaving the kingdom weakened during a time of war. He has not stood by his nobles and supported them. He failed to support you when the trollkin seized

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your lands, for one. Despite an auspicious beginning of his reign, more recent choices have left Cygnar on the brink of ruin. I intend to rectify that course. I will learn from both my father and my uncle to rule with strength but also justice. I will need men such as yourself to guide me down the right path.” As Julius had spoken the duke’s expression had slowly changed, transforming from skepticism to something that suggested a guarded hope. Julius felt he had reached the man, at least in part. Ebonhart cleared his throat and asked, “And what of King Leto? What do you intend? Let us say I believe your claim and accept your goals. The throne is currently occupied. Despite my recent difficulties with the king, he remains one of my oldest friends and my sovereign lord. I will not betray him.” This was the key moment. Julius took a step closer and said, “It is my understanding that Leto never desired the throne. You can probably attest to this better than the rest of us. He rules from a sense of responsibility, not a desire for power. He had no other option, but I offer one. Before I go to him, I need the support of nobles who will stand with me. It must be clear to him that the realm itself desires a change, a fresh start.” “And if he does not step down? What then?” The young Raelthorne glanced at Magnus, whose expression was hard. He knew the warcaster’s mind on this. Magnus wanted both Leto and Vinter dead. He felt this was the only way Julius could rule. In truth, Julius thought he might be right, but he would not say so to Ebonhart. Instead, he said, “I am certain you are aware Vinter is making his move. He has gathered an army and we believe he will not rest

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until his brother is slain, preferably by his own hand. That outcome may be beyond our ability to prevent. In the battle between Leto and Vinter, anything might happen. I will oppose Vinter, and I will rally this kingdom to stand with me to oppose his tyranny. If I can do so with my uncle alongside me, our strength combined, it would be ideal. But if Leto should fall in battle against my father, I will avenge him.” He had avoided the question, but Julius knew he could not suggest he was willing to kill Leto and persuade Ebonhart to assist him. He had to demonstrate another path. What he suggested was not betrayal but an honorable death for Leto, one that would pave the way for Julius. Ebonhart’s features smoothed as he considered this. It was a possibility that satisfied his sense of duty and honor. Julius was silent and left him to his private thoughts. He had been instructed that a good sovereign must guide his subjects to his thinking while allowing them to believe their decisions were their own. Quinn had taught him this, and no man better understood the inner workings of the mind. “Under such terms, I am willing to offer provisional support,” Ebonhart said at last, choosing his words carefully. “The largest threat to the kingdom now is Vinter; on this we agree. The morale of our armed forces is poor. They are war-weary, having endured losses facing threats against which we have had little defense. Our soldiers may find new hope in the emergence of a lost son of Vinter Raelthorne. I can assist—indirectly—so long as you take no action against King Leto and you persuade others of my peers in the Royal Assembly of your cause. But it is imperative you secure better proof of your lineage than this.” He held up the sheaf of papers. “Most

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nobles who would oppose Vinter but are unhappy with Leto will not be satisfied by letters from inquisitors.” He turned to Magnus. “Do you know where such proof might be found?” “Perhaps in Caspia,” Magnus said. “I intended to go there next, as that is also where Julius could be presented to the Assembly. I hoped you might assist me with safe passage through your lands and agree to take my mercenaries on, under MacBain’s leadership. As he said, we did not come here under false pretenses. These soldiers can help in the battles ahead, to oppose Vinter’s allies and maintain order. I will return to resume leadership after speaking to the Assembly and will help see this to its proper end.” Julius knew Magnus remained intent on seeing Leto killed as well, but Ebonhart did not interpret his words this way. The duke turned to Julius and said, “We have an agreement. I will do what I can, so long as it does not violate my oaths.” He offered a respectful bow, and then Julius stepped forward to clasp his hand. Each gesture reflected an acknowledgement of their respective statures. Ebonhart glanced at Magnus and Quinn and said, “You two will remain free, for now. Betray my trust at your peril.” • • • “Well, son of a bitch,” Caine said from his cold perch, watching in disbelief the handshake between Julius and Duke Ebonhart. Not only did it seem the conversation was ending amiably, there was no sign Magnus was about to be put in irons, which was severely disappointing. The duke returned to his desk, spent a little time writing on two different pieces of parchment, each of which he embossed with wax and his signet ring. He handed one to MacBain and another to

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Magnus, then his guests turned to leave. The meeting was over. Caine stood and stretched, cracking his neck and loosening his limbs from the uncomfortable position he had been forced to adopt, then stepped over to a vantage closer to the main entrance to the HQ building. He reached out mentally to connect with Ace’s cortex and sensed his other warjacks not far away. He’d left those others under the control of his commando sergeant, currently standing just outside a military ’jack repair shop nearby. Ace had wandered closer to the HQ building of his own accord, utilizing his repaired infiltration system to remain inconspicuous. This next part would be tricky, but Caine was starting to feel some of the old confidence. He reminded himself he was a gun mage of unsurpassed skill, a peerless killer. What he faced was simply an especially tricky puzzle, complicated in part because he wasn’t at luxury to go in guns blazing. He had to put the age of his quarry from his thoughts. That had been his problem last time— seeing Julius’ youthful face and knowing his background, it had gotten to him. This was simply a military target, he told himself, the elimination of which served a vital end. It was time to earn his pay.

290 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Corvis, Armorer’s Bourg

Caine moved swiftly across the rooftops to a position he knew the group would have to pass on their way back. Only a few warjacks and a small token platoon of Steelheads in formation waited for Magnus and company outside the army HQ building. The rest of the mercenary army had been relegated to an open park courtyard several blocks away. Caine did not intend to make his move immediately outside the HQ, in sight of the duke’s men and commanding officers. On the streets between was the place it had to happen. He just hoped the confusion would be sufficient to cover his escape. If Ebonhart had come to an agreement with Magnus, as seemed to be the case, then Caine could not count on the local authorities to come to his aid. In fact, they would view him as the criminal. The first order of business was to separate Julius from at least one of the two warcasters. He had already sent orders to his people to arrange for that. From where he peered over the parapet surrounding the roof he saw CRS Lieutenant Langes and a number of trencher commandos already in position, awaiting the returning The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

group at the end of the street. Atop the nearest buildings on either side of them he saw several of his rangers crouched down, rifles ready to provide cover. Clay was among them, and Caine caught his eye and inclined his head. Then the gun mage drew on his will and flashed across the street, closer to a narrow alleyway that led off this avenue. There was a shaded spot where a tall chimney blocked the sun and he hunkered down. He had just gotten in position, Spellstorms in hand, when the returning group marched onto the street in tight formation, all of them looking tense and wary. MacBain was in the lead, together with one of the Steelhead officers. Magnus was farther back. The Warlord had thrown on a heavy greatcoat over his armor and was wearing a broad-brimmed hat in an attempt to obscure himself, though it just made him stand out from the Steelheads around him, whose namesake helmets gleamed. His warjacks marched in front of him, a Mangler at the fore and a Renegade and Talon a bit behind, forming a triangle, with several Steelheads between them. Caine scanned those mercenaries and at last spotted Julius before the youth replaced his helmet. He was smack-dab in the middle of the ’jacks and obscured by them. Even from his higher vantage Caine couldn’t get a clean angle on him. The warcaster took deep breaths, seeking patience and calm. The arcanist who had gone into the meeting with them walked next to Magnus. He seemed especially alert, scanning the nearby alley and the rooftops, and Caine saw him spot one of the rooftop rangers and inform the Warlord. Caine presumed the warcaster wouldn’t be too pleased at this. Blowing out a soft breath, Caine hoped he’d not given those soldiers their death warrants. But as

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Rebald had said, risk was a part of the job. Chomping on a fresh cigar and seeming unconcerned, MacBain walked up to speak to Lieutenant Langes, who was standing in the posture of a government officer on official business. “Hold a moment, sir,” Langes said, raising a hand. The commandos with him looked alert and dangerous with their carbines in hand and long trench knives strapped to their shoulders. “What’s this about?” MacBain asked, his tone jovial. “We’ve been cooperating, as Sir Kristof asked. Just got back from talking with General Ebonhart.” He held up a piece of sealed parchment, the same one handed him earlier by the duke. “We’re in his employ now. So you can just go back to whatever it was you were doing. Maybe take the afternoon off.” Langes took the paper and made a show of inspecting it. While they talked, Caine mentally connected with Ace, which he’d directed to circle the easternmost building and work its way behind the mercenaries. The ’jack moved slowly and quietly, approaching the street entrance the mercenaries had just used with sure, silent steps, its infiltration field letting it blend with the shadows. The lieutenant handed the papers back, looking unimpressed. “I don’t work for General Ebonhart,” he said. “I’m here because I’ve heard there might be wanted criminals in your employ. Outlaws, perhaps pretending to be legitimate mercenaries. I’m Lieutenant Langes, and I’m with the Cygnaran Reconnaissance Service. I need to inspect your soldiers.” This was the test. Caine held his breath, hoping Magnus would be predictable for once. MacBain shrugged. “No problem, I was headed back there

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anyhow. You can join me in looking them over. You’ll see everything is legitimate.” They began to walk in that direction, toward the park occupied by the mercenaries. Most of the Steelheads followed behind him. Not everyone kept walking. Magnus and the magus next to him had tensed and stopped, sharing a sharp look. Magnus jerked his chin toward the alleyway below Caine and the other man nodded. The warcaster then tapped his leg brace with his mechanikal hand three times in quick succession. The Steelheads between the warjacks looked back sharply. One nodded, then took Julius’ arm and steered him to the alley as well. The warjacks smoothly turned and accompanied, keeping their formation. The way they all ducked into the alley without a shared word or order suggested preparation, which did not surprise Caine. Magnus enjoyed such plans, after all. His ’jacks and the Steelhead bodyguards were doing an admirable job ensuring there would be no easy way to get a clean shot on Julius. Caine allowed himself a smirk. He was ready for that. They had walked into his killing field. The gun mage watched them, also viewing the street through Ace’s optics as he impelled the warjack to hustle forward to the edge of the alleyway. There it peered around the side of the building, moving out just far enough to allow its rune cannon to track its prey. Ace also couldn’t see Julius, who was blocked by the Talon, but that was not a problem. He sent his will into the warjack, and the runes along its cannon gleamed with latent power. Inside the firing chamber, the runes on its shell did the same, their magic activated. Caine let out a breath

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and lowered his pistols, aiming where he knew Julius would be. The Talon continued blocking him as the small group rushed through the narrow alley. The Mangler at the fore had just enough room to maneuver, though it had to smash through a stack of empty crates at the far end. Choosing his timing carefully, Caine impelled Ace to fire and imbued his own bullet with deadly power. Rather than targeting Julius, Ace fired on the Talon, its shell carrying magic that would render the warjack as insubstantial as smoke just long enough for Caine’s bullet to pass through it unhindered. The gun mage mentally accepted the consequences of his action as he pulled the trigger, just after Ace fired and before the people in the alleyway even registered the booming report. Caine felt that special thrill in knowing his shot was true, even with Julius only partially seen, even with Steelheads around him. The angle was perfect. Time slowed and he watched as Julius lived the last second of his short life. Just before Ace’s glowing shell impacted the warjack’s armor, the arcane power around it failed. Amid his battle trance, Caine watched as the glowing energy peeled and frayed before the naked metal impacted the warjack with a clang. Caine’s bullet was also stripped of its power and hit the warjack next, not passing through as intended. The Talon staggered, the two shots penetrating its armor and doing minor damage to its machine innards, but Julius was unharmed. Caine realized the magic that had been augmenting his eyes was gone as well. The world around him lost its crisp edge. “We’re under fire!” one of the Steelheads exclaimed below, drawing a pistol. Most of them kept moving forward, though the Talon had turned toward Ace, bringing its shield and stun lance to bear.

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Someone else shouted “Drop smoke!” and several metal canisters clanked against the ground, each erupting in white plumes. Caine mentally impelled Ace to withdraw and avoid engaging the Talon. Those old light warjacks were not especially formidable, but its stun lance represented a significant risk—if Ace got hit by that, it’d deprive the more fragile warjack of its nimble speed, leaving it vulnerable to destruction. Caine knew Ace would try to find the warcaster once it shook any pursuit. Caine’s eyes darted through the alley and spotted a new figure that had stepped from the back entrance of one of the shadowed buildings. That man was also in motion, running to join the others, but in a split second Caine recognized him—the shock of white hair, the slightly wild eyes, the distinct metal staff with an ornate head made of short bladed edges that came together at the top to grip a metal sphere that was glowing with an inner light. This was Senior Inquisitor Orin Midwinter, hunter of sorcerers—a mage specialized in negating magic. Gritting his teeth, Caine drew on his magic, this time intending to flash down next to Julius and shoot him point blank, consequences be damned. It was such a natural habit, he was so accustomed to his power being ready at his fingertips, that it didn’t occur to him that this, too, would be affected by whatever interference Midwinter projected. He unleashed the runes and the world around him shifted—where he was changing to where he would be. Yet when he appeared again he was not next to Julius nor even on the ground. The magic had failed in mid-air, sending him tumbling gracelessly to crash onto the muddy alleyway. He managed to tuck and roll before he hit, softening the landing. Instinctively he dove behind

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the nearest piled boxes even as bullets flew in his direction. The wind had been knocked from him and it took him a few valuable seconds to regain his breath as his quarry and the others fled through the thickening smoke. The Steelheads that had followed Magnus into the alleyway were professionally divided into two alternating groups, one firing as the other moved and reloaded. They kept him pinned down long enough to make their exit out the far end. Midwinter’s magic null zone went only so far. Caine was able to summon the runes again to enhance his reflexes and make him more difficult to hit, then he stood and ran after his target. His augmented sight returned, letting him see through the smoke. He sidestepped the incoming bullets and fired his Spellstorms at the rear gunmen, his glowing shots flying true to pierce the smoke and strike unerringly. The sound of heavy warjack treads revealed his main adversaries were escaping. He ran more recklessly forward. Magnus and his ’jacks couldn’t move nearly as fast as Caine could run, in his lighter armor. He should catch them so long as he didn’t take a wrong turn. They emerged into a larger thoroughfare where it was not only Magnus and his people causing a ruckus. The gunfire had been heard and the streets were crowded with people now running for their lives. Many shouted in alarm as they rushed to find cover. The sight of the Mangler warjack barreling forward was enough to terrify anyone. Caine was surprised Magnus was running at all. He would have expected the man to turn and fight once Caine lost the initiative. Did he think Caine had more people with him than he did? Caine

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felt fairly certain he could evade the Mangler’s blows, but he would be in trouble if Magnus were to close on him with his sword. Likely the other warcaster knew he couldn’t fight Caine while simultaneously protecting Julius. Whatever was going on, Caine wasn’t inclined to stop. If Magnus was running, he’d damned well give chase. He caught occasional glimpses of Julius and the inquisitors past the Mangler, so he knew the youth hadn’t escaped yet. Letting adrenaline carry him, Caine closed. He gunned down the last of the Steelhead rear guard, leaving only those bodyguards next to Julius. He sensed Ace had ditched the Talon that had been chasing it and the swift warjack was also racing through different nearby streets, trying to reach its master. With any luck he might manage to steer the warjack into Magnus’ path. All he needed was a momentary break in their defenses and the chance to get to a better position. He wished he knew how far Midwinter’s power reached. As it was he couldn’t rely on his gun mage abilities. Magnus looked back and scowled. Caine couldn’t resist taking a shot, though the bulk of the Mangler got in the way. Then, as if Caine had gotten its attention, the hulking warjack turned around to face him, lifting and whirling the chain and spiked ball it wielded in its right hand. It was a massive and dangerous weapon, larger than anything even an ogrun could lift. “Bloody hell!” Caine swore, jumping back as the deadly weight whipped by him, close enough he could feel it pass. Then the ’jack veered off as if he weren’t its main target. The avenue here was used as a local market, and vendor stalls lined

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the street. It had been active and crowded when the combatants had crashed into the scene, but now most of the people had rushed to the sides, trying to stay out of the way. Directly opposite Caine, where the Mangler headed, was what looked to be a local grocer occupying the bottom of a tall building. A dozen people huddled amid the displayed bins filled with fruits, vegetables, and other foodstuffs. “Dammit, Magnus, no!” a voice cried out, and Caine realized it was Julius. The youth had seen where the warjack was headed and had halted his flight. Caine’s eye went to a young woman yelling out to a young boy and girl hunkered down under a stall on the other side of the street. She was trying to get them to run. What she didn’t realize was that the children were not in danger, but she was. With growing horror Caine realized Magnus had sent the warjack on a rampage. He saw it coming but could do nothing to intervene as it whirled its ball and chain. The weapon crashed through two large support columns on that side of the grocer’s open area, and stone and debris went flying. That corner of the roof above the column groaned and began to sag. A portion of the building was going to collapse—right on everyone huddled under it. His perception of the world slowed once more, his reflexes augmented by his magic, his power flowing through him, yet there was nothing he could do to prevent what was about to happen. None of his spells or abilities could stop it. He also saw Julius was exposed, at least for the moment. He had torn free of his nearest bodyguard and seemed inclined to rush forward to try to help,

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disregarding his safety. The inquisitor that he didn’t recognize—the one that wasn’t Midwinter—stepped closer to Julius, his eyes gleaming with inner power. He said, “Get back here! Now!” Julius jerked as if a rope had pulled him, then turned and stumbled back toward the mage like a puppet on strings. Magnus seized him and pulled him away, and they continued their flight. Caine barely registered this. Caine’s mind was not on shooting Julius but on the need to do something, anything, to stop this. The weight of the building was overwhelming the remaining supports, and the upper stories began to tilt and then to fall. Without thinking, Caine flashed across the intervening ground, his magic letting him take the forty yards in a single step. He fought through the accompanying wave of mental disorientation to grab the young woman, the mother, taking her by the arm and yanking her away. She screamed in pain as he pulled her harshly out into the street even as the building collapsed behind them. He narrowly dragged her out of the way of the tumbling debris. He heard the groans and cries from some few of those he had been unable to save and who hadn’t had the mercy of a swift death. The woman ran from him to seize up her children in her arms and then rushed away with them, not looking back. Caine sucked in deep breaths as he scanned the rubble that now covered half the street and past to where the Mangler was turning toward him. It faced him, swinging its ball and chain, gathering momentum. The explosive sound of a cannon report rose above the local din as Ace reached the street and a shell impacted the Mangler’s hip. The Mangler ignored the shot and began to accelerate toward

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Caine, its heavy tread tearing up cobblestones as it came. Caine felt his rage build and overflow, an explosive indignation at the inhumanity of what Magnus had just done, the unnecessary malice of it. He clenched his teeth and the runes of his Spellstorms glowed brightly in reaction to his gathered power. He raised his pistols and filled them with his anger and rage, a palpable energy that surrounded him and then poured into the pistols and bullets as concentrated spite. He fired repeatedly straight into the chest of the onrushing machine. The first bullets clanged into the metal with limited impact, tearing small holes through the armored plate. Each successive bullet glowed brighter, screaming across the air like miniature rockets to burst into the warjack’s frame and unleash their arcane payload. One hit tore off half the Mangler’s head, leaving a single red oculus to stare at him. Yet a warjack’s intelligence did not rest in its head, only its sensory apparatus. The next bullet tore open its chest, revealing the ornate metal orb at its center, the cortex. Another bullet impacted the cortex hard enough to shatter through its outer shell and pierce dozens of delicate inner layers of thin metal, those that gave it a semblance of sentience. The cortex overloaded as its inner systems were shattered and ruined. With a whining keen the entire machine exploded violently, sending metal flying. Caine felt light-headed from the exertion and the emotional release, only belatedly realizing he might have hurt more people when the Mangler detonated. He looked around, but it seemed those who could flee had, and those already crushed beneath the fallen building could feel no more pain. A few remaining onlookers

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stared at Caine from farther away, mouths open in disbelief and eyes wide in terror. They didn’t understand what had happened. They saw only a man firing glowing pistols who had exploded an eight-ton machine with nothing but bullets and force of will. To them he was exactly the sort of monster that men like Orin Midwinter used to be free to hunt. And soon he would be hunted, he realized, when the Watch got here. Despite the onset of exhaustion, Caine was not ready to give up the chase. Not now. “Damn you, Magnus,” he said. He gathered his will and flashed up to one of the rooftops opposite, in the direction Magnus’ remaining people had fled. He guided Ace in that direction as well, seeing through its eyes as well as his own. He didn’t see any immediate signs of them. “Think!” he muttered. “Where are they?” He knew they would need to get back to the mercenary army. That was where Julius would be safest, most easily hidden. With the youth surrounded by all his soldiers, and his inquisitors at hand, Caine would not be at liberty to strike. The chase had taken them several blocks closer to the waterfront, but he knew Magnus must be circling toward that park and courtyard where the rest of his people and MacBain would be. He ran across the rooftops in that direction, leaping over the smaller gaps between tightly packed buildings and reloading his pistols as he went. There! He saw a pair rushing down below through one of the narrow side streets. It was Magnus and Julius. The former ran awkwardly with his limp and heavy armor, still wearing that broad-rimmed hat. The latter, recognizable for his black hair, had apparently lost

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his helmet in the scuffle. Caine spotted the bulky mechanikal sword at the youth’s waist. They looked to have separated from the others, perhaps hoping Caine would follow the remaining warjack and inquisitors instead. Caine raced toward them and raised his pistol. He felt sick to his stomach rather than triumphant as he fired, putting his will into the glowing bullet. The other pistol he aimed at Magnus. A single shot wouldn’t end it, but he had enough bullets to see it done. Given all he had been through, it was startling that his first shot landed precisely as intended. It drilled straight into the youth’s exposed neck, exiting below his armpit to tear through his armor on that side with a spray of blood and gore. He collapsed at once, dead in an instant. Caine felt a shock to see him go down, followed by an unfamiliar and intense sensation of guilt. Just as Caine began to pull the other trigger some instinct made him pause. Something about Magnus was off. In an instant Caine knew that wasn’t his old mentor standing below. His bulk was about right, but the posture and armor were wrong. Caine flashed down to the street level and was closing the gap before the imposter even realized his companion was dead. He turned and gave a yelp before scrambling to the side, terrified. Any semblance of pretending to be Magnus was abandoned. Caine fired against the wall of a brick building just ahead of him, sending fragments flying and pulling the man up short as he stumbled and held his hands up to protect his face. The gun mage was on him in an instant, grabbing him and yanking him around. The man cried, “Oh god, no! Don’t kill me!” He raised his hands to show he was unarmed. “Don’t shoot, please!”

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He was a large man, well built, but the brace on his leg was clearly unnecessary. The armor he wore looked superficially like Magnus’ but there were a number of flaws that were plain up close. More obvious, he did not have a mechanikal hand. Earlier he had kept his arm close to his body and inside his cloak, so Caine hadn’t even seen it. Caine did not say anything at first, still breathing hard as he pulled the man over to where the corpse lay facedown in the street. Caine kicked the body over and saw it was another stranger with black hair, at least four or five years older than Julius. The sight brought a surge of unexpected relief, but he held it in, maintaining an angry facade. He demanded, “Who’s this? Who are yeh?” “We’re just mercenaries! Magnus wanted decoys. That’s all I know!” He seemed on the verge of tears. There were more people screaming and running nearby, but Caine ignored them. “Decoys?” he asked, snarling. “Why in all that’s holy would yeh ever agree to do something stupid like that? Or do yeh just hate breathing?” “He paid well!” the man said feebly. “He said he’d take care of our families. I’ve got a lot of debt.” “And more bad habits besides, I’d wager,” Caine said. He holstered his Spellstorms to stop the man from blubbering. “I’m not going to hurt yeh. Where’d Magnus go?” “I have no idea! Really, I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did.” Caine knew he was telling the truth. There was no way Magnus would tell an idiot like this his plans. He said, “Yeh want to end up like your friend here? Use your brain, man. Steer clear of Asheth Magnus. He’s a snake.”

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“I will, I promise.” From the look on the man’s face Caine suspected he wasn’t finished with bad decisions. For some people that was their lot in life. Caine was starting to think he might not be so different. “Halt!” A voice came from down the street, followed by a piercing whistle. “In the name of the Watch! Put down your weapons!” “For the love of—” Caine sighed and turned, seeing a pair of Corvis Watchmen making their way toward him, their pistols pointed in his direction. They had poleaxes in their other hands. He glanced up and flashed to the rooftops again, leaving them looking around, confounded. He sent Ace to slip back and away, glad it had not yet been spotted. With no other choice, Caine made his way back to where the mercenary army was gathered, though given the use of decoys he already knew he wouldn’t find Magnus or Julius there. He had said it before, and he believed it now more than ever: trying to figure out what Magnus was thinking was impossible. Yet the man had gathered an army and paid a fortune to do so; there seemed no way he’d just leave them behind. It was the only lead he had.

305 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Corvis, Armorer’s Bourg

Julius held his tongue until they were safely aboard the riverboat and everyone seemed to be intact and unwounded, at least those that had made it. The boat was a spacious paddlewheel vessel called Pride of the Black, its old captain clearly someone Magnus knew well. It looked as though he had hired it for his exclusive use, as the only passengers aboard were people in service to the warcaster. They had lost Fowler, but Sergeants Bristol and Cobb were unharmed, as was Old Man Quinn and his colleague Midwinter. Immediately after their arrival Julius overheard Midwinter speaking quietly to Quinn, a harder edge to his voice than usual. He said, “I won’t stand for you using your power on Julius again. His mind is not yours to meddle with.” Quinn’s eyes widened and he made a conciliatory gesture. “I’m sorry if that upset you. I assure you, I acted only to keep Julius safe. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.” The conversation surprised Julius. He was too used to his former mentor’s powers to have thought anything of Quinn’s intervention when it happened, but he felt appreciation for Midwinter’s concern. The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

He had his own bone to pick, but not with Quinn. Once they were belowdecks and could feel the vessel moving away from its mooring, Julius confronted Magnus. “What was that business with the Mangler? That was despicable!” Magnus was in the midst of speaking with the ship captain about a place they could stop on the way, where he had a stash of several warjacks to replace the ones he had lost or left behind. At Julius’ interruption, he stopped and raised an eyebrow. After a glance at the others he said, “Come with me. Let’s talk in private.” He waved to indicate one of the cabins allocated for their use, following after Julius and closing the door. Before Julius could speak, he raised a finger and said, “We established our conditions at the outset. I am in charge, especially when it comes to tactics. You do not question me or my orders, especially in front of the others.” The warcaster’s voice was calm but intense. Julius was not cowed. He said, “I consented to obey your orders and to do what you ask of me in my training. This goes well beyond that. I will not stand by while you kill civilians on our path to the throne. These are the very people whose hearts I must win, whose support I require. More importantly, what you did was appalling and unnecessary. Unconscionable!” His anger had arisen unbidden, and he felt it again as he spoke. His horror on seeing the Mangler advance on those helpless people had been visceral, unexpected in its intensity. “Appalling, perhaps. I will agree to that. But absolutely necessary. Had I not acted as I did, Caine would have gunned you down. I had to give him something else to focus on. He may have hesitated to shoot you in Fellig, but he has hardened his will. Our planning

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and training worked, but only just. That was a narrow escape. We are very fortunate neither Midwinter nor Quinn were shot. If they had been, you would already be dead. You should be very thankful to Midwinter in particular.” Julius was not convinced. “You could have sent the warjack at him, not those bystanders!” Magnus said, “A Mangler is a big and powerful machine of war, but it is slow and its strikes can be anticipated. You don’t know Caine like I do. He would have danced circles around it. I do not like killing innocents, but the stakes could not be higher. Those were acceptable casualties. If you are to be king, you must learn this lesson. Otherwise you will be as weak and indecisive as Leto, forever trying to avoid harm and in the process accomplishing nothing of note. A king must shed what blood is required. Leave morality to the priests. It has no place in governance.” It was a cold and hard logic, a lecture Julius had heard many times, not just from Magnus but from his other tutors. This speech, in fact, sounded very similar to instructions Julius had received from Quinn. Yet it was different when he could see the carnage with his own eyes. It had awoken some echo of a memory nearly forgotten. He said, “I order you to refrain from harming innocents. It is vital that I stand apart from my father in the eyes of my future subjects and vassals.” Magnus stared at him for several long moments, as though weighing him. The warcaster’s eyes were inscrutable. “I will not lie to you, nor will I agree to such terms. It is possible more bystanders will die before we are done. However, I will promise to limit collateral damage as much as possible. Understand that if the

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choice comes down to your life or that of a random civilian—or ten, or fifty—there is no choice. They die. The best way for you to avoid this dilemma is to listen to me. You must do what I ask, without hesitation. Do you understand?” Julius was far from satisfied, but after a similar pause and considering the matter, he nodded grimly. His voice was tight as he said, “Let us hope things go more smoothly in Caspia.” It was only after Magnus left to return to his planning and Julius had a moment of quiet that he felt the shock of Fowler’s death. The man had been gunned down behind Julius; he hadn’t even seen it happen. Only after they’d gotten clear did he realize the man was gone. First Largo, killed by Magnus, now Fowler—two of the five people that were all he had known for most of his life. He had never liked Largo, but Fowler had been different, had seemed to care for him and enjoy his own role as tutor and bodyguard. When Julius was young, Fowler used to let him ride on his shoulders as he raced around the complex. There were just three left now. Julius wondered if any of them would survive the days ahead. Magnus had said he must harden himself to such things, and perhaps he was right. Julius swallowed against the grief that threatened to rise. He would honor these sacrifices, but only after he claimed his crown. • • • “Do you actually think I’d ever volunteer information to you about my clients, one way or another?” MacBain asked. “Not that I’m saying Magnus is my client, but that is what you implied. I am a professional, Caine. I don’t talk about the details of my work to outsiders, period.” MacBain said this with a smile on his face, as if

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talking with an old friend. In a way, Caine supposed they were friends, as much as that was even possible. Caine had worked alongside MacBain and had also fought against him, as was not atypical of the relationship a military officer and a mercenary warcaster might have. Still, the man’s refusal to answer rankled. Caine had tracked down the other warcaster at a tavern adjacent to the park his mercenaries had occupied. Likely the place was accustomed to more refined clientele, such as senior military officers. At present it was dominated by rowdy Steelheads and Boomhowler’s noisy trollkin. “Yer professionalism is a wonder to behold,” Caine said sarcastically. “I don’t see as it goes against yer interests to give me a nugget of information. I just need to know where Magnus went. The last time we met, I could have killed yeh but didn’t. Yeh owe me.” “I remember it differently,” MacBain said. “Regardless, I don’t have the information you want. And if I did, I’d still not tell you.” His smile disappeared and he became more serious. “We lost a number of people today, good Steelheads serving an honest contract. They were gunned down in the streets, ostensibly by a gun mage who wasn’t in Cygnaran uniform. The Corvis Watch are looking for him. Know anything about that?” Several of the nearby soldiers looked their way, their expressions unfriendly, though none was brave enough to lock eyes with Caine. “I don’t know what yer talking about,” Caine said, folding his arms. “It seems neither of us knows anything of use to the other,” MacBain said. Then after a pause he added, “Actually, in the spirit

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of giving, I will let you in on one small bit of information. Bear in mind I’m doing you a favor.” “Go on.” He leaned forward and smoothed down his moustache with his fingers before he said quietly, “In truth, I’m working for a Cygnaran general now. Highly placed. So perhaps it will put your fears to rest to know we’re on the same side. That’s all I can say. Now, bearing that in mind, I’d appreciate if no more of my soldiers turned up with bullets in their vital organs. For my part, I won’t tell the Watch about this visit.” He winked. Caine grimaced and said, “Yeh’ve been a big help, MacBain, as always.” “And, as always, it has been a pleasure to see you. Feel free to check back anytime. Though I’d suggest you may want to make yourself scarce in Corvis until things settle down. A bit of free advice from me to you. See how helpful I am?” • • • Caine regrouped with his people and found CRS Lieutenant Langes was more than a little irate with him. He said, “I wouldn’t have agreed to all this if I had known you were going to start a killing spree in my city!” They had gone to a CRS safe house in the Armorer’s Bourg to regroup and assess the situation. The trencher commandos had taken everything in stride, but the rangers seemed more uneasy about the day’s events. Reed had been altogether unconcerned, at least once he determined that Ace was undamaged. “Yeh’ll have to take that up with Bolden Rebald,” Caine said with a sigh. His exact relationship with Rebald was one he didn’t usually refer to with lower-ranking agents like Langes, but in the

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present circumstances invoking the name was the only way Caine could settle him down and hope to avoid being arrested. He needed Langes to smooth things over with the authorities. At least the man understood that covert operations could be messy; he didn’t have to understand Caine’s true goals. Fortunately Magnus provided a good excuse, being ostensibly the reason Caine was in Corvis in the first place. “Trust me, that wasn’t how I wanted it to go down. Most of those deaths are on Magnus, not me.” “Very well,” Langes said. “I must admit I am dismayed Duke Ebonhart did not arrest the man. I’ll need to file a report. Morrow shield my career if they put me between a duke and the scout general by asking me to testify in court.” Even as the lieutenant spoke these words Caine realized with a start that the man would in fact be writing a report to Rebald, likely immediately. And it would be a report where Caine would not come across smelling like roses. Given the circumstances he could expect the scout general to read between the lines and deduce the gun mage had failed again. Rebald’s exhortation that he needed to be more dogged came back to him. He hadn’t given up, though his enthusiasm for the hunt had died in that building collapse. He said, “How about we focus on finding Magnus. Do yeh have the mercenary army under observation?” “I do,” Langes said, “though we’re venturing into uncertain waters. It seems they were hired by Duke Ebonhart. He’s not going to take kindly to my putting my nose into his business if he finds out.” “Then let’s be sure not to tell him. Clearly he’s up to something fishy, if not outright illegal.”

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“Treasonous, would be the word,” Langes said glumly. “A dangerous word,” Caine said. “Be sure whatever yeh send to Rebald, yeh run it through a good cipher, just in case.” The lieutenant looked at him a bit oddly, and Caine realized he had likely displayed too much inside knowledge of CRS methods. To change the subject he asked, “How did Private Vernor do today?” He indicated the young ranger, who had disassembled his rifle and was cleaning it on the other side of the room, past a row of bunks. Langes said, “He did fine. Kept calm, followed orders. Wasn’t thrown by an unfamiliar environment or odd circumstances.” “Any chance of him switching over to work your side of the CRS? I think he might have potential. I don’t know if being a ranger is right for him.” “That’d be highly unorthodox,” Langes said hesitantly. “The two sides of the service rarely cross over. Though the recommendation of a warcaster who works closely with Bolden Rebald could go a long way.” “Would yeh be willing to take him on, see if he has the aptitude for it?” Caine wasn’t sure why he was going out of his way for the youth, though the idea of making Clay an agent appealed to him. His own “enlistment” into the service had been under rather different circumstances. “Is he even interested?” Langes asked. “No idea. I haven’t talked to him about it yet. Don’t know how much an average ranger knows about yer line of work.” Caine raised his voice and said, “Hey, Clay, come over here!” Clay put down his rifle and obliged, pulling over a creaky wooden chair to join them at the table. He asked, “What do you need, sir?”

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The warcaster said, “Yeh have any interest in sticking around Corvis, under Lieutenant Langes’ supervision, maybe learn some new tricks?” The ranger seemed confused and said, “Privates don’t get to decide where they’re stationed, sir. I was assigned to you by General Mathern.” “We’re talking about an unusual opportunity here,” Caine said with a scowl. “Something that might change yer career in a big way. Yeh can learn how to creep around in a city as good as yeh already can in the forest. Yeh might like it.” “Maybe after I finish my assignment to you, Captain,” he said. “If that’d be all right.” “Trust me, yeh’ll live a lot longer working under Langes than sticking by me.” Caine chuckled but then saw the impact of his words on Clay, whose face had reddened. “I don’t need to be left behind. I will do my duty.” Clay was silent a moment and added, “Unless you’re afraid of relying on a coward.” Caine had forgotten about that particular issue or he would have chosen a different way to put things. He held up his hands. “Take it easy—no one’s calling yeh that. Yeh’ve proved yer courage twice over and then some. Fine, if yeh want to stick it out, that’s what we’ll do. But give it some thought. Yeh could learn quite a bit from someone like Lieutenant Langes here. Yeh’d be more use to Cygnar armed with what he knows than with that rifle yeh’ve been cleaning.” “Yes, sir. I do appreciate the offer,” the youth said, looking embarrassed at his outburst.

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The warcaster turned back to Langes and said, “Maybe you can use him to help keep an eye out for Magnus. Man’s got to show up eventually.” Clay opened his mouth, seemed to reconsider, and closed it again. Caine glared at him and he finally said, “Why do you think he’s going back to the rest of the mercenaries? I’d expect him to be long gone.” “Well yeh don’t muster an army and buy a couple colossals for grins and giggles.” Caine laughed again and said, “He’s got to come back for them. I don’t believe MacBain for a second that Magnus handed them over to Duke Ebonhart. That’s his army. He wants it for something.” Even as he said the words, he felt some long-stuck gears in his head begin to crank. Clay shrugged and said, “I’m sure he’ll come back for them eventually, but what’s he doing meanwhile? If he has somewhere else to be, he wouldn’t want to drag an army with him. They’re a bit conspicuous, as we’ve already seen. After everything that went down, he might want them to stay put for a little while, until it’s safe to come back. Or he could send for them, have them meet him somewhere else. Sorry if I’m speaking out of turn.” “No, no, those are good thoughts,” Caine said absently, his finger tapping on the table. Langes said, “What if his handing over the mercenaries to Ebonhart was in exchange for something? Some sort of negotiation?” “Negotiation . . .” Caine said quietly. The CRS lieutenant went on, oblivious to Caine’s distraction. “The military is stretched thin right now, especially at the home garrisons, and now Vinter’s people are causing chaos everywhere.

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We’ve got instigators showing up in Corvis, dropping pamphlets. A riot broke out near the east gate yesterday after someone painted Vinter’s name on the wall, right on the gate he marched through in six-oh-three to conquer the city. People forget quickly.” He shook his head. Caine’s mind was whirling. What could Ebonhart have given Magnus that was worth handing over his army? He recalled the various things Magnus had said, back in that first meeting. The image of that woman at the market came back to him, rushing to scoop up her children after she nearly died. His rescue had seemed a small act—just one person saved against all the others that died in the collapse. They’d had loved ones, too. Still, at least he’d prevented those children from seeing their mother crushed to death. It was something. To those kids, it was everything. A mother. Julius’ mother, who had been mistress to Vinter Raelthorne and had vanished. Caine remembered how frustrated Rebald had been that he couldn’t find her back when all this had started. He’d given up on that after confirming Julius’ existence. That was when this had all begun for Caine, after Rebald returned from talking with Exarch Dargule. It had been Dargule who’d confirmed a bastard son of Vinter’s had been born, though the priest thought the child had died in a fire. “Caspia!” he said, snapping his fingers. “I’m an idiot. I should have seen it before. Where else would he go?” The other two stared at him in surprise, but Caine felt reenergized. “Thanks, Clay. Yeh helped jog the gears.” He turned Langes and said, “Get yer people back. Forget the mercenary army. Send them to the Waterfront instead and see if yeh can find any reports of someone of Magnus’

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description getting on a riverboat headed to Caspia. I’ll need yer help to secure a fast boat for myself. We’ll be going light.” He clapped Clay on the shoulder and said, “Ever been to the City of Walls? No? Well, this’ll be your chance. Pack yer gear.”

317 PART THREE CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Arriving at Fharin

Scout General Rebald and King Leto’s armed escort had some additional excitement after the ambush led by Colonel Hawkins. Despite all efforts to make haste to the nearest secure railway station, Vinter’s loyalists remained intent on stopping Leto from reaching his destination. Lord General Stryker’s vanguard force arrived at the town of Hollerby to find it already ransacked by Vinter loyalists, though those who lingered were too few to hold against the warcaster and his Storm Knights. While securing the town, Rebald discovered that the once-proud Royal Diligence train engine had been transformed into a smoking, melted ruin at the town’s demolished station, its cars plundered. The station’s telegraph station had been similarly wrecked, though not irreparably. They were able to reconnect the severed wires and get the receiving station working well enough to send several messages to their southern counterparts and receive replies. Rebald considered it worth the delay to reestablish communication. Exchanging coded messages with his agents in Steelwater, he learned that the Caspian Railway Society was The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

refusing to send their trains north of Fharin from fear of losing them. The scout general was able to put pressure on Steelwater Rail, its more pragmatic competitor, to dispatch their fastest available engine with a heavily armed set of military cars to reach the king. Getting a train to fetch them was the only way they would be able to get south quickly and without Vinter’s supporters nipping at their heels. Even as they were waiting for confirmation on this new plan, scouts reported back that Vinter’s main army had left Stonebridge and passed through Bainsmarket, intending to intercept them. This increased the pressure. They marched from Hollerby as quickly as they were able, following the tracks southeast, but a small advance force of loyalists caught up with them. Besides skirmishers armed with long rifles and grenades, the force included light cavalry. Their swift steeds made them hard to pin down, but they lacked the numbers to commit to a full attack. Rebald observed as Stryker coordinated the defense keeping the attackers at bay, though they managed to inflict some casualties before being driven away. Stryker’s soldiers, too well disciplined to be provoked into an extended pursuit, stayed close by the rest of the army. Despite the failed attack, the harassment had an impact on the morale of the men, who did not like being ordered to keep marching rather than to turn and fight. A cheer went up from the soldiers as they heard a distant steam whistle and saw smoke plumes on the horizon along the long line of the Wyrmwall Mountains. The heavily armored train gradually slowed to a stop just south of their position, and they marched double-time to reach it. They could soon see the numerous chain

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gun and small cannon turrets built into the roofs of the cars, each ready to fire on any foes that approached. Such measures had become increasingly important in recent years as threats to the railway and its trains had increased. As recently as a few months previously there had been ruthless attacks by trolls on this very line, just south of Fharin. Rebald was glad to see Steelwater Rail had had the forethought to attach two engines to this train, one on either end, with the Sir Abenar III at the front and the larger Sir Abenar II at the back. They would not have the luxury of reaching a turnabout or wye junction to get it pointed the other direction, so this would give them the ability to simply reverse back to Fharin without delay. “We’ll be at our most vulnerable when loading the cars,” Rebald warned Stryker. “The loyalists will come for us then.” Stryker nodded his grim agreement. As his subordinate officers took charge of organizing the troops to board the train, the lord general gathered his weary cavalry and prepared against the inevitable attack. The skirmishers came at them again from the neighboring hills, spread out in a long line, their light horsemen racing along the wings and firing their rifles as they came. The lord general and his Storm Lances rode to meet them, greeting them with thunder and lightning. Seeing the Storm Lances racing across the open plains and farmlands to send lightning streaking into their enemies was a stirring sight. Fewer loyalists sped away in retreat, their less fortunate friends left scattered across the field. Rebald kept his spyglass trained along the hills, worried about additional ambushers. Their haste had not enabled him to conduct

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proper reconnaissance. Added to this, they had lost most of their rangers and many of their own light cavalry to the skirmishers. They were down to a single troop of Tempest Blazers, the skilled gun mage cavalry perfectly suited for dealing with such adversaries. Most of the soldiers had boarded the train and the men were now loading Stryker’s warjacks, a task made more difficult by the fact that they weren’t at a proper station. Even with the small steam-powered cranes built into the reinforced ’jack cars it was a slow process. The work was well underway by the time the lord general and his knights returned, their horses panting and lathered from exertion. Just as the engines throttled up, Rebald heard the cannons and machine guns above begin firing. Coming from a direction he couldn’t see, the skirmish forces were making one last pass, desperate to damage the train before they could escape. He climbed up to join the weapon crews where he could get a better vantage and saw what remained of the loyalists getting as close as they dared. As the cannon turrets found their range, it was gratifying to see the ordnance impacting the center of one approaching infantry group to explode and send men flying. Distracted by these attackers, they missed the fact that the loyalists had managed to get several horse-drawn cannons up onto one of the hills west of the tracks, giving them a high vantage and good firing angle. “Brace for fire! Take cover!” Rebald yelled when he saw the puffs of smoke along the hills as those cannons fired. The train shook and rattled as explosive shells impacted the rear engine. Most were absorbed by armored plates, but at least one pierced the boiler, which vented steam with a shriek. Additional shells began

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to impact the steel plates protecting the rear cars, buckling them. The train’s turrets turned to fire on the hills, but at such long range their first shots landed woefully short of the mark. The train seemed to be taking forever to get up to speed. Additional shells hammered the rear cars, this time smashing through and likely killing a number of the soldiers inside. Rebald gritted his teeth, but he could do little beyond shouting corrections to the nearest cannon crew, watching with his spyglass to see where the shells landed. The noise of gunfire and cannons erupted from the direction of the hills. With his spyglass Rebald could see a number of Cygnaran light warjacks swiftly racing up the slope, firing as they went. With them was a familiar horseman, extending his rifle in one hand to fire as he galloped ahead. Shells and bullets raked through the men defending the cannon crews, then they, too, were overtaken and annihilated. Another spotter shouted, “It’s Jeremiah Kraye!” This provoked the soldiers around him to cheer and raise their rifles. Soon the reconnaissance officer and warcaster was racing across the intervening ground with his escort of light warjacks, converging on the train. He was met by the Tempest Blazers, who fired their pistols into the air in salute, a tribute soon joined by the riflemen atop the cars. Rebald could not help but feel disapproval at this blatant waste of ammunition, though he was relieved to see the CRS cavalry warcaster as well. Kraye drew close enough to shout up to him, “Scout General! Thought I might join you for a spell, if that’s all right!” “Captain Kraye,” he called, “you are most welcome! I thought

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you engaged in the Thornwood.” “The lord general summoned me,” Kraye said laconically. “Figured I probably should obey.” The train slowed enough for them to get Kraye’s light warjacks aboard and then resumed without additional incident. The engineer reported the damaged engine could be quickly repaired and was not hindering them for the moment. Soon they were up to full steam, and not long after they saw the Wyrmwall Mountains grow on their right, rising like craggy teeth to dominate the western horizon. Rebald, Stryker, and Leto met with the newly arrived warcaster, greeting him enthusiastically and then peppering him with questions regarding matters in the north. What they heard wasn’t as grim as they had feared, though Kraye said the fighting between Khador and Cygnar’s First Army was still fierce and the situation remained chaotic. “Nemo still has a few tricks up his sleeves,” Kraye assured them. Though the First Army was holding its own, it was clear they would not be at liberty to assist their king anytime soon. Kraye was one of the few warcasters who served the Reconnaissance Service directly; he had spent decades patrolling Cygnar’s borders and no one knew them better. He was also a man who had a personal grudge against Vinter Raelthorne and his Inquisition, who had murdered Kraye’s uncle. The cavalryman had “retired” from military service during the latter portion of Vinter’s reign, only returning after Leto was crowned. He had spent several years secretly hunting down the inquisitors responsible for his loss. Though he didn’t know it, during this time he had been a nuisance to both Rebald and Caine, who were also seeking those same

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men. Rebald had debated the merits of recruiting Kraye into his conspiracy but had decided the man was too morally intractable for covert work. Besides, his vengeance had been focused on the specific inquisitors who had harmed his family. Still, Kraye remained a man Rebald respected, one who had done tremendous service for the kingdom. He had recently suffered injuries in the line of duty, breaking several ribs after being knocked from his horse during the first attack on the Cryxian necrofactorium in the Thornwood. This topic came up during their discussion and it was Stryker who asked, “Are you fully recovered, Captain?” Kraye smiled and said, “Well enough to ride Malagant and fire my rifle, so I’d say so.” The kingdom had endured numerous injuries among its warcasters in recent months, a fact that made all the generals uneasy. Such men and women were the nation’s greatest military assets, which was one reason they invested so heavily in protecting them. The customized warcaster armor each wore allowed them to endure punishment that would kill any ordinary soldier ten times over, but they were hardly invincible. Rebald had often considered how much the face of warfare might change if they could outfit large numbers of soldiers with such protections. But not only was such equipment expensive and difficult to fabricate, it could only work when worn by those who had the gift to connect their minds with mechanika and divert mystical power through an arcane turbine. It was a cold truth of warfare that not all lives were equal. The generals would let thousands of good soldiers perish to prevent a single warcaster’s fall. Such thoughts brought Rebald to his words to Caine before

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sending him off, suggesting completing his mission took higher priority than his life. Perhaps he had put that too bluntly, though it was the truth. Killing Vinter’s bastard was necessary for the security of a kingdom already fragile and damaged, now also torn by internal strife. The train rapidly devoured miles of track, the countryside rushing by beyond the narrow slits serving for windows in the armored cars. The speed with which a large number of people or amount of gear could be moved by rail remained an astounding aspect of the modern age, one that had changed Cygnar’s defensive strategies considerably. Such logistical assets only functioned when the kingdom’s interior remained under their control, as their enemies knew all too well. The tracks were subject to sabotage and required the trains to take a very obvious and unmistakable course, creating opportunities for ambush. Fortunately there was no sign of Vinter’s supporters in the region they passed through, and they made the rest of the trip without incident. As they approached Fharin, Rebald looked toward the city with a critical eye. He was not thinking of its history or its politics but of how it would avail them if they must fight a battle here. Fharin was a sizable city, similar to Corvis in population but more sprawling, its people less densely packed. It nestled amid the foothills of the eastern Wyrmwall Mountains, the railway vital to its thriving commerce. Some of Cygnar’s most fertile farmlands extended to the horizon east of here, down amid the plain that led to the Black River. The city’s had many drawbacks as a defensive bastion, however. It was not built to endure a siege. Fharin was far enough within

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the kingdom’s interior that the city walls had not been built up. They were neither tall not especially thick, intended to keep out beasts wandering down from the mountains, not an army armed with cannons. The city lacked sufficient cannon emplacements of its own and had inadequate fortified towers from which to leverage fire on attackers. The gatehouses were unimpressive. There were multiple good approaches for an attacker to assail the city with limited retaliation. On the other hand, the lay of the land just north of the city had possibilities, and Rebald knew Leto would not want to endanger the people of Fharin if he could avoid it. Nearby lay a number of good hilltops where artillery and riflemen could support one another and make enemies pay to approach. The area also included several well-placed stretches of light forest where soldiers could take shelter and intercept approaching enemies. There could be worse places to make a stand. Ultimately success would come down to numbers, something they did not yet possess. One hopeful sign appeared as they neared the outer limits of the city, bringing into view a large number of military tents occupying a cleared area to the southeast, beyond the walls. Seeing the golden Cygnus, Rebald knew they were encampments of armed forces gathered in response to the urgent requests he had sent to all the southern and western garrisons. He was encouraged at the sight and knew the king would be as well. But would they be enough? • • • King Leto Raelthorne was gratified that one of the first people he saw awaiting them as they stepped from the train was Archduke Alain Runewood, one of his oldest friends and most loyal vassals.

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Runewood was attired in his armor as a member of the Royal Sword Knights, wearing all his formal regalia, but this did not prevent the two from sharing a brief but enthusiastic embrace. “It is good to see you, Your Majesty,” Runewood said, escorting him down from the platform and toward the others awaiting his arrival. “I only wish it were under better circumstances,” Leto replied. “There is much we must do to make ready. The traitors rally in the north to Vinter’s banner and seem intent on undoing all we have fought and worked for over the last fifteen years.” “We will find a way to stop them. I brought what men from Eastwall I could, though there have been troubles in the south and I could not afford to deplete the garrison,” Runewood said. His standing as a general had him responsible for commanding that fortress north of Caspia, one that helped protect Cygnar’s eastern border. The garrisons of Eastwall and Caspia took primary responsibility for keeping the interior safe from the Protectorate of Menoth’s crusades. “Understandable,” Leto said. “We are having similar troubles elsewhere, as I am sure you know. It is no coincidence my brother chose this moment to move against me openly.” “There are other grave developments of which I need to make you aware,” Runewood said. Lord General Stryker approached, and the archduke greeted him, clasping his hand, and then asked, “Is Major Katherine Laddermore with you?” “She is,” the warcaster affirmed, frowning slightly. “Do you require her, Your Grace?” Stryker’s use of Runewood’s noble honorific instead of his military one was a respectful courtesy. As

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a lord general and a warcaster, Stryker outranked the archduke in the military chain of command, but Runewood was one of the highest-placed peers of the realm, and they stood in the heart of his lands. His family estate lay amid the hills northwest of the city, potentially threatened by the imminent arrival of Vinter’s armies. “If you would,” Runewood said. Shortly thereafter the major joined them, wearing the armor that identified her as one of the army’s senior Storm Lances besides being one of the most highly decorated soldiers in the 6th Division. She offered proper respects to those gathered, and King Leto gave her a small reassuring smile. Leto and Katherine had spoken briefly during the final battles of the Caspia-Sul War, when she had come to his aid after he was injured in a clash with Hierarch Voyle. He had been impressed with her courage and intelligence. She was also daughter to one of the most powerful men in Cygnar—a rival to Runewood and a man who had been an outspoken critic of Leto’s in the Royal Assembly since he had first seized the crown. She seemed so unlike her father it was sometimes difficult to credit she was of his blood. Together with the duke’s retinue, the king’s personal guard, Scout General Rebald, and Captain Kraye, they marched with the archduke through the city. Leto attempted to be gracious to those civilians and soldiers who gathered to watch them pass. He sought to project calm and confidence, not the gnawing uncertainty that truly filled him. Matters were quickly spinning out of control, even by the standards of what had been several tumultuous years. Since the onset of Khador’s invasion into Llael, Cygnar had been in an almost constant state of war, with only a few short months of

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scattered ceasefires as reprieve. Runewood took them to the highest vantage on the southern walls, a tower that allowed them a commanding view of the surrounding countryside. He said, “Forgive my theatrics, but I felt it would be easier to explain where you could see more clearly.” He pointed to the south, where a few smaller mountains jutted out from the Wyrmwall. The railway threading southeast followed the line of the mountains, keeping to the lower hills below. “Do you see the rising smoke?” They peered where he pointed, Rebald withdrawing his spyglass to do so and then offering it to the king. The smoke was barely perceptible to the naked eye, but through the glass he saw several hazy areas in the distance where thick, black smoke was rising. They looked small, but given the distance they had to indicate significant fires. “I see them,” Leto said. Runewood inclined his head to Rebald and said, “I realize you have not had time to speak with your people in this area, Scout General. I wanted to forewarn you. Our eastern border has been penetrated, and the Protectorate has sent a crusading army into our interior. They have marched as far as the limits of my land, gathering where the Southern Midlunds begin. They have already attacked and pillaged several towns and villages in the vicinity, hence the smoke. We have not sent a proper response, in part because of the priority of gathering our soldiers here.” Rebald looked pale as he said, “I had heard there were armed forces mustering along the river near Sul and that the Caspian garrison was on high alert. I did not know the Menites had already crossed the river, let alone gotten this far.”

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“They did not cross near Sul. Before this invasion a sizable army, mostly Temple Flameguard, began to perform military exercises in sight of Caspia and then Eastwall, putting our soldiers on alert ready to answer any aggression. We since discovered these shows of force were intended to ensure we did not march those garrisons’ soldiers elsewhere. They occupied our attention while a smaller yet formidable second army crossed the border nearer King’s Vine. Those are the soldiers who have penetrated the interior and are burning our towns.” Stryker looked at the archduke sharply and said, “We’ve had incursions near King’s Vine before.” “True.” Runewood looked to Major Katherine Laddermore and said, “I have been in the habit of keeping an eye on the Southern Midlunds over the years. Mercenaries in the employ of the archduke, your father, have been guilty of harassing my southern vassals. There is no love lost between us, as I am sure you are aware.” The major drew herself up and said, “I’ve never been in agreement with my father’s politics, General. I am presently estranged from him. We have not spoken in over a year.” He inclined his head and said, “As I am well aware, Major. I did not ask you here for any sort of rebuke. On the contrary, I thought you were owed the courtesy of hearing my findings directly rather than coming across them by rumor. My agents have informed me—and I am sure Rebald’s will tell him the same—that Fergus Laddermore is facilitating the Protectorate invaders. I believe he has compromised our eastern borders and has allowed a foreign army to march across his lands.” Runewood looked back to Leto and continued. “It is a naked

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and brazen act of treason. As you know, several months ago the Earl of Grives and the Viscount of Eschex, both vassals of mine, were assassinated by Sul-Menites. I suspected Laddermore might be involved but had no proof. Now he no longer hides his actions. I do not know this force’s larger goals, though before your arrival they managed to blockade the railway less than a hundred miles south of here, cutting off the Market Line in both directions.” Leto fumed but spoke in a controlled voice. “That Laddermore has turned traitor is unfortunately no surprise. We observed his bannermen fighting in Vinter’s service at Stonebridge. He has never hidden his enmity, nor his longing to reclaim the power his family enjoyed under my brother and my father. However, I would not have thought even Laddermore would collaborate with the Sul- Menites. Not after the last war.” “We must presume this is a coordinated action intended to isolate us here,” Rebald said. “We will not be able to take a train south to Steelwater or to Caspia, not without great risk. We should try to gather better information about the size and scope of this Protectorate army.” Lord General Stryker’s eyes conveyed a similar smoldering anger as Leto felt. The warcaster’s enmity with the Menites ran deep, though the man had sought to come to terms with that after the Caspia-Sul War. The lord general said, “I recommend we send Captain Kraye to assess their strength, with the secondary objective of delaying them should they march north.” Kraye nodded agreement, and Stryker added, “We won’t be able to spare much support.” “Understood,” the CRS warcaster said. “I won’t need many

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people to take a quick peek.” “Don’t underestimate them, Captain,” said Runewood. “We’ve been dealing with smaller incursions for months, operations run by hardened saboteurs that have proven extremely elusive. These strikes were led by a woman they call Thyra, the Flame of Sorrow, a warcaster with a reputation for fearlessness. She has inspired similar recklessness in her followers. They are highly mobile and no stranger to unconventional tactics. Furthermore, I have reports that Feora, Priestess of the Flame may be leading the invading army herself.” At these words Stryker and Leto shared a look. Feora had been Stryker’s primary adversary during the war between the two sides of the City of Walls. He had nearly died after she demolished one of her own temples atop him. “I’ll do my best to avoid getting set on fire,” Kraye said dryly. After a bit of additional planning and discussion, the warcaster took his leave, intending to set out at once. Leto wished him godspeed. The next morning efforts began on constructing defensive measures across what Rebald suggested as the best ground upon which to face Vinter. Leto and Stryker agreed and noted that it would also keep the battle away from Fharin itself, with its hundreds of thousands of civilians. They at least had the advantage of knowing their enemy’s goal. So long as Leto was present, Vinter must seek him out, giving them the chance to choose the battlefield. They endeavored to take stock in the forces at their disposal, which to Leto’s eye still seemed too few, though they were in a better position now than they had been when rushing from Point Bourne. The forces at Fharin had started to resemble a real army.

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Over the next several days Leto was further gratified to receive additional support in response to earlier summons. Runewood’s loyal vassals not otherwise engaged were already here, but others from farther abroad soon reached the city. The arrival that surprised Leto the most was Mordrin Sunbright II, Duke of the Western Midlunds, Lord of Whiterock and Lord Commander of the Sunbright Yeomen. As Leto watched Sunbright and his several thousand soldiers enter Fharin with no small degree of pomp and circumstance, he knew he witnessed something rare. He had always trusted in Duke Sunbright’s loyalty, but the man was aging and eccentric and rarely left his secluded halls these days. He had been absent from the Royal Assembly for years. His bloodline was a rich and storied one, and Sunbrights had sat the Cygnaran throne not so long ago. Though the duke did not bring a large army, the soldiers that accompanied him were well trained and had earned a reputation for ferocity and cunning. His yeomen were themselves very capable rangers well accustomed to fighting in hilly and mountainous terrain. Yet for each noble who arrived with their armed households and soldiers, many others were notably missing. A number were occupied keeping the peace elsewhere or sent word that they would be delayed. Leto suspected some of these had in truth turned traitor, though he attempted to reserve judgment. The army they were assembling remained small, though he knew there would also be limits to the number of professional soldiers at Vinter’s disposal. The treacherous Fourth Army had never been large, and its people were of notoriously poor character and discipline. By comparison, the forces under Leto’s command were among the finest Cygnar had to offer. Still, he knew all to well that war often came down to a game of numbers.

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Leto dared imagine that perhaps with several thousand more men, they might stand a chance, though a great deal depended on whether the Protectorate fanatics marched on Fharin or were content to pillage the south. Rebald had expressed hope that they would prove unwilling to commit to open battle, which might be the case if their arrangement with Vinter was limited to distracting the southern garrisons and interfering with the railway and potential supply lines. Given his brother’s avowed hatred of religion of all kinds, it was hard for Leto to imagine any sort of true accord between those that ruled the Protectorate and Vinter IV. A cynical part of his mind suggested it was their mutual hatred of him that united them. Leto’s dark thoughts seemed echoed by other omens, as reports reached them that great winged creatures were being sighted over the Wyrmwall Mountains. Duke Sunbright confirmed that his people too had seen dragons on the move, more than anyone could remember or had heard of in histories or legends. Rumors of earthquakes and other portents of disaster circulated amid his soldiers, some of whom superstitiously suggested the Devourer Wurm was stirring and would try for Caspia. Foolish talk, yet it signified the quailing hearts of his men. They loved him, but they feared Vinter more. Even the bravest among them prepared for doom. In truth, Leto also feared facing his elder brother again. There was no other course. It felt as though all the years of his reign had been leading to this inevitability. The moment his brother had escaped captivity, taking Leto’s beloved fiancé as hostage, Leto had known there would one day be a reckoning. He prayed to Morrow for the strength to face the trial ahead, but he found little comfort.

335 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Arriving at Caspia

On their trip downriver, Magnus had made quite a bit of the fact that Julius would soon be able to witness one of the wonders of western Immoren: Caspia, the City of Walls. Yet since their arrival Julius had seen little more than the dimly lit and cramped interior of the criminal bolt-hole that served as their rooms. In truth, Julius felt rather comfortable there; the confined suite of rooms with its barred doors and watchful sentries reminded him of his upbringing. Witnessing Caspia and Sul loom as they had steamed toward them on the river had been awe-inspiring. He had already read a great deal about the divided city and its ancient past, how it had been among the first walled cities of western Immoren, erected by some of the earliest Menite priest-kings. Once called Calacia, then Caspia, the city had been split apart in the Cygnaran Civil War that gave rise to the Protectorate of Menoth. The largest portion of the city, west of the river, kept the name Caspia. The smaller section on the east, occupied by that point exclusively by Menites, became Sul. It was one thing to know the facts but another to see the walls and the river dividing them, with his own eyes. The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

Corvis had been a large and crowded city, surrounded by a formidable wall manned with countless soldiers and sentries and set with numerous large cannons. Yet Caspia was another thing entirely, its walls towering higher than it seemed possible any mortal could have built them. It was doubly amazing that this had been done in ancient times, before builders had access to modern techniques or engineering. The walls did not show the expected wear of many centuries. Whether this was because they had been continually maintained or some more supernatural cause was impossible to say. Julius had read the walls were viewed as sacred by Menites and Morrowans alike, a relic embodying one of the Gifts of Menoth to mankind. They were tall and thick enough that it was difficult to get a sense of scale except by comparison to the tiny moving figures at the top of the battlements. They had docked at a series of piers on the western bank of the Black River just north of the city. These were busy and bustling, with numerous riverboats coming and going. Magnus had explained they would blend in best by entering the main gate, which received traffic from the King’s Highway. The piers inside the city, protected by Caspia’s internal walls, were scrutinized more closely by guards and CRS agents. More than a million people called Caspia home, and hundreds of thousands of visitors were present at any given time. The traffic into and out of the city was heavy, and the demands of commerce were at odds with the desire for security. This made it easier to gain entry into the capital than Julius had expected, even considering they were now only a small group rather than an army. Magnus did not even attempt to bring his warjacks, saying he could secure

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others from his friends inside after they arrived. The Warlord had foregone pride for their passage through the looming gates, stowing his warcaster armor and letting himself be wheeled past the soldiers like a crippled man. Julius pushed him along, with Cobb and Bristol close at hand in servants’ clothes. Magnus, Old Man Quinn, and Midwinter had adopted the bulky and disheveled robes of religious pilgrims. To Julius’ eyes the assemblage looked vaguely absurd, but amid the steady flow of traffic they slipped past the soldiers and guards without trouble. They had quickly made their way to one of the poorer districts of the city, where the warcaster still maintained some friends among the criminal community. There they had reunited with Jarok Croe and members of his gang, who led them to their current quarters. Since, Magnus had been meeting with an assortment of shady individuals, speaking in low tones, writing letters furiously by candlelight, and creeping off on errands. Dissatisfied with being kept in the dark and finding Magnus unwilling to answer questions, Julius opted to conduct his own investigations. He gave Sergeant Bristol the slip while she slept, after Magnus left on one of his mysterious tasks. Julius couldn’t resist poking around the area Magnus had set aside for his work, discovering a number of interesting odds and ends, including a narrow desk and writing implements. He was unable to find the papers he knew Magnus had been given by Old Man Quinn from the Wexmere estate, a copy of which he had produced to Duke Ebonhart. Instead, he found several dusty old tomes related to ancient blacksmithing techniques from the Warlord Era, left open to a treatise on what was known of the arms and armor of the

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greatest Caspian and Calacian kings. He found these together with undistinguishable bits of corroded metal wrapped carefully in oiled cloth. On their second night he felt bold enough to follow Magnus on his evening rounds, keeping his distance and remaining in the shadows. His instruction had included practice in remaining unseen and unheard, though he had never practiced in this sort of environment. He had earlier watched Magnus scoop up his books and the metal samples to take with him, then followed the warcaster to what appeared to be some sort of apothecary and alchemist’s shop. The whole business puzzled him: what did this have to do with verifying his lineage or arranging to put him before the Royal Assembly? Ostensibly, those were their goals in the city. Magnus stayed in that shop a long time. Julius almost fell asleep in his hidden vantage, entering something akin to a trance. When the door opened at last, he started to alertness. Magnus hastened away by a different route, and Julius had to rush forward to catch sight of him again. The limping man slipped down a side-alley but by the time Julius reached it, there was no one in sight. He gave up worrying about noise and accelerated to a jog. A hand reached from the shadows and seized his arm, spinning him around. In the darkness he could not see his assailant well, only that he was slender, wearing dark attire, and the gleam of what might have been the metal of a knife shone in his hand. Julius tore his arm loose and drew his sword in an instant. He lunged, sending the blade’s broad point to strike above the waist. He had attacked as quickly as possible, hoping to put the man off his guard, so the lunge was sloppy and weak.

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The thick leather or mail the man wore turned the jab into a glancing blow, though it spun the man off balance and sent him sprawling into a pile of refuse. Rather than aggressively pursue, Julius backed up a step and adjusted his stance. He wanted to get a better sense of the situation and hoped he might scare off his assailant rather than kill him. There was a loud clicking noise behind him, as of a pinlock mechanism firing without striking through blasting powder. “And with that, were I Allister Caine, you’d be dead,” came the voice of Magnus, sounding amused. Julius turned to find the warcaster standing there, his scattergun in hand. Beside him was Jarok Croe, looking smug. Glancing over his shoulder Julius saw his assailant get back to his feet, dust himself off, and limp over to rejoin them, holding his side and glaring at the youth. He realized it was one of the cutthroats from Croe’s gang, though the man’s name escaped him. Croe said, “Not half bad, for a highborn. Almost got Lom.” He glared at his subordinate. “If this all fails, maybe you can try out to join my boys.” Julius did not respond, unsure if he were being complimented or mocked. Despite his heritage he found he disliked the term “highborn.” It conveyed a life of luxury, which he most certainly had never experienced. “Let’s get back before anything else happens,” Magnus said, stepping up to clap Julius on the shoulder. “That was ill-advised,” he said, though with more humor than anger. “I understand your desire to stay informed, but there’s too much happening right now to give you all the details.”

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When they returned, Sergeant Bristol was less kind, boxing Julius upside the head with a blow that left his ears ringing. It was the first he had seen her angry in some time. Once he recovered his wits, he was moved that concerns over his safety had affected her so strongly. He took the rebuke in stride and reserved his questions for Magnus once they were alone. “How are you intending to prove my lineage?” he asked. “None of what you’ve been doing seems to be related to that.” “Not all of what I’ve been doing is related to that,” Magnus corrected. “But in the morning I’ll be sending a letter to a man who might have our answers. He’s influential and dangerous, and going to meet with him might reveal us to our enemies and force us to change our plans. Before taking that step, I had several other details to arrange for.” “This man has something to do with Adeline Dunning?” Julius leaned against one of the room’s walls and folded his arms. “Your mother,” Magnus said, watching him closely. “Yes.” “You know something about her but haven’t told me.” Julius felt anger begin to simmer within him, though he kept a lid on it. Magnus was not one to respond to outbursts. He also did not entirely understand his feelings, except that he was growing tired of being treated like a pawn. “I was given to understand she’s dead. Has been for a long time.” “That is my understanding,” Magnus said. “But she was not alone when she gave birth to you. The Church of Morrow was involved, and they helped hide you. I know the only man who is likely to know anything about this. We will meet with him, if he consents.”

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“I take it you’re no friend of the Church.” The warcaster shrugged. “I have had few dealings with them. But Leto is their friend, and Vinter was their enemy, which gives them every reason to mistrust me.” He paused and Julius opened his mouth to speak, but Magnus cut him off with a wave. “Yes, I have many enemies. Fortunately, I also have many friends, or at least associates, though fewer in Caspia than elsewhere.” “You feel confident you can convince this priest to help us despite his animosity?” “As in everything we do, it comes down to you. I trust he will be eager enough to confirm you are alive that it will overcome his suspicions about my goals.” “What exactly do you know of my mother?” Julius asked the question without really meaning to speak the words aloud and immediately wished he had remained silent, thinking it betrayed weakness. “Very little,” Magnus said, his voice suggesting no irritation at the question. “I met her once, in the company of the king, but we did not converse. I pretended it was normal she was there, since clearly it was not.” The fact that the warcaster might have met his mother was new information, and something Julius had never considered. Magnus continued, “You should brace yourself for uncomfortable truths. There will be those who seek to invalidate your claim by casting aspersions on your mother’s character. Their relationship was illicit.” “I have no illusions regarding her,” Julius said. “I do not intend to allow anything said about her to affect me. She is a stranger, apparently one who is long dead. Her only importance is proving a connection to my father.”

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Magnus regarded him with a smooth expression. As was often the case when speaking with the enigmatic warcaster, it was difficult to tell from his face whether this answer pleased him. Julius wasn’t sure it even mattered. Despite himself, he couldn’t help but desire the man’s respect. He just couldn’t tell how that respect might be earned or if it was even a goal to which he should aspire. • • • Caine’s boat drifted toward its pier under the cover of night, assigned a small berth allowed to those on military business. The pier and vessel were dimly but adequately lit by a number of dangling lanterns. In that light, Caine could clearly see the damage along its near side as he disembarked. He winced at the torn metal and buckled wood where the Protectorate’s deliverer rockets had impacted the boat after he had refused to stop and be questioned by a patrol dozens of miles upriver. It had happened in an area ostensibly under firm Cygnaran control, though the presence of an alarming number of Temple Flameguard and deliverers put that into question. After a brief firefight their vessel had surged onward, leaving fewer Menites alive behind them than there had been. This might not have been the most discreet way to handle the situation, but it had sufficed to see them through. The captain of the small boat joined him and stared woefully at the damage while the rest of Caine’s complement filed past. Reed stopped briefly and mentioned he had patched the leaks. The mechanik’s face was streaked with sweat and grime, and Caine knew he’d been busy keeping the vessel afloat, both manning bilge pumps and contributing to repairs. Caine felt compelled to say to the captain, “I’ll be sure yer

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reimbursed for this. Send a bill of damages to the Strategic Academy, care of Birk Kinbrace, with a letter explaining the circumstances. Yeh can include my name. Beyond that, I’d prefer if yeh didn’t talk about my arrival or the action we saw on the way.” “Could have been worse, I suppose,” the captain said with a sad smile, shaking Caine’s hand. “I’m glad to do my part for the war. Good luck to you.” Caine had already given instructions to the commandos and rangers regarding where they should go, and they took his warjacks with them. Once again Caine had to compel Ace to obey. “It won’t be for long. I’ll come get yeh before there’s any kind of action,” he said aloud, patting the warjack on an armored plate below its shoulder and feeling a bit foolish, especially seeing Clay watching with a smirk. He snapped, “What are yeh looking at, Private?” “Sorry, sir, it just reminds me of a dog I used to have.” Ace vented a sharp whistle of steam and stepped toward Clay, staring down at him malevolently with intensely glowing red eyes. The ranger held up his hands and said, “No offense! I liked that dog!” “Go on,” Caine said aloud, bearing down on Ace’s cortex and sending the mental image of Trencher Commando Sergeant Mollers. “Don’t cause him any problems, either. No sneaking off.” The warjack went with the others after making a clanking that wasn’t quite its usual affirmation. Caine considered that particular noise the equivalent of a grumble. Rather than send Clay with the other soldiers, Caine decided to keep the youth close by. He’d seen firsthand how useful the ranger could be in unusual circumstances. They had picked up some clothing he could wear instead of his ranger uniform. Add a bit

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of dirt to his face and Clay would fit right in with the lower-class teenagers in the city, becoming all but invisible on the streets. Caine himself still looked like a mercenary, and such well-armed visitors were common enough in the City of Walls. It was a place where expeditions were hatched and funded and where there was no end of wealthy clients in need of bodyguards. That his disguise worked was proven when he was nearly shot by his own people at a rendezvous point outside the Strategic Academy. Before he left Corvis, Caine had worked with Lieutenant Langes to send a coded message ahead by telegraph requesting a team of experienced gun mages be ready to meet him. Now he took a circumspect route there, keeping to the shadows, and saw the trio standing where he expected: two men and one woman, leaning against the wall just outside a ring of illumination cast by a nearby gas light. They were technically not in uniform, though they were all dressed similarly, attired like the well-heeled aristocrats that could be found in the city’s more prestigious taverns or gambling halls. The woman’s coat was of a different cut and she wore a functional skirt instead of slacks, but otherwise they looked of a type. They all wore tricorn hats like the ones preferred by most gun mages of the Arcane Tempest, though these weren’t the Cygnar blue. Caine had never picked up that particular habit. Since the early days of his training, he’d always thought he looked ridiculous in one. These three wore the tricorn well. They were talking in low tones as Caine approached, one of them smoking a cigar that glowed like a lit coal in the shadows. They turned on him and drew their magelock pistols in an

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instant, though he’d thought he was walking up on them quietly and from a good angle. He had to admire their speed. He held up his open hands but continued to approach, stepping briefly into the light so they could see his face. The woman was the first to holster her weapon, and she signaled the others to do the same. “It’s him. Captain,” she said, stepping closer and extending her hand. “Lieutenant Jasren. These two are Sergeants Carter and Bridges.” He shook her hand and nodded to the other two, then gestured to indicate Clay but hesitated when he didn’t see the youth. A moment later the ranger stepped from the deeper shadows, and Caine realized his eyes had already adjusted to the lamplight above. Even so, the boy certainly knew how to hide. The other three started at his appearance, proving they hadn’t seen him either. He said, “This is Private Clay Vernor. Works for the CRS.” He chose his words carefully, knowing they would give the impression Clay might work in espionage. A small deception so the others would take him more seriously. They tipped their hats at him. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow, but right now we need a little shut- eye,” Caine said. “I know just the place,” Jasren said. “Follow me.” She led them to a nondescript tavern and inn in one of the poorer neighborhoods close to the Sancteum. It was the kind of establishment where strange arrivals after midnight did not draw undue attention, and they secured basic rooms and retired to them with very few words exchanged. As he lay down to rest for the few hours of darkness that remained, Caine found his mind whirling with thoughts, sleep elusive. They had made extremely good speed down the river, and Caine

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had every reason to believe he had gained a bit of time on Magnus, though he knew he couldn’t take anything for granted. It would be considerably easier for Caine to move around inconspicuously in Caspia than would be the case for Magnus. Despite this, the gun mage knew he would have to be extremely cautious to avoid revealing his hand. Magnus had a deserved reputation for staying one step ahead of his foes. He likely had associates in the city, especially in the mercenary and criminal communities. He also might have contacts in the army itself, particularly among the less scrupulous and opportunistic members of the support crews. This was one reason Caine had taken precautions when arranging for the gun mages and had kept his arrival quiet. Both Caine and Rebald were aware of reports describing Magnus making use of Cygnaran military hardware, including warjacks that should have been off-limits to someone like him. Some of this machinery might have been stolen, but it was just as likely Magnus had people on the inside willing to sell him goods, services, and weapons. Which meant Caine had to expect he had paid informants among the rank and file. The first order of business was to contact Exarch Dargule, hopefully before Magnus did. What would Dargule say? He mulled that one over. The exarch was a friend to the crown, so far as Caine was aware—though this was getting into matters above his pay grade. What he mainly knew was that Primarch Arius was a friend to the crown, and Dargule was a friend to Arius. In theory, it followed that Dargule should be in Leto’s corner. That certainly didn’t mean one of the highest-ranking priests in the Church of Morrow would appreciate Caine murdering a sixteen-year-old youth in front of him.

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He knew Magnus had to seek out the exarch; he needed Dargule to confirm Julius’ lineage. The unfortunate fact of the matter was that allowing the two of them to meet might create the opportunity Caine needed to complete his mission. But could he carry out these orders in front of a holy man? Caine wasn’t religious, but it seemed a bad idea. The entire situation made him feel soiled. Caine supposed he could try to convince Dargule to ignore Magnus when he came calling—or, better yet, to send him on a wild goose chase. Perhaps the exarch could tell Magnus to meet somewhere of Caine’s choosing, under a pretense. Maybe he could suggest Magnus was a danger to the Church. The scenarios that came to mind all seemed dubious for many reasons. He wondered what happened to men like him in Urcaen, after death. Nothing good, he expected. There would be no Host of Archons to take him to his final rest. More likely he’d have a date with Morrow’s dark sister. He put that thought aside and focused on how to beat Magnus to the exarch. For that, he had an advantage. Though both were trying to remain inconspicuous, it was much more important for Magnus to do so, especially if he had his inquisitor friends with him. The Sancteum would be the last place they would want to go. The Warlord would need to arrange for a meeting on neutral ground. That would take time, initiating contact cautiously, all the while fearing arrest. Caine, on the other hand, could walk right into the Sancteum. Doing that flew in the face of being inconspicuous, but then again, so did meeting with the spymaster of the Church of Morrow.

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He had to presume Dargule and his minions would be better at spotting him than he would be at hiding from them. He had no need of an appointment. In the morning he woke early. He filled Jasren in on his plan, then ate a quick breakfast with Clay in the common room. “Ok, Private,” he said after they had finished their eggs and sausage. “No tour of Caspia would be complete without a visit to the Sancteum. Let’s go to church.” • • • He gave precise instructions to Clay, hoping they would be remembered. It was hard to read the ranger sometimes, as he just listened and nodded and didn’t ask any questions. Still, Caine’s faith in the youth was reinforced by how he had performed when rescuing Siege as well as the help he’d provided confirming Magnus’ departure from Corvis by boat. At least with this task he felt reasonably confident the youth’s life was not in peril. Even if he were caught, there would be nothing worse in store for him than a lecture and a reprimand. Maybe they’d try to convince him to join the priesthood. Now there was a strange thought. He walked directly to the Sancteum, the heart of the Church of Morrow, one of the few places in Caspia he had never been. The gates were wide open, accepting all pilgrims and visitors, the knights at attention on either side staring straight ahead, unmoving. He strode down the central avenue, past the large statue of Morrow in the central park and courtyard, and up the stairs to the majestic Archcourt Cathedral, the largest and most impressive structure of its type in western Immoren. He felt positively dwarfed by its enormous doors and could not

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help but stop and stare up at the colossals flanking them. He was not the only one there on the steps leaning back to gape at the enormous machines. Despite looking like statues, they were very real and functional. He could sense the massive cerebral matrixes inside them, ancient precursors of the cortexes used in modern warjacks. His mental probes were deflected by powerful cortex locks; he was ignorant of the codes to open them, not that he would have tried. These were the last two of the old colossals, similar to those built originally to repulse the vile Orgoth invaders from Immoren. The rest had been dismantled hundreds of years ago, replaced by smaller but more versatile and sophisticated warjacks. Though outmoded, these two made a definite impression, a warning to any who neared that this cathedral was protected. It had its human guardians as well. The Sancteum Knights at the entrance gave Caine a quick once-over and, after determining he was unarmed, let him pass. He’d left his Spellstorms behind, together with his warcaster armor. Though he felt naked without them, he had no fear that he was in any danger. He was entering the safest building in Cygnar. Impressive as the entrance had been, he felt genuinely awe-struck by the grandeur of the main hall. The arched and domed ceiling rose above him to an impossible height, reinforced by elegant buttresses and towering pillars. Everywhere he looked were frescoes, statues, and paintings layered with the symbolic ornaments of the faith. The air itself seemed filled with shining jewels, a result of the countless stained glass windows filtering sunlight into a dizzying array of colors. Even not being a religious man, he felt overcome. He sat down heavily in one of the nearest pews, closing his eyes for

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a moment. He did not pray, for that would have been insincere, but simply gathered his thoughts and waited. He knew it might take a bit of time before he was noticed. After maybe an hour of meditative calm a woman’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Excuse me,” she said gently. “I hope I do not intrude. Is there some service we can do for you? If you tell me your petition, I will ensure it reaches the right ears.” He turned to see a young and pleasantly rotund woman in the simple vestments of a Morrowan priest, though in grey rather than white. He felt certain this was significant, but he was not especially knowledgeable about such things. There was every possibility she was an ordinary attendant of this church, someone tasked to check on visitors who lingered. Still, he had to start somewhere. “I need to speak with Exarch Dargule,” he said, “on an urgent matter of great importance.” He expected her to react with stammered apologies or excuses about the exarch’s unavailability, but her expression did not change. He added, “Yeh can tell whoever needs to know that I am—” “Captain Allister Caine,” she finished for him, inclining her head slightly. “My name is Sarah. Please, come with me.” He blinked in surprise but stood and followed her, amazed it had been that easy. He wasn’t sure what that portended. As predicted, they left the cathedral—he had expected Dargule would prefer to meet somewhere less grandiose. As they descended the steps he glanced briefly at where Clay stood, garbed like a young Morrowan pilgrim and blending in with the crowd near the largest statue of Morrow. Clay inclined his head slightly but gave no other acknowledgement. Caine knew he would follow, keeping a careful distance.

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They took several twists and turns down narrower streets into the outer portion of the Sancteum. These areas felt more like an ordinary city, with houses for its thousands of residents. Soon they arrived at a small and unassuming cottage, what he might have expected to be the dwelling place of one of the Church’s clerks or librarians. It did not look grand enough to be the house of an exarch, though he had no idea how such figures lived. Sarah had not spoken to him while they walked, and she remained quiet as she guided him within and led him to a cozy study, the walls lined with books. He was directed to sit in one of the comfortable leather chairs placed before a simple and empty desk. The room was warm and well lit, but he noticed its windows were thick and heavily frosted, letting in light but not prying eyes. After checking that he did not need anything else, Sarah took her leave, vanishing as quietly as she had arrived. Only a few minutes later an older man entered the room carrying a silver tray set with cups, a tea pot, and plates holding a variety of small biscuits. He caught his foot on the edge of a rug, and Caine swiftly stood and reached for his elbow, steadying both the man and his tray. It wasn’t until the tray was eased onto a low table between the chairs that he saw the man carrying it was the exarch himself, who smiled gratefully. “A spot of tea, Captain?” “Er, sure, I guess that’d be all right,” he said, feeling awkward as the priest sat in the chair opposite and then poured them both cups. “Good to meet yeh, Your Grace. I appreciate yeh seeing me so quickly.” “Of course,” Dargule said, stirring sugar into his cup and then lifting it to sip. “It isn’t every day that I am visited by a famous

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warcaster of the Cygnaran Army. What urgent errand brings you?” Caine also took a sip of the tea, finding it bitter and strong. He considered he’d enjoy it more if he had some uiske or rum to add. Dargule was thinner and shorter than he had expected, though his build was not unusual for an older Llaelese man. Caine could detect the hint of his accent. There was definitely a Ryn cast to his features, and his eyes were sharp and piercing. Caine might have been imagining it, but he thought he picked up on an edge to the way the man looked at him, as though the gun mage had done him some bad turn recently. “Mainly I came to forewarn yeh, Exarch. I have reason to believe the wanted criminal Asheth Magnus is in the city and will be trying to reach yeh, if he hasn’t already. Had any unusual messages or the like in the last few days?” The priest seemed to find that question amusing, smiling as if at some private joke. He said, “No, not anything like that.” He then frowned and said, “Why would a wanted criminal seek me out?” Caine shifted in his chair. Ordinarily he was able to swagger his way through these sorts of conversations, but he felt off-balance with the exarch. His ordinary bravado seemed to have abandoned him. He cleared his throat and said, “Magnus is looking for someone, and he thinks yeh’ll know where to find them. He’s dangerous, as I’m sure yer aware. He’s set on a course that makes him a threat to the safety of Cygnar.” “Is he, now?” The exarch raised his eyebrows. “That sounds ominous.” “Absolutely,” Caine said, putting his tea cup down after finding it felt unnatural in his hands. “It’s vital yeh refuse him any help. I’d

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like to ask if yeh could work with me in the event he comes calling, for yer safety.” Dargule’s expression changed from bemused to cold and neutral almost at once. “I appreciate the warning, Captain. If I hear from Magnus, I will remain on my guard. But I’m afraid I can’t be involved in any sort of cooperative action against him, nor will I agree to arrange for a meeting under false pretenses. The Church of Morrow does not involve itself in law enforcement.” He offered a small smile, adding, “Except in matters of black magic, of course. Are you of the opinion Asheth Magnus is a necromancer or infernalist? Do you fear he intends to control my mind?” Caine chuckled and said, “Not that I’m aware, no. Wouldn’t put using such things beyond him, though. He’ll do anything to accomplish his goals. I understand yer stance, Exarch, I really do, but this is a serious matter. If we work together on this, we can find a way—” “What are his goals?” the exarch asked, interrupting. “Er,” Caine said, startled. “He’s trying to remove King Leto from the throne. Least that’s what I can gather. I think we can both agree that would be bad. Not just for Cygnar, but for the Church as well.” “King Leto is a staunch ally and friend of the Church,” Dargule agreed. “Still, I must disappoint you, Captain. Whatever you intend, you will have to make arrangements without help from me. I can tell you I have not been in contact with him yet. Tell me, are you here on the behest of Scout General Rebald?” He asked the last in the same calm and even tone, catching Caine off guard once again. “Not on this, no. He doesn’t know I’m

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talking to yeh,” Caine said, offering a grain of truth with the lie. “Why?” “It seemed the sort of matter that would be of interest to him,” Dargule said smoothly. “Well, no matter. I am sorry I can’t be of greater assistance. Thank you for the warning. I understand the severity of the situation, and I will take precautions.” Caine felt frustrated, though the conversation had proceeded more or less as he had expected. Still, he’d hoped to be more persuasive. He considered whether he should mention Vinter’s mistress or Julius, but that would be showing his hand. Dargule had no reason to tell him anything. Instead, he said, “Lives are at stake here. Magnus is willing to kill innocents to get what he wants. Don’t trust him. If he contacts yeh, please let me know. For the greater good.” That hard edge returned to Dargule’s eyes. He said, “Many terrible deeds have been justified ‘for the greater good.’ It is a phrase I dislike. I realize that may sound surprising from someone in my position. I have heard you, Captain. I know exactly who you are and what you are capable of. I will not help you. Now I have other matters to which I must attend. Thank you and good day.” The gun mage felt as if he had been rebuked, though he was not entirely sure why. He had the strong feeling Dargule already knew about his mission and what he intended to do if he found his quarry. He stood and inclined his head respectfully, then took his leave. This time he did not even attempt to look for Clay, knowing other eyes were on him. After he left the Sancteum he caught sight of pursuers, though they were skilled at concealing themselves. He took a roundabout

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route, and after a few twists and turns flashed atop a nearby building and then on again to one of the high internal walls, coming down on the other side. After walking a bit farther he was convinced he’d lost them. Only then did he return to their chosen meeting place to wait for Clay. • • • Exarch Sebastian Dargule had only a couple of hours to mull over his unusual meeting with the Cygnaran warcaster before the prophesied message arrived. As with all correspondence that reached him directly, it was carried by Prelate Hess Wayley. He had remained in his study at his residence rather than returning to his office at the Archcourt Cathedral. Each setting had its uses, each suitable for different sorts of thoughts and reflections. “You’ll want to see this,” Hess said, her eyes sparkling with her typical appreciation for intrigue and mischief. “I decoded it for you.” She handed him a single piece of parchment. “That’s a relief,” he said dryly. “In my early senility such tasks have become so difficult.” “Just doing my job,” she responded with mock indignity. “The courier who brought it expects a reply and is waiting. He seemed uncomfortable; I suspect this is first visit to the Sancteum. Hopefully nothing will go missing before I get back.” “If not, be sure to tip him generously,” Dargule said as he turned his attention to the parchment. A long paragraph written in jagged script and black ink filled the top of the page, with a much shorter few sentences written in blue ink below, in Hess’ steady hand. It was a relatively simple cypher, such as was necessary without some sort of prearranged

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configuration. The paragraph pretended the letter was written out of concern for a dying relative, with the author begging Dargule to beseech Morrow for divine intervention. The truth was, he didn’t get as many letters like that as people might think. Few people thought they were important enough for the gods to pay them any mind. The decoded sentences read: I bring what you thought the fire stole over thirteen years ago. His life, and hers, are in danger. We must meet after sundown tonight at a place of your choosing. It was signed with A.M. the Foresworn. Dargule closed his eyes briefly and sighed, allowing himself a brief moment to believe, though it went against his skeptical inclinations. He had already received a number of reports from his mice abroad that had suggested the possibility of Julius being alive. Nothing definitive, just tantalizing hints. Even as his hopes had begun to stir, so had his fears. More recently he had been informed that a gun mage—no doubt Allister Caine himself—had been involved in at least one, possibly two, botched attempts to assassinate Magnus’ unidentified new protégé. Hence his surprise when that same warcaster had shown up on his doorstep. It appeared matters were coming to a conclusion, though what the final outcome might be, he could not predict. More than anything, he feared his involvement and choices could tip the scales in the wrong direction. If Caine was the real threat, the last thing Dargule should do was to meet with Magnus now—yet his instincts told him otherwise. The fact that Caine had tried to dissuade him from the meeting was part of this. Regardless, he felt he could not pass up the chance

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to see the boy with his own eyes. There was someone else who deserved to know the truth. He exchanged a brief but knowing look with Hess and then he pulled forth a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped his quill in ink. He wrote a similarly meaningless message employing the same cypher. He dusted the page, then folded and sealed it and handed it to Hess to deliver. “I’ll need a carriage made ready later in the afternoon,” he told her. She knew him well enough to simply nod and attend to this, asking no other questions.

358 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Caspia, The Sancteum and Nearby

Clay found he didn’t much mind waiting. Up in the Thornwood when serving with the rangers he never would have called himself a patient person. He had gotten in trouble in training before for his inability to sit still. But there was something fascinating about watching the people here in Caspia that made the time slip by. Everywhere he looked was something or someone unlike anything he had seen before. And as crowded as it was, it was rather easy to blend in with the pilgrims visiting the Sancteum. Their main pastimes appeared to be either gawking at whatever caught their eye or bowing their heads and folding their hands in prayer. Both were easy to imitate. The residential area where Caine had gone to speak with his priest was different. Here he’d found inspiration from a servant sweeping in front of a dwelling nearby who left on some other errand. Clay borrowed his broom and made himself busy. This simple act of labor was enough to make him all but invisible to anyone of importance. He noted with interest when a courier arrived at the household The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

he was watching, though he had a moment of doubt when the courier was soon given a dispatch and sent on his way again. Should he follow? He was tempted, but Caine’s instructions had been clear, and there was the chance this courier had nothing to do with the business they were about. Nothing happened for a while after that, until a horse-drawn carriage pulled up out front and he caught sight of the exarch climbing aboard. The time had come. In addition to the driver, a pair of men who looked like soldiers wearing light blue sashes occupied seats at the rear of the carriage, alert to their surroundings. Clay took note of the direction the carriage went but did not follow directly. Instead he put his broom aside and went over to the adjacent street, where he walked in the same direction, trying to use his ears and occasional glimpses through gaps to note the carriage’s passage and confirm he was on the right course. The city streets did not offer as many hiding places as the forest, especially these cleaner Sancteum streets, though Langes had taught him a few tricks before he left Corvis. These avenues were at least busy enough with passersby that the carriage had no speed advantage to a person on foot. The driver was forced to repeatedly slow or stop to avoid running someone down. He lost sight of it for a bit and almost panicked, until he turned down another avenue and saw it there. Around this time he decided to ditch his pilgrim’s robe in an alley, reverting to his disheveled street urchin guise. Such a grubby look would have been more common outside the Sancteum walls, but he didn’t seem to garner any undue attention. There were beggars along the main Sancteum thoroughfares who looked similar.

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Clay saw the carriage halted in front of a taller building on the south side, one with a tasteful tavern on the ground floor and residences above, and cautiously drew nearer. He had a moment of bemusement at the thought that the exarch might have come all this way to get a stiff drink. It was starting to get dark, and he presumed the sun must be setting, though it was hard to tell for sure. Both dawn and sunset were less obvious here in the walled city. The exarch emerged with a handsome woman in simple robes, treating her with a certain degree of deference and respect. She was tall but slender and had dark auburn hair. The church soldiers helped her into the carriage; then the exarch joined her and they were on their way. Clay melded into the shadows as they drove past, the horse snorting. The eyes of one of the soldiers in the back slid right over him. Just when he was starting to feel he had this trailing business down, the carriage turned into a narrow lane and made its way to a small closed gate in the outer Sancteum wall. This was not the main entrance to the city-within-a-city and was clearly not utilized for ordinary traffic. Several knights in gleaming armor halted the driver and had words with him, becoming satisfied only when the exarch stepped out to speak to them directly. Shouted orders followed, and someone within the gatehouse began to crank open the heavy gates. This was a problem. The carriage would be allowed through, and the gates would close behind it. There was no way he could follow, and he had no idea what street that was on the other side of this gate. He had no chance of finding one wagon among countless

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others in the sprawling city if he lost sight of it. It’d be long gone if he tried to circle around. With its great walls rising up to eclipse the buildings, Caspia was a claustrophobic city, and even the less impressive inner walls created unexpected choke points and barriers. Natives to the city might be able to get from place to place without confusion, but he was out of his element. His eyes scanned the nearby lane, then his heart beat faster as he saw something promising—a steam-powered lift going up the nearby wall, halfway between the intersection where he lurked and the gate. The wall connected with the one housing the gate. There was some sort of repair or construction work going on at the top— he saw laborers working and heard hammers and chisels, and near the base of the lift lay several boxes of supplies and tools. Thinking quickly, he set off in that direction, walking as if he belonged there. Before he got far he took off his mud-spattered overcoat, tossed it aside, and rolled up his sleeves. No one was at the base of the lift, but he spotted a hammer, a chisel, and a tray of fresh mortar nearby. He quickly smeared a bit of the white pasty material on his arms, face, and pant legs, then picked up the tools and got on the lift. He turned to see one of the knights glance in his direction. He inclined his head in greeting, then clicked the switch on the lift. The armored man didn’t react, which was good—better than shouting in alarm, at any rate. The lift lurched into motion, hauling Clay higher. He held onto its low rails tightly, feeling his stomach flop as the ground pulled away. The carriage got underway and rolled through the gate. Clay knew he would have to run across the walls and likely risk his neck climbing down the other side, but he should be able to make it in

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time. Unless one of the workers on top of the wall throttled him for stealing his tools. • • • Caine listened to Clay’s report regarding following the exarch and his mysterious companion with some amusement, as did the gun mage and trencher commando sergeant. The ranger had come in breathless with the news that he knew the location of the meeting, but Caine had him slow down and back up so he could get as much out of him as he could. “So yeh made it down the wall, clearly,” he said. Clay looked impatient but nodded and said, “The wagon didn’t go far after that. The place they went is still closest to the Sancteum, and not too far from here, either. But then—” Caine held up a hand. “Wait a minute. Where did they go?” “An old, run-down graveyard,” Clay said in a rush. “They went down Newfork Lane, left on Bitters, through an old iron gate and into a small graveyard. I thought it was a park until I saw the gravestones. Those looked shabby, no fancy tombs or the like. There’s a small church at the back. He pulled the carriage up to that. Listen—” “I know the place,” Lieutenant Jasren said. “It’s close by. An old pauper’s graveyard. Most of the people buried there have been long forgotten. It’s quiet, out of the way. No one goes there. A good spot for something like this.” Caine noted Clay looked agitated, his lips compressed. “Okay, what else?” “I was trying to say, right as I was leaving I almost jumped out of my skin when I heard warjack engines. I hid as a pair walked

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by—an Ironclad and a Nomad, followed by a couple dozen people. Didn’t get a good look at them, though they were armed. It had to be Magnus and friends. I ran here as fast as I could.” The gun mage’s eyes widened and he shot to his feet. “Magnus is there? Why didn’t you say!?” The rest sprang into motion, grabbing their weapons and gear. “I tried. You didn’t want to listen,” Clay said, his face turning red. “Okay, okay, my fault. We’ll get there fast. It hasn’t been long, and our ’jacks are already fired up. Let’s get moving, people!” “Wait a minute,” Jasren said as they went to the door. “How could he have an Ironclad? We sure it’s him?” “Oh, it’s him,” Caine said grimly. “He’s got ways. We’ll figure out what idiot sold it to him after this settles.” • • • Caspia was generally a noisy city, but it had its quieter places. The looming walls shut out sunlight for long portions of the day and dampened sound from one district to another. There were out- of-the-way corners where one could almost have peace of mind, away from the clanking sounds of industry, the clatter of wheels and hooves on cobblestones, and the constant chatter of countless voices. Caine realized on their approach that they were headed to one such place and that his warjacks might be a problem if he didn’t want to give himself away prematurely. Ace was the only quiet one, so he had his Charger and Minuteman hang back, telling the latter to work its way—quietly, if possible—around the outer wall to the other side of the graveyard. The surrounding walls were lower and

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weaker than those elsewhere, not a part of the city construction, which offered a certain opportunity. The Ironclad and Nomad Magnus had brought were a help in this regard—their larger and more powerful engines created enough noise for Caine’s machines to go unnoticed if he were careful. He needed to get a look at what he was dealing with, though he felt optimistic for once. Magnus hadn’t had time to prepare, and this was a location not of his own choosing. He was also here with fewer resources. Third time’s the charm. Before they got too close he whispered to his people, “It’s imperative nothing happens to the exarch or his companion. No one fires until I do.” They nodded and quietly passed orders to their men. After that they communicated only by gesture. Caine had been considering how this would go down, and thought he had to make Magnus an early priority. Orin Midwinter as well. He also had to presume that thanks to Midwinter he might not be able to use his magic. He’d forewarned the gun mages of this when he told them to make Midwinter a priority. They crept up to the turn in the road just before the iron gate leading into the graveyard. All the people with him were accustomed to moving quietly when it was necessary. The commandos had their carbines ready, the gun mages gripped their magelocks, and Caine held a Spellstorm in each hand. Any sound they might have made was lost beneath the rumbling of the warjacks positioned near the carriage. Caine maneuvered to where he could see Exarch Dargule talking to Magnus, not far from a small church. The road curved up to meet them amid the somewhat unkempt lawns of the graveyard, which were littered

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with old headstones and small stone monuments. Caine crept closer, making use of the stones for partial cover. He was not too late—Magnus must have been speaking to Dargule for a little while, seeking to persuade him. Oblivious to those creeping up on him, the Warlord gestured to someone obscured behind the looming Nomad warjack, and Julius stepped into view. Dargule shook his head and said something Caine could not hear, but from his expression the man was overcome with emotion. Then he gestured toward the carriage, calling out to someone else. Caine was raising the pistol even as the woman stepped down from the carriage. Clay had described her as older, but all things were relative; she seemed relatively young and still vital to Caine’s eyes. She was in her late thirties, forty at most. She was dressed in the habit of a sister of the Order of Keeping. Her hands went to her mouth at seeing Julius’ face, and she sobbed openly. The youth seemed stunned, unsure what to do or say. Conflicting emotions warred across his features, leaving him frozen. The woman went to him and took him in her arms, her shoulders shaking as she wept, her face in his chest. This, Caine knew immediately, must be Adeline Dunning, Vinter’s mistress and Julius’ mother. Not dead at all, but hidden away by the Church. The exarch put his hand on her shoulder, a tranquil smile on his face. It was the look of a man who had received some sort of redemption. Adeline broke away from Julius enough to face Dargule and ask fervent questions, her face red from crying and perhaps from fresh indignation. She had been lied to, and she demanded answers. He could not hear every word, but the drama

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was clear. Her right arm still extended to touch Julius, as though incapable of letting go. His expression remained frozen, but his left hand was on her arm, perhaps without knowing it. It was the first time he had touched his mother, the first time he had ever seen her. Transfixed by this scene, Caine realized he, too, was feeling a strong emotion and had to swallow against it. The reunion was powerful to witness. Was she demanding Dargule tell him how her boy yet lived, why she had been told he had died? Dargule shook his head and spoke some words. Likely they did not matter. Caine lowered his pistol. He had a clear shot, but he wasn’t going to fire. His former conviction was gone, bled away the moment Adeline stepped from the carriage. Perhaps it had always been an illusion. He remembered feeling profound relief overshadow his disappointment on seeing he had shot a decoy in Corvis. He remembered that eternity of hesitation in Fellig. This was not someone he was meant to murder. He accepted that now. It was not right, and he would not do it—Rebald be damned. Still, there was the matter of Magnus and the rest. “Change of plans,” Caine whispered to his officers. “We’re taking Julius alive. Be careful with your shots.” They accepted this with equanimity. He mentally directed his Charger and Ace to move into position. Spread out around the graveyard were perhaps two dozen men, most looking more like thugs or criminals than soldiers, though all were armed. He recognized several as members of Croe’s gang. He would leave them to his soldiers. His first priority was Magnus and his warjacks. “We’ve got company!” The call came from a lookout crouched

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atop the wall who had seen the Charger or some other movement among the shadows. He raised a crossbow, but it was a magelock that sounded first. A glowing bullet from Lieutenant Jasren struck him below his left eye, killing him instantly and sending him flying off his perch. Then the graveyard erupted into chaos with the sound of gunfire and the twang of crossbows. Members of both sides dove for cover among the crumbling headstones. The Nomad and Ironclad were already in motion, their massive weapons readied to annihilate anything they could reach, guided by Magnus’ will as he fired his scattergun on the nearest commandos. The Ironclad moved with alacrity, shrugging off bullets to drive its quake hammer down through a statue a commando had hidden behind, shattering the stone and the man in the same hit. The quake hammer thrummed and a pulse of energy caused the ground around it to shake, knocking over Sergeant Bridges and a couple of commandos. Crossbow bolts sunk into several downed trenchers while Bridges rolled away to the side, only to look up and see the quake hammer raised above him, about to swing down. With a mental impulse and a carefully directed pulse of magical energy, Caine had already triggered the special arcane turbine inside his Minuteman behind the wall. It vented its heartfire and that energy into its legs and the rockets affixed to its back, which fired as it leapt high into the air and over the low wall to land behind the Ironclad. The Minuteman raised its fists toward the wider and taller heavy ’jack and fired the massive slug guns set under them. Heavy solid metal slugs crashed into the Ironclad’s frame, tearing off huge chunks of metal and exposing the complex gears and pistons of its innards. The machine staggered.

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The Ironclad turned and delivered a mighty sideways blow to the less heavily armored Minuteman, which stumbled to the side and crashed into the wall, knocking dozens of bricks loose. A follow- up strike crushed the smaller machine to ruin. The double cannon on Caine’s Charger fired twice in sequence to send its own shells into the Ironclad. The Ironclad looked increasingly unsteady on its feet, its chassis torn from multiple direct hits and its punctured engine venting steam. It was Caine’s glowing Spellstorm bullets that finished it, firing in rapid sequence. While they dealt with the Ironclad, he had sent his Sentinel running as fast as its steel legs could carry it along the left wall, hoping to get it in a position to protect Adeline and the exarch. Magnus misinterpreted this as a flanking maneuver and sent his Nomad to intercept. The heavy warjack crashed into the smaller Sentinel shoulder-first, hitting it square in the shield and knocking it down. The downward strike that followed severed the Sentinel’s shield arm, then another crushed its central torso, wrecking its waist and making it impossible for the toppled warjack to stand. The gun mages concentrated their fire on the Nomad, delivering potent energy into their bullets to drive it back. The damage was minimal, but they kept the machine at bay. The last bullet knocked it off its feet, but Caine saw their next shots had the magic stripped from them as they fired. Midwinter was in play. Though he remained hidden, he had to be nearby. “There he is!” yelled Sergeant Bridges. Lightning blazed from around the corner of the small church to strike him down. Midwinter must be there—he was the only one of Magnus’ lackeys capable of casting such magic. The other gun mages went that

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direction, seeking vengeance. The other inquisitor stepped forth, his eyes glowing. “Shoot your friends,” he said to Lieutenant Jasren, his voice sounding with a peculiar resonance. Jasren’s arm moved as if of its own accord, and Sergeant Carter’s eyes widened in surprise as the magelock pointed at him. Before he could say a word, the pistol fired, the bullet striking the center of his chest. Jasren’s expression was horrified but she was powerless to do anything but watch as her subordinate fell. By the time she had control of herself again, both inquisitors had retreated back behind the church. As soon as the firing had begun, Exarch Dargule had taken Adeline’s arm and pulled her into the church building while his soldiers moved to the doorway, their pistols drawn to provide cover fire against anyone who neared. Caine had seen the exarch yell at Julius to follow him, but the younger Raelthorne ignored him, drawing a mechanikal sword instead. When a pair of commandos rushed the youth and demanded his surrender, he attacked them instead—a dangerous maneuver given they were experts with the trench knives they wielded. Yet in a few short seconds he had disarmed one and wounded the other. Julius drew back toward the church, his own pistol ready. The boy was clearly no slouch with a blade, and seeing him fight this way reminded Caine chillingly of Vinter. “Stay back from him!” Caine ordered, making his own move in that direction. Then Magnus came in front of him to intercept, his sword Foecleaver in hand. The Nomad and its enormous sword also converged on him. Caine’s Charger and Ace were alongside

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him. He could hear new shells dropping into the firing chambers of their cannons. The warcasters stared at each other. Caine remembered the scene in the streets of Corvis and began to gather his arcane power, making his pistols and then his entire body glow with energy. If Midwinter’s power was still active, Caine was far enough away to be free of it. He glowered at the other warcaster. Magnus eyed him with similar fierce intensity, his head slightly tilted. He gripped Foecleaver in his mechanikal hand but angled toward the ground. In his living hand was his scattergun, raised to point at Caine. The shimmer of his power field danced around him, and Caine knew it would protect him from a great deal of harm. Not enough, though, if Caine gave everything he had. He felt confident he could take at least one point-blank shot from that gun in return. Magnus said, “You could have killed Julius, but you didn’t.” Caine should have answered with bullets. Instead he said, “I decided to give that up.” The fighting was petering out around them. It looked as though most of Magnus’ men were down or had fled. He noted that Croe was nowhere to be seen, likely having ducked over the wall as soon as the shooting began. Jasren was the only gun mage left. More than half his commandos had survived, though a number were wounded and needed attention. He continued, “He gets to live. Yer another story.” He raised his pistols, which were vibrating with restrained energy. He wanted Magnus to fire first, calling his death down upon his own head. Instead Magnus surprised him by dropping both Foecleaver and his scattergun. His Nomad also lowered its sword and stood to its

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full height, moving out of its combat-ready crouch. “Very well,” Magnus said. “I surrender to you.” For a few heartbeats Caine considered firing anyway. Maybe if Magnus had managed to kill that woman in front of her children in Corvis he would have gone ahead. The ghosts of the dead soldiers here and countless ones elsewhere would have cheered him for it. He wondered how many innocent people and loyal Cygnaran soldiers had lost their lives to this so-called Warlord. Then again, if he were to tally up his own kills it’d yield a daunting number. He was fairly certain some of them hadn’t entirely deserved it. The energy went out of him and the glow around his pistols faded. He holstered his Spellstorms. “Call out yer people, nice and slow,” he said. “No surprises.” He felt a new presence at his left and turned to see Clay standing next to him, holding something out to him. In his hands he held the set of the rune-laden manacles they had removed from Major Brisbane’s legs in the Thornwood. The other set was slung over his shoulder. “You might want these,” he said. It was true that shackling Magnus’ legs would be better than his arms, given one of those was replaced with an oversized mechanikal prosthesis. Caine took them and looked back to Magnus, smiling widely. “Good thinking, Private. They look just his size. I guess we’ll have to hitch the inquisitors together with the other pair. Jasren, flush them out from behind the church.”

372 CHAPTER NINETEEN

Caspia, Church of Forgotten Souls

The aftermath of the battle in the graveyard was almost as chaotic as the battle itself had been. Caine’s first order of business was to see Magnus’ surviving people rounded up and disarmed, the ones who could do magic shackled with the Greylord runed manacles. Magnus wore one pair on his legs, and Caine had handcuffed the two inquisitors together with the remaining pair. Caine didn’t know if that would work, but it seemed better than nothing. Past that he wasn’t sure what should happen next. He hadn’t thought that far—or, to be more accurate, he hadn’t thought any of this would go down this way. It seemed as though everyone present who didn’t have a bullet or crossbow bolt in them wanted to speak at the same time. Caine shouted to quiet them down. Magnus spoke up, the strength of his voice belying his captive state. “It is vital that the Royal Assembly hear me on this, Caine, and as soon as can be arranged. You must take me and Julius to appear before them immediately. The matter is urgent.” Caine laughed. “That’s not happening,” he said with finality. Magnus glowered at him. The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

He might have been half-tempted to shoot the whole lot of them if it hadn’t been for Exarch Dargule, who provided a voice of calm, reason, and authority. Julius, disarmed but not bound, had begun making demands almost at once, but Adeline and Dargule managed to settle him down. Caine wished he had thought to bring rope and gags. The exarch had immediately sent one of his soldiers to the entrance of the graveyard to intercept any approaching city watchmen. There had been a great deal of gunfire and the boom of warjack cannons, which couldn’t have gone unnoticed. Dargule instructed his man to tell anyone necessary that securing the site fell within the purview of the Church of Morrow and the authority of the Exordeum. The other soldier he sent to bring additional guardians from the Church. “Yer not poaching my prisoners, Exarch,” Caine warned him. “I have no intention of doing so, Captain,” Dargule said. “I’m considering you a legitimate authority, for what it’s worth. However, these are church grounds we stand upon, and they have been violated. I am in charge while we remain here, which I suggest we do until we work matters out. Once we leave, the prisoners are yours.” The former inquisitor identified as Wilkes Quinn said, “I would like to formally request sanctuary of the Church of Morrow.” He was trying to retain his dignity while his left arm was manacled to Orin Midwinter’s right. “Oh for the love of—” Caine exclaimed. Dargule held up a hand and interrupted, “I’m in no position to hear such requests at this time. To be honest, I’m not inclined to

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offer you anything, Inquisitor. We’ll get to that soon enough.” His eyes were hard when they looked at the two arcanists, filled with something that resembled hatred. Caine found it a bit off-putting to see that look in the eyes of a Morrowan exarch. Clearly he had been no fan of their organization. Midwinter said, “If you do not protect us, this man will take us into an alleyway, shoot us in the back of the head, and dump our bodies in the river. He’s no legitimate authority!” In truth, Caine didn’t consider that too bad of a plan, compared against the inevitable hassle that was likely the alternative. Lieutenant Jasren, furious over what had happened to Carter, had already offered to shoot Quinn, but he had asked her to check on the rest of the wounded to keep her busy. Dargule said, “While I will not accept any petitions for sanctuary, I will serve as a witness and advocate for the prisoners to ensure their safe treatment.” Caine heard Jasren shout, “Bridges is still alive! A couple others are still breathing.” Dargule went to her side and knelt beside the gun mage, whose face and clothes were scorched from the lightning Midwinter had hurled at him. The man was unconscious and his breathing was ragged. Jasren had lifted his head and wore a pained expression. Dargule leaned down, extending a hand, and white shimmering runes appeared around them as he offered a prayer, his eyes closed. There was no visible effect on the gun mage’s wounds, but his breathing eased. The highest priests of Morrow could sometimes ease grave wounds, though healing magic was a dangerous miracle, one that had its limits.

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Jasren’s eyes widened and a spark of hope lit her features. She stared at Dargule with a questioning look. “He’ll live,” the exarch said. “Let’s get him inside, together with any other wounded. I’ll see what I can do to help.” He turned to look at Caine, then Adeline and Julius, before saying, “Let’s talk about what happens next inside. My men will ensure we aren’t disturbed by outside authorities, at least for a little while.” • • • Dargule was aided in tending the wounded by the old priest who oversaw the small church and its graveyard, who had been hiding within during the assault. Once he was assured the conflict had died down and he was safe, the old man set to bringing forth hot water, bandages, needles, and thread. They soon had the injured taking up one side of the main prayer room. They improvised bedding out of whatever they could find that was softer than the stone floor. The priests discussed conducting proper funeral services for the fallen. Several of the survivors appeared to be Magnus’ thugs, Caine noticed with some distaste, though a few of the commandos had made it and were resting easier after being bandaged. The able-bodied commandos were standing guard, carbines in hand, keeping a particularly close eye on Magnus. They had shut down his Nomad’s engine, and so far as Caine knew, he couldn’t use his magic now. Still, the cagey bastard might find some way to escape if they didn’t watch him like a hawk. The inquisitors also made Caine uneasy, as he wasn’t entirely sure whether he had actually shut down their magic. So far neither of the pair had tried his luck. Caine kept a Spellstorm pistol in his right hand just in case, finding it also served as a useful deterrent to unwanted conversation.

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Magnus said, “I surrendered in good faith, Caine. I’d ask you to take a moment and listen before doing something foolish. If you will not hear me, listen to your rightful king.” He inclined his head toward Julius, who also seemed eager to speak. “I already have a king, thank yeh very much. And I plan to bring the lot of yeh to him. Whatever yeh have to say, save it for him. He’s a bit more forgiving than I am.” “This is a matter that should be brought before the Royal Assembly,” Magnus insisted. “It is they who preserve the realm, and from them the king receives his power. Your kingdom is divided by civil war, for the first time since the Menites gathered under Sulon. This is because they have lost faith in their unlawful king. This needs to be handled by men above your station. Let your government take the matter off your hands.” “We’re not going before the Assembly, I already told yeh,” Caine said. “Now shut the hell up.” He used his Spellstorm to punctuate his point. “Even were you so inclined,” Dargule said to the gun mage, “there is no time for speeches before the Assembly. If you desire to bring us before King Leto, it had better be done quickly. We should leave at once.” Caine turned to face him, frowning. “What’s this ‘us’ and ‘we’ business? Yer staying here, Exarch.” “No, I am not. It is my testimony and Adeline’s together that can confirm Julius’ lineage. I will be remaining with them, and they are both under my protection and that of the Church of Morrow. As I said before, I will witness your fair treatment of these prisoners, including the inquisitors.”

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“Former inquisitors,” Quinn seemed compelled to emphasize, with Midwinter assenting. “Regardless,” Dargule went on, glaring at the pair, “we have no time to waste. Before I left to come here, my agents had informed me that things are shaping up badly for King Leto. He is pinned down in Fharin and Vinter’s army has already begun to engage his. The main battle has not begun in earnest, but it soon will, and Leto’s army is outnumbered. Besides Vinter’s loyalists, Protectorate forces also converge on him. From what I have heard, I believe matters between the brothers will be decided in Fharin unless Leto flees.” Caine frowned and considered that. “Fine, then we’d best be on the first train to Fharin. On yer feet, everyone. Except the wounded,” he added the last seeing a couple of the injured commandos dutifully attempting to stand. “Yeh can stay here and heal up.” Adeline stepped forward and said firmly, “You can’t take Julius into a war zone. You’ve admitted there are those who would see him killed.” Her eyes were filled with fire. “You among them, until recently. It won’t be safe.” Julius placed a tentative hand on her arm. His voice was gentle but strong. “I must be there.” He faced Caine. “If my father and uncle are clashing in open battle, that is where I need to be. Cygnar’s fate is on the line, and I will not hide away or allow others to determine its outcome. The realm’s nobles and commoners alike would not follow such a coward. I will gladly risk my life and fight to preserve the kingdom.” He looked to Magnus and said, “The exarch is right. We don’t have time for the Assembly. We need to

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be at the battle in Fharin.” The warcaster looked as though he had bitten into a lemon but said nothing. Caine’s eyes narrowed at this, wondering what it was that made Julius tick, though his words seemed sincere. He didn’t sound like someone trying to manipulate those around him, like Magnus. Then again, he’d been raised in secret by a bunch of crazy inquisitors. “Yeh won’t be fighting anyone just yet,” he said. “Not unless Leto gives yeh back yer sword.” “Before we get on that train,” Magnus said, “you should let me send a telegraph message to Duke Ebonhart in Corvis.” “Are yeh out of your mind?” Caine asked. “I don’t think so.” The former Cygnaran commander turned traitor and mercenary simply looked at him calmly. He said, “I gathered an impressive army that might be useful in the clash ahead. Ebonhart should be told where to send them.” “I’m still not sure yer not working for Vinter somehow. The last thing I’m doing is giving yeh back yer army. In case yeh haven’t noticed, I don’t trust yeh. Not a whit.” Julius spoke up, “You don’t have to trust Magnus. Trust Ebonhart. You know his role in the Lion’s Coup. He would never side with Vinter against Leto. I know you are suspicious of our meeting with the Duke of the Northern Midlunds, but true loyalties do not change.” Behind the youth, Caine saw Magnus’ jaw clenching repeatedly. His fists were closed as if he endured some private turmoil. He stilled himself when he saw Caine’s eyes upon him, but the gun mage caught a glimpse of the truth in the man’s expression. If he were still working for Vinter, he wasn’t acting like it.

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Once again Caine considered how far all this was above his pay grade. Not to mention that he had openly defied a direct order of the Scout General of the CRS, a man who did not forgive. Still, he had to admit some mercenaries might come in handy. After a long pause he said, “Okay, you can send yer message. But Dargule gets to read it first.” The exarch nodded agreement. Caine was fairly sure Rebald’s people could intercept such messages, but if Magnus were cryptic enough that might not matter. He had to hope Dargule could detect any ruse. Leaving the dead and the badly wounded with the local priest, they gathered their weapons and gear and hastened to the Caspian train station. Caine kept Magnus in front of him and a hand on one of his Spellstorms the entire time. • • • It turned out there was no next regularly scheduled train to Fharin, a fact that seemed confounding. This forced Caine to do something he was reluctant to do: use his clout as a warcaster. He hated to draw attention to himself at such a dangerous time, but he had no choice. He left his prisoners with Dargule while he looked into the matter. The exarch had summoned more armed escorts—his own soldiers rather than Precursor Knights. They were armed more sensibly than Precursors, as far as Caine was concerned, with pistols and swords instead of maces and shields. Checking into the matter, Caine learned there were trains headed to Steelwater, but apparently the Menites had disrupted the railway to Fharin, and chaos in the north had the entire Market Line shut down. When he began to throw his weight around to

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find someone with the authority to get a train underway, he was directed to the military station, where efforts were underway to send troop support into the region. General Halstead, who was in charge of the Caspian garrison, had assembled what soldiers he felt he could spare, given the Protectorate was actively invading the interior as well as marching an army up to the border outside Sul. Caine tracked down Colonel Vance Rasterly, leader of the 105th Regiment that was being sent in relief of the king, and found he was thrilled to hear a warcaster wanted to accompany them. “We’ll have to disembark south of Fharin and make the rest of the way overland, after fighting through their cordon,” the colonel said. “We could use your help. I expect it’s going to be a risky slog. My men all volunteered for this.” He said that last proudly. “Nothing I love more than shooting fanatics,” Caine said agreeably. “Though yeh should know the people with me need to operate with a bit of discretion. I’ve got some unusual prisoners I need to bring to the king.” “Of course. My adjutants will ensure you have everything you need. We can add a secured supply car for your exclusive use.” He spoke to one of the men with him, who left to make the arrangements. Caine added, “Um . . . we’ll also be bringing an exarch of the Church of Morrow.” “As a prisoner?” The colonel was aghast. “No, no, more . . . an expert advisor. He’s got business with the king as well.” This sounded unlikely even as he said it. The colonel took the evasive answer in stride, nodding. “Is he bringing any of the Church’s soldiers? We could use them.”

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“I’ll check, but I don’t think so, beyond his personal guard. There are about twenty of us, altogether. We need to leave right away.” “As do we, Captain. The Battle of Fharin is already underway. If we wait much longer, we’ll miss it entirely!” Caine found his enthusiasm unsettling. Though the gun mage had never fought alongside Rasterly personally, he knew the colonel had been part of the grueling street-to-street fighting in Caspia and Sul. Everyone responded to battlefield stress differently. Rasterly was the sort who plunged into the thick of things, laughing, without a care in the world. Such men invariably came out of the worst firefight without a scratch. Then again, many might have said the same of Caine, especially in his younger years. Caine shook the man’s hand, accepted a friendly clap on the shoulder, and then left to get his people. He supposed it was nice to be appreciated, even if it was because he’d agreed to travel with a train full of lunatics on a suicide mission.

382 CHAPTER TWENTY

Leaving Caspia

Julius didn’t have a chance to talk to Magnus until they were on the train and well underway. They all swayed as a group as the train entered a gentle curve, and they could hear and feel a periodic clacking as its steel wheels passed over the rail joints. It was Julius’ first time on a train, and he was fascinated by the sheer size of it. He was disappointed their cargo car had no windows and he couldn’t watch the landscape rushing by. Their car was entirely lacking in amenities, but was more than large enough to accommodate them all. It was divided into two sections, with a barred door set into a metal wall between them. The majority of the soldiers were seated in the forward half, allowing them to be an armed buffer watching the door leading to the rest of the cars occupied by the 105th Regiment of the Cygnaran Army. Their car was near the rear of the train, behind them others containing military supplies. Magnus, the inquisitors, and Julius’ bodyguards were kept at the rear, with eyes on them at all times. The gun mage identified as Lieutenant Jasren had taken it upon herself to watch them, and she The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

seemed eager for an excuse to put a bullet in any of them. Julius was not technically a prisoner, though they had disarmed him and warned him against trying anything. At least he was free to move about the compartment. Adeline Dunning seemed unsure where she should be and stayed near the middle. She had refused to ride in the forward half of the car with the soldiers, not when Julius remained with the prisoners. She conversed with the exarch, but when he was occupied she seemed inclined to stare at Julius. It made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t sure what to think. He had felt something in the graveyard, when meeting her for the first time, when she’d grabbed hold of him and sobbed. He could not yet put a word to it. Sympathy? Confusion? Not love. At that moment a flash of a memory came to him, of being small and picked up by a woman who was warm and soft, who had smiled at him with unabashed joy. It was not Adeline’s face he remembered. She may be his mother, but he did not know her. He did not know how to answer that melancholy and yearning look in her eyes. He had no idea what one did with mothers. His tutors had never covered that topic, he thought wryly. He felt more immediate concern for Sergeant Bristol, who had been shot in the shoulder, and used her as an excuse to move closer to the prisoners. She was seated next to Cobb, who’d closed his eyes and was somehow sleeping. He asked, “Are you all right, Bristol?” She gave him a sour grimace, still looking hard and intractable. Her shoulder had been bandaged by the exarch. She touched the white cloth. “I’m fine. This is nothing.” He glanced back and saw Caine was occupied talking to the

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exarch. Julius took the opportunity to step closer to Magnus and whisper, “What’s your plan? How I can help you escape?” The warcaster had retained his leg brace, but they had removed most of the rest of his armor and had detached his mechanikal arm, leaving him looking greatly diminished. His legs were shackled together with manacles Caine claimed would impair his arcane powers. As yet neither Magnus nor the inquisitors had tested this. The warcaster’s lip curled in a small smile at Julius’ question. “There is no plan.” Julius found that hard to believe, and his eyes must have said as much. Magnus added, “Cooperate with them. We’re headed the right way; you were right about that. We need to get to that battlefield and ensure we have a hand in its outcome. I was too focused on the Royal Assembly.” It was as close as Julius had ever heard Magnus come to admitting being wrong. “What’s this?” asked a young ranger who was rummaging through their gear not far from them, against the wall of the car and well out of reach of the prisoners. He held up a small glass flask wrapped in strips of leather. The liquid it contained was dark green. “A suicide potion. Try a sip,” Magnus said calmly. Julius guessed this soldier was about his own age. What passed for a uniform on him was dirty, worn thin in several places, and lacking identifying insignia, which was apparently not uncommon among rangers. They seemed a different breed from the trenchers and long gunners he had seen marching into the forward train cars, each with a clean uniform, the bronze armor on shoulders and breastplate polished and gleaming. The ranger extracted a different flask, this one larger and filled with liquid of a yellow hue that appeared slightly luminescent. “And this?”

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“That one creates a toxic cloud that could kill everyone in this car,” Magnus said. “Put it away. Carefully.” His voice had taken on a hard edge. Julius had heard that tone during instruction. “Do as he says, Private,” said Lieutenant Jasren, who was leaning against the side of the car but still watching them alertly, one hand on her pistol grip. “Yes, ma’am.” He continued taking inventory. Next, the ranger lifted Julius’ sword, the one Magnus had forged for him, and he felt a sudden powerful hostility. He wanted to kick the ranger away from it, seize the blade, and by its edge free his people. He could imagine the heroics vividly, though he knew it wasn’t a plausible scenario, even without Caine standing a few paces away. Jasren seemed competent and quick, and they were on a train with thousands of soldiers. They would one day be his soldiers, but not yet. “None of that belongs to you,” he said to the ranger. “Just following orders,” he replied, not looking up. He frowned at one of the books Magnus had brought, flipped through its pages as if checking for a secret compartment, then set it aside. Finished with that, he left to report to Caine on what he had found. Caine heard him out and then sent him through the door to rejoin the rest of the soldiers. The exarch stepped closer to Adeline. He cleared his throat and looked back. “Julius, if I could have a word with you and Adeline, over here. There are things we should discuss while we can.” “Beware their lies,” Old Man Quinn said to Julius, his voice quiet and his tone intense. “Remember your lessons, and do not trust priests of the Church of Morrow.”

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Frowning, Julius stepped away from them and joined the exarch and Adeline Dunning. The open cargo car offered little privacy, but they walked back to the corner by the forward door, not far from Caine. The warcaster looked away, pretending not to listen, though certainly he was near enough to hear. Exarch Dargule cleared his throat and said, “You both deserve to know the story behind how you came to be where you were, and apart. This won’t be easy to hear—or to tell, I assure you—but they are truths that must be said. They are long overdue.” Adeline folded her arms over her chest and gave him a direct and challenging look. “You lied to me,” she said flatly. She had expressed this more vehemently shortly after they had been reunited, though there had been no time for explanations once Caine’s attack began. Adeline looked back to Julius, her eyes wet with tears. “He said you died in childbirth. I never even held you. I thought you were dead.” She had said this earlier as well. It seemed important to her that he believe it. “It was the primarch’s decision,” Dargule said. “He, too, was there, and for what little it is worth, I agreed with him at the time. A difficult course but one done in an attempt to protect both of you.” “Well, then, I’d like to have words with him too,” Adeline said vehemently. Dargule’s expression looked pained and he said softly, “That will be hard to do, now. I’m afraid the primarch passed away just two days ago. Very few people know yet.” At this statement, Caine betrayed he was listening as he looked over sharply with a surprised

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expression. Dargule continued, “He was a very good man, a holy man. There were many hard choices he had to make in his decades of service, but I know this one haunted him.” “I’m sorry his decision to steal my child troubled his sleep,” Adeline said sharply. Then her tone softened. “Arius’ passing is a great loss, but do not try to distract my anger. I’ll grieve him some other time.” The exarch nodded, as though this response was only to be expected. His eyes remained on the floorboards of the car as he spoke. “It was too risky to allow the two of you to remain together, since we knew the Inquisition would be hunting you. Julius was taken to a foster family to be raised away from Caspia. I personally selected them. Good people, who had recently lost their own child.” He looked up to Adeline again. “It was Father Niel Kalvor who brought Julius to his new home, and he checked on them from time to time.” “He knew?” she said breathlessly, clutching at her chest with one hand. “Of course he knew.” “Do not judge him harshly,” Dargule said. “He had no part in the decision and did everything he could to ensure your child had a worthy home.” Julius was less interested in these details and felt slightly impatient with being discussed as if he were not right there. He said, “Then they died, in a fire. Clearly it was not safe.” Dargule had been speaking to Adeline but now looked sharply at Julius. The priest said, “Were you told how the fire began?” Julius frowned, beginning to suspect where this was headed, though this story was such an integral part of what he knew of

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his past he felt reluctant to look at it closely. “It was an accident, or neglect. But the house was being watched by Senior Inquisitor Quinn and his people. They were able to get to me in time. They saved me from the flames.” Dargule shook his head his face darkening. “Let us revisit that most horrible sequence of events. There were very few individuals who knew where you had been placed, Julius. I suspect the inquisitors that kidnaped and raised you were vague on this point. But it required extraordinary efforts for them to discover your location. The only people with direct knowledge of your circumstances were myself and Father Kalvor, a priest who was a close friend of your mother’s and who sometimes worked for me. Tell him about Father Kalvor, Adeline. You can do so better than I.” Julius looked back to Adeline, who looked very pale, her teeth clenched. The question seemed to bring her back from dark thoughts. Swallowing tears, she said, “Niel Kalvor was a priest and my friend. My closest friend. He was the only one I could count on when circumstances in my life began to spiral out of control. He was the first one I told of my pregnancy. He was the one I turned to when I thought my life was in danger, and he brought me to the Church, where I was given sanctuary. Without him, I am certain Vinter would have killed me, and you. Niel stood by me during my pregnancy and was there when you were born. When I thought you had died . . .” She lost her voice for a moment and had to blink back tears before she spoke again, with some difficulty. “Niel was there for me, always. I cared for him more than anyone, but he was killed three years later. I think he planned to propose to me.” “Yes, he did,” Dargule said, nodding. “This would have

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happened, had his life not been cut short. Now, to another of my lies. I told you Niel was murdered, but I held back the details, hoping to spare you and because we had kept so much secret.” He took a deep breath and said, “Niel Kalvor was brutally tortured and murdered, by inquisitors seeking your son. Seeking you, Julius.” Adeline’s face went white with shock. Dargule gave her a sorrowful look and continued. “Our primary suspect, who had been seen directly in the vicinity, was Senior Inquisitor Wilkes Quinn. Not long after murdering Father Kalvor, Quinn visited the town where your son was fostered, kidnapped him, and then burned to the ground the house of the family that had taken him in and loved him like their own son. Both Julius’ foster mother and father perished in that fire. Found amid the ruins was the body of a child, thought to be Julius. For that reason, I too thought him dead all these years. The inquisitors covered their tracks well.” Adeline’s face had gone white but now reddened, and her expression transformed from grief to anger in an instant. She clenched her fists as she looked back toward the prisoners, her breathing rapid and her voice intense. “Niel would never have told such people anything, no matter what they did to him.” Dargule sighed. “Even the bravest can be worn down by pain. Inquisitors are very good at interrogation. I do not doubt Father Kalvor resisted—and suffered for it. But in the end, Quinn is a powerful and dangerous man. He has learned to quash wills and break minds. He has been rumored to use forbidden magic. We know a number of inquisitors learned such techniques.” Julius struggled to take this in. He felt detached, stunned, filled with confusing emotions. He did feel sympathy for Adeline

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Dunning and what she had gone through. How could he not, seeing it on her face? Old Man Quinn had done these things? His tutor? The man had been the closest he had to a father. He knew Quinn had been an inquisitor. His old mentor had confessed to Julius that he had done terrible things before renouncing his vows. But Julius could not imagine him ever burning down a house with innocents inside—including a child!—or torturing a man to death. Had not this same priest, Exarch Dargule, confessed to multiple lies and conspiracies? Might this not be another fiction? Quinn’s warning about the priests of Morrow came back to him. All his life Julius had been taught they were power-hungry, manipulative, insidious. But many of these statements were at odds with the history he had read. Many positive things had come from the Church, regardless of how they were perceived by his father, grandfather, or tutors. Long ago Julius had learned to view the things told him with skepticism. What was the truth here? What Dargule said seemed plausible, logical, even if he wished to reject it emotionally. How else had the inquisitors found him? Why would they have been watching the house where he was living? Certainly it had been their goal to take him away. Doing so while his foster parents lived would have created problems, the possibility of pursuit. Cleaner to kill them and fake Julius’ death. Again the face of a woman rose to mind, and with it another face, that of a kindly man tousling his hair. Were these his foster parents, the ones Quinn had burned alive? He did not remember the fire, though he could imagine the screams. Distracted by his thoughts it took him a few seconds to realize

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Adeline was walking toward the prisoners with fury in her eyes. “Monsters!” she said, and lunged. Julius and Dargule both moved to stop her as gently as possible, though she proved to be surprisingly strong and almost knocked Julius over when she wrenched her arm away from him. She was staring at Quinn. “What right had you to kill those people? To torture and murder a priest who never harmed anyone? Would you have killed me, too, if you had found me? Cut my throat, or burned me alive? How many children have you murdered?” “Do not show them your pain and grief. They are not worthy of it,” Dargule said quietly, having placed an arm around her in an attempt to ensure she did not get closer to them. “You will find no satisfaction or answers from such men.” Julius had felt removed from these events, an observer, but looking at Quinn he felt his own anger rising. The former inquisitor’s expression was calm, almost smug, containing nothing remotely resembling remorse. He stared at Adeline Dunning as though she were a painting or a fascinating animal. Next to him, Midwinter was different. He looked ashen and pale and bowed his head into his hands as if in pain. To Quinn, Julius said, “Is it true? You murdered my foster parents? Tortured and mentally coerced a priest to find me?” “The Morrowan priests lie and play with the emotions of others. What they do to the minds of their followers is more insidious than anything my arts can accomplish. Their Order of Illumination has done worse.” “But was this a lie?” His voice was rising. Magnus was looking at him levelly, but Julius ignored him. Likely the warcaster would

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say he was allowing his emotions to get the better of him. Perhaps they were. Quinn looked away and said, “None of that matters. I did what I must in the service of my former king. You know this.” Midwinter raised his head again and met Julius’ eyes. In a choked voice he said, “I have sworn my service to you. I will answer whatever questions you ask. The past will be laid bare. I vow there will be no deceit between us. It is true the Inquisition murdered those that would have been your parents, and an innocent child was slain in your place.” Quinn looked sharply at Midwinter as he began this speech, as though seeing a stranger. “Quiet, you fool. The Morrowan needs no ammunition against us!” The other inquisitor continued, ignoring him. “I was not part of those events, but I knew things like this happened and I did not act to prevent them. I remained focused on my work—hunting those who practiced magic without sanction. Each of us in our own way was seduced by the authority we possessed. We did not think we could do wrong.” This was said as though Midwinter sought forgiveness. It was unexpected and strangely moving. He seemed utterly sincere. At this point in the conversation several things happened closely together. First, the rear door opened and three men in uniform carrying boxes entered their section. The newcomers told Caine, the only one near them, they had brought food for the long ride. Then there was a sound upon the roof, not especially loud. Julius did not know enough of trains to determine if it was out of place. Caine took a quick look in the boxes they carried and did not seem alarmed.

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“Food’s here,” he said. “Let’s take a break from arguing and eat.” Which was when the shooting began. • • • Like the others, Caine had been caught up in the drama happening between the exarch, Julius, Adeline, and the accused inquisitors. There was no question Adeline had been subject to an extremely unfortunate turn of events, all of it dating back to her initial mistake of becoming romantically involved with the paranoid and ruthless former king of Cygnar. Given the tense atmosphere, he was glad for the interruption when the soldiers came through with the food. The timing was right, and they would indeed be on the train for a good number of hours. They expected to be thrown into battle as soon as they reached their destination, and it would be important they be rested and fed. Cygnar’s military policy was for prisoners to be treated well. He called out for the others to eat. As he looked across the faces of those bringing in the boxes of simple rations something tickled his instincts. The three were dressed as low-ranking members of the military support staff, in uniform but with the insignia of soldiers who did not generally see active service. Yet they looked hardened and seasoned. The one in the front, who had scars on his face and a muscular build, carried himself with a confidence at odds with his position. It was the second one, a lanky man with a shaved head, that really caught Caine’s eye. Climbing his neck but half-obscured by the collar of his uniform, was a tattoo of a serpent crawling through the eye sockets of a skull. Caine had only ever seen that design on combat veterans who had survived reconnaissance missions deep

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behind enemy lines. The third man was unremarkable but seemed too old to be a private. As the gun mage’s right hand dropped to touch one of his Spellstorms, he heard thumping on the roof and the three men dropped their boxes and went into frantic motion. The one nearest the door slammed and barred it. Caine drew a pistol, but the tattooed man spun a metal sphere into the cargo car that poured out thick smoke. The scarred man, moving with impressive speed, had a pistol drawn and was raising it toward Adeline, who had whirled around. The others also drew concealed pistols. Caine pulled his Spellstorms from their holsters and fired the pistol in his right hand. The glowing shot tore through the elbow of the man about to fire on Adeline, knocking his arm aside even as he squeezed the trigger. That bullet clanged off the rear wall just a few feet above the head of one of Julius’ former bodyguards. Guided by his arcane will, Caine’s first shot veered impossibly back to strike the second man in the side even as the gun mage fired with his other Spellstorm. That bullet crashed through the third man’s left eye, dropping him dead in an instant, before veering back to strike the first man—still reeling—in his back. Both shots echoed loudly in the chamber, though Caine’s power field dampened the sounds enough to prevent him being deafened. There was a crash and figures fell down through several holes torn open in the ceiling of the car. With a simultaneous bang the rear door was smashed open with explosive force, nearly taking it off its hinges and knocking Midwinter sprawling across the floor, dragging Quinn with him. More men stepped in from this door. The car filled with swirling smoke, but Lieutenant Jasren could

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see well enough to fire on the intruder nearest her. The rune- inscribed bullet smashed heavily into him, sending him flying back and into the man behind him. Both were knocked out the door to tumble to the ground beneath the swiftly moving train. Two more men rushed in to take their place. Magnus stood, and despite having his legs hobbled he drove into the man at the fore, pushing him back and then seizing him by the throat with his good hand. The attackers who had come through the ceiling had short but powerful slug guns in hand, weapons that were inaccurate at range but deadly in such close quarters. They took no time assessing their surroundings but turned immediately toward Julius. Caine focused his will and summoned his magic to create a ring of runes that manifested briefly around the younger Raelthorne, conferring heightened reflexes and awareness. It was a spell he ordinarily reserved for himself. Adeline made a powerful kick to the left leg of one of these men, sending him to the ground even as his slug gun fired wildly. Julius leapt to the side as the man still standing also fired, and the massive metal slug from that weapon tore a huge hole through the wall of the car where the youth had stood. Caine put a bullet in that man in the next instant, its ricochet hitting the intruder behind the one being strangled by Magnus, not killing him but knocking him back against the rear wall. There, Julius’ female bodyguard seized the man and began punching him brutally in the face. Julius ducked into a roll and slid to a stop near the pile of gear Clay had been searching through earlier. He stood with his mechanikal sword in hand, hacking into the man Adeline had tripped, who was trying to regain his feet. The youth then lunged to

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stab an assailant that had closed on Jasren and was grappling with her, having seized her by the wrist holding her gun and pushing it away. Caine fired again, and the last of their assailants went down. Magnus had strangled the life out of the one he’d seized, which was impressive given he’d managed it with one hand. “Anyone hit?” Dargule asked, checking Adeline first, then the others. It seemed every surface in the car was spattered with blood, while the air was whistling in through holes in the roof and walls as well as blowing through the open door in the back. There was a pounding on the door to the front, where the rest of their soldiers had been blocked off. “Jasren, cover that rear door!” Caine ordered. “Make sure we got them all.” While she hastened to obey, he closed on a man crawling on the floor beneath the smoke, reaching for one of the fallen pistols. It was the bald man with the tattoo on his neck. Caine stepped over and kicked the pistol out of his reach, then picked him up by the collar and slammed him against the wall. His side was bleeding where one of Caine’s first trick bullets had ricocheted into him, but it was clearly not a lethal wound. Caine jammed one of his Spellstorms under the man’s chin and they stared into one another’s eyes. To his credit, the would-be killer did not look afraid, though he was breathing hard. He had a resigned expression on his rugged features as he waited for Caine to pull the trigger. Caine said over his shoulder, “Exarch, can yeh get the door before whoever’s making that racket hurts himself trying to break through?” Dargule did as asked, yelling over the rhythmic pounding, “The

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danger is past! Hold your fire!” The door opened, spilling a number of their commandos and the Church soldiers into the cargo section, guns ready. Caine considered he’d need to have a chat with them about letting people through without being searched, but he decided he could save that until later. His commando sergeant already looked abashed. “Cobb was hit!” Julius said from the rear of the car, and the exarch went that way. “I think he’s dead,” Dargule said it in a flat voice. Caine looked back and saw they referred to one of Julius’ other bodyguards. “Who sent you?” Caine demanded of the man he had at gunpoint. “What are your orders?” The other man smiled, showing blood on his teeth. He said, “We came to fix your mistakes. Seems you lost your way.” “Rebald,” Caine said, more to himself than the other. Looking around he realized one of the men who’d come through the ceiling and been shot had a face he recognized. It was a CRS agent he’d worked with before. “Yer target was Adeline Dunning?” “Primarily. The boy also, if you hadn’t gotten him yet. Magnus too, if we could.” “Did yeh think I’d just stand by while yeh murdered an unarmed woman of the Church and my prisoners?” The CRS assassin hesitated before speaking again, perhaps considering whether it mattered if he divulged more. “Soon as we saw you get onboard with them, we knew you’d gone rogue. He told us to finish your job, if need be. Said if you got in our way, we should take you down, too.” He shrugged and said, “If it matters, I was going to talk to you first. Give you a chance to surrender.”

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Caine’s eyes narrowed. He said, “Yeh must’ve had a pretty high opinion of yerself.” The soldier chuckled and coughed, then said, “Guess I did. Didn’t believe those stories about you. Thought we had enough people to do it. Heath wanted to drop in explosives and take the whole car out.” He looked at one of the unmoving men lying on the floorboards. “I said we had to confirm the kills. Guess that was a mistake.” He looked back to Caine. “What now? Bullet in the head and my body thrown out the back?” Caine felt as though all his energy had bled out through the soles of his feet. He felt nothing but tired. Rebald had decided he was expendable. So much for thinking he could get back and explain himself. He holstered his pistol and said to Dargule, “See to his wound, then we’d better tie him up. Looks like we need to get to a different car. This one’s a mess.” • • • While Caine interrogated his new captive, Julius was checked on by Sergeant Bristol, whose expression showed obvious relief that he was intact before her customary scowl returned. Adeline stood not far behind her, clearly also worried but just as clearly unsure if she had the right to get closer. Julius hadn’t encouraged her. He stared at Cobb alongside Bristol; the man lay slumped against the back of the car, his eyes closed as though ignorant of the gory mess that had been made of his chest. Bristol said, “Hope he was still sleeping when he got hit. Serves him right, the idiot.” Despite the harsh words Julius could tell she was feeling the shock of his death. They had worked together a long time. Quinn and Midwinter were arguing near the back door in

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low tones while the gun mage Jasren stood near, her magelock drawn but pointed down. She was watching them and the door with equal suspicion. From what Julius could gather from the whispered exchange, Quinn had wanted to escape out the back in the confusion but Midwinter had refused. Since they were shackled together, Quinn lost his chance. “Did you help him?” Julius asked Bristol, indicating Quinn with his chin. She looked at him with a quizzical expression. He clarified, “Did you help burn down the house where I was? Kill my foster parents and that boy?” She swallowed. “No, I arrived after.” She sighed and added, “Cobb was there, though. With the priest, too. He was good at interrogation.” He was good at torture, Julius mentally translated. It shouldn’t have surprised him. He had thought his tutors might be different. Youthful naiveté. They had been the only family he had ever known. Now there was just Bristol and Quinn, the scariest two of the bunch. He didn’t feel much for Cobb. Maybe he was numb to it now, though it would have bothered him if Bristol had gone down. Was it because she was a woman? The closest he’d had to a mother? He looked at Adeline, then back to Bristol, considering how different they were. Magnus stepped closer. He smiled and clapped Julius on the shoulder. “You did well there. Kept your wits.” “Didn’t have time to think,” Julius said. “It happened so fast.” “Your instincts were good. All your training paid off.” He sighed, looking at Cobb, then at Bristol and Quinn. “You’ll need those reflexes again soon, when we get to our destination. Things are going to get worse before they get better.”

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“Always the optimist, eh, Magnus?” Julius gave him a small smile, though his heart was heavy. “How are we going to accomplish anything in this battle with you shackled?” “A good question,” the warcaster said. “And one I intend to address.” The commandos and church soldiers that lingered in the bloody car looked up sharply as Magnus limped toward them. A dozen firearms were pointed at his chest. He ignored them and made his way toward Caine with what dignity he could muster. The chains on his legs jangled against the floor as the clicking sound of the rails passing beneath them went on like the ticking of a clock.

401 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

South of Fharin, along the Market Line

To say that Caine had misgivings about what Magnus proposed would have been an understatement. He took his time mulling it over while the train passed through Steelwater Flats and continued up along the Wyrmwall toward their ultimate destination. He decided to agree only as the train began to slow, having come as close as they dared to the section of rail dismantled by saboteurs. “The faster we take out the Sul-Menites, the fewer the Cygnaran casualties, and the more soldiers on this train get to live to reach Fharin,” Magnus had said. “You and I together can accomplish far more than either one of us individually.” All Magnus required was for Caine to take the risk of giving him back his warcaster armor and weapons and letting him fight. Of course, that meant giving up the only control he had over the fugitive and making it more likely he could escape to do something else terrible. Magnus even had the gall to suggest letting him have control over a few warjacks. Caine said, “I’m not giving you access to our cortex locks! Even if I wanted to, I can’t. You know how they work. I can’t just talk you through opening them.” The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

Magnus gave a half smile and said, “You don’t have to. I don’t know the newest ones, but the older machines use a legacy lock that’s outdated at least five years . I know that one.” Caine stared at him and then shook his head, feeling begrudging admiration. It made sense—he’d seen Magnus with that Ironclad at the graveyard. The cortexes of those stolen warjacks had likely been wiped to reset the locks. Changing cortex locks on an active warjack was a difficult procedure and wasn’t something the Cygnaran Armory did often. When a new sequence was implemented, older ’jacks were left as they were unless something necessitated the change. “What’ll it be, Caine?” Magnus asked. “Would you prefer a crippled prisoner to look after or a warcaster to help you fight?” In the end, against his better judgment, he agreed to let Magnus fight. Magnus seemed genuinely interested in getting to Fharin, in being present for the clash between Leto and Vinter. This meant his motives were compatible with Caine’s, at least for the moment. It was still risky. He took a few simple precautions just in case. He fully expected Colonel Rasterly to object and overrule him, but instead the commanding officer of the 105th called it a “capital idea.” He readily accepted that Magnus would remain in Caine’s custody. Clearly he thought the gun mage had leverage over him. Putting his hands on his Spellstorms, Caine decided that technically he did, though he hoped that sort of messy solution would not be required. He had not forgotten the innocents Magnus had killed, but the urgency to seek retaliation for that injustice had faded. Now he had other concerns—like the assassins sent by Rebald. Throughout the length of the train the soldiers prepared to

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disembark and do battle. They went through the small rituals that helped settle their minds—disassembling and cleaning rifles, sharpening trench knives, checking packs, bantering, making boasts. To Caine’s practiced eye their general mood looked good, better than it had been among the war-weary soldiers of the northern armies. These men were well rested, eager for action, and especially eager to kill Menites. After the Caspia-Sul War, many men in the home garrison lost any religious tolerance. Caine couldn’t blame them; they had seen their homes threatened, their friends burned alive. As Caine and Magnus collected their warjacks from where they had been unloaded from the cargo cars, he had to admit to excitement about the battle ahead. Far better to have Magnus on his side than against him. Caine took Ace, a Defender, and the Charger that had survived the graveyard fight. Magnus was given an Ironclad, a Cyclone, and his Nomad. When they had boarded the train Caine had expected they might get some use out of the old machine by turning it over to a ’jack marshal, but it would be more useful controlled by a warcaster, especially one who knew its capabilities and personality. The regiment had a few other light warjacks with them, but Caine left them with their respective companies to support the troops. The colonel suggested they could advance as a cohesive column, but Caine decided against it. His primary objective was to preserve as much of the 105th as possible. They had the services of a couple of volunteer warcasters, and he insisted on taking advantage of that. Accordingly he and Magnus selected a small escort—just a couple of companies of infantry—and left the rest with Rasterly.

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The plan was for the warcasters to go ahead, with the rest of the regiment following after a short delay to engage once the enemy was preoccupied. Caine insisted the rest of his prisoners, together with Dargule, Adeline, and Julius, remain with the main army. Julius came over to talk to him about this, his expression determined. They had not spoken much since Caine had decided not to put a bullet in his head. The gun mage found the youth’s stare unnerving. He looked a great deal like a younger version of his father, especially when he was frowning. He said, “I’ll be fighting along with you two. I didn’t come here to be an observer.” “It’ll be an abrupt end to yer ambitions if yeh get blown up by a stray deliverer rocket,” Caine said. “I’ve seen it happen.” “I’m wearing armor,” Julius said, folding his arms. He was still wearing his modified Steelhead uniform. “That armor gives yeh a chance to survive. But just a chance.” “Strange to see you so concerned about my health, given you were trying to kill me until yesterday.” Caine smiled and shrugged. “Changed my mind. Decided the king might give me a raise if I bring him a nephew he never knew he had.” “I’ve been training and fighting alongside Magnus for months,” Julius insisted. “I can handle myself. Put me in with his soldiers.” “Yeh were training with Steelheads. They knew yeh. Yeh’d get in the way with our trenchers. Different sort of outfit, different sort of fighting.” He could see from the gleam in the youth’s eye that he’d taken a liking to dressing up as a soldier. Likely his father had been the same, while Leto had been content to keep his nose in his books, or so they said. It felt very strange to Caine to consider

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he was talking to a bastard prince, one who continued the most famous bloodline in Cygnar. Maybe you can stick by Reed,” he nodded to indicate the taciturn mechanik. “Know anything about fixing machines? Good time to learn, if not.” Clay spoke up, not far behind him. “I could take him with us.” Caine hadn’t realized the ranger was there and turned to glare at him. Clay ignored this and looked at Julius. “Can you keep a low profile?” “Absolutely,” Julius said, his eyes narrowing. He didn’t seem to like the idea of being hitched to the rangers, which made Caine think that was probably the best choice. “Need to put something over that armor,” Clay noted critically, “or better yet, have you ditch it.” “Move around a bit,” Caine directed Julius, waving his hand. “Run in a circle, then jump.” The youth gave him a skeptical look. “Just do it,” Caine said. Julius obliged, clearly feeling he was being the object of some sort of ridicule. Caine nodded. “As I thought, Magnus paid extra to have that armor silenced. Put a ranger’s poncho over the top and he’ll be fine. Yeh know how to fire a rifle?” “Of course!” Julius said in an offended tone. “Caine addressed Clay. “All right. Get him a military rifle and take him with yeh.” Looking back to Julius he said, “Follow his lead, and don’t fire until he does. If I see yeh in the mix with that sword I’ll shoot yeh myself. In the leg, or the arm. Somewhere painful.” He was sure it was a bit irritating to have gone from being a Steelhead officer favored by Magnus to obeying a ranger private who looked like he’d just crawled out of the woods. Before the

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youth left, Caine had a thought and called out to him, “Hey, Julius.” He turned back. “Yes?” Caine had quite a few things he thought he should say, but where to begin? “Look, yeh seem sharp. Just don’t let Magnus or Quinn or any of them tell yeh what to do. They want to use yeh for their own ends. I know what it’s like to be in that position. Don’t trust anyone who has something to gain from yeh.” Julius seemed to consider that. “I appreciate the advice, Captain. The truth is, I came to a similar conclusion some years ago. When you are in the position I am, the fact is, everyone has something to gain or to lose from you. I can’t trust anyone.” He glanced back toward where Adeline was conversing with the exarch, near the train. “Or almost anyone.” He said the last as if it was a new idea that had just occurred to him. Caine nodded, considering Julius possessed a strange maturity, likely as a result of his unusual upbringing. “Fair enough. Just so yeh know for when yeh meet him, Leto is another one. Whether or not yeh agree with all he’s done, he’s a good man. He had nothing to do with the mission I was on. We kept it from him, knew he’d not approve.” “I’ll bear that in mind,” Julius said. “Thank you. And thank you for not killing me.” He smiled openly, humor in his eyes. It was an expression Caine would never have expected to see on Vinter’s face. • • • Caine sent Clay ahead with a couple of squads of more experienced rangers to scout, hopefully ensuring the warcasters and their battlegroups wouldn’t trigger an ambush. Because the surrounding countryside was irregular, they took the expedient option of

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following the major road running parallel with the railway. It made their route predictable but also greatly expedited their progress. It turned out the Menites were just ahead, occupying the small town of Pennley. Their lookouts must have spotted the braking train, for they had formed up in the main square, preparing to march forth. Likely they intended to demolish the engine and its inhabitants. Caine and Magnus sent the combined bulk of their soldiers to approach by the main road while they took their warjacks up into the lightly wooded hills on either side. The region around the town was mostly broad farmland, but the approach offered several features that gave enough cover to screen the warjacks. The sound of their engines would be eclipsed when the shooting began. Their soldiers were outnumbered by the Menites, encouraging the enemy to be bold. They flowed out of the town with zeal to annihilate the Cygnarans who dared interfere with their crusade. Caine noted that beyond some Temple Flameguard at the fore, the soldiers they faced were primarily militia zealots backed by deliverers. Both groups were armed with extremely dangerous explosives, but zealot grenades worked only at close range and deliverer rockets were notoriously inaccurate. The Temple Flameguard had a few light warjacks, but it was a far less substantial force than they had been led to expect. Caine concluded it was likely most of the Sul- Menite army was elsewhere, either on the march north or encamped around the region. Seeing the white-and-gold tabards and maroon robes of the oncoming Sul-Menites, the trenchers at the vanguard began to fire, even though the enemy had yet to close to the more effective range of their military rifles. Deliverers moved up, bringing their rocket

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tubes to readiness and then launching a volley of the streaking projectiles. The trenchers immediately adopted rolling smoke tactics, using grenades to obscure their advance and making their positions and numbers difficult to ascertain. Even as rockets exploded around them, the trenchers at the fore marched through the smoke wall to fire on targets of opportunity before rushing to whatever cover they could find. The sight and sound of the deliverer rockets spinning wildly before impacting with a blast of deadly shrapnel was fearsome. Several landed amid the long gunners in the middle of the column, shredding those unlucky enough to be hit. With the effectiveness of the smoke wall, the Temple Flameguard committed to an early charge with shields and spears raised, seeking to engage the frontline infantry and seize the advantage. Zealots advanced behind them, trusting in their faith to take them to their final rest should Menoth recall their souls. Lines of readied Cygnaran repeating rifles steadily tore them apart, but they closed without fear, the survivors unleashing their powerful incendiary bombs. Aside from being unnerving, the strong morale of the theocracy’s soldiers was a significant problem. Such troops could not be counted on to break and withdraw like sensible people. Caine resigned himself to a slaughter as he and Magnus engaged from the higher ground on opposite sides of the road. They descended with their warjacks and brought destruction to the Protectorate forces. Caine’s pistols blazed as he fired unerringly into the foes, his bullets piercing through Temple Flameguard helmets and breastplates. He flashed away when they tried to

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counterattack, then reappeared close to commanding officers to gun them down. He sent Ace and his Defender to annihilate one of the Protectorate’s Repenter warjacks before it could get close enough to unleash its deadly flamethrower on the Cygnaran soldiers. Such machines could produce horrific injuries, spraying an incendiary substance known as Menoth’s Fury to consume anything it touched. Magnus was equally effective, his scattergun pellets ripping through zealots and deliverers. Using his magic, he accelerated his warjacks to rush forward and annihilate anything in their way. His Ironclad’s quake hammer toppled half the forward line of Temple Flameguard, who were quickly gunned down or killed by charging trenchers using bayonet-tipped rifles. A tightly packed group of deliverers that had crested a low hill near him was torn apart as the earth exploded around them. The Warlord seemed to take delight in wading into the battle personally and eventually holstered his scattergun to draw his mechanikal blade Foecleaver. He tore through Sul-Menites with his sword in his living hand, using his mechanikal one to crush or knock aside any other foes he could reach. By the time the warcasters met in the middle there was nothing to do but chase down the scattered remnants. The trenchers and rangers broke into small squads to hunt down fleeing Menites. Caine was relieved to see both Clay and Julius alive, both having taken up good positions in the heights and firing at their leisure. They swept into the town with similar brutal efficiency, quickly eliminating those Protectorate soldiers left behind to police the locals. By this time the rest of the 105th had arrived to help handle

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the lingering holdouts. The citizens that had not already fled left their homes and came forth to cheer and praise them. Ignoring this attention, they focused on the ruin the Sul- Menites had made of the railway. Apparently the most expedient way for them to disrupt it here had been to sever the rails south of the town and haul the pieces away, leaving a wide gap. Things looked bleak to Caine’s eyes, but the mechaniks with the regiment came up with a plan. Those lengths of metal were found largely intact nearby, within one of the abandoned encampments. With the help of a few warjacks, the crew chief bet he could manage repairs sufficient for the train to cross, so long as it went slowly over the repaired portion in case the welds began to fail. Repairing the railway was worth the extra effort, even without considering opening the route for additional reinforcements. As close as they were to Fharin now, it would require several days of marching overland, a portion of it uphill, to reach the city on foot. While the mechaniks set to work on this, Colonel Rasterly confirmed Caine’s apprehensions. He said, “This is definitely not the extent of the Protectorate forces we were expecting. This must have been a smaller force left to ensure no trains made it through.” Follow-up conversations with the locals confirmed there had been many more soldiers, who had marched north for Fharin. Even worse, from the descriptions it seemed likely that Feora, Priestess of the Flame, was leading them. Clearly the crusading army intended to be more than a distraction. Caine could only guess they knew King Leto was in Fharin and found him to be a target too tempting to pass up.

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• • • Not long into the repairs, Caine was amused to note Magnus lumbering toward him, straining against his intractable armor. The gun mage folded his arms and waited patiently for him to arrive. “You shorted the coal in my arcane turbine,” Magnus growled at him, glaring. “Seemed the easiest way to ensure yeh didn’t get too comfortable,” Caine said. “May not have loaded up yer warjacks all the way, either.” “We don’t have time for this foolishness, Caine. I think we need a change of plans. You haven’t thought things through.” “That wouldn’t surprise me. Who has time to think? Go ahead, spit it out.” “I’m talking about Rebald. He’s not going to let you waltz back in and bring Julius and Adeline to Leto. You’ve disobeyed his orders, and now he considers you expendable. In fact, you know too much. I’d imagine you have some secrets that Rebald would prefer Leto never hears about? He can’t trust you with that now.” Caine didn’t answer directly, though he expected his expression gave him away. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. Nothing we can’t smooth out. Yer not talking me into letting you go.” “I’m not suggesting letting us go. I’m suggesting coming with us. We fight well together. I enjoyed that. Felt like old times.” Magnus smiled ruefully. “My mercenaries should be arriving at the battlefield the same time we are. That’s where we need to go. You can’t get anywhere near Leto’s camp, not until the dust settles. Not until Vinter is dead. Otherwise you’ll be arrested. As soon as he has control over you and the others, Julius and Adeline will vanish. As

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would I, if you brought me in to him, shackled and helpless.” Caine scowled and said, “Rebald’s not an inquisitor. He’s just trying to protect the kingdom.” Magnus smirked and said, “Rebald may once have been different from them, but no more. The work requires it. A person could not handle the responsibilities he carries without a disregard for morality, for law. The protection of the kingdom is all that matters. The rights or lives of individuals cease to be important. Everything comes down to larger consequences. You’ve seen it.” Caine weighed his words and found them uncomfortably close to the truth. He’d been having similar thoughts since deciding to disobey. No, earlier than that. Such thoughts had been lurking in the back of his mind since he had first seen Julius in Fellig. Magnus was right—he had let himself be leashed, turned into another man’s weapon, given up his freedom. “I’m not going mercenary or turncoat. I’m not giving up Leto to support Julius.” “I’m not asking you to,” Magnus said. “You can go beg for your job back afterward. You need me to take down Vinter. I understand him better than anyone. I know how he fights. I know his mind, his weaknesses. He doesn’t know about Julius yet. We can use that to create an opening. We’ll need every advantage we can muster to have the smallest chance of success. You need me in warcaster armor, at the head of my army. Together we can prevent Vinter from seizing the throne. Without us, he’s already won.” “Don’t pretend yer doing this for the common good,” Caine said. “Yeh just want to put Julius on the throne, then stand there at his side.” Magnus nodded. “That is my goal, as I’ve said openly. There’s

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a lot to be done before that. I told you in Fellig, if you had agreed to take Julius before Leto, I’d have gone with you. The offer still stands, once we deal with this small matter of a civil war. No one is talking to anyone while the Raelthorne brothers are alive. Who do you think will win if they clash? Do you have any idea how narrowly Leto managed his coup? He won’t have the primarch at his side this time.” Caine stared back at the other warcaster, but his anger did not change the impact of the man’s words. Thamar take him, Magnus was making a great deal of sense. But then, he’d always been persuasive. For all Caine knew, he was secretly still serving Vinter, waiting for his chance. But Caine didn’t think so. The man had pinned all his hopes on Julius, utterly forsaking his former master. It had cost him. Maybe he wasn’t the same man he had been. The gun mage stepped forward and pointed a finger in Magnus’ face. “Listen here,” he said, “if I agree to do this, yeh need to promise me yeh won’t make a move on Leto. It’s Vinter we’d be going after, and that’s all. If I think for a second yer going to move on the king, I’ll put a bullet in your skull myself.” Magnus stared back at him, his expression carefully neutral. He said, “Agreed. Let’s see this ended.” He extended his living hand, which Caine shook with no particular enthusiasm. Then Magnus growled, “Now, get me some damned coal for this turbine!”

414 PART FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Fharin

For the first few days, the onset of hostilities against the defenders at Fharin was gradual. Though King Leto was grateful for the time to gather additional allies, the tension of wondering when Vinter would truly commit his forces was almost more corrosive to morale than the small skirmishes themselves. His spies reported the Exile’s growing army was mustering in several positions around the city, most of them to the north and northeast but with smaller forces positioned to block other significant roads. Due to the Protectorate’s actions south of the city, Fharin was cut off except for a trickle of traffic through the Wyrmwall Mountain passes to the west, a route forces loyal to Leto still controlled. Expecting immediate aggression, all the generals had prepared their defenses with that in mind. Leto insisted his brother was not so predictable—Vinter had displayed great patience in the Scharde Invasions as well as a willingness to sacrifice good men to gather intelligence about his enemy. The king only hoped their own rangers and other scouts were also taking the opportunity during these first clashes to learn about the enemy. The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

They had set up defenses and artillery on the hills recommended by Scout General Rebald—defenses the enemy was probing, testing the defenders’ ranges and coverage of different avenues of attack. The loyalist army was also at greater liberty to take advantage of their own mobility, having control of the surrounding countryside. They sent raids and additional scouting attacks toward Fharin from other directions, forcing the defenders to either reposition to intercept or simply accept incidental casualties. So far, the forces in Fharin had managed to deal with most of these raids without compromising their core defenses, but that could change. As yet, Leto was unwilling to allow the enemy to threaten the city itself without a response. Rebald warned him this might be a serious vulnerability, one Vinter would predict and exploit. In order to react to these probing assaults, they were relying heavily on their most mobile hard-hitting forces, especially Lord General Stryker’s battlegroup and an escort of mixed cavalry that included Storm Lances, Tempest Blazer gun mages, and more traditionally armed cavalry drawn from the nobles supporting Leto’s. Even warhorses did not have infinite stamina, especially those burdened with heavy barding. Only a single colossal was present with the defending army, a Hurricane originally intended to be sent to the First Army in the north but diverted to Fharin. Luckily, it arrived shortly before the city was cut off from reinforcements. Most of Cygnar’s most powerful war machines were fighting against Khador, and the first production run had been largely eradicated by Cryx in the Thornwood. Cygnar had lost more colossals there than they had preserved, a great expenditure in resources, though each of the

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machines had proven its worth in those battles. More were being constructed as rapidly as the Cygnaran Armory could manage, but Leto knew it would take time to rebuild that strength. The Hurricane was kept close to the city for now, both to bolster its defenses and, per Stryker’s wishes, to ensure it was available for the larger clash they knew was coming. In the meanwhile, his mobile force was supported by several Storm Striders, peculiar four-legged contraptions controlled by stormsmiths, capable of hurling lightning at a distance. Many of the same stormsmiths from Stryker’s division had been allocated to Fharin’s city walls as part of an effort to provide more defenders without depleting regular infantry from the main army. A number of powerful storm towers had been set at strategic places along its battlements, positioned to replace cannons borrowed by the main army. Storm towers did not have the range of heavy cannons but could provide more accurate coverage at a closer distance. They would prove far more effective if a small force attempted to assail the walls under cover of night or during the chaos of battles elsewhere. Stryker hoped to engage and dismantle any larger threats to the city before they could get close enough to damage its walls. Reconnaissance reports indicated the Protectorate army was not equipped with siege weaponry or long-ranged ordnance at least. And Vinter’s army had a limited supply of such weapons. Additional support trickled into Fharin in those early days. The greatest of these late arrivals was Lord General Vincent Gollan, Earl of Shieldpoint, Senior Knight of the Prophet and Supreme Knight of the Highgate Vigil. King Leto had been quite surprised to receive the supreme commander of the Third Army, who had

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traveled to Fharin from Highgate. They had taken the train as far as they were able but then had been forced overland. Lord General Gollan had made the last leg of the journey through the mountain passes, doing so at a remarkable speed, though exhausting his men. Any hopes that Gollan might bring some substantial force of arms was quashed as the small but esteemed group marched through the western gate, received with enthusiasm by the defenders, but numbering only three thousand at most. Leto felt guilty about that regret, knowing how vital the Third Army was, along with the Southern Fleet, to protect Cygnar’s shores and ports from the Nightmare Empire. Depleting the Third Army for his own defense would be to invite Cryx to enslave any of hundreds of thousands of innocent souls in western Cygnar. Leto knew he should be glad to receive even these few troops, and that each represented a courageous patriot he would otherwise have lacked. King Leto, Archduke Alain Runewood, and Scout General Bolden Rebald went to greet the old knight inside Fharin’s western gates. The older lord general looked tired but pleased by the reception. He still possessed his famous stamina despite his advancing years. While not yet showing the ravages of age like Duke Sunbright, Gollan was a man well past his prime, already in his sixties. He, too, had endured Vinter’s reign, having been all but banished to Highgate to deal with Cryx; the former king had not wanted the Morrowan champion in the capital. Still, Leto had kept him there for other reasons—knowing Gollan’s knowledge and leadership were invaluable in their vigil against perhaps the greatest foe of the entire Iron Kingdoms.

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Welcoming the earl alongside his friend Alain reminded Leto of his youth, and simpler times, for Gollan had played a part in their martial training, back when they were mere pages and Gollan had been a freshly minted knight. And their old training days were on the minds of the others as well—Gollan said, “It is too bad Kielon Ebonhart is not also here for this reunion. I well remember the three of you, inseparable in those days, now all risen to positions of power and responsibility. Where is Duke Ebonhart? Is he battling the Khadorans in the north?” Leto frowned, feeling the reminder like a punch in his side. “Ebonhart remains in Corvis,” he said. “He and I are no longer close, I’m afraid. Of late our conversations had become arguments. He did not answer my summons, and his reply to my telegraph message was curt. I do not think he will join us for this battle.” “The king is too generous,” Rebald said, his nostrils flared in uncharacteristic anger. He also had a history with Gollan, enough to feel comfortable speaking openly. Before being chosen by Leto at the outset of his reign to become scout general, Rebald had been a highly decorated ranger serving the Knights of the Highgate Vigil, with Gollan his supreme commander. That highly unconventional order of knights had included the kingdom’s most clever and self- sufficient rangers and trackers, men and women sent on lengthy patrols to watch for any signs of Cryxian incursion. In fact, it had been on Gollan’s recommendation that Rebald had been chosen to become Cygnar’s spymaster. “What are you saying, Rebald?” Gollan asked, frowning. The scout general said, “Ebonhart has been seen by my agents in the company of Asheth Magnus. There is too little evidence

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to arrest him, but under any other circumstances, we would be sending soldiers to bring him before the king to explain himself. His loyalties may have changed.” “What?” The old knight and defender of the Church was shocked, then angry. He glowered at his former subordinate. “Ebonhart is no traitor, if that is what you are implying. He would no more support Vinter against Leto than I would! I realize times are tense and the realm torn, but let us not jump to conclusions that all our friends are our enemies.” He faced Leto at this last. “I am certain there is an explanation,” Leto said, not wishing to get into the matter now. He gave Rebald a sharp look. “Granted, my imagination fails to conceive what it might be. But I will not cast aspersions on Ebonhart based on so little. Regardless of his reasons, his absence is felt. Today more than ever.” He endeavored to adopt a less dour expression. “Enough of such matters. This is not the hour to bemoan those who were unable to answer my call. I am honored by your arrival, Lord General, and touched. It does my heart good to know a champion of Morrow stands with me during this trial.” Gollan made the gesture of the Radiance and said, “There is nowhere else I would be, Your Majesty.” He paused, then added, “I know any distressing rumors about Ebonhart must have come at an unfortunate time, while we are grieving the death of a great man. None knew him better than you. I daresay he thought of you as a son, and he proved a better spiritual father than the Stoneheart, if I can speak ill of the dead this once. The world has been darkened by his loss, though Urcaen is made brighter.” Leto paled and felt a chill. It was as if the world were suddenly

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leeched of color all around him. There could be only one man whom Gollan would be referring in such a way. It was clear he thought Leto was in possession of facts he did not have. Could it be? “What do you mean, grieving? What has happened?” Now it was Vincent Gollan who went pale, looking at Rebald in surprise, before frowning and looking down. His voice became thick with sorrow as he said, “I am terribly sorry, Your Majesty. I thought you knew. I received word on the way. There is no good way to put it, no good time to hear it. But just a few days ago, Primarch Arius passed on. I was told he went peacefully and in no pain, recalled to Morrow’s side as was always to be his reward. His great spirit will join the Host of Archons. I pray he will watch over us in the battle ahead.” King Leto stood still a moment, staring at the knight and lord general as if the words the man had spoken, well chosen as they might have been, were in an unknown tongue. Leto’s mouth was dry. Archduke Runewood reached out to steady his elbow, as perhaps he had been wavering. “Leto?” he asked. “Are you all right?” Leto shook off the sensation and cleared his throat, inclining his head in thanks to Alain. “Yes, I am. Sorry. That is . . . quite a shock. I did not know. The news had not reached me. I’m sure a letter is on the way. In truth, I am glad to have heard it from you. Far better to hear the words from someone who also loved him.” He was silent a moment, overwhelmed, and then raised his head. “I’m sorry. Alain, Rebald, can you ensure the lord general is briefed on our current circumstances and that his men are properly quartered? If you will all excuse me, I need to take a short walk to clear my mind. And to pray.”

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“Would you like company, Your Majesty?” Gollan enquired. “I can walk with you.” “Not just now. I need time with my thoughts. I will rejoin you soon.” The others expressed their sympathy and left. Leto was not actually solitary, as his personal guards were with him always, but he put them from his mind. He felt truly alone for the first time in years. He strode away from the gates and toward the heart of the city, his escort flanking him. He endeavored to govern his features, to show no sign of the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. There were eyes upon him as he walked, the brave defenders of his realm, citizens who were counting on him and his army to protect Fharin. They offered their respects and words of appreciation as he passed. He nodded in thanks, though his mind was far away. It would not do for them to see despair on the face of their king. What Leto felt did not resemble anything he had experienced at the death of his own father, a hard and unyielding man Leto had never truly known. It was not just that his father had never expressed a kind word or anything beyond disappointment and disapproval. There had been no warmth, no connection, no memories of kindness, not even a single moment of shared vision or sympathy. Leto respected his father, but there had always been a vast gulf between them, and it was impossible to remember his face without apprehension. His father had denied to him the one path Leto had found that seemed right to him—to give himself to the Church, to become a priest and immerse himself in spiritual teachings.

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Such an option might have been possible as the younger son of other kings, or perhaps had his father and mother been more fruitful, raising additional brothers and sisters. As a third or fourth son, Leto might not have found the clergy to be a forbidden avocation, though Vinter III had loathed the Church of Morrow, resenting its power and influence. He did not approve of its underlying philosophy, finding it soft and impractical, unfit for harsh realities. Vinter III had passed that loathing on to his eldest son and namesake, who had transformed this attitude into pure hatred. Yet Leto had never felt so much at home as amid the clergy. Among them, he had been welcomed by a kindred spirit willing to answer his questions, a senior priest named Arius who would soon be chosen as primarch, holy pontiff and leader of the faith. In Arius Leto had found someone with whom he could speak about his beliefs, of the role of governance, of the need for moral rectitude and honor. Arius was more than a holy man—he was wise and intelligent, able to offer insightful and shrewd counsel on diverse subjects. He had helped Leto understand his father and come to terms with his nature. Later, when Leto was denied the right to join the clergy and was sent to the military instead, Arius continued to advise him as to what Morrow expected of a soldier and a general. This had allowed Leto to accept his new role and to excel in it, to see how Morrow’s work could be done as a leader of soldiers and later as a king. Arius had been a true father to him, a friend, his most trusted advisor. Though it was widely held, especially among Cygnar’s enemies,

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that the Cygnaran primarch had somehow orchestrated the coup against Vinter, this was not the case. Arius had only helped Leto find his own mind and courage, to negotiate the treacherous crevasse between his duty and his conscience. In the end, Leto himself had accepted he must do wrong to do right. Never had Arius taken that burden from him but instead simply helped him see his decision was already made. During the battle in the throne room, where Leto had crossed swords with his brother, Arius had saved his life. After Leto was struck down, Arius gathered his holy power to stun the tyrant with the pure radiance of Morrow, the light also healing what should have been Leto’s mortal wound. He had been given another chance, something of which he had always been mindful. After becoming king, Arius had been there for him, willing to leave the Sancteum to walk to the throne room and listen to the fretful worries of a reluctant king’s secular concerns. Now that great man was dead, gone from Caspia, from Cygnar, from Caen. No more would Leto hear that reassuring voice or see that kindly face. It was said that when a primarch died, the Host of Archons manifested to escort the man’s soul to his final rest, to join those angelic servants of Morrow. Leto would have given anything to witness that miracle, to know his old friend had reached a higher form. The sight might have given him the fortitude to face death by his brother’s sword. Escorted by his Stormguard, Leto made his way to the Corben Cathedral of Fharin, with its lofty towers, sculptures, marble floors, and stained glass windows. Its ornamentation did not fill him with awe but instead felt artificial and pretentious, a shallow and less

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pleasing shadow of the Archcourt Cathedral. Not even a shadow— an inadequate forgery made by lesser hands. So, too, the candles did not warm him, and his prayers seemed to echo unheard inside the cage of his mind. He felt no holy presence here, no sense of being watched from on-high. It was fitting, he thought. He had lost Morrow’s grace fifteen years ago, when he had stolen the throne from his brother. It had been the only thing he could do, but it was also wrong. He had been loaned Morrow’s light through proximity to Primarch Arius; he had endeavored to redeem himself, but he had failed. And now the realm suffered for his mistakes. It was a mercy Arius was not here to witness his fall. He did not want the new archon’s regard, and Leto hoped the man was involved in higher and more sublime matters, far from this squalid and wretched place. • • • The following days brought a mix of good and bad news to the defenders at Fharin, though more of the latter. Scout General Rebald was as surprised as anyone when Major Markus “Siege” Brisbane was spotted hastening toward their fortified hills in the company of a fresh squadron of Tempest Blazers. They had apparently escorted the warcaster south from Point Bourne, after he had refused to stay in the hospital, just as predicted. The Blazers represented a mix of old veteran gun mages who had returned to the saddle alongside fresh graduates from the Tempest Academy in Point Bourne, some of them looking too young to shave. On arrival, Brisbane insisted he was well enough for battle, though one of the gun mage officers with him said the surgeons insisted he stay away from front lines, something the major insisted

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was a suggestion more than a requirement. He was not done healing—though the surgeons had acknowledged a bit of exertion might not kill him. This was enough to compel Brisbane to be on the move. His group had fought through several small skirmishes to reach Fharin. They’d been chased by loyalists intent on preventing them getting through. Brisbane had lost most of his warjacks in the process, sacrificed to buy them opportunities to stay ahead of their pursuers. Lord General Stryker was especially glad to see him, putting aside formality to greet him warmly, slapping him on the back and then looking abashed to recall there were eyes upon them, including the king’s. The major was quickly incorporated into the defensive plans, though Stryker promised to do his best to keep the still-recovering warcaster from the most intense action. Brisbane was given command of the primary artillery batteries situated on one of the higher hills closer to Fharin, supported by other hastily erected defenses and dug-in positions atop the surrounding hillsides, from which long distance firepower could be directed in several directions. As many heavy cannons as could be spared were allocated to him; Brisbane was also given control of the bulk of their Defender warjacks. He had long had a special affinity for these machines, and no one could get more from their powerful, long-range, heavy barrel cannons. He was also given his pick of gunnery officers to support him. The sight of Major Brisbane returning did a great deal for the morale of all the soldiers assembled outside the city walls. Their ability to leverage long-distance firepower was soon put to

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the test when the loyalists began to press in on their positions in greater number and intensity, including attacking under the cover of night. Another returning warcaster brought less auspicious news to the scout general. Captain Jeremiah Kraye returned before dawn with very few warjacks or men left. He confirmed a sizable army of the Protectorate of Menoth was on its way, having crossed the border of the Eastern Midlunds and clearly headed to Fharin. Kraye had done what he could to delay and harass them, including dealing significant losses to the small cavalry force with them. But he had narrowly escaped with his life after an encounter with Feora, who had obliterated his warjacks and cremated his men. Kraye also reported he had seen with her a notorious warcaster named Malekus, one of Feora’s most unpleasant subordinates—a man who shared with his mistress a sadistic delight in setting unbelievers on fire. Rebald retained a sliver of hope the Protectorate forces might not engage the Cygnaran Army at Fharin directly. They could be positioning to better cut off supply lines and prevent the possibility of escape to the south. But increasingly this seemed unlikely. If that had been their plan, there was no need for Feora and Malekus to be present. They could have cut off retreat by remaining in the Southern Midlunds, where Archduke Laddermore’s people were in collusion with them. There was no good reason to march on the city unless they wanted a fight. Feora was on crusade. When Rebald had been in Point Bourne and had first received word of Protectorate troops massing along the Black River, the scout general had planted a potentially dangerous seed. A portion

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of his spy network was watching the actions of the Protectorate of Menoth, an increasingly difficult task. Based on their reports, he had felt reasonably certain Feora was not acting on orders from her hierarch with this renewed activity along Cygnar’s border. The hierarch was preoccupied with his Northern Crusade with a large army in Llael. He had also risked some of his forces fighting Cryx; Rebald had to presume the hierarch did not want Sul or Imer threatened in the south while he and so many of his military leaders were occupied in the north. Rebald had thus spent some time deciding how to make use of this assumption. Months ago, his most deeply planted informant inside the Sul- Menite Artificers had reported a tense, unfriendly meeting between the Priestess of Flame and Vice Scrutator Vindictus, one of the hierarch’s foremost enforcers. This, together with other information gathered from abroad, painted an interesting portrait of strain within the Protectorate leadership. Feora was crusading so ardently now inside the Cygnaran interior most likely to demonstrate her commitment to the Great Crusade. If she played a role in Leto’s downfall, it might earn her forgiveness for any perceived insubordination. It was the sort of gamble that could work in the Protectorate’s inner circles, where any success could be attributed to the hand of the divine. It was risky to meddle in such things, but he had felt he must. He had dispatched an agent with a fast horse on a perilous mission. This agent was to leak information about Feora’s troop movements to the one man in the Protectorate whom Rebald gauged most likely to take an interest. Odds were the only outcome would be that his agent would be captured and tortured by the scrutator

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priest caste before he was executed. But the man he had sent knew nothing Rebald could not afford to have revealed under interrogation. Another possible outcome would be drawing the wrong sort of attention, reigniting the full brunt of the Sul-Menite crusades upon Cygnar again. The outcome Rebald actually desired seemed the least likely to come to pass, and there was no way to know. It was one of a hundred small efforts and gambles Rebald and his agents initiated on a regular basis. Sometimes one of them bore unexpected fruit, nullifying a dozen failures. As Rebald strode toward the main command tent on one of the hills north of Fharin, he considered their bleak position. On the one hand, he at least had more intelligence now about the enemy than he had before. This had been derived at no small cost through the help of his own rangers as well as contributions from the Sunbright Yeomen who had joined them from the west. Unfortunately, his analysis of their reports was bleak. King Leto and his generals gathered on the hill, awaiting better news than he could give them. A light snow had fallen in the morning, though the day had warmed, turning it to a drizzling rain. The ground beyond the hills had become churned mud, though the fighting had yet to reach any particular intensity. There was presently a lull, each side repositioning its forces and assessing the other’s movements. For the moment the cannons were silent. Rebald entered the tent and got down to business. He presented his facts as expeditiously as possible, summarizing the positions and manpower of the most significant concentrations of the enemy, so far as he was aware. “In conclusion, we will not see any other significant

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reinforcements. Those who were able to join us already have. With the talents of warcasters such as Lord General Stryker, Major Brisbane, and Captain Kraye, I think we have a reasonable chance to prevail against Vinter’s loyalist army. I would gauge this to be a difficult fight even in the best of circumstances, and this is discounting the impact of Vinter’s own contributions, which we cannot predict. Still, I’d put it well within our means.” Leto said, “Well, that’s better than I had expected.” “Unfortunately, I wasn’t done, Your Majesty. That was in reference to Vinter’s army. With the Priestess of the Flame also closing in with an army nearly as large as the loyalist forces, along with her lieutenants Malekus and Thyra, our combined enemy will be able to attack with overwhelming strength. Any advantages we possess in terms of advanced weaponry, seasoned soldiers, and a solid defensive position will be rendered meaningless.” They stared at him, as if waiting for the more encouraging side of his report. They hoped for a flaw in the enemy’s plan, or perhaps a shift in their positioning or planned tactics that would provide a solution. Lord General Gollan said, “A bleak forecast. What is your recommendation?” “I would advise we carry out this battle at Caspia instead of Fharin, General,” Rebald said with a straight face. They stared at him for a moment, and Runewood was the first to laugh, followed by several of the others, though Leto only gave a weary smile. Rebald continued. “I am afraid I have no magic solution for us. I’m hoping one of you might come up with one.” “What do you make of these recent troop movements?” Lord General Stryker asked, indicating a section of the map on the table

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before them piled with tokens to the east of the city. “Do you think they are shifting their main focus to approach from the east instead of the north?” “No. Vinter’s heavy infantry and cavalry are still north of our positions, and I think they will advance as soon as everything is in alignment. But it seems a significant aspect of Vinter’s strategy is to attack from multiple directions rather than just concentrating his force or maintaining reserves to outlast us. He has several smaller cohesive forces gathered to take advantage of flanking opportunities, including these in the east. They are positioned to support either Vinter’s attack or Feora’s, wherever they are needed most.” Stryker said, “Feora is not in position yet. Her forces are still on the march.” At Rebald’s nod of confirmation he went on. “Then I suggest we do something more aggressive while we can. We can’t give them the luxury of situating themselves just where they want to be.” Archduke and General Runewood nodded. “Agreed. I volunteer to take a force to engage these elements to the east of us, and do them some significant harm, as quickly as we are able. I think a strong show of force is required. If we move fast enough, we can greatly diminish this flanking army before Feora’s arrival. At least remove them from the equation.” “It might be tempting to take an overwhelming force,” Rebald warned, “but Vinter’s scouts are watching our movements closely. If you commit to this, I do not suggest sending Lord General Stryker against them. That will tip our hand and possibly invite an assault on our main defenses or the city itself. But we should still command a warcaster to accompany. Major Brisbane is the

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only one available, given Kraye is already occupied. He should accompany General Runewood.” Leto said, “No, we can’t risk Brisbane. Not in his present condition. He hasn’t recovered.” “I concur,” said Lord General Stryker. “The major isn’t up for consideration. He’s to remain back and protect the city.” Rebald gritted his teeth. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll defer to your judgment, though I truly believe he could handle it.” “Losing Siege now, on a raid like this, would be a major blow to morale,” Runewood said. “We can do this without him.” After a bit more discussion and planning, a nighttime assault was agreed upon, to take place immediately and to be led by Runewood. The archduke did not seem entirely at ease with attacking under the cover of night, the perception that it was underhanded, but eventually agreed it was the best way to seize the initiative and minimize the enemy’s preparedness. After the meeting, Rebald brooded on the fact that they had authorized the mission without a warcaster. He felt confident Brisbane would have accepted the task enthusiastically. So, he almost went to the major himself before the assembled force departed on their mission, but ultimately he felt he had already been playing a little too fast and loose with working around the king’s orders. In the end, he talked himself out of it. It was something he would soon regret. His staff endeavored to give Runewood as clear a picture of the situation he would face as possible, and they marched forth confident of their eventual success. Runewood took a fast and hard-hitting force of armored infantry and cavalry, supported by trenchers and

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gun mages. To provide cover and cause the enemy confusion, Rebald sent several small mixed squads of rangers and commandos to launch disruptive raids on other enemy camps. This all went off without a hitch, and Runewood’s companies hastened east. At the expected hour, they saw flashes of light on those far fields and hills and heard the remote sounds of gunfire and explosions. The king and generals anxiously awaited the results, none of them able to rest. As dawn threatened, scattered and broken groups of bloodied knights and soldiers began to limp back, some of them supporting the wounded. Clearly, there had been a disaster. Eventually several dozen mixed cavalry, both Storm Lances and knights, galloped toward the command tent, protecting and carrying the hunched over and bloodied form of Archduke Runewood. He had taken a gunshot to the gut, a large shell shattering through his armor. He was in bad shape, barely conscious when King Leto went to him. The king took him down from his horse and personally carried him to the nearest field hospital tent, where battle-chaplains and surgeons could tend to him. The scout general quickly pieced together what had happened. Unbeknownst to them, the loyalists had decided to make use of the cover of night for their own troop movements. A reinforcing battalion led by Colonel Lynn Hawkins had arrived on the scene just as Runewood launched his attack. The archduke had fought bravely and well, inflicting a heavy toll on the enemy, but Hawkins won the night. It had been her hand cannon that had delivered the nearly mortal wound to drop the archduke from his horse. Runewood’s knights had fought bitterly to prevent his capture,

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many giving up their lives to do so. As much as Rebald did not want to interrupt the king while he attended his severely wounded friend, the time had come to make a difficult decision. Rising from his cot and stepping to the table in his own tent, which had served as his impromptu office, Rebald poured himself a shot of uiske and knocked it back. Then he straightened his jacket and prepared himself to once again speak uncomfortable truths. • • • King Leto sat at Runewood’s side in a hospital tent at the rear of their defensive perimeter, closer to the city and sheltered by a copse of trees but only a few hundred yards from the main command tent. Several of their best surgeons had seen to him, as had a Morrowan battle-chaplain who had long served with Vincent Gollan. Runewood’s lower torso was a mess; he had been shot not once but three times. The most grievous wound was the hand cannon hit from Colonel Hawkins, but the surgeons had removed smaller bullets from his side and shoulder. He had not bled out immediately, so those tending him were optimistic, though they said there were no guarantees. They would keep checking on him and ensure he was not weakening or suffering from internal bleeding. Leto looked at the pale face of one of his last and oldest friends and found it hard to be optimistic. Runewood already looked dead. His only sign of life was the almost imperceptible movement of his chest. Coleman Stryker stood on the other side of the cot, his arms folded. “I should have been there,” he said. “Or let Brisbane accompany him. Rebald was right.”

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Leto sighed heavily and straightened in his chair. “No use second- guessing. That might have invited a different sort of disaster. Might have been you or Major Brisbane lying here.” The tent curtain parted, and Bolden Rebald entered the tent, as if summoned by Stryker’s earlier words. He looked unkempt and exhausted, unusual for the scout general. It made Leto wonder how everyone else was holding up right now. Rebald asked, “How is he doing?” Leto said, “It is too early to tell, though they think they were able to get to him in time. He lost a lot of blood.” “As soon as we are able, we should get him into the city. It looks as though Vinter’s people may make their move at daybreak.” Stryker turned to leave. He said, “I’ll wake my officers and get everyone ready.” “Hold a moment,” Rebald said. “This concerns you also.” He turned back to Leto. “I have a suggestion to make, one you will not want to hear.” Leto sat back in his chair and indicated Rebald should pull up another. Stryker remained standing, the light from the voltaic coils on the back of his warcaster armor adding a blue tinge to the orange glow of the lanterns in the tent. Rebald said, “I think the time has come for you to seriously consider relocating to Caspia. This may be our last chance. There are only a few hours of darkness left.” Leto’s eyes narrowed. He said, “I take it you don’t mean the withdrawal of the army. You would see me skulk off in the night while the rest of you remain behind to fight?” “I would not put it in those words, but essentially, yes. Hear me out, Your Majesty.” He held up a hand. “In any war, there are

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many battles, and the loss of one does not need to represent defeat. Vinter has worked hard to corner you here. We can deny him what he wants most. Force him to expend his resources and come after him when he is weaker. I do not believe his strange alliance with the Protectorate can last. If we are to beat him in a battle of attrition, we need to consider Fharin as just a holding action, a painful but necessary loss. From Caspia, you can gather additional forces. Time works on our side here. The other highest-ranking nobles can accompany you. Let Vinter try to come for you at Caspia and break him against its walls.” Leto looked to Stryker, whose face was hard and set. The warcaster said, “There is sense in the scout general’s recommendation. It is always a risk for a sovereign to step onto the battlefield, a risk that’s rarely worth it. That said, I do disagree with the scout general on one matter. I do not accept it as a foregone conclusion that Vinter will win here. I believe this will be a difficult fight, but one where we will eventually triumph. We have gathered a host of Cygnar’s most resolute champions. I have seen the resolve in the eyes of those who have come here. These are not green troops seeing their first battle, but hardened veterans, loyal defenders of the realm. We can defeat Vinter and his army of criminals.” Leto admired and valued Stryker for his optimism, his energy, his fighting spirit. But his prediction of victory was just a hope. There was nothing in the facts arrayed before them to suggest it could happen. Leto had seen more doubts and fears in the faces of his defenders than confidence. That they were loyal was certain, but it would not enough to carry the day. Leto said, “Let me humor your suggestion for a moment. Say I chose to withdraw, together

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with a number of our nobles. Surely we would require an escort, in case we were confronted by the Protectorate.” “That would be prudent. We can assemble such a force quickly,” Rebald said. Leto shook his head and rose. “How many thousands of men would we remove from your arsenal here, men who might then die in a risky attempt to secure my safety? How much weaker would your outnumbered army be with their withdrawal? You also speak of removing linchpins of our leadership. Let us think ahead to the scenario you’ve outlined, where a loss here is not the end of the war but only a single unfortunate battle. “What happens to the people of Fharin? Will Vinter turn them over to his Protectorate allies to convert or die by fire? I am not convinced they would withdraw so quickly, not after such a success. Their greatest goal is to impose their theocracy on Cygnar. Imagine this clash repeated as the war stretches over weeks, months, years— Vinter and Feora seizing what lands they can, exterminating those who stand against them, forcing the remaining nobles to surrender, and ultimately holding the kingdom hostage. Our nation torn apart. Again. I would be in Caspia, isolated as the rest of Cygnar burns. No. We will end this here. Better a quick and decisive end. Better to see a tyrant restored than the ruin of all.” He looked down at his wounded friend. “Rebald, see that Runewood is escorted gently to the city.” He turned back to Stryker and said, “There is no shame in dying in battle, fighting for your beliefs. If I am to fall here, it will be with my sword in hand. So, let us make ready for war.”

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• • • The scout general worried about the black look in Leto’s eyes. The king’s words were courageous, even inspiring, but they were also fatalistic. The notion of ending things swiftly was not the sentiment of a man willing to fight on against tough odds. Many times Rebald had resented Primarch Arius and his strange hold over the king, the fact that Leto took to his advice so readily. Often Rebald had felt his own pragmatism was set against the irrational piety of Leto and Arius. But at the moment, he wished the primarch were present. He felt the man could have reached their king and restored to him a glimmer of hope. He went to Lord General Stryker before dawn. “I understand what His Majesty intends,” he explained, “and we cannot allow him to cross blades with Vinter. I hope you will stay at his side in the battle ahead.” Stryker looked back at him and nodded, his eyes as intense as Leto’s had been dark. “I promise you: Vinter will not reach King Leto. Not while I draw breath.”

439 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

East of Fharin, Mixed Encampment

Before sunset the night before, Vinter Raelthorne had taken Colonel Lynn Hawkins aside to discuss the plan of action for the next day. She had already noted Vinter’s unusual style of command, one where he preferred not to hold strategy meetings with his entire command staff. Shortly after marching south with their combined army, he had begun speaking to each senior officer separately. He doled out their orders like secret dispatches. Hawkins felt very peculiar receiving her orders without General Gralen Deckley in attendance. Deckley had been transformed into a glorified supply officer since the siege began. It was clear King Vinter preferred to keep the larger picture to himself, telling commanders only those pieces of the plan involving them specifically. Only Vinter himself knew the entirety of his operations. It was likely some sort of security measure, though to Hawkins it felt irregular and unnecessary. That said, she had never had a mind for intrigues; she allowed it was technically possible Bolden Rebald could have planted spies among the officers. “Colonel Hawkins,” Vinter said to her, bidding her rise from The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

where she had knelt before him. “Tomorrow we commence the main assault. If you had your pick, where would you prefer to be placed for the attack?” “Your Highness?” She had not expected such a question, given the control Vinter had exercised thus far. “Indulge me,” he said with a small smile. It managed to look more sinister than warm, in part a consequence of his single eye. “I know tactics are usually left to the warcasters, something I never became accustomed to during my reign.” “I would be at your side, Your Highness,” she said at once. It had been a heartfelt answer, as she was the only seasoned warcaster in Vinter’s army. But she saw at once it had been a mistake to say so from his expression. His smile vanished. His stare hardened. “Do you believe me in need of your protection, Colonel Hawkins?” “Not at all, Your Highness. I simply expect the fiercest fighting there. I must admit, I am eager to observe you in battle. I am sure there is much I could learn.” She swallowed, knowing she had a voice best suited to convey sarcasm, not sincerity. She should have answered his question tactically from the outset, though it was difficult to anticipate what answers would satisfy his temper and mood. “You flatter me,” he said, but he seemed to relax, leaning back in his chair. “I will lead the main army myself. Were circumstances otherwise, I would be glad to have you at my side. But I need you with the secondary army assembling near Fletcher’s Way to the east. I expect that force to endure heavy losses. I must allow weakness where we seem strongest, and place my strength where we appear weak.”

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This last was an old strategic maxim, though Hawkins could not remember to whom it was originally attributed. She did not think it actually applied in this instance, given no one in their right mind would accuse Vinter of weakness. “As you wish. I can see the merits of positioning me there.” Of course, she thought to herself, it would help for her to contribute if he actually revealed his broader strategy for once. “Would you like me to explain how events should unfold tomorrow, Colonel Hawkins?” He asked it as if he offered her a benevolence. She felt a shiver down her spine; he seemed to read her thoughts. This was not the first time his words had suggested such special insight. It was unnerving, though she suspected it was simply an extension of his perceptive nature. No doubt her expressions betrayed her in subtle ways. Never had she served someone who put her off her game so badly. She had to restrain the impulse to crack wise to restore her equilibrium. Instead she said, “That would be appreciated, Your Majesty.” “The Menites will be in position by the morning. Their main army will approach from the south, though a smaller portion of their force will join our secondary army, where you will be. It is to be a mixed force.” Hawkins did not like the sound of that, but she kept her opinion to herself. He went on. “I realize this may cause tension among the rank and file, but it will be nothing you can’t handle. We need their numbers. Feora will attack Fharin first; I will advance toward the defending army second; and finally, you will move in to pin and engage any force sent to shore up the southern defenses afterward. We will spread our lines out to envelop the foe.

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You are frowning. Why?” “Excuse me. I am surprised you are placing such emphasis on attacking Fharin. It has no immediate strategic or tactical value. I expected we would leave its defenders in place until the main army was crushed.” Though it was risky to offer such criticism, Hawkins had a feeling he expected it from her. The way he had presented the facts suggested a desire to reveal his plan to someone who might offer tactical suggestions while appreciating his orchestration. “In that you are very wrong. Fharin may have no tactical value, but its strategic value is considerable. You would know this if you were more familiar with my brother or his favored lord general. We can expect the southern defenses to be relatively paltry. They will offer little resistance to Feora. The prospect of the city being assailed by Sul-Menites with a fondness for fire will be something Leto can’t stomach. When they see the fires, they will eagerly bleed off a portion of their strength to intercede, at which point you can flank them. Every soldier you draw off is one less to stand in my way.” Those had been the bulk of his instructions, and once they were mustered, she had taken charge of the companies given her to reinforce the secondary army at Fletcher’s Way. It was the middle of the night by the time they arrived, just in time to intercept an unexpected raid by heavy infantry and cavalry. It turned into a chaotic and bloody piece of work on both sides. The darkness did not help matters, and altogether she lost several hundred good men, though in the aggregate she felt certain they had inflicted a far heavier toll on the enemy. She had also managed to engage their commanding officer directly, and she felt fairly sure she had put him in an early grave with a hand

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cannon shot to his midsection. It was only later she learned from one of her knights who had gotten a better look at him that the officer had been Archduke Runewood. “Thamar’s teeth. Curse the luck,” she muttered to herself. He had been borne off by other mounted knights during the enemy’s retreat; she might have expended more effort to secure him to drag before King Vinter had she known his identity. Regardless, neutralizing such an important leader of the enemy put her victory in an especially good light; she felt certain King Vinter would be pleased. The next day, the Protectorate forces arrived as predicted, and Colonel Hawkins and her people watched their approach with unease. The Fourth Army generally did not have much contact with Sul-Menites, but she had read reports of the bloody fighting that had transpired in Llael and Sul. A number of the knights with her had fought the Sul-Menites in those engagements. Protectorate soldiers were humorless and twitchy fanatics, willing to go so far as to set their own citizens on fire on the mere suspicion of impiety. In the eyes of such crusaders, Hawkins and her people were filthy heretics, just as bad as the unbelievers in Leto’s army. Because of this, before their arrival she took her officers aside and instructed them to watch their tongues and keep their people on their best discipline. The last thing she needed was a “friendly fire” incident because one of her men took Menoth’s name in vain or spoke some other profanity. After the excitement of the midnight attack and bloodshed, Hawkins had felt obliged to down a flask of rum she kept on hand for emergencies, just to help her get a few hours of solid shuteye.

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She had woken feeling bleary-eyed and miserable, and only the knowledge of the approaching Sul-Menites had kept her from drinking more with her breakfast. The crusaders looked impressive as they marched across the fields, long lines of Temple Flameguard marching in perfect unison, their spears, shields, and domed helmets gleaming during a brief break in the cloud clover. These were joined by hundreds of deliverers loaded up with their signature rockets. A half-dozen Protectorate warjacks came with them, including an equal number of heavies and lights. Hawkins’ eyes narrowed as she felt a twinge in her head suggesting an approaching warcaster, though it was difficult to discern over her pounding headache. Escorted by a few of her cleanest and haughtiest knights, she walked to the fore of her force and stood waiting her counterpart. Behind her were her own warjacks, arrayed in what she intended to be a formidable formation. A group of female Protectorate soldiers with blades sheathed crossways across their backs approached—at their center marched an intense woman in heavier armor and an ornate helm, smoke pouring from the arcane turbine on her back. She cut an impressive figure in gold and white armor, the bronze elements inlaid with intricate patterns. Menofixes were prominently displayed on the crown of her helm and the pommels of her two swords. This Protectorate warcaster stared at Hawkins with a look that eloquently expressed her disappointment. She said, “I am Thyra, the Flame of Sorrow, and for this battle your enemy is also mine. If you value your life, I warn you not to deviate from our plans or do anything else that might incur my wrath.” It was going to be a long day, Hawkins mused.

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• • • As their mixed force advanced with compact squares of Temple Flameguard interspersed with more ragged blocks of long gunners and trencher infantry, Hawkins and her troops were able to observe the shifting lines of engagement ahead. The most intense fighting was in the north, but they could see Feora’s army as it met the southern trench lines that seemed entirely inadequate to do more than slow them. Already fires emitting thick, black smoke could be seen along the trenches where Menoth’s Fury had been unleashed upon the enemy. The Sul-Menites rushing to engage those firing on them from the trenches had to weather incoming fire from additional riflemen atop the walls as well, but those defenders were too few to truly discourage the attackers. In addition to bullets, the occasional streak of artificial lightning generated by buzzing storm towers lit up the battlefield, though their range was limited; they could only fire on forces that had nearly reached the walls. Just behind the southern trenches, Hawkins saw a battlegroup of warjacks moving with a rifle-wielding warcaster astride a horse. That had to be Captain Jeremiah Kraye. Hawkins felt a small twinge of regret, as she had always liked the CRS warcaster; she did not expect things would go well for him today. Feora and her larger army were pressing in on every side, bringing with them all- consuming flame. Additional trench lines shielding members of Fharin’s garrison stood directly ahead of Hawkins, protecting the eastern approach to the city. Hundreds of additional soldiers were rushing now to reinforce them from the northern hills, drawn off as anticipated

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from Leto’s main army. This included both Storm Knights and long gunners. She saw a number of warjacks with them as well, and soon her forward lines were subjected to incoming shells fired from Defender heavy barrels. Distant booms echoed across the hills and open plains between her and the city, and she saw plumes of smoke from the nearest hill north of the city. Previous fighting had revealed Leto’s heavy artillery situated on that hill, artillery that was at least in part ranging in on her force now. A few short seconds later a shrieking sound was followed by explosions, and the ground was torn up by multiple blasts. Fortunately, most of them landed short of her soldiers. “Incoming!” several of her officers shouted needlessly, exhorting their soldiers to press on and close the distance. She invoked her magic in circling runes to create a zone of protection around her. Bellringer, her own Defender, began to fire on the nearest enemies. She directed it to prioritize weapons emplacements like the small mobile cannons and chainguns situated among the trenches. Thyra and her Daughters of the Flame broke into a run and darted across the intervening ground. As blurs of motion, they descended into the nearest trenches and set to killing those tired soldiers hunkered down there. Meanwhile, her Protectorate warjacks closed on the Defenders nearer the walls. Soon the bulk of Hawkins’ forward infantry met the enemy, and she shouted orders at her subordinates, shifting them to the right flank, where reinforcements sent from the artillery hill were closing. The bloody grind had begun, and she felt the stirring of her heart, knowing this was exactly where she was supposed to be after all.

447 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Northeast of Fharin

Caine felt growing urgency as they hastened to reach Magnus’ mercenary army. They skirted wide around the perimeter of the escalating battle of Fharin. The sounds of rifle and cannon fire began almost at the first light of dawn and had continued their violent rhythm ever since with only the occasional lull before intensifying once more. It was music where Caine knew every drumbeat and discordant note represented the death of a Cygnaran soldier. What a screwed-up mess, he thought. Their view of the fighting was largely obscured by the low hills they kept between themselves and the action so their force could approach relatively unobserved. They had left the 105th to make its own way to the city. Those forces intended to use the train to get as close as possible before disembarking, accepting the risk of running into additional Protectorate forces on the way. In addition to Magnus, their warjacks, the exarch, and Adeline, Caine had brought Clay, Reed, Lieutenant Jasren, and the four other rangers and ten surviving commandos who had initially set out with him. It felt like a paltry force to set against the scope of the conflict taking place around Fharin. The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

When they finally reached Drake MacBain and the mercenary army, it was startling how close they actually were to the battlefield. The soldiers were sprawled across a slightly sheltered depression between a couple of low hills northeast of the city, along a road likely once used by farmers. Caine and the others had crossed innumerable fields already, some of them trampled to ruin, though because it was late winter, that might not matter. He had seen a number of abandoned or at least silent farmsteads. It did not appear as though the mercenaries had been there long; there were no tents or other signs of encampment. Even with this section of the road in a depression, Caine and Magnus could see the upper portions of the two Galleons from a distance. The colossals stood nearest to the action, staring at the ongoing battle as if eager to join in. MacBain was clearly visible standing atop the highest point, a small smile on his face as he watched the conflict. He saw their approach, and his grin widened. He left a Mule warjack standing to watch in his place as he came to greet them. “Magnus, here just in time, as always,” he said. Then he visibly started as he recognized Caine standing with the mercenary warlord. “Did you manage to capture Allister Caine?” “I don’t think so,” Caine said with a frown. He touched his pistol grips. “Do I look like a prisoner?” Magnus gave him a glance and said, “Quite the reverse. It’s complicated, but we’re on the same side now. More or less.” “That sounds like a story worth telling,” MacBain said, chuckling. He ran his fingers through his moustache. “Perhaps another time,” Magnus said. “I presume Duke Ebonhart declined to come personally? I’m surprised you’re so

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close. Certainly someone must have noticed you by now.” “Oh, they know we’re here,” MacBain said. “They just don’t know what we’re doing or who exactly we’re working for. We’ve been approached by both Protectorate and loyalist patrols so far. I gave each of them the impression we were hired by their allies. So, the Protectorate thinks we’re working for Vinter, and Vinter’s people think we’re working for the Protectorate. Seems to have worked so far.” “Not a good way to impress potential clients,” Caine remarked dryly. He remembered the last time he had dealings with MacBain: when the Cygnaran paymaster could no longer afford MacBain, the warcaster had exploited a loophole in his contract to avoid a cooling-off period. He immediately offered his services to the Khadorans and was sent to attack the same supply fortress he had been defending a day earlier. “When your services are in demand, much can be overlooked or forgiven. I always leave the client happy. Or at least satisfied.” MacBain looked over the faces of the others with Magnus and saw Julius, whom he greeted with enthusiasm. “Sergeant Ramiro Thorn. Glad to see you’ve made it. Not many have been in Caine’s sights and lived to speak of it.” It was the first Caine had heard of this alias, and from Julius’ reaction, he had to presume the young man had not used it much. “My name is actually Julius,” he said. “Sorry for the earlier deception.” “Julius will be the next king of Cygnar,” Magnus said, prompting MacBain to raise an eyebrow. “If all goes as it should.” Caine crossed his arms. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet.”

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Perhaps realizing no one was likely to introduce him, the exarch stepped forward. “I’m Exarch Dargule of the Church of Morrow, and this is Sister Adeline Dunning of the Order of Keeping. We will endeavor to stay out of your way. We will not be involved in the fighting directly, but we need to remain close to the battle. We will try to help your wounded.” The other warcaster scratched his bald head, clearly bewildered by the presence of an exarch, certainly an even more confounding addition than Caine himself. At his enquiring look, Magnus said, “They will be keeping an eye on Julius. It’s vital no harm comes to any of them, so we’ll want to attach an escort. Per the stipulations in your contract, your first priority in this fight will be protecting Julius.” “Actually,” MacBain said, “my contract stipulates Ramiro Thorn, who apparently does not exist.” At Magnus’ withering look, he tipped his head. “But the language makes it clear the protection extends to the individual so identified, which I suppose still applies. Especially since you’re offering a substantial bonus.” Magnus said, “I’ll be offering similarly generous bonuses for the safety of Adeline and the exarch. I’ll be resuming command of the rest of the army, though I’ll give you Captain Paulson and his Steelheads. During our approach, we’ll still need you at the fore, the apparent man in charge. I’ll also need you to relinquish control of the Galleons.” MacBain made a disappointed sound. “How about we split them up, one apiece? That’s a lot of machine for one man to handle.” “I appreciate the offer, but no. You’ll have to make do with your own warjacks this time.”

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“Very well,” MacBain said. He closed his eyes briefly, and Caine felt that familiar tingle in the back of his head that accompanied someone exercising warcaster control. Magnus stepped up to the colossals and touched each one briefly with his hand, restoring his mental bond with them. There was little outward sign of change, though the enormous warjacks shifted slightly, looking down at Magnus before returning their attention to the fight. Caine had yet to control a colossal himself, and he wondered if it felt any different from a regular warjack. He suspected not, though he supposed it might be thrilling to have access to so much firepower in a single frame. Almost as if summoned by these stray thoughts, Ace stepped near to him, making a clanking noise Caine interpreted as a protest. He said, “I’m not going to turn you in for one of those yet. Don’t worry.” The truth was he couldn’t imagine trying to sneak around with something so massive following him. For most of his missions, hauling around a colossal would be more of a detriment than a help. Still, on a day like today, having a Stormwall or a Hurricane at his side would have been reassuring. With the warjack control issues worked out between Magnus and MacBain, Caine said, “Let’s get on the move. Time’s wasting.” Magnus had given Stannis Brocker command of the collected Steelheads, and he was soon in motion, rousing them to action. To their credit, the mercenaries responded with alacrity to Brocker’s orders. As they got underway, the voice of Greygore Boomhowler rose up above the din of marching boots and distant gunfire. Caine expected their enthusiasm to wane once they started to endure casualties. The warcasters marched in the fore of their force, their warjacks

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accompanying them and troops of Steelhead heavy cavalry flanking them, ready to shift as necessary. Caine took in the scope of the conflict, where it seemed Fharin and its hills were surrounded by a wide semicircle of clashing foes, the air increasingly hazy with the smoke of burnt powder from rifles, pistols, and cannons. It looked as though the defending lines were stretched out across a wide area. “I presume yeh have a plan,” Caine said to Magnus. “Care to fill us in?” Magnus said. “MacBain has already set in motion what was necessary for us to get close before revealing our intentions. Vinter’s and Feora’s officers will presume we are part of their coordinated attack until we prove otherwise. As for the other particulars, we will adapt as we go. I intend to get close to Vinter when the time is right. We will use the confusion created when we reveal Julius to facilitate that.” “And what did yeh have in mind I’d be doing during all this?” Caine asked. “Not that I’m likely to obey, mind you.” “There are likely to be key targets of opportunity for you to eliminate when the battle is joined. But our first priority is to ensure we do nothing to give ourselves away. Try not to draw attention to yourself, if you can resist the impulse.” “I think I can manage that,” Caine said, “but no promises.” • • • Lord General Stryker guided Ol’ Rowdy’s hammer to smash through one after another of the armored pikemen that had threatened his cavalry from the left flank. Then they charged through to run down the riflemen left exposed by the routing of the men-at-arms that

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had previously protected them. Bodies littered the lower slope of the hillside, though he could see the uniforms of his own men among them. The enemy had found a weak point in the Cygnaran forward line during the repositioning of several squads of Stormguard. At Stryker’s call, his cavalry re-formed and moved back behind the forward lines, giving the long gunners clean lanes of fire. Sword knights had rushed to join Ol’ Rowdy in confronting the pikemen, who bore the banner of a Thurian noble. Most of them were quickly cut down; the rest made a hasty retreat. Rifle fire took down several more before they could escape. Ol’ Rowdy looked around as if disappointed there was nothing nearby to smash. That would not be a problem for long, Stryker mused as he looked up the northern road. The columns of Vinter’s main army were approaching. It was daunting to see them gathered in such strength, especially knowing they had already divided their numbers. The enemy was committing itself fully at last. Stryker wheeled Valorous around to gallop back to the summit of the tall hill where King Leto, the scout general, and the rest of the forward command staff were directing the battle. Valorous whinnied and shook his neck, sending beads of sweat flying. Stryker’s personal escort of Storm Lances rode with him. He had earlier directed Major Laddermore to keep the bulk of their heavy cavalry closer to the front, using their mobility to strike where the enemy might break their lines. Most of his warjacks were scattered along the front—all but Rowdy were beyond his range to control directly, but he had given standing instructions to support the nearest soldiers already

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engaged. There were only so many warjacks he could guide at once, so he kept the others essentially as working reserves. Their military- grade cortexes were sophisticated enough to fight ably on their own, even if such machines were more formidable with a warcaster guiding them. As the morning’s attacks escalated, he had been busy trying to be everywhere at once, sending his warjacks crashing into the foe, repositioning his soldiers, then charging in alongside his Storm Lances where he felt it would do the most good. The approaching force he had just seen, however, required him to return to inform the others so they could shift their advance to the next stage. King Leto had given him standing orders on that matter he could not disobey, tempting as it might be; the last thing he wanted to do was to encourage his king to go to the front lines. As he neared the command tent, he was alarmed to see thick smoke plumes to the south, beyond the city, suggesting Fharin was under attack from the south. He arrived to find Rebald, Leto, and Commander Gant already in a heated discussion. Stryker dismounted, handed the reins to a nearby attendant, and approached as Leto said, “We can’t allow them to be overrun. We need to send relief.” Gant was one of the senior commanders of Stryker’s division. He said, “I wish we could, but we can’t spare the men. Ah, here’s the lord general.” He seemed relieved, clearly not accustomed to having to argue with his king over tactics. Stryker said, “Vinter’s army is making its main push at last. No more feints and skirmishes. They will be upon us in strength soon,

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straight down the road from the north.” “Rather brazen of them,” Rebald said. “I expected some sort of last-minute ruse or misdirection.” He frowned. Stryker recognized the look, as the scout general could be guilty of overthinking the enemy, a hazard of his career. He expected everyone to be as indirect as he was. “He doesn’t need a ruse in this case. The diversion he set in motion is already underway.” Stryker pointed at the smoke. “What’s going on there?” Leto confirmed what Stryker feared. “Feora’s army has attacked the defensive perimeter at the south gate. We expected she would swing around them to flank our position but apparently not. Clearly Fharin has done something to offend her.” The way he said this suggested more anger than humor. “We can’t allow her to have free access to the walls.” “I warned you of this, Your Majesty,” said Rebald. “Vinter is using her to provoke us. He’s counting on you to divide our forces, weakening our position. It may sound heartless, but we need to let Fharin’s garrison fend for itself while we endure the brunt of Vinter’s attack.” “I don’t care if it’s predictable,” Leto said. “We can’t let Fharin’s civilians burn.” He cast an outraged look at Stryker. “You above anyone know what the Priestess of the Flame is willing to do. She will set the entire city ablaze.” Stryker felt torn, knowing Rebald was right and this was precisely Vinter’s plan. What he wanted to do was leap astride his horse, summon his knights and warjacks, and take the fight to Feora, his old foe. But he knew he had to resist that temptation. Today he

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had a more important enemy to confront. He said, “Vinter comes, Your Majesty. If you intend to face him, you need to come with me now.” “And what of Fharin?” Leto asked. Stryker considered for a moment and said, “Perhaps we can do something.” Rebald asked, “What do you intend?” “I believe it will not critically compromise our position to send Major Brisbane with his warjacks, plus a small escort, to help relieve the southern defenders. We can tell him to engage at a distance, in aid of Captain Kraye. That won’t prevent the defenses from being overrun, but might slow the enemy down. There is no avoiding damage to Fharin. But its people stand ready to evacuate threatened areas. With Siege and Kraye in the way, Feora will not be able to move as quickly as she might otherwise. It will buy the civilians in the southern districts time to flee.” Leto considered this for several long seconds. “Very well,” he said at last. “Rebald, move our command position closer to the front. I will be with the lord general.” He moved to mount his own steed while the officer in charge of his personal guard shouted orders to move out. Rebald, who had been speaking to several of his reconnaissance officers, turned to them both. “You should be aware that the second loyalist army in the east is also fast on the approach and has added a number of Sul-Menites to its ranks. We may need Siege to deal with them first.” “Galt,” Stryker said to his commander, “send word to Brisbane that he is needed elsewhere. We have incoming at the east wall. Tell

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him to fight through those forces to reach Kraye, who will soon be overrun.” He hoped this more active role would not reopen the other warcaster’s injuries. There was not much choice in the matter; he had to rely on Siege’s proven resilience. As Galt left, Rebald said, “My scouts also report there is another small reinforcing army coming at us from the northeast. Looks to be mercenaries. This might be the same army Magnus was assembling.” “Of course it is,” Stryker grumbled, unable to disguise the bitterness in his voice. If Vinter was attacking, he had to expect Magnus would not be far away. “We need to be prepared for his interference.” Rebald shook his head. “We should sent artillery fire in his direction.” “Agreed,” Stryker said. He could not help but mull on how badly they were encircled. He had known the fight would be like this. It was why they had sent Runewood on his ill-fated midnight attack. But it was one thing to anticipate being surrounded, another to be in the middle of the vice as it closed. He mounted Valorous even as King Leto moved up on his own steed. The king was in armor of a similar style as what Archduke Runewood preferred, associated with the older Royal Sword Knights rather than the Storm Knights the king had personally pioneered. Around Stryker and the king were dozens of knights forming his personal guard, including his elite Silver Line Stormguard. A number of Runewood’s senior veterans came with them as well, sword knights each wearing a light blue armband to represent their prayers for the wounded archduke and the hope that Morrow would restore him.

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Leto and Stryker shared a nod and then rode down the hill toward the enemy, where the rifle fire intensified and the landscape quickly became enshrouded in drifts of dark, obscuring smoke. “Stick close to me, Your Majesty,” Stryker said. He sent his mind out to see through the eyes of his warjacks as he rode into the smoke, heading back toward their brave soldiers who were unknowingly standing where it seemed Vinter and Magnus would soon converge. • • • The smoke rising from southern Fharin had caught Caine’s attention. From this distance and the slight elevation of the ground they crossed, he felt he had an especially clear view of the eastern walls of Fharin and the soldiers murdering each other near it. The battle to the north, where Magnus was headed, seemed more evenly matched. That was clearly the heart of the action. Caine felt anxious as he watched a small detachment break off and hasten south, only to be met by a mixed loyalist and Protectorate army headed toward them from near the mercenary position. So far, neither the loyalists nor the Protectorate soldiers seemed bothered by the mercenaries so near to their midst. As Magnus had said, MacBain’s efforts had paid off. Caine’s mystically sharpened eyes cut through the smoke of the battlefield and also the light rain that had begun. He spotted Colonel Lynn Hawkins among the nearest attackers to his left and ahead. Looking to the walls of Fharin they were nearing, he saw a group of Defenders firing on the advancing mixed force. With them was a familiar thick-set figure in heavy warcaster armor. That man’s identity was confirmed when he launched a streaking

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salvo of miniature rockets to rain down on a tightly packed formation of Temple Flameguard, blasting them apart despite their armor and shields. The defensive line defending Brisbane was faltering in multiple places despite the warcaster’s efforts—the attacking force outnumbered them significantly. It looked as though their trenches were half-occupied by clashing soldiers fighting hand to hand. Artillery fire was angled past them to explode amid the attackers, but such blasts were few and infrequent—they did not appear to be taking enough of a toll to discourage the advance. Magnus and the rest of his army began to veer northwest on a path that would take them away from this conflict and closer to the main clash along Fharin’s northern road and railway. Caine determined he could not simply march along doing nothing while Brisbane’s position was overrun, especially when he was in the perfect position to flank Hawkins. Of course, if he left the group, there was every chance their ruse would work so well the Cygnarans would start shooting them. Indeed, he realized Magnus’ men were probably already nearly in range of the artillery. He wished he had brought signal flares, though lacking context, even a flare might mean anything and could be misinterpreted as a signal to the loyalists, not the head of the artillery. Then he remembered an old trick he had used once before to get Stryker’s attention, back before the Llaelese War. He gave a sharp whistle to get Clay’s attention; the ranger was roaming just ahead of their position. Clay turned, and Caine gestured him to approach. As the ranger neared, Caine asked, “Do yeh have a coin on you? A shield or farthing will do.”

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The ranger gave him an odd look but managed to find a silver coin and flipped it over to Caine. “Pretty sure you get paid more than I do,” he mumbled. The gun mage grinned and said, “I’ll repay you ten times over later.” He then threw the coin as hard as he could straight up into the air, where it spun and might have been lost in the overcast sky. Knowing Clay was watching, he couldn’t help but add a flourish, quick-drawing a Spellstorm and raising it in a single fluid motion, instilling the bullet with a pulse of concentrated arcane energy. He fired, and the bullet became a blue streak to impact the coin, which exploded. It sent brightly glowing droplets of molten silver limned in electric blue outward like a firework, especially bright given the gloom of the cloudy day. Caine only hoped Stryker had been looking in this direction. Magnus stomped closer, scowling. He yelled, “What the bloody hell are you doing, Caine?” “Relax,” he shouted back. “I’m trying to keep yeh from getting shot or shelled.” That seemed to mollify the warcaster a bit. He added, “I have something I need to handle. Be back before yeh know it.” He turned to Clay and said, “Follow my warjacks. Bring the rest of my men, and keep yer heads down.” He didn’t feel like lingering to explain what he was doing or to be yelled at again by Magnus. So, he flashed away even as the other warcaster opened his mouth, no doubt with another angry retort. Ace, his Charger, and his Defender were already in motion, veering off to the southwest and breaking into a run to catch up with their master.

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• • • Stryker and Leto had moved down to reposition infantry at the base of the hill, preparing them for the converging loyalists and the mercenary armies. The loyalist army was spread out across a wide line, clearly intending to encircle the west flank. Stryker did not have the numbers to respond, and he knew that flank would be in jeopardy no matter what they did. The terrain would work to their advantage, as the men fighting there had orders to perform a fighting retreat up the hillside as necessary, into the path of additional lines of riflemen and Storm Knights who could support them. He hoped to create a dense enough concentration of defensive firepower to wither the advancing lines and demoralize them. Among Vinter’s numerous soldiers were two types—dedicated supporters who risked treason to bring back their “true king” and shiftless soldiers of the Fourth Army, many of whom were criminals or opportunists. Stryker hoped the latter outnumbered the former. Such people would not long endure being fired upon while marching up a steep hill, and they would break ranks. Stacked lines of long gunners were positioned and ready, their repeating rifles raised and awaiting the order to fire. Ahead of them were trenches fronted by barbed wire and manned by trencher infantry interspersed with chain guns ready to dull the advance of the foe. Yet they’d not all seen the intimidating bulk of colossals accompanying the approaching mercenaries—great thirty-foot tall warjacks that dwarfed even heavies like Ol’ Rowdy. Such machines could scare the bravest men. Stryker reluctantly opted to summon their one Hurricane to

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join them. It was the only Cygnaran colossal at their disposal, and he had hoped to keep it in reserve for the core of Vinter’s forces. Its shoulder-mounted cannons and storm emitters gave it substantial firepower to unleash against the advancing enemy, but he was concerned about it becoming the target of concentrated fire before it could be properly deployed. But the presence of the two Galleons required an answer. “What’s that flare?” Leto shouted, reining his horse in and pointing east. Stryker turned to see the glowing explosion in the air above the mercenary force. He recognized it at once. “That’s no flare. It has to be Caine, though how or why he’s with the mercenaries, I have no idea.” “Didn’t Rebald say Captain Caine was investigating Magnus in Corvis?” Stryker frowned. The last time he had seen Caine use that particular trick had been to warn off friendly fire after a confusing engagement where the platoon working with the gun mage had crossed behind enemy lines. He stared at the advancing mercenaries. Their intent seemed clear, but there was no mistaking Caine’s signal. He wondered for a moment about the possibility of treachery. The gun mage had served as a journeyman under Magnus, and Stryker had heard the two had been in contact since the coup. Was there any possibility Caine had gone over to Magnus? It would explain some of his recent unorthodox behavior and unexplained absences. But Stryker recalled hearing about his recovery operation for Markus Brisbane, whom many of them had given up for dead. Caine, nearly alone, with a single light warjack and a couple misfits,

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had pulled off the rescue. A drunk he might be—insubordinate, reckless, nearly immune to authority. But he was no traitor. “Sergeant Cleats!” Stryker yelled to one of his Storm Lances. “I need you to go and find whichever master gunner Major Brisbane left in command of the artillery. Tell them they are not to fire on the approaching mercenaries. Is that clear?” The knight nodded and spurred his horse to gallop south, past the hill they were on toward the one beyond, atop which most of the heavy artillery had been situated. Stryker then delivered similar orders to the major in charge of the long gunners he had positioned. “Do not fire unless fired upon. No one is to make any preemptive fire against the mercenaries.” The major looked confounded but affirmed the order and passed it down. King Leto met his eyes. “Are you certain about this?” Stryker shook his head. “No, not at all. But there are a great many things in this battle I am not certain about.” Leto gave a grim smile and said, “Such as using me to lure Vinter into attacking us directly?” “That most of all, Your Majesty,” Stryker confirmed. They both chuckled at this with the morbid humor only possible when facing deadly peril. Stryker and the king’s escort moved up and ahead to where the enemy had arrived in force, using their own smoke grenades to cover their advance, weathering intense but blind fire directed through the billowing clouds. Armored knights and soldiers poured from the same smoke to engage the front lines as voltaic blasts from the glaives of Stormblades raked them. Stormguard

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halberds sent lightning surging past to explode in the ranks behind the ones engaged in melee at the fore. These Storm Knights were being set upon by counterparts with heavy Caspian blades, while others endured trenchers charging with their bayonets, firing as they closed. As the smoke cleared to Stryker’s right, he watched as the largest force of Steelheads he had ever seen in one place moved unopposed toward this convergence. He took hope in the fact that the approaching force’s own riflemen at the fore had not fired on his lines, though they had ample opportunity to do so. The cannons built into the chests of the Galleon had also been silent despite Stryker’s men certainly being in range. Then the mercenary column shifted, veering west. The upper bodies of the Galleons turned to face the loyalists. A rippling booming noise tore the sky as a dozen small cannons fired in sequence, a broadside attack that sent explosive cannonballs soaring to land and detonate across a wide swath of onrushing traitors. The once-silent Steelhead rifles erupted at the same time, delivering enfilade fire down the lines of soldiers who had thought the mercenaries their allies. Steelhead halberdiers charged the tattered and exposed flanks of Vinter’s vanguard. It was a glorious sight to see, though Stryker felt as surprised and baffled watching it as the enemy must have been. Any notion that Caine must have killed Magnus and taken over his army was dismissed when Stryker saw a familiar limping silhouette near the fore of the mercenary force, moving between the Galleons. Other mercenary warjacks crashed into their counterparts among the loyalists, including several Nomads and Talons, both

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decommissioned Cygnaran military ’jacks now preferred by mercenaries. He saw Mules as well, firing their shorter ranged cannons to great effect. Caine himself was nowhere to be seen. Yet just as clearly, Magnus had turned against the loyalists. To Stryker, it felt as though his world had been turned on its head. “By Morrow’s hand, what does this mean?” Leto asked in a hushed tone. “Is Magnus fighting on our side?” “I can’t pretend to explain it,” Stryker said, his own mind racing. “I suspect your faith in Duke Ebonhart may not have been misplaced.” The king looked at him sharply and he added, “The duke was last seen with Magnus, and these mercenaries were allegedly hired by him. Maybe Ebonhart found a way to reach him, though I can’t fathom what that would be.” Leto shook his head. “I’m sure Duke Ebonhart played a part. But knowing my brother, I find it more likely he finally pushed Asheth Magnus too far. Vinter has always been capable of inspiring loyalty but abysmal at preserving it.” Remarkable as this turn was, Stryker’s inner tactician was looking past the immediate circumstances. Through the eyes of his warjacks, he could gauge the scope of the mercenary army—while it was substantial, they were still only a few thousand men. A significant threat to suddenly appear on one of the enemy’s flanks, but Vinter’s army numbered in the tens of thousands. The mercenaries would not be able to hold against them long, and already their common foe was shifting its lines and repositioning. Additional loyalists to the southeast were engaging other aspects of their defenses and threatening their main artillery batteries. Fharin threatened to burn as Menites assailed its southern gates. The circumstances of

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the battle had not changed. Runners and officers came to Stryker to deliver news or seek clarification on their orders. One of them was a battered trencher captain who was quite clearly bleeding from a gunshot wound in his shoulder. When Stryker told him to seek a surgeon, he waved it off. “No time for that now, General. We’ve got a problem on the left flank. Warjacks, at least a half-dozen, and we’re left with nothing to counter them. We’re all light infantry, and they’re running roughshod over our lines!” Once again Stryker felt the pull of conflicting priorities, as well as the lack of sufficient warcasters. This was another circumstance he could not afford to confront personally, though he knew he could have made a difference if he was at liberty to shore up that flank. So long as the king was near the front lines, however, his place was at Leto’s side, seeking Vinter. “I’ll send the Hurricane,” he said. It was the only asset immediately available which had a chance to stop heavy armor. He had thought he would require the machine to face down the mercenary Galleons. But he was already gambling on Caine’s signal, so he might as well go all the way. “Thank you, sir!” the captain saluted gratefully and then left to return to his men. Stryker mentally directed the enormous colossal to keep an eye on the man and follow him, then to prioritize the destruction of any enemy warjacks in the captain’s vicinity. This would be tricky in this battle, as the enemy was also fielding Cygnaran warjacks. Stryker would not be close enough to guide the great warjack’s attacks personally, so he had to rely on its judgment. Throughout the battle they had struggled with warjacks having a hard time telling friendlies from enemies. Most of the visual cues

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they relied upon did not apply in this fight, forcing the machines to decide entirely from context. The more advanced cortexes could usually manage, but even they could be confused. The colossals had been built with especially large and sophisticated cortexes, a new grade invented by Artificer General Nemo. Stryker had to hope it was enough. This also meant he would not have access to the most powerful machine in his arsenal when they faced Vinter. Ol’ Rowdy looked at him, perhaps sensing his unease. Stryker felt reassured that his most reliable and longest standing weapon of war was still with him at least. “We need to advance, Your Majesty!” Stryker shouted over the rising din. He pointed to where the heaviest concentration of loyalists was crashing through their lines, just beyond where the mercenaries had opened a gap. The banners there were the sigils of the most powerful of Cygnar’s nobles that had gone over to Vinter, and among those banners was the thorned vine symbol of the Raelthorne family crest itself, borne as if in place of the Cygnus. He caught a glimpse of a tall man in familiar black armor with gold filigree, his form draped in a red cloak. The sight of him brought visceral dread, a feeling he had not experienced in fifteen years. Back then he had been a young royal guardsman, not yet a warcaster—it had been the first time his world had been turned upside down. Stryker had no doubt his former mentor would be headed that way as well. Even as history repeated itself, much had changed. “Vinter comes for me,” Leto said on spotting his brother. “Let us not disappoint him!” He sounded almost eager, with none

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of the fear and apprehension Stryker would have expected. He took encouragement from this and nodded, adjusting his grip on Quicksilver. The time had come.

469 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

South of Fharin

“Withdraw through the gates!” Captain Jeremiah Kraye yelled as he fired his Radcliffe carbine twice in quick succession, sending bullets through the helmet slits of the nearest Temple Flameguard. He nudged his steed Malagant to trot to the left, giving him a better firing angle, as he automatically swiftly reloaded. His mind was linked to several Sentinel, Charger, and Hunter light warjacks keeping up a steady firing tempo, though several were low on ammunition. Half his support crew was dead, and the rest he had sent through the gate. The air was thick with smoke, and additional incendiary explosives were being sent over the walls to detonate in the nearest buildings inside Fharin. “I’ll cover you. Move your sorry asses!” he shouted at the stubborn trenchers of the 148th Veteran Reserves; they seemed reluctant to give up their positions so long as there were Sul-Menites to shoot. These were all older soldiers who had volunteered again for service despite having retired; a number of veteran companies had rallied to Leto’s defense. Fharin’s garrison had fought as tenaciously as any soldiers Kraye had the pleasure of serving with, motivated by The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

defense of their homes, though he had found them slow to respond to orders. At last they fell back in sequence, and he winced as a Redeemer rocket exploded to take out three men on the far left. He and his warjacks held their positions as the tattered streams of soldiers rushed past him, many carrying wounded. The truth was the southern defenders had held out longer than he had expected, in good part due to the timely arrival of the 105th Regiment under Colonel Rasterly. Those troops, sent from Caspia, had provided a much needed infusion of fresh reinforcements. Even after fighting their way here, they had been in good morale and less weary than the men Kraye had. He had nearly made a real fight of it. But the Protectorate army proved to be too much. He had a feeling they would have been steamrolled worse than they had been if Feora had been attacking more aggressively. She seemed to be limiting her own casualties while systematically dismantling the city’s southern defenses. As the last of the nearest soldiers passed him, he ordered the gates closed but remained beyond them. He couldn’t bring himself to abandon those still fighting the losing struggle in the last trenches. The sound of rifles ahead had slowed, though there was plenty of other noise, including from those firing from atop the walls above. Cannons boomed regularly north of the city, and other battle sounds came from a closer battle northeast of his position. Still, after long hours of bitter fighting, Kraye felt something was off about the sound of things near him. It had become strangely quiet. He had expected to hear the rushing of Sul-Menite infantry hot on the heels of his retreating men and the heavy tread of their warjacks.

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He had been prepared to sacrifice his light ’jacks to intercept those heavier machines as they closed on the walls. Leaving his ’jacks in front of the gate, he kicked Malagant into a gallop, riding west through the smoke haze toward the looming Wyrmwall Mountains, climbing a nearby hill to gain altitude before facing south. There he was able to see the Protectorate army more clearly. Its front lines were assembled and standing ready, filled out as reserve soldiers behind them stepped up into any gaps. But they were not advancing. The forward warjacks that had been firing over the walls had pulled back. Malekus the Burning Truth, looking rotund as always in his armor, stood amid the captured trenches, staring at Fharin’s gates, his cleansers around him. It looked as if they had been ordered to wait. Kraye rode cautiously a bit closer, circling to stay within the foothills and at a high vantage, therefore a difficult target for deliverer rockets. He laid his rifle across his saddle with his hands atop it. He was able to see that Feora had pulled back with a small flanking escort of Temple Flameguard and a few flame bringer cavalry, female riders belonging to the Daughters of the Flame. He pulled a spyglass and extended it to peer down at her, where she was walking swiftly toward an approaching group of more heavily armored cavalry. He cursed under his breath. He estimated several hundred Knights Exemplar were arriving—as if the crusaders needed such reinforcements. At their fore was the unmistakable figure of Intercessor and Grand Exemplar Kreoss. Kraye made a face and spit to the side, wondering if he needed to get word of this back to the command tent. It wasn’t the numbers

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that concerned him, but the presence of another warcaster— especially such a prominent one—did not bode well. This seemed to signify the Protectorate was indeed back on full crusade footing. Until now, Rebald had been operating under the presumption that Feora was acting on her own. Kreoss’ arrival suggested otherwise. • • • Captain Allister Caine had originally intended to take out Colonel Hawkins in a quick strike. He felt the need to revise his plans as he neared. She was commanding her soldiers conservatively, a bit back from her front lines, employing her spells and warjacks in support of her men. If she were fighting closer to the front, it’d be easier to take her down and then make a quick exit to avoid retaliations. As it was, his own warjacks were lagging behind while she was surrounded by her army. Hawkins had a reputation for being tough as nails but also someone who had some tricks up her sleeves when facing gunmen like him. Never having fought with her or against her, Caine wasn’t sure of her capabilities, though he knew the rumors that she had been challenged to duels several times in her younger years, including by skilled pistoleers, and had never let any of them walk away. This wasn’t the only reason he felt reluctant to rush her and gun her down. The fact was, Caine liked the woman. He had played cards with her before, drank her liquor, laughed about all the tight- assed superior officers they’d had to put up with. She was a pill. Also corrupt and a traitor, but no one was perfect. Taking her into custody would be preferable to killing her.

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More important than any of that, Major Brisbane had his back up against the wall, quite literally, and was about to get overrun. The bulk of Hawkins’ loyalists were hanging back, using their rifles to fire on the well-entrenched enemy while leaving the more dangerous business of closing on the foe to the Protectorate soldiers accompanying them. The trenchers had been tenacious in their defense, but Caine could see Daughters of the Flame sweeping through, killing anyone they encountered with swift and expert slices of their blades. Daughters were fast and stealthy, very difficult to pin down or shoot, holy assassins that relied on acrobatics to get wherever they needed to go. With Siege not fully recovered, Caine was concerned the major might not be up to dealing with a bunch of nimble assassins. At present, Siege and his Defenders seemed oblivious to the threat, focused on delivering firepower into the more obvious elements of Hawkins’ front lines. Caine made a snap decision and went in that direction. Ace had almost caught up to him. He urged the warjack forward and then ran toward the trenches to intercept the Daughters. He mentally bid his Sentinel, Charger, and Defender to a position closer to the walls but not in the same direction he was headed. They were directed to keep firing as they moved so they might draw attention. Caine drew on his magic to augment his ability to dodge bullets and then bestowed on Ace a spell that would add accuracy and impact to its shots without requiring his attention. He heard a shout as some of the loyalists near him spotted motion and saw the flash of runes from his magic. They turned to fire in his direction. Bullets whizzed by them, kicking up dirt, and one pinged off

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Ace’s upper hull, doing only superficial damage. Most missed. Caine considered activating Ace’s full infiltration system but didn’t want to fry it yet. He urged it to keep on the move, knowing its speed would make it a difficult target. He had it prioritize the enemy soldiers closest to Brisbane. The gun mage drew on his will and flashed forward into the trenches, appearing just behind a Daughter who had stabbed the blade in her right hand into the chest of a long gunner. The man gasped and fell back, blood dripping from the woman’s blade. Caine put a glowing bullet in her skull, dropping her. The bullet ricocheted off the back of the trench wall and killed a second Daughter a few feet away. He ran down the occupied trench as the revolving cylinders of his pistols spun, letting him fire again as he moved past several bewildered Cygnaran soldiers to focus on the intruders closing on them. The Daughters may have been little more than dark blurs to the others, but Caine’s gleaming eyes saw them plainly. Every time he fired, a pair of them fell. Ace followed his example, the shells from his rune cannon performing the same impossible changes in trajectory. He caught up to one Daughter locked in a deadly clash with a trencher who had managed to get his rifle barrel up to block her downward strike. Her second blade was about to disembowel him, but a glowing bullet tore through her neck. Two more women leapt up from the trenches to rush Siege. One boom from Ace tore through both. Caine reloaded in an instant, letting his magic facilitate the cartridges sliding into their cylinders, just as a line of Temple Flameguard rushed him, spears raised. He calmly faced

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them and fired in rapid succession, smoke and light pouring equally from his pistols, the runes along their barrels glowing with arcane heat. They might as well have been crawling toward him as they fell one after another. In a few breaths there was a cleared space around both him and Siege and a pile of bodies on the ground. “Good to see you, Caine,” Siege said with a grin. He added, “I had this section under control.” “Sure yeh did,” Caine said, moving to crouch behind a pile of sandbags as bullets rang out around him, several sparking off his power field. “I just wanted in on the action.” “I was supposed to get to Kraye,” Siege said, jerking his chin south. “But these fanatics had other ideas.” “Go on then,” Caine said. “I’ll distract this lot to cover you.” Siege nodded, and he and his Defenders rushed south, firing as they went, blasting through the Protectorate soldiers that had begun to converge on that flank. Caine and the remaining soldiers in the area gave him covering fire, though his repositioning had clearly emboldened loyalists that had been hanging back. Their primary hesitation to close had to do with the soldiers manning the battlements above, including a couple of chainguns and storm towers. Their effective range was short, but within proximity of the walls they were deadly enough to deter the enemy. Given a lack of intensity from regular rifle fire above, Caine suspected this stretch of the battlements was undermanned or had suffered a lot of casualties. They might be down to a few of the heavier weapon crews. Caine ordered the nearest soldiers to follow Brisbane. They were clearly reluctant to leave the relative shelter of even their

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compromised defenses, but if they remained they would soon die. Caine sent his Sentinel up to support a unit of long gunners coming out of the trench to his left, the warjack’s chaingun whirling as it sprayed bullets into the nearest loyalists. Its shield was nearly the size of its body, and dozens of bullets intended for those soldiers bounced off it. Then Caine had his Defender and Charger fire on its opposing counterparts nearer to Colonel Hawkins, who noticed the attention and began to advance with her battlegroup. The air was thick with bullets. Caine kept to the cover of the sandbags and used his magically augmented reflexes to help keep his skin intact. “Look out!” The shout came from Clay, who had come over the hill behind Caine’s ’jacks with the other rangers, trencher commandos, and Lieutenant Jasren. Caine had felt a hint of something, just a slight movement of the air behind him, and had already tensed his muscles. A woman appeared seemingly from nowhere in a haze of what looked like ash, a sword in each hand. Caine leapt backward as the first edge swept by just inches from his neck. He twisted, contorting himself to evade the second one, the passage of which made his power field pulse with light. Its sharp edge cut through the flap of his armored greatcoat. He brought up both Spellstorms and fired at her with each at point-blank range, expecting the bullets to tear through her torso, but she did her own impossible twist and flipped backward. He blinked in surprise as both bullets struck the ground. He had missed. He had not fully extended his will to empower those shots, too confident in his success. He had underestimated his foe.

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She reversed her motion and came at him again, blades gleaming. She was blindingly fast. Time seemed to slow to his perception, but she was so swift it didn’t matter. He saw the smokestacks on her back, and realized this had to be Thyra, Flame of Sorrow, leader of the Daughters. Runes of power surrounded her and gleamed along the blade edges as she invoked her own magic. Despite his augmented reflexes, she had him. There was no time for him to duck, nowhere to twist or turn away. The blades bit through his power field as she brought them together with him as the fulcrum where they would meet. They swept just under his arms where he had been holding his pistols extended, cutting into his sides and through his light armor, barely slowing. He felt the cold bite as the blades entered his skin. At least they were sharp. The sharpest blades made for the least painful wounds. She was smiling, a vicious smile filled with hate. He considered this would be the last thing he would see. There was a booming noise followed by a crackle of thunder, and Thyra was thrown violently to the side, her power field mitigating the damage but not preventing the hit. Ace had fired on her of its own accord, delivering a Thunderbolt shell guided and bolstered by Caine’s lingering magic. Thyra was knocked off her feet and sent skidding across the muddy ground, leaving a trail of blood. Her warcaster armor prevented a killing impact, but the shell still smashed through the armor at her midsection, just above her hip, and blood flowed to deepen her maroon tabard and splash across the white enamel of her armored plates. Caine raised his pistols to finish her, but she vanished before his eyes, leaving lazily settling fragments of ash. Even the motion

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of raising the Spellstorms caused him pain, and he knew he was bleeding from deep gashes cut through his armor on each side, along his ribcage. Had the warjack’s shot come slightly later, one or both of his lungs would have been perforated. Ace turned to scan the nearby area, looking for the woman. “Yeh nearly hit me instead of her!” Caine yelled as he slid back to get behind the cover of the sandbags again. It had been an impossibly lucky shot, one he never would have urged Ace to try. His heart hammered from the close brush with death. Ace seemed unconcerned at the criticism, and Caine had to admit the ’jack didn’t deserve to get yelled at for saving his life. He wasn’t out of danger. Whatever Thyra had done to vanish seemed similar to his own ability to cross short distances in the blink of an eye. Like his trick, he doubted she could use it to get very far. The question was whether the wound she had taken was bad enough to keep her away. There were other concerns, too. Through the eyes of his warjacks, he saw loyalist trenchers and knights advancing on his position, firing regularly to pin him down. Hawkins and her warjacks seemed focused on eliminating his machines closer to the hillside where Clay and the other soldiers had gone prone, firing back. Something seemed to have distracted the Sul-Menites at least, as they had inexplicably turned to hasten south, perhaps in pursuit of Brisbane. The loyalists at the fore had their attention divided between getting to him and shooting the people atop the walls. Lightning flashed past Caine to arc between several of them, prompting those nearest to pull back. Others leapt inside the abandoned trenches for cover. Caine directed his Charger to intercept Hawkins’ Sentinel,

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which was firing on the hillside. Its chaingun whirred, but Clay and the others were difficult targets, low to the ground, just their rifles poking out. Its bullets tore up only dirt. His own Sentinel was soon swarmed by knights, though its spinning chaingun took down several on their approach. It brutally smashed one of its attackers with its heavy assault shield but was then hammered in turn by heavy Caspian blades until the light dimmed from its eyes. Ace turned to fire on them, but Caine urged the warjack to evade them, even knowing this would take it out of his mental range. His attention was diverted by a mental prod from his Defender, and he looked to see the one controlled by Hawkins was charging straight at it after sending a shell to smash into its chest. Caine had it fire back, shooting for the opposing Defender’s waist, hoping to cripple its movement system. The retaliatory shot pierced through its lower torso with a booming clang, but it did not slow. Hawkins was running up behind it, her will focused through her machines. The attacking ’jack smashed into Caine’s and delivered a rapid sequence of crushing blows with its shock hammer. Voltaic energies from the hammer ran through the Defender’s frame, straight through its sensitive cortex, and Caine’s mental connection was severed. It stumbled and fell, reduced to scrap. Caine focused his will and flashed behind the loyalist warcaster, bringing up his Spellstorms while wincing against the pain in his sides. He said loudly, “Hey, Colonel, how about you—” She whirled before he could finish his snappy threat, showing quite good reflexes for a woman twenty years past her prime. She stepped back and fired her hand cannon. Fast as she had been,

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he was anticipating her shot and stepped to the side, letting the bullet fly by just inches from him. He fired one of his Spellstorms, focusing his will, and the glowing shot crashed into her hand cannon, exploding the firing mechanism and the ammunition within. She dropped the smoking pistol, shaking her gauntleted hand and wincing in pain. “Hawkins, stand down!” He shouted, both pistols on her now. “I don’t want to—” She gave him a fierce look and reached behind her to take her Thurian hammer in both hands. At the same time the air around her shimmered strangely, and Caine blinked to find there were suddenly a multitude of her staring at him. It was as though she was replicated in a series of mirrors, none of her duplicates standing where she had been a moment before. Her Defender had turned around and began charging him on its metal legs, letting loose a harsh shriek of steam. All the various Hawkinses rushed him as well. “I’ll shoot all of yeh if I have to!” he yelled as he fired, backing up. His shots tore through four of her images, shredding them into dissipating smoke, then the last two and the Defender were on him. He tumbled to his left, evading the downward blow of the warjack’s shock hammer, a weapon whose head was as big as he was. The pair of Hawkins pressed in to get their turn, and he pushed all his will into his power field as they swung. He had no idea if the duplicates could hurt him, but one of them was real. A solid blow clipped his arm, sending him spinning. He managed to keep his grip on his Spellstorm and fired again, gritting his teeth—the result was simply more smoke. The last Hawkins, presumably the

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real one, was on him. It was all he could do to avoid her blows. Every movement he made brought renewed pain in his ribs. He also realized he was getting light-headed, likely from blood loss. He barely ducked beneath the next hammer blow that would have torn off his head if he had been slower. He flashed away, knowing even as he did that he was taking a risk. The walls were too far to reach, so he appeared next to Clay, gritting his teeth against the reeling sensation in his head that left him disoriented. “The shackles!” he demanded, holstering one pistol and holding out his hand. The ranger stared at him wide-eyed. He kept his wits, however, and reached into one of his larger pouches to extract the leg shackles formerly used on Magnus. He handed them to Caine. The gun mage slung them over his shoulder, then fired several times downslope, killing the nearest loyalists and sending the rest ducking for cover. Looking back, he saw Hawkins glaring at him as the Defender aimed its heavy barrel cannon in his direction. “Thamar take that damned thing,” he said, then leapt to the side, hoping he had been fast enough. The boom sounded, and the shell went flying past to create a yard-wide divot in the walls of Fharin. Even as Caine recovered from his dive and scrambled back to his feet, arcane runes in an inward spiraling circle surrounded Hawkins’ Destroyer. In the next moment, multiple rockets exploded into the warjack, tearing off great chunks of armored steel and shattering its pistons. In an instant the warjack seemed half-demolished, pitted with deep holes and smoking from damage. Its chest looked like it had been hit by

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a giant’s hammer. Caine looked downslope to see Major Brisbane standing there, his rocket cannon in hand. He grinned to himself. Caine and Ace fired on Hawkins, hammering her power field and sending her reeling, then Caine flashed behind her. She whirled to face him, but Clay had rushed her and took a swing at her head, using his rifle like a club. She dodged, but it distracted her while Caine bent down and clamped the Greylord shackles onto her ankles. She staggered and nearly tripped while Caine backed up and raised his Spellstorms. Hawkins pointed at him, and her eyes narrowed as though she were attempting some mental effort. Whatever spell she tried did not manifest. She gasped and looked down at the manacles, which were glowing as though they had come out of a forge. Smoke rose from them, and she yelped in startled pain. Clay backed up and trained his rifle on her, looking wary but smug. “Care to call this a day and surrender?” Caine asked. “Or do I need to shoot yeh a few more times?” “It looks you have the better of me, Captain. Can’t blame an old girl for trying.” At his gesture, she dropped her hammer. He approached cautiously, half-expecting her to attack anyhow, and he kicked the weapon farther away. She watched him with a smirk. Caine looked south to where the Menites were moving away from Fharin now in numbers. “It looks like yer friends are leaving. Any idea what’s going on?” Hawkins shook her head, looking genuinely puzzled as she stared at her erstwhile allies. “Likely they’re repositioning, though I don’t know. Could be they’ve had enough of this fight.” “Why didn’t Vinter keep you closer?” Caine asked.

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“He sent me away,” she said with a shrug. “Seemed to think he didn’t need any protection.” “Well, ask me, that was a mistake,” Caine said, “but one I intend to capitalize on. Whatever happens, I’ll make sure yeh get a fair trial, Colonel. Always liked yeh, Hawkins.” She shook her head. “Always liked you too, Caine. Bring cards and uiske when you visit me in prison.” He kept one Spellstorm on her but holstered the other to recover a flask from his waist. He opened it and took a gulp, then handed the rest to her. She took a long draw. The loyalist army Hawkins had been leading was already pulling back, their nerve lost on seeing the retreating Sul-Menites and their warcaster captured. Caine didn’t expect most of them were out of the fight yet, merely regrouping—numbers could quickly restore lost courage. The loss of a warcaster was always a severe blow to morale, but they would reform their lines and realize their position remained strong, that the defenders in this area had been largely eliminated. Then they would march in support of the main loyalist army, arriving on Leto’s flank. The artillery hill looked exposed, which they would realize soon. Their hesitation only bought a short reprieve. After ensuring the badly battered Defender and her other ’jacks were powered down, Caine directed Hawkins to walk ahead of him toward the wall. He saw that Captain Kraye had come around from the southern side of the city and was talking to Major Brisbane. Caine joined them. Kraye said to him, “Looks like the Menites have pulled out. No idea why, but the grand exemplar showed up, argued with Feora, and they decided to pack up and leave.”

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Siege said, “I guess they decided to take their crusade elsewhere.” He shrugged. “An unexpected break for us.” Caine saw spots before his eyes. “Major,” he said, “think some of yer men can take this prisoner off my hands? Get her locked up inside Fharin? Kraye, I’d be beholden to yeh if I could get a ride to the main fight. Things looked ugly there. We’re not out of the fire yet.” Major Brisbane nodded. “Agreed, Captain. You two go ahead— I’ll protect the artillery.” He barked some orders, and soldiers took the Fourth Army warcaster away. Caine decided he could leave his flask with her; she likely needed it more than he did. Kraye frowned. “I believe you’re bleeding, Caine. We should get you stitched up.” “Probably so,” Caine said, his voice slurring a bit. “Later.” This seemed odd; he had barely drank anything. His legs turned to rubber and he forgot how to stay standing. Jasren was near enough to catch him before he hit the ground, though he recovered his balance a moment later. She and Clay helped him onto Kraye’s horse. “You should go see a surgeon, Captain,” Clay said, echoing Kraye. “No time for that,” he said. “See you on the other side. Let’s go.” He focused on staying conscious as they galloped off, wincing at every jolting bounce.

485 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

North of Fharin

Vinter Raelthorne walked the battlefield like a man who had returned to his proper home, savoring the sights, sounds, and even smells of battle. He watched as his army enveloped and pushed back the defenders with inexorable certainty. He took nothing for granted, knowing the mettle of the enemies they faced had been forged and strengthened in numerous recent conflicts. By contrast, his own army felt brittle. These were not the same peerless Cygnaran heroes who had fought at his side during the Scharde Invasions. No, he had been forced to settle for lesser men from the Fourth Army—cast-offs from Leto’s generals. In this battle, he had to rely on the fact that they could not turn back to motivate them. Victory must be theirs, or the consequences would be execution. Still, such men required close supervision from his officers and sergeants. Their fighting habits were sloppy, and their lack of experience fighting in a battle like this showed. There were times Vinter missed the skorne that had once been under his command. He had dispersed his veterans among the less-disciplined troops, drawn from the armed households of nobles who had endured years The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

of fighting. Among those who marched in his army were some of the dispossessed nobles and soldiers of Northforest Duchy, men and women who had seen Leto surrender their lands to Khador and then enter into an ill-fated alliance with that hated foe. These were warriors who knew how to fight and were invested in victory here. He relied on them to inspire and direct those less familiar with the necessities of war. Leto’s lines had begun to collapse, not in one place but in several, and Vinter urged his nobles and officers on. The time had come to put terror into the hearts of the foe, to take their desperation— knowing they were outnumbered—and hammer it until they broke. He was strategic in where he lent his own efforts. Alongside his escorting knights and loyalist trenchers, he bore Kingslayer into battle and fought personally. He did not go where the enemy lines had broken but where they were strongest. He spotted several platoons of elite Stormblades pushing his forces back by lightning and crashing blades, escorted by equally formidable Stormclads, powerful heavy warjacks equipped in a similar fashion to the Storm Knights they fought beside. He saw their captain yelling orders at the great machines while he himself went forth and dispatched several opposing knights with efficient and brutal strikes. He was an impressive officer, one who fought like a lifelong veteran. Vinter’s knights parted to let their king through. He strode unflinching across ground just cleared by storm glaive and voltaic generator blasts. Behind him came several knights bearing specialized equipment—tall metal poles with complex prongs. These had been created in the style of tools employed by the skorne

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during their crossing of the raging Stormlands around the Abyss that lay east of the Bloodstone Desert, designs intended to divert voltaic energies. Each bearer was defended by a knight with an oversized tower shield and a thrusting spear. Vinter had not had time to see a great number of these poles fabricated, though those they had were dispersed strategically among the army, kept near key nobles and officers. The nearest Stormclad and several Stormblades saw Vinter coming and charged their weapons, each with coils glowing bright blue and generating arcs of leaping electricity along their lengths. That power was gathered and launched across the air at him. The streaking lightning was dragged away to strike the oversized poles instead, channeled harmlessly into the ground at the feet of those bearing them. The Stormblades stepped back, startled that their fearsome weapons had failed them. Vinter charged, bringing Kingslayer back and sweeping it ahead of him to cleave through the two nearest Storm Knights, washing its edge and Vinter’s black armor in steaming blood. He kept moving, and everywhere his blade struck, armored men fell. The Stormclad raised its own blade—longer than the height of a tall man—and brought it crashing down, but its move was clearly forecast and Vinter sidestepped it. He knew the tremendous value of warjacks in battle, especially against hard targets, but he had never found them difficult to evade. They could not feint, and their mechanikal joints and pistons limited the angles of attack they could utilize. The priority was to avoid being hit in the first place. He stepped past its massive legs, forcing it to awkwardly turn to track him. He hammered his sword with all his strength into

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the weak join behind the knee, slicing cleanly through the steel mechanisms and forcing its leg to collapse. He kept moving and reversed to chop through the exposed engine, making a ruin of it. As it sought to flail its weapon toward him, his next strike went through the connecting conduit hoses and other delicate mechanisms at its elbow. He strode past, ignoring the crippled machine and leaving its dismantling to the knights behind him. He closed on the Stormblade captain. To his credit, the man stood his ground. “For Cygnar!” He yelled, a cry taken up by the other knights alongside him, the closest of whom rallied and stepped forward alongside their leader. They gathered their courage and charged. Vinter impaled the man to the right of the captain straight away, holding his heavy greatsword in a single hand. The point of Kingslayer pierced straight through his breastplate and his chest. Vinter ducked under the captain’s sideways sweep and used the gauntlet on his left hand to bat aside the storm glaive of the one to the left. A tingling jolt went through his hand and arm, but he ignored it and felt no pain. Yanking his sword free, he felled that man next with a sideways blow, then reversed the sword’s motion to deflect the captain’s next strike and shove him back. They had a swift exchange of blows, each blocked or countered in turn, enough for Vinter to feel respect for the man. Leto had chosen his people well. Then Vinter feinted a high cut and transformed it into a lunging finish at the man’s midsection. A lesser blade would have glanced off his armor, but Kingslayer bit through. He followed with a quick cut to the neck to finish the captain, saving him any lasting agony. A worthy foe

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deserved a swift death. Seeing their captain fall was a blow to these knights, and they sought to avenge him. Vinter dismantled them efficiently and quickly, then shouted for his officers to advance the line into the hole he had created. Invigorated, Vinter stepped back, wiping his blade clean, seeing an anxious runner had reached General Deckley, who had been following him at a safe distance. Vinter had left it to Deckley to coordinate incoming reports of the battle’s progress and to distribute orders. The messenger rushed off as quickly as he had come. Deckley was agitated, and his face became fearful when Vinter walked toward him. “What is it? Do not hold your tongue,” Vinter said irritably. “It seems as though the Menites have withdrawn early. We don’t know why. They did a great deal of damage to the southern defenses, however. I think they served their purpose.” The general looked down before he continued. “Additionally, the mercenaries we thought to be in their employ and reinforcing our eastern flank turned on us. We took heavy casualties there, though their advantage should prove short lived… I sent a runner to recall Colonel Hawkins to shore up that region.” Vinter felt his anger rising. Always he was surrounded by idiots and betrayers. Even as he stormed away, a snarl across his features, his mind churned. Mercenaries were not brave by nature. They did not commit to foolhardy attacks or heroics. The answer quickly occurred to him—Asheth Magnus, whom he had once trusted almost like a son. For reasons he still did not fully understand, Magnus had turned on him just before the skorne had. On some

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level, Vinter had been anticipating his eventual appearance, knowing the warcaster would feel compelled to join this fight. Perhaps it was fortuitous it happened now. He turned in that direction, toward where the mercenaries had struck. If Magnus were behind this, he would send the man to Urcaen. A small setback. The Sul-Menites too, would not hinder his victory here, but their departure suggested forces at work against him. He had arranged matters such that there was nothing but benefit to be had for the Priestess of the Flame for seeing his swift victory. Clearly he had underestimated her resolve. Now this battle would not end cleanly, and he would lose more of his limited assets. Given the state of his army, he did not wish to test them in a prolonged ordeal. He had to find a way to ensure a swift and decisive victory. He saw a sight through the lines of embattled soldiers and the swirling smoke. There, the bright gleam of silver and the clean banner of the Cygnus! Fighting their way forward was a strong company of Storm Knights backed by numerous other infantry. Near their fore was none other than his brother, Leto, his red- headed champion in voltaic armor at his side. They were pushing ahead, perhaps trying to take advantage of the chaos caused by the mercenary attack. “Very reckless, little brother,” Vinter muttered with a fierce smile. Events had aligned to give him precisely what he most needed. He would find Magnus after Leto was dead. Any fondness he might once have had for his weak brother had vanished amid his betrayal. They called it a lion’s coup, but they should have named the usurper a snake. He adjusted the grip on his sword and

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increased the length of his stride. His escorting knights hastened to follow. The powerful hatred that stirred in Vinter’s blood felt akin to joy. • • • Stryker spoke as frankly and firmly to Leto as a man could to his sworn king, knowing he was testing the limits of their arrangement when he had been promoted recently. “Let me do my job, Your Highness. I know you want to fight him, but reserve your blade until mine is tested.” Chaos swirled around them, with now three different sides clashing, though it seemed Leto’s people and the mercenaries shared the same foe. The ground between them and Vinter was diminishing, so the time for him to say what he wished was severely limited. Leto looked sharply at him and said, “You think I desire death? Your protectiveness is unnecessary.” The black look in his eyes belied his words. “Not death for its own sake, no.” Stryker reined in his steed and leapt from the saddle, slapping Valorous on the hindquarters to send it racing away, back toward the city. Leto gave him an odd look but also dismounted. Stryker did not have the time to explain but knew he would fare better against a man like Vinter on foot rather than astride his steed. He would need his full mobility, and in a deadly clash a horse could become a hazard by the expedient of killing it, sending a heavy weight of horseflesh down on its rider. He said to Leto, “I understand you hope for an honorable death. Who of us does not? That may come. We are outnumbered and outfought, and the best swordsman in western Immoren wants

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your head. We may both die, but I plan to put up a fight before that happens. There is, even now, a chance for victory. I feel it. I want you to believe it. Have faith in me, Your Majesty. Allow me the courtesy to risk death fighting for you. If you care for me and my honor, that is my request.” Leto looked at him, his eyes sharp, and then smiled. The first truly warm smile Stryker had seen since Archduke Runewood had been wounded. “It would be a shame if all the battles we have endured to get to this day were to end in tragedy,” Leto said. “I suppose it comes down to who does the telling, after. Let’s finish this right. I will not stand in your way, Lord General.” The two clasped gauntleted hands tightly, and Stryker found himself moved, blinking against it and swallowing against the lump in his throat. Leto drew his sword and kissed its pommel. He intoned, “The Martial Trinity bless us, and Morrow hear the music of our swords.” Stryker took Quicksilver in hand and advanced, escorted by his best veterans and King Leto behind him. They fought through several clashing skirmishes on the way, though these were no barrier to Stryker. He raised Quicksilver and fired a blast of lightning to topple a knight who tried to rush him, obliterating the next with an explosive surge of arcane power. Seeing the warcaster approach, several Steelheads backed nervously away. There, Vinter stood ahead of them, walking straight at them. Stryker felt at one with his sword and with his magic, which flowed through him readily. Even the occasional cringing pain in his back from the injury he had suffered in Sul was forgotten, and his armor felt like a second skin. Voltaic energy flowed through

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him, setting his hair on end and rising like an anthem in his ears. Ol’ Rowdy was beside him, its great modified quake hammer ready. He shared a look with his favored warjack. Rowdy made a clanking noise and inclined its head, its right fist clenched, its legs slightly crouched. Rowdy was eager to fight, and Stryker drew strength from its enthusiasm. “Charge!” Stryker yelled, and the Storm Knights around him gave a battle cry as they rushed with him across the intervening muddy ground. Vinter raised Kingslayer and charged as well, his loyalist knights surging alongside him, struggling to keep up. Stryker saw several familiar faces among the traitors, men he had fought next to in the past. It turned his stomach to find them at Vinter’s side. Stryker fired a burst of voltaic power at the former Cygnaran king. He clenched his teeth to see the bolt curve and arc back to be absorbed by a metal pole borne by a knight behind Vinter. So, too, did a number of the glaive bolts fired by his nearest Stormblades, though enemies away from these devices were consumed by electrical energy and fell, smoke rising from them. They met in the middle with a great clash of metal on metal, knights on either side hacking into one another. Stryker and Ol’ Rowdy struck at Vinter at the same time, and Stryker existed in two bodies as he guided his own blade as well as Rowdy’s hammer. Yet Vinter did the unexpected, evading them by suddenly leaping forward and tumbling into a roll between and past them, his blade flicking out to deflect Stryker’s sword even as Ol’ Rowdy’s hammer crashed into the earth with a ground-shaking thud where he had been standing. Vinter had his eyes on Leto.

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Two of the Silver Line Stormguard stepped before their king, their thunder halberds in motion, but were cut down in a single, wide sweep of Kingslayer. More stepped in where they had been, and one of their halberds bit into Vinter’s forearm guard he raised to deflect it. Leto took a few steps back, allowing more knights to move up, though he kept his sword in hand, raised in a defensive stance. As Stryker turned he was relieved to see Leto was keeping to his promise, trying his best not to engage Vinter just yet. The lord general reached Vinter in a few steps, bringing Quicksilver down against the man’s exposed back with all his strength, feeling no moral qualms. This was war, not a duel. Vinter must have sensed the motion or seen it from the corner of his eye— he moved his sword behind his back to parry the strike without even looking. Ol’ Rowdy was meanwhile fighting behind Stryker, swatting away loyalist knights with his open hand, his hammer shattering others that rushed forward in an attempt to reach their master. Leto ordered his nearest men to avoid engaging Vinter and to attack his knights instead. Vinter sidestepped, cutting down two more knights, and then turned to face Stryker again, this time moving to the offensive. Quicksilver locked with Kingslayer as Vinter delivered a powerful blow that left Stryker’s hands stinging from the impact despite his warcaster armor. The swords gave a ringing cry as they met. The warcaster suspected a lesser blade would have shattered. He locked eyes with Vinter, finding the ex-king stood perhaps a few inches taller. Both men were powerful in build, but Vinter seemed the greater, a formidable presence in his black armor, his single eye burning with a palpable hatred, his teeth bared. Darkness seemed to surround him.

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Being locked blade to blade was a position Stryker knew he should avoid, confirmed in the next moment as Vinter unleashed a rapid series of feints and strikes. Stryker scrambled to react in time; no greatsword should move like this, and Stryker felt clumsy in comparison. Vinter’s expression changed, becoming no less fierce but now with a hint of enjoyment. The man was toying with him, taking his measure. Stryker felt his own anger rise. This was no game. He was a warcaster of Cygnar, a man who had been trained by the best, who had fought across western Immoren and seen a lich lord fall by his blade. His adrenaline stirred as he went on the offense, gasping as he sought to turn the fight around. He drew on the power of his mechanikal armor and his sword, both bonded to him. Mere skill could not oppose him in his element. He pulled out every trick of the blade he had ever learned, those taken from Magnus, his trainers in the royal guard, the Stormblades. Lightning flared along the length of his steel. Yet Vinter countered every swing as though it were a dance he had practiced—or perhaps choreographed in the first place. His expression had gone calm, his eyes blank, seemingly not seeing Stryker at all, only the flashing of their blades. He stepped inside Stryker’s reach and locked blades, then shoved him back, pushing him physically up against Ol’ Rowdy. Stryker’s armor flared with voltaic energy that fired back against Vinter, but seemingly to no effect. With a sideways sweep, Vinter knocked Stryker’s grip ajar, and only the fact that the sword was attached by conduit cables kept it from flying far from Stryker’s reach. Stryker’s power field surged

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with energy, but he knew his peril, having pushed himself too far on the attack. The field was weak. He had to tumble out of the way of the next great sideways attack, which carved through Ol’ Rowdy’s legs instead, scoring them deeply, while Stryker fell into the mud. He kept rolling, recovering his sword as he did. He realized his left arm was bleeding, though he did not feel the pain or remember how or when he had been hit. There was a large rent in the armor. He saw Vinter’s blade descending and knew he’d not get the blade up in time. Ol’ Rowdy had stepped away from the knights attempting to wear it down and brought its quake hammer against the earth again. The weapon glowed and sparked as it released the energy within its mechanikal housing. The ground buckled and heaved in response, knocking Vinter from his feet and sending his downward strike astray. Even as Stryker staggered back to his feet, Ol’ Rowdy attacked again with another downward strike, red eyes gleaming. On his back, Vinter rolled to get away but did not entirely succeed. The warjack’s hammer blow smashed into his left shoulder, driving the ex-king deeply into the mud. Another powerful attack came down, this one straight into Vinter’s chest, and now the man’s entire body sank into the wet earth, almost buried by the raw force of the impact. Stryker felt a moment of sudden elation and stepped closer, sword in hand, ready to deliver a coup de grâce. Though he could imagine no man surviving those impacts. Against all reason, Vinter pulled himself up from the mud, spitting blood. Stryker froze for a moment in disbelief, and even Ol’ Rowdy seemed startled. Vinter staggered to his feet, then crouched and ducked between the Ironclad’s legs, stabbing upward

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into its groin. There was the sound of metal tearing, and Rowdy staggered, its gears seizing up as it sought to move its legs. Vinter gave a raw yell and hacked into its waist, once, twice, three times, cutting through the torso at its most narrow point. Ol’ Rowdy fell, its upper body divided from its lower. Stryker shouted and rushed Vinter but had his blade knocked aside. The warjack swatted at Vinter with its hand, which Vinter easily avoided. Then the former king leapt atop the warjack’s back and plunged Kingslayer into its steam boiler, enduring a burst of scalding steam that erupted from the breach. Stryker was still connected to Rowdy’s cortex, which had fortunately not been harmed. A small comfort, as the warjack was completely inert and otherwise wrecked. Vinter leapt down from the machine, shaking his head as if to clear it. His face looked disfigured, red and blistered from the steam, pieces of boiled skin sloughing off. But before Stryker’s eyes some of this flesh reformed. A red haze seemed to surround Vinter. The former king smiled at him and spun his sword in one hand, as if eager to return to their interrupted duel. His posture had been hunched before, but he straightened now, as if Vinter denied all injury done to him by sheer force of will. Though fighting still raged all around them, a pocket of calm existed around Vinter. A number of his knights closed to form a cordon around him, weapons drawn and staring with mocking grins at Stryker. None of Leto’s army dared approach, and Stryker felt his own legs frozen. He despaired for the first time. He could not bring himself to look at King Leto. Stryker was reminded of the clash at the end of the Caspia-Sul

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War, when he had faced Hierarch Voyle. He had nearly died there, against an enemy who was clearly in a different league of power and capability, channeling a wrathful Creator of Man. At least in that fight he had an explanation for his enemy’s unnatural capabilities. He had no similar comfort here. Until now, Stryker had retained his confidence as a warcaster, knowing Vinter to be a mortal. A mere mortal. That had been his thought. Were not warcasters gods among men? So he had always been taught. Now he faced something his rational mind could not reconcile. Perhaps Vinter had been transformed while in eastern Immoren into something monstrous, something inhuman. Stryker knew with certainty he could not beat this man, this spirit of unflinching wrath.

499 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

North of Fharin, Base of Corben’s Hill

Julius had managed to do some fighting, though MacBain was nearby and bent on preventing him from being challenged or confronted. The fighting had become so chaotic, it was hard to keep straight what was happening, where the enemy was, even what their own soldiers were doing. It was battle on a scope Julius had never experienced, even in his time with Magnus. He wondered how anyone could make sense of it all. He saw fearful faces among the mercenaries, and he could tell their morale was faltering as the battle went on. They had enjoyed their initial assault, taking Vinter’s loyalists by surprise, but retaliation had been quick and fierce, and increasingly it felt as though they were surrounded. Exarch Dargule and Adeline were near, both pale and grim, both trying to avoid the fray. The exarch’s lips moved constantly as if in prayer, and Julius suspected he was attempting to perform last rites for the mounting number of dead. Several times he and Adeline interceded to bandage someone who was badly wounded, doing what they could to staunch bleeding and ease the combatants’ pain. Adeline looked at Julius with a different expression, especially The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

since he had joined the fighting. She seemed disappointed by his enthusiasm and willingness to participate. He had to admit her stern look diminished his excitement. He decided to reserve the use of his blade for when it was absolutely necessary. He wanted it known he was not hiding in the rear, though of course no one was paying him the least attention, nor did anyone even know who he was yet. He hoped the chance would come to correct that soon, though he was at a loss how that would happen. The former inquisitors were also with them, watched by Dargule’s Church soldiers. Quinn and Midwinter were still shackled together with manacles intended to prevent their magic. Midwinter had made several pleas to be unchained so they could contribute. Though Magnus had been willing, Dargule would hear nothing of it. Quinn had been silent during most of the fighting, and Julius had not felt inclined to engage him in conversation. He was not sure where he stood with his former mentor. He was clearly not the man Julius had thought he was. Magnus had been fighting alongside his ’jacks where the battle was most intense, but he came rushing back, his eyes bright and feverish. “The time is upon us!” he said, grabbing Julius by the arm. “Come, let’s hurry. You two also!” He pointed to the exarch and Adeline, who gave each other a look and then followed. The Church soldiers and inquisitors joined them, as did MacBain and his remaining warjacks, albeit a bit more slowly. The mercenary warcaster seemed content to be less involved in the fight, accepting his role as bodyguard. He used his warjacks to eliminate foes that got too close, and he occasionally raised his double-barreled hand cannon to take a shot of opportunity. Otherwise, he left the work

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to his machines and seemed immune to the fear evident on the faces of many of the other mercenaries. Not all of them, Julius conceded, watching the trollkin Greygore Boomhowler and his kin cheerfully engage in battle, making their typical racket. Julius felt his heart hammering in his chest. Magnus spoke in a lower voice to him as they moved ahead, passing through several knots of fighting figures. “Vinter is fighting Stryker while your uncle watches on. This may be our only chance. Are you ready?” A squad of loyalist trenchers gave a hearty yell and charged them, bayonets raised. Magnus extended his hand and half the squad was consumed in a powerful arcane explosion. The nearest Galleon stepped up and sent its great cargo claw sweeping through the rest. Periodically the guns on its chest fired, sending cannonballs to explode amid enemies farther back, not yet engaged with the nearest Steelheads or Leto’s people who were fighting to restore their lines in the vicinity. “Are you ready?” Magnus repeated, forcing Julius to return his attention to the warcaster instead of the mayhem all around them. “As ready as I can be,” Julius said. It was time to make himself known. This was not the surroundings he had anticipated—he had always imagined declaring himself in a great hall in Caspia with nobles gathered, quiet and attentive. He knew Magnus intended to make use of him as an elaborate distraction, which undercut any sense of majesty he might have striven for. They neared the only truly important battle. They saw the titanic clash taking place between Vinter and Stryker, amid pulses of lightning and the warcaster’s power field. Vinter looked as dark as Stryker was bright.

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Julius gasped in amazement when Vinter endured an assault from an Ironclad that should have killed anyone. Magnus seemed unsurprised. “Go,” he said, shoving Julius’ shoulder. “I’ll clear a bit of room and make some noise.” To MacBain he said, “Keep an eye on him.” MacBain said, “I will. But just so we’re clear, I’m not fighting either of those two.” He pointed at Vinter and Stryker. “You didn’t pay me enough for that.” What Magnus meant by “making some noise” was soon made evident. As Julius moved closer, the warcaster unleashed all of his warjack firepower at once. The dozen cannons on his Galleons fired in rapid sequence, setting off explosions all around the muddy fighting arena Stryker and Vinter had carved out for themselves. His Renegade light warjacks fired obliterator rockets as well, one landing almost directly on top of Vinter and his closest knights. The explosions tore through the nearest loyalists, while the Galleons rushed up to trample and tear through any others courageous enough to replace the fallen. Vinter was knocked down in obliterator blast, though he quickly regained his feet and seemed unharmed. As Julius and the others neared, he turned to face them. Stryker stood not far off, backing slightly away and holding Quicksilver defensively, resigned to an ill-fated last stand. Julius also saw the man who had to be King Leto, whom he recognized from drawings he had seen. Leto was standing amid an impressive phalanx of Storm Knights in silver armor behind Stryker. Julius’ approach took him near Leto and his escort. They watched him and those with him warily, their halberds ready. Julius

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saw Leto’s eyes widen as he spotted Exarch Dargule. Julius’ ears were ringing; he hoped Magnus had not deafened them all. Feeling as though the weight of stares directed at him might flatten him, Julius stepped into the cleared area, ignoring the bodies littering the ground, and removed his helmet. A good number of nobles were nearby, both those sworn to Vinter and those loyal to Leto. “Heed me!” he cried with all the volume he could muster. “I know I am a stranger to all of you gathered here, but that is something that must be corrected. This civil strife between Cygnarans must end here, today! Neither King Leto nor King Vinter is in a position to bring peace to Cygnar! So long as either of them seeks the throne, we will only have bloodshed and ruin!” At this a ripple of angry shouting and muttering began, but then the Galleons shifted and turned, glaring at the loudest as if daring them to speak again. Most stared in confusion. Vinter watched him as if torn between amusement and disbelief, though there was something else in his eyes. Julius felt his heart quail at that stare. His father, the man who would have killed his mother and murdered him while he was still in her womb. It seemed strange that others said he looked so similar to Vinter, for he could not see himself in the face of this fearsome, bloodstained tyrant. He raised his voice again. “Let it be known that I stand before you as Julius Raelthorne, son of Vinter Raelthorne the Fourth. I am the rightful heir to the throne of Cygnar! Though Vinter was declared an unjust and unlawful king fifteen years ago, his royal blood nonetheless flows in mine. My uncle Leto Raelthorne assumed the

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throne after deposing my father out of necessity, hoping to restore the kingdom. Clearly it is a task he is no longer fit to accomplish. I promise to usher in a new era of peace and prosperity to Cygnar!” “Preposterous!” Vinter snarled vehemently, yet Julius did not stop speaking, even as the ex-king’s face turned mottled red, distorted with rage. Leto seemed more stunned. Julius gathered his courage and faced Vinter while he spoke. His father took several steps toward him, sword in hand, and Julius froze in place. “Lies!” Vinter said. “I have no son!” Dargule and Adeline stepped up as well, behind Julius. Dargule said, “I am Exarch Dargule of the Church of Morrow and I vow before you, in the name of Morrow and his holy ascendants, that this young man is Julius, born of Vinter Raelthorne and Adeline Dunning, who stands here with me. They had long been in hiding out of concern for their lives, as Vinter’s Inquisition would have seen them murdered.” Adeline opened her mouth to speak but did not get the chance. At the sight of her, there was recognition in Vinter’s eyes, and his rage boiled over. He gave an incoherent shout and charged, raising Kingslayer. She stepped back in alarm while Julius stepped between and raised the sword Magnus had given him, feeling strangely calm now that he had spoken aloud his part. Though he had no doubt Vinter could and would try to kill him, he put his faith in Magnus, though the warcaster was not to be seen. Standing in his combat stance, Julius remembered the times in his youth when he had been forced to endure a sound beating by his tutors, most of them now dead. He prepared a purely defensive posture, seeking nothing but to endure. Magnus had taught him

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that a man with some skill and a quick mind could endure quite a while against a superior adversary if all his attention was focused on evasion. As Vinter’s sword came down, a silver gleaming length of steel rose to intercept the darker edge of Kingslayer, which rang off his sword loudly. Julius realized with some surprise it was Leto. He only had a moment to consider this before Vinter began to hammer into each of them in turn, even as Stryker rushed to join the melee. Though there were three of them, each might as well have been facing a different foe, for all it mattered. Julius found his arms in pain from blocking impacts from a sword wielded with unnatural strength. Arcane runes surrounded the trio even as Vinter struck at them. His blows seemed to slow. Julius realized this magic protection came from MacBain—but he doubted it would hold long. Vinter’s eyes took on a mad gleam as he knocked Leto’s sword aside, then easily evaded Julius’ lunge and swiftly returned a strike that the youth barely escaped, stumbling back several feet, his sword held up defensively. Leto backed up with him, his sword in his right hand and his left extended protectively toward Julius. Vinter turned as he watched them all, his stance shifting, keeping Stryker in view. “Nearly all the people I need to kill gathered in one place,” he rasped. “Perhaps there is divine providence after all.” • • • Riding behind Kraye turned out to be less pleasant to Caine than walking. He knew he should have removed his armor and given someone a chance to bandage him, but that would have been quite

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a bother. He was hoping the cloth padding beneath his armor, now soaked in his blood, might serve a similar purpose, staunching his injuries. So long as he never took his armor off, he figured, he’d be fine. Kraye reined in his horse, prompting it to rear and almost knocking Caine from its back. Ahead of the warcasters was a sizable segment of loyalist troops making their ascent on the defended hill, headed toward the artillery, firing as they went. Explosions erupted as those at the summit of the hill unleashed salvos against them. They advanced in units and squads, their formations scattered and rent, but they still represented a large group of enemies between Caine and where he needed to go. Ace had been running as fast as its metal legs could, and it caught up with him as they considered this dilemma. Caine slid down from Kraye’s horse. “Take your ’jacks up toward the summit and help Siege head off this advance,” he said. “What about you?” Kraye asked, resting the barrel of his rifle against his shoulder. “I need to cut through,” he replied, pointing across the hillside occupied by enemies and being torn apart by artillery. “I might be able to manage it, if I’m fast.” “A little help then,” the CRS warcaster said, extending a hand toward him. Runes settled in a ring around Ace and Caine. He felt foreign strength and surety flood into the muscles of his legs. Kraye then nodded. “Now go. Put a bullet in Vinter for me!” Caine nodded in return and was off, Ace running beside him. He reached out mentally and triggered the warjack’s infiltration field, keeping close by the machine inside the bubble of warped

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and twisted light around it that hid them both temporarily from view. Thanks to Kraye’s enchantment, he was able to ignore the pain in his side. For now. He ran straight across a steep, rocky section of the hillside that the loyalists were avoiding, steering around in their climb. His feet found their way with unnatural alacrity while Ace followed suit, relying on its advanced cortex to locate the most stable path. They crossed swiftly between two heavily armed groups of soldiers who would ordinarily have enjoyed filling Caine with bullets but who never even saw them. Caine’s speed was even more formidable when he could take advantage of his ability to flash across short distances in the blink of an eye. He actually felt slowed by Ace, but the infiltration field was worth it. Even his reflexes wouldn’t save him with a hundred or even a dozen rifles pointed in his direction. Especially with the world around him distinctly hazy and unreal due to his blood loss and fatigue. He heard a crackling noise and felt alarm from Ace—the infiltration system was failing. Fortunately, they were nearing what looked to be the heart of the storm. He could see the towering forms of Galleons ahead. Magnus had to be close by, which meant that was where Caine needed to go. When the field dropped, someone nearby shouted, a cry cut short as Ace’s rune cannon boomed to deliver a shell through a loyalist officer’s midsection. Caine did not linger, sending a mental command for Ace to go evasive and catch up with him when it could. He then gathered his will and flashed ahead, running a dozen paces before flashing again. In a few short heartbeats he had crossed most of

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the remaining distance, though he felt dizzy and his vision had started to double. He was headed downslope toward a cleared area. It looked as though Vinter and Leto were squaring off at last, while Magnus’ Galleons were being swarmed by loyalist knights and ’jack marshaled warjacks around the edges. Stryker also engaged Vinter, who seemed intent on trying to kill Julius, Leto, Adeline, and anyone else that happened to be at hand. Dargule yanked Adeline back just before a swipe with Kingslayer might have taken off her head. The blade caught on Leto’s sword with so much impact, it knocked the king spinning to the ground. A Nomad warjack stepped between where Dargule and Adeline had withdrawn. Vinter went for Leto, moving with liquid grace like a stalking cat. Julius rushed him and was stabbed by Kingslayer in his gut for the effort, falling back and to his knees. Adeline gave out a cry. Both she and Dargule rushed to the young man’s side and pulled him back and behind the Nomad. Vinter turned back to Leto, who was stumbling to his feet, and raised his sword. Caine drew his Spellstorms and was dismayed to note his hands were shaking. This wasn’t normal, and it seemed damned unfair. He risked taking a breath to steady himself, drawing on his power and will. Then he fired both pistols at once. One shot hit Vinter in the shoulder with arcane impact while the other clanged off Kingslayer with a bright flash of sparks. When the greatsword descended, it was deflected, and Leto managed to parry it aside. A momentary respite but long enough for Stryker to engage the former king once more. At that moment Caine spied another familiar figure lurking

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around the edge of the cleared space, near where Julius had been pulled back. Wrapped in a heavy cloak, walking with a distinct limp, and with glinting metal where his right arm should be, there was no question it was Magnus. Caine realized he could have tried to interfere before Vinter’s last attack but had chosen not to. He had hoped to wait until Vinter killed Leto. Of course, that should have been obvious, but he had somehow allowed himself to fall for the illusion that his and Magnus’ goals had aligned. Caine could have shot Vinter again, but he didn’t see much use in it. As skilled as he was, firing into the midst of a melee was a dicey proposition, and he had seen the man take multiple shots on the bridge while fighting Vladimir Tzepesci. Hell, he’d seen the man take a massive sword hit to his side that should have killed him. Instead, Caine strode behind Magnus and poked his pistols into the man’s back. He whispered in his ear. “You’d damned well better do whatever it was yeh had in mind! If Leto gets killed, yer next!” Leto had moved behind Stryker but looked to be limping himself, and the warcaster’s movements didn’t seem as quick or confident as normal. It looked to be going poorly, and Vinter showed no signs of fatigue or injury yet. Magnus gave Caine a glare and shook him off. He strode forward, pulling a pair of leather-wrapped flasks from a pouch at his waist. Vinter snarled at Leto. “It was a mistake to offer me the mercy of a trial last time, brother. Do not fear—I will end your misery more quickly than you would have in my place.” He delivered a heavy blow that Stryker barely parried, though it knocked him

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aside enough for Vinter to move on his brother. “It is never a mistake to behave with honor,” Leto said, parrying with difficulty. “Your dueling skills have not improved. I’d have thought the death of your beloved Danae might inspire you to work harder. You should know she died quickly, falling from a great height above the desert. It was that or let her starve, and her whining had become tiresome.” Leto went into a fury at this, snarling and switching to the offensive, trying to batter Vinter with his gleaming silver sword. Vinter laughed and parried both Leto’s and Stryker’s attacks easily, still not even breathing hard. Caine realized the madman was savoring this, drawing it out. Magnus had moved up behind Vinter and threw both vials at him from less than two yards away. It was an almost casual gesture, and he was directly behind the former tyrant, yet Vinter still sensed it and turned, moving with blinding speed to put the flat of his blade down before one of the vials, which broke against it, sending its liquid spraying across the sword and Vinter’s armor as well. The other vial shattered against his breastplate. Vinter tumbled back and away, rolling out of the way of Stryker’s next strike. He glared at Magnus, but then laughed. “What is this? Did you hope to burn me? Sting my eyes? Such tactics won’t help you.” Smoke rose from where the two liquids had mixed on his armor. There was also a hissing and sizzling from his face and along the blade, suggesting some sort of acid. It did not appear to be especially powerful, however, or else Vinter was too filled with adrenaline to feel pain.

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Magnus had drawn his sword Foecleaver and closed to join the fight. Foecleaver was a broad, heavy, hacking weapon, yet Magnus wielded it with almost delicate and precise motions. He did not attack with the same aggression or abandon as Leto nor even with Stryker’s measured style. In fact, so cautious and seemingly ineffective were his attacks that Caine thought for a moment he was pretending. Vinter knocked Leto’s sword downward followed by a powerful backhanded strike with his gauntleted fist to the king’s face, sending him flying to land on his back, bleeding from a cut lip. Caine noticed something peculiar then—Vinter’s armor looked pocked and corroded, and several of the steel plates had fallen out of alignment. Whatever acid Magnus had delivered was working. Kingslayer seemed unaffected, but the armor was suffering. One of Vinter’s tassets, his left greave, his vambraces, and the plates protecting his back all looked to be coming loose. Stryker’s sword and armor surged with voltaic energy, and he attacked with renewed determination. Against this onslaught, Vinter took several steps back for the first time. He seemed to be breathing hard finally, his eyes enraged. Then he countered smoothly, knocking Quicksilver aside and following with a rapid uppercut with the pommel of his blade straight into Stryker’s chin, sending him reeling. He delivered a crushing blow to Stryker’s side that would have killed a man without a power field. He raised Kingslayer over his head to deliver the finishing strike. Magnus’ sword Foecleaver took Vinter from behind in a powerful diagonal chop that staggered him and turned him to the side, his armor torn open. Vinter parried Magnus’ next strike but was off

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balance—Magnus performed a flesh-rending stab between the loosened armored plates, piercing the ex-king all the way through. Foecleaver was not a narrow blade, and stabbing its length through the man created a horrendous gaping wound through Vinter’s torso. For a moment all action around them seemed to halt. Magnus’ mechanikal arm rested on Vinter’s shoulder and held him still, long enough for Magnus to lean forward and whisper in his ear. Then he roughly threw Vinter Raelthorne IV to the ground, yanking his sword free to let spill a flood of blood and gore. Caine watched it happen in stunned disbelief, thinking some unholy force would arise in a swirl of black wind to inhabit that dark armor and bring Vinter back to life. Yet the ex-king lay there, still, his blood pooling around him, in a sprawled and undignified posture, his head turned such that Caine could see his one good eye, which was flat and lifeless. • • • Julius had been beaten and battered before but had never felt pain like the sensation in his side after Vinter stabbed him with Kingslayer. It sucked all the energy from him, and his legs no longer worked as they were supposed to. He fell back despite his desire to shrug it off and keep fighting, as he had heard others would sometimes do. His fingers would not obey, and he let slip his sword before he found others had taken his arms. He saw Dargule and Adeline with him, both worried. Dargule put a hand on his side where the sword had pierced through Julius’ Steelhead armor, and there was a glowing light and a feeling of heat and warmth, then the pain slightly eased.

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“Adeline, help me bandage this wound,” Dargule said. “The deeper injury should be diminished.” His voice sounded ragged as he spoke, as though whatever prayer he had invoked had taken a great toll upon him. Julius thought his face seemed more lined, that more of his hair had turned gray. They wrapped Julius’ side with cloth. Julius said, “Thank you, but let me stand. I need to see this.” Adeline helped him to his feet, and he pushed ahead to watch as Magnus struck Vinter down. Watching it was hard to accept it at first—until Vinter did not rise again, as he had when Ol’ Rowdy had struck him down. Adeline made a strange sobbing noise behind Julius, one he doubted she even realized she had uttered. Magnus was the one person who did not stop to contemplate his work. The nearest Galleon had cleared its immediate attackers, and the nearest loyalists seemed reluctant to engage the great machine. The other had been badly battered and looked on the verge of collapse, though it had left considerable carnage around it. Magnus strode toward Leto, who was just sitting up and trying to regain his breath. Stryker saw him and turned with a shout, then the intact Galleon stepped closer and smashed down onto the warcaster with its cargo claw. Stryker raised Quicksilver to mitigate the falling claw, but it managed to knock him down and pinned his legs against the ground. Lightning arced along the outside of the claw as Stryker hammered it with his sword, tearing open large rents with Quicksilver, though it was clear it would take some time to break free. “Magnus, no!” Julius yelled. The warcaster stood over Leto,

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Foecleaver raised. Leto stared up at him, his own sword several feet away, his expression resigned, unafraid. He closed his eyes. There was a flash of darkness and light and Caine stood between Leto and Magnus. His runed pistols were jammed under the outlaw warcaster’s chin. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s take a deep breath and think this through. Yer going to call off yer colossal and drop yer sword, all easy like.” Rather than obey, the Galleon turned, its massive harpoon launcher moving to point toward Leto, who stared at it, frozen. Magnus glared at Caine and said, “You can fire quickly, but are you faster than thought? The Galleon will kill Stryker and Leto even if you squeeze those triggers.” “To what end? You feeling suicidal today, Magnus?” Caine glared. “What use is all this if you’re dead?” “I’m willing to die to put Julius on the throne,” he said. “Death does not scare me. And I’m a dead man regardless, however this ends. Do as you must, Caine.” “Where there’s life there’s hope,” Caine said. Julius saw sweat break out on his forehead. “This isn’t over yet. It’s not up to us. Yeh did yer part. What happens next is between Leto and Julius. At the start of this, yeh told me to bring the boy before Leto. That’s what we’ve done. Make me kill yeh now, yer a damned coward. It’s the easy way out.” It felt like an awful long time as they stared at one another. Julius tried to think of something to say. He did not want to see Magnus killed, and he realized he did not want to see Leto killed either. He recalled the shining blade raised in his defense, though he had just delivered a speech declaring his goal of seizing the throne. Leto

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had a different sort of courage than his brother. Eventually Julius said, “Caine is right, Magnus. No one else here needs to die today. Enough.” Magnus looked at him, then after a moment the cargo claw on the Galleon lifted, freeing Stryker. The weapon in its other hand went slack, no longer pointed at King Leto. Magnus dropped his sword. Julius limped over and stood by Magnus, nodding to him once. Magnus still looked disgusted, unsure. Caine stepped back but kept his pistols on the other warcaster. Leto approached Julius. He said, “Nicely said, nephew. We’ll talk after this.” The words startled Julius, and he found himself at a loss for words. He had been trained all his life that Leto was a fool, that he had led his nation to ruin. But he seemed more impressive in person, his expression calm and almost serene. When he looked at the body of his brother, there was no mistaking the grief in his eyes, despite all that had happened. Magnus said hoarsely, “You’ll want to get Vinter out of that armor, just in case. It’s unnatural.” He looked weary and beaten, not victorious. Leto hesitated a moment then directed a couple of his Stormguard to remove Vinter’s armor, despite the indignity of such a request. Leto removed his cloak and bade them cover the body with it when they were through. Stryker’s face looked haggard and pained, and he was walking with some difficulty, but he stepped over to them. He slapped Caine on the shoulder, then looked to King Leto. He asked, “What now?” Leto looked over the group of them gathered around him and said, “Important decisions remain to be made. But most important, before anything else, we need to put an end to this war.” He looked

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to Julius and asked, “Will you agree to help restore peace?” The young Raelthorne blinked and said, “Of course. But I won’t abide anything happening to Magnus. He’s a patriot.” He felt he should say more, but he sensed it was not the time for that. As when Caine had taken them into custody in Caspia, he knew as yet no one was inclined to obey him. “That is one of the things we will discuss,” Leto said. Julius had not made any conscious decision to try to prevent Magnus from killing Leto. Back when he had met with Duke Ebonhart in Corvis, Julius had felt deceptive when he promised to do nothing against the current king. At some point in the voyage, things had changed. He knew his father had to die, but killing his uncle to seize the throne seemed wrong. He still felt the crown was his by right. But he could not kill another relative to seize it. Perhaps that made him weak, he did not know. Certainly his father and Magnus would have said as much. To Caine and Stryker, Leto said, “Disarm Magnus and take him into custody, but treat him as a guest for now, along with Julius and the others.” Caine stepped closer to the king and spoke softly, though Julius could still hear the words. “Yer Majesty, I need to duck out for something after they’re secured. But yeh should know, Julius is a good man, from what I’ve seen. Nothing like his father. Bear in mind his upbringing when yeh decide what to do with him.” Leto inclined his head once, then turned to the Morrowan priest. “Exarch Dargule, I was glad, if surprised, to find you here. Will you stay with us while we resolve our next steps? I would appreciate your impartial counsel.”

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“Of course, Your Majesty.” Dargule hesitated and said, “You should know, about Primarch Arius…” “I already know,” Leto said, swallowing. “I was informed by Lord General Gollan before the battle. I heard his passing was peaceful.” Dargule said, “I should tell you that you were in his thoughts in those final days. He said you would face a difficult trial in the days ahead, and he asked me to look after you. Perhaps he foresaw some of this.” “I have no doubt he did,” Leto said. “I would like to hear all the details later.” He turned to Stryker. “Let us see if we can find whoever thinks they are in charge of Vinter’s army. I would like to avoid more deaths, if we can manage it. This may require difficult concessions.”

518 CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Markus Hill, Command Tent

“Were you able to hear their conversation?” Rebald was alone in a smaller tent adjacent to the command tent. From there, he could field sensitive matters without distracting the generals. This also allowed him some degree of privacy, especially with the sounds of battle still creating a racket outside, though the most intense of these seemed to be coming now from farther away. Swift Sergeant Jamison said, “I was able to get close enough to hear some of it. Kreoss invoked his authority as intercessor, whatever that means. He claimed to be speaking with the voice of Hierarch Severius. Feora was clearly upset, and they argued. Heatedly. I thought they might come to blows.” “How many troops did Kreoss bring?” Rebald asked. The ranger shrugged. “A couple hundred cavalry? He might have had more I didn’t see. It didn’t look like much. Feora could have defeated them easily. Seemed to me for a moment she would try. Then, when I thought they might have at it, she submitted to his authority. After that, she sounded the retreat. So far as I could tell, her people packed up and left, headed southeast. Just like that.” “She must not have been willing to endure the consequences of The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

open defiance,” Rebald mused. “Frankly, I’m surprised. Luck was on our side. You have people following them, to ensure they cross the Black River?” “Of course, General.” “Good. We’ll send orders ahead for them not to be interfered with so long as they steer clear of significant towns and villages. I’d as soon they went home without more bloodshed. How bad were the fires inside Fharin?” “I’m not sure, General. Some were still burning when I left, but I think they were being contained. Casualties inside the city numbered in the hundreds, but it could have been worse. They largely evacuated the outer districts before the attack.” “Very well. Good work, Sergeant. Get back to the front. Join Commander Gant’s staff for now.” The veteran ranger inclined his head and left the tent. Another man slipped in after him, and Rebald immediately smelled the distinct odor of coal exhaust. He looked up to see Captain Allister Caine, looking more pale and gaunt than the last time Rebald had seen him. His greatcoat was tattered, and he was spattered with blood, some of it—though likely not all of it—his own. He had painted over the blue portions of his armor, leaving them neutral greys and tans. Seeing the haunted look in Caine’s eyes, Rebald had to resist the urge to go for his own pistol. It would have been a futile and suicidal impulse. He kept his expression neutral. “Captain, this isn’t a good time to talk, seeing as we’re in the midst of a civil war.” “Sorry, General,” Caine said, “it seems yer a bit behind the news for once. The war’s about to end. We won. Vinter’s dead.”

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Rebald blinked and frowned, narrowing his eyes. “Is this true?” “It is. No, I’m not the one that got him. Leto will be sending for you soon.” “And the bastard? Dare I hope you managed to complete your mission?” “Julius lives,” Caine said. “Yeh should get used to using his name.” Rebald gritted his teeth and said, “So you failed, despite everything. The one thing I thought the most certain has failed to come to pass. You disappoint me greatly. I lack the words.” Caine’s eyes flared. “Only reason yeh were certain was yer failsafe. You sent a second team, told them to kill Julius, his mother, and finish me off, too. Yeah I got them, and they talked. They’re all dead now, except one, who’s in custody. They weren’t up to the task.” “Had you done what you were supposed to, a second team wouldn’t have been necessary. Clearly my doubts about you were proven correct. They were indeed a failsafe, but clearly even that wasn’t enough to counter your incompetence.” Caine’s hands went to the grips of his pistols but did not draw. Rebald refused to be intimidated. “What’s the scope of the damage? How badly will I have to work to cover up for your mistakes?” “Leto knows about Julius and Adeline now. They’re with him as we speak, and they’re all under the protection of the Church of Morrow, including Magnus. Exarch Dargule is seeing to it personally.” “What did you tell the king? About our involvement in this?” “Nothing. Wasn’t time. Decided to come here first so we could talk. Wanted to hear if yeh had any excuse for trying to have me

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murdered. Seems I’m to be disappointed.” Rebald paused a moment then said, “Given you’ve kept your mouth shut, perhaps this situation isn’t entirely ruined. It’s going to take a great deal to get back in my good graces. You’re going to have to dig your way out of this hole. It’s a deep one, and I’m only giving you a spoon. But I’m willing to be forgiving. Eventually. I hope you’re grateful; I could have had you executed for treason.” “Screw you, Rebald,” Caine said bitterly. “Yeh may be willing to forgive, but I’m not. Be damned if I want to earn my way back into yer good graces. We’re through.” “What? Think about what you’re saying. Think carefully.” “Yeh ordered the execution of civilians. Yeh ordered me killed. That’s it. There’s no going back. I’m out of that game now, for good. Relax, I’m not going to shoot yeh, if that’s what yer fearing. I may be a killer, but I’m not a murderer.” He tossed something on the table in front of Rebald—it was a captain’s insignia. “I know technically yer not my superior. But yeh can take my resignation all the same. Explain it to Stryker how yeh like.” “This is a mistake, Caine. A serious mistake. This is your last warning. I’m the only friend you’ve got. Turn your back on me, and you’ve got nothing.” “I’d sooner have nothing than your friendship,” Caine said. “But I’m not interested in showing anyone yer dirty laundry. I won’t talk. But if I hear anything happened to Julius, or Adeline, or if you send anyone after me, all bets are off.” Rebald felt cool fury and said, “Do you think anyone will believe you when I’m done? There is a great deal that could be pinned on you, Caine. You can’t just walk away. Remember the incident in

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Llael when we began all this? A little matter of regicide? What do you think will happen to the man found responsible for that? I won’t need to send anyone. The matter will take care of itself.” The gun mage shook his head. “I know yer angry now. I’m not going to hold it against yeh. Think about the consequences first. We can settle this clean—or dirty. Up to you. Either way, I’m never obeying yer orders again. I’m free. If yeh try to put a bullet in me, be sure it kills me. Yeh won’t get another chance.” With a flash and the crackle of imploding air, Allister Caine was gone. • • • It had not taken as long as Leto feared to halt the assault and put a stop to the killing. Word of Vinter’s fall spread quickly, and the loyalists lost their courage. Despite this, tensions remained high. Their army outnumbered his, for now, and they knew he would gain reinforcements in time. Leto knew desperation could push them to more war and to seek his destruction, hoping to salvage what they could of the situation before fleeing retaliation. He sent an emissary to Archduke Laddermore, who had taken charge of the loyalists in Vinter’s absence, and requested a cease-fire and a meeting to discuss terms. The loyalists had withdrawn their army but were positioned not far north of the city. The mercenaries had also withdrawn but remained nearby. Drake MacBain had sent a politely phrased but demanding request asking after Asheth Magnus, whom he said must be freed so he could pay off his legally binding contractual obligations. This was the last thing on Leto’s mind. Thousands of bodies littered the soil around Fharin, and a dozen pillars of smoke still

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rose from its southern districts to darken the skies. Efforts were underway to gather and sort the dead, a grisly and sorrowful business that accompanied all war. In this case it felt doubly tragic as nearly every body on the field was Cygnaran. Leto did not seek to divide them into traitors and loyal citizens—just Cygnarans, one and all. The evening before he was to meet with the leaders of the loyalist army, King Leto gathered a select group in order to discuss certain pressing matters. This included Lord General Stryker, Lord General Gollan, Scout General Rebald, and Exarch Dargule. He had sorely wanted Archduke Runewood to be present, but the man was in no condition to be roused. “There are many matters for me to decide,” Leto said. “And I am open to hearing your opinions. Though I should warn you, I will not reveal my decisions until tomorrow. Such important matters cannot be decided hastily.” He frowned and then said, “Where is Captain Allister Caine? I thought he would be joining us?” Stryker said, “I couldn’t find him, Your Majesty.” He reddened and looked embarrassed by this admission. “I’m sure he’ll turn up and didn’t mean any disrespect.” Scout General Rebald said, “I have people looking for him. But we should proceed.” “Very well,” Leto said. He felt vaguely troubled. He recalled the captain mentioning needing to “duck out for something” but it was hard to imagine what that might have been and how it could be so important. Then again, the warcaster had earned a certain reputation. Leto remembered seeing Vinter’s sword descending, and how it had been knocked aside by the gun mage’s bullets. He

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could forgive the man this once. He said, “First, there is the matter of Asheth Magnus, Julius, and the captive inquisitors.” Rebald said immediately, “All should be executed as traitors, and without delay.” Leto looked at the scout general, a bit startled at his vehemence. “And without trial?” “Yes, in this case. Harsh, I know, Your Majesty, but the realm is in chaos, being torn apart by those who are frightened and ready to turn to any figurehead or symbol. Your brother has been eliminated, which is a good start, but we need to remove any other sources of insurrection. There is also the matter of security to consider. Let us not forget what happened when Vinter was imprisoned below Castle Raelthorne after the coup and where that led us.” “Rebald,” Leto said, scowling. “This is another matter altogether. Very different circumstances.” “Begging your pardon, but I don’t think so. It was inquisitors who helped free him, and we must consider there could exist a similar network of subversives who might be willing to undermine our justice and free any of these people, if given the opportunity. These traitors are in our power now, and justice must be swift. By the old laws. This is a king’s prerogative. There is nothing obligating you to give them a trial.” “That’s not true,” Exarch Dargule said. “While I refused them sanctuary, these people have been extended the protection of the Church of Morrow. I guaranteed them fair treatment. I held Captain Caine to that standard, and the same applies to the rest of you.” The others all shifted uncomfortably at this. Rebald shot the

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exarch a glare. “This is not a Church matter, Exarch. This is treason, far outside your jurisdiction.” “I disagree,” he said, staring back. “My protection was given, and it will be maintained, unless you wish to arrest me and my men. If you are concerned about jurisdiction, I have personally witnessed Senior Inquisitor Wilkes Quinn practicing mesmerism, which is classified as black magic. The Church has authority over such investigations. I will need to question Senior Inquisitor Midwinter and Asheth Magnus on the matter, to ascertain if they have been guilty of using similar magic. Additionally, Quinn stands accused of the murder of one of my priests, a subordinate and good friend of mine. The Church will pursue justice.” “This is ridiculous,” Rebald said. “They are all guilty of capital crimes!” “Gentlemen!” Leto raised his voice, silencing them both. “Enough. I’m not going to execute anyone without a trial, least of all my sixteen year-old nephew who is primarily guilty of being kidnapped as a child and raised by inquisitors in isolation. His circumstances in particular are exceptional.” He turned to the lord generals, who had yet to speak. “Generals? Your thoughts?” Gollan shifted in his seat. “It will surprise no one I side with the exarch on this. They deserve a trial. That maintaining them as prisoners might be difficult does not change this. It is our responsibility to demonstrate humane treatment and fairness, even to those who would do us harm. Especially to them.” Stryker said, “About Magnus . . . I find it hard to say this, given our history, but the fact that he was the one to take down Vinter, I think that can’t be ignored. I never thought I’d see the day.”

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“Then he immediately tried to murder both you and the king!” Rebald countered. Stryker continued to look uncomfortable but said nothing more. Rebald added, “Magnus, from what I can gather, was only interested in putting his pretender, Julius, on the throne. A self-serving act from which he stood to benefit.” “Yet he did come here with armed forces, and he loaned us his aid when it was needed most,” Leto said. “It is a complex matter. I had hoped to question Caine regarding that unusual alliance. Perhaps we will find out more later. I would also like to question Duke Ebonhart. But given they are not here, let us move on. There is the matter of the loyalists and their leaders.” He looked briefly to Rebald and said, “I suspect you would prefer execution there as well. Bear in mind, they are still armed and dangerous and in a position to do us great harm.” “We can’t pardon them,” Stryker said. “They will never rest with you on the throne, Your Majesty. They became traitors and knew the consequences. Laddermore has clearly been planning this for years. The responsibility of every death in this war rests with them. Forgive them, and the moment they see an opportunity, they will try to unseat you again.” “So are we doomed to an extended civil war, even with Vinter gone?” Leto asked. After a moment Lord General Gollan said, “Despite their numerical advantage, I believe we can defeat the loyalists in a direct confrontation. We have captured their only warcaster, Colonel Hawkins. They expended most of their battle-ready warjacks in the initial assault. The Hurricane colossal survived and can be repaired. We can field battlegroups led by Brisbane, Stryker, Kraye, and

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Caine, once we locate him. Reinforcements will be arriving by the day.” Rebald said, “We might persuade Drake MacBain to work for us as well, for the right price. I think technically he’s still on hire to Duke Ebonhart, even if Magnus was providing the coin.” Leto considered this. “The loyalists, if convinced they will lose, will withdraw to Stonebridge. We will have to chase and fight them, with considerable losses and collateral damage. All while the First Army continues to battle Khador in the Thornwood. And while unrest and uprisings continue across the north. What you suggest represents a year of conflict, if not longer.” “A bleak prospect,” Rebald said, “yet I know we can endure it. With Vinter gone, this rebellion is cut off at the knees.” Leto stood. “Thank you all. I appreciate your advice. I will consider it carefully.” He turned to Stryker. “Please, send in Julius and Adeline. I want a word with them. Exarch, you may remain.” Rebald seemed troubled. He said, “Your Majesty, would you like me to be here for this?” “No, thank you, Scout General. You’ve had a hard day. Get some rest.” With that, Bolden Rebald, with obvious reluctance, left the tent. Leto chuckled, knowing how much it vexed the man to be left out of anything. Just the same, he suspected Rebald had been keeping his own secrets. • • • Julius paced the tent where he had been placed with the other “guests” of King Leto. A half-dozen of Exarch Dargule’s Church soldiers were standing guard, one at each corner and two at the entrance flap. Outside were an even greater number of Leto’s elite

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Stormguard. Magnus had once again been forced to deactivate his warcaster armor and was presently sleeping on the hard ground, occasionally snoring. The sight made Julius think of Cobb and his final moments. Adeline was seated on the opposite side of the tent, her eyes also closed, though it looked as though she were only resting or meditating in prayer, not truly sleeping. The exarch had told her she did not need to stay here, but she had insisted on remaining with Julius. At the back were the former inquisitors, each of them bound, Bristol with rope, and the two magi latched together with the Greylord manacles. The entire situation reminded Julius of being a free prisoner in the cargo car with Caine, and he half-expected murderous assassins to come barging in. For that very reason, he found himself missing Caine. His would-be murderer had turned protector. Such a strange turn of events. He had not had a chance to speak with Magnus again, and he wondered what thoughts were going through his mind. He had killed the man in whose service he had spent the largest portion of his life, and it appeared his dreams of elevating Julius to the throne were undone; all of them were likely to be tried as traitors. Julius’ conversation with Leto after the battle had not done much to reassure him regarding how thing would turn out, as the king had not been very forthcoming. Julius hoped he might be given some sort of special dispensation, but what of the others? And what would become of him, even if he lived? He knew Rebald had wanted to kill him before, and there would be others who would want to either kill or use him to get what they wanted. The safest thing for Leto would be to put him to death. But on that matter, Julius felt such a course would be highly

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unlikely, given what he knew of his uncle. With all these thoughts swirling in his mind, rest or sleep was impossible. “Hey, Julius, come over here.” It was a half-whispered request, meant to reach Julius and no one else. He turned and looked at Old Man Quinn, who was waving him over. Julius sighed and did as bid, stepping closer to the man who had helped raise him and protect him over so many years. And who, he recalled, had also kidnapped him. Likely Quinn hoped Julius could do something to mitigate his likely fate. He asked, “What is it?” Quinn spoke in very low tones. “We don’t have much time. This might be the only chance I have. Desperate measures.” “What are you talking about?” “I’m sorry. This is the only way I can be sure we can get free of here.” Before Julius could ask anything else, Quinn’s eyes glowed with inner power and Julius was unable to look away, entranced and fixed upon those eyes, which drew him in like an endless well. He was oblivious to it, but there was a sizzling sound as the manacle on the inquisitor’s wrist turned cherry-red and glowed with heat, as though it had been set within a forge. His skin began to sizzle and smoke, but Quinn somehow ignored it, as if the pain of his body was unimportant and irrelevant. “Now,” he said, “here is what you must do. Heed me closely.” One of the Church soldiers in the corner looked over sharply and squinted his eyes at the wisps of smoke, but he seemed uncertain what was happening. “Hey, don’t stand so close to him,” he said to Julius. “Back off.” But it was Midwinter who acted, coming to his feet with a

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sudden shout. “No! Leave him be!” The soldier on the other side looked startled and stepped closer, hand on his pistol grip, but Midwinter gave a sharp cry and raised his free hand, making a claw-like gesture toward Quinn. His own manacle brightened and glowed with heat and the sizzle of burning flesh intensified, but runes appeared around Midwinter’s hand and a bolt of powerful lightning accumulated and arced between his fingers then smashed into Quinn. He flew back into the guard behind him, his body contorting, as Midwinter fell and convulsed, residual voltaic energies flowing across the chain that connected them. Adeline gave a startled cry as the soldiers drew their pistols and converged on the fallen forms, alarmed and confused. Julius stumbled back, shaking his head, and found Adeline’s hands to catch and steady him. “Are you all right?” She asked frantically, checking him. Sergeant Bristol also lurched closer, though her movements were impaired by the ropes tied between her hands and ankles. Julius felt his mind had been fogged over, but the mist was receding. He shook his head again and said, “I think so, I’m fine. Midwinter got him before . . . he could do whatever he was going to do.” He realized he was unsure what Quinn had intended. He had a mental image of some way by which Quinn intended to leverage his freedom, but the details were hazy. He stepped forward to see what had become of the magi. The exarch’s soldiers were checking them, but it was quite obvious that Quinn was dead. His body was stretched in an unnatural posture, and scorch marks could be seen down his length. There was smoke

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rising from Midwinter as well, but he groaned and stirred, then sat up. “Don’t move!” One of the guards ordered, clearly frightened. Magnus opened his eyes and sat up, looking at the inquisitors suspiciously. He said softly, “Now that’s something I did not expect.” Midwinter saw Julius staring at him and visibly relaxed. “My Liege, you are safe. That is all that matters.” He then collapsed again. Julius shared a puzzled look with Magnus, Bristol, and Adeline. “I think Quinn intended to control me, to help him escape. Midwinter put a stop to it.” He looked back at Midwinter with wonder. He had initially found it difficult to believe the man could be loyal to him, so quickly, but clearly he had underestimated his conversion. “Can you get him medical attention? And remove those manacles? He’s no threat.” He ignored how ridiculous that last sounded, given they had seen lightning fly from his fingertips. Just the same, the soldiers responded to his requests, one of them leaving to fetch someone to see to Midwinter’s burns. • • • Representatives of the two sides met out in the open in Briargate Valley, not far north of Fharin and just beyond the battlefields bloodied the days before. The loyalist army was encamped there with armed soldiers on display, warily watching their counterparts among King Leto’s escort, which also included the warcasters Captain Kraye, Major Brisbane, and Lord General Stryker, each with a number of warjacks in tow. Leto had decided such a display

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would serve better than force of numbers to ensure their adversaries behaved. They had brought their carefully watched “guests” as well, lacking only Senior Inquisitor Quinn, for whom it seemed no formal trial would be possible. No one present mourned his loss, except possibly Julius, whom Leto knew had had a complicated relationship with the man. The leaders who stepped forward to speak for the loyalists included Archduke Laddermore of the Southern Midlunds, Duke Dergeral of Thuria, and General Gralen Deckley of the Fourth Army. Leto endeavored to keep his expression neutral as he faced them, despite their animosity and disdain. Of them, Laddermore was doing his best to appear regal and above it all. The overweight Dergeral seemed uncomfortable and out of place, while Deckley’s haughty demeanor barely disguised his naked fear and his stink of desperation. Archduke Laddermore said, “You would like to discuss terms? Are you prepared to surrender the crown?” King Leto sighed. “Quite the contrary. We will be asking a great deal of you in the hopes of putting aside this strife and restoring to the kingdom some semblance of peace. This requires the surrender of your army, but we believe you will find the terms we are offering more than generous. Indeed, we will be making offers far beyond the scope of what was recommended by the men responsible for leading our forces to victory.” “This was a temporary setback, not a defeat. But we are prepared to listen,” Laddermore said, “though you will understand I am skeptical of any supposed generosity.” Leto took a deep breath and proceeded, abandoning the royal

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pronoun. “First, I am at this time willing to admit that this war was not without cause. Those of you who sought to depose me had your reasons, and I do not consider them trivial. The argument can be made that I seized the throne illegally at the outset of my reign, through an act of usurpation against my brother Vinter Raelthorne the Fourth.” They blinked, and Leto’s own people were clearly startled and shocked by this admission. He said, “However, I still hold that my brother also acted illegally in his own crowning, having disobeyed the laws of our nation by interfering with Woldred’s Covenant. I firmly believe my father intended someone else to take the throne, not his eldest son. Unfortunately, no written proof of this fact has survived. Nor is it likely to ever emerge, nor will proof that my brother was involved in the murder of our father, though I also believe this to be the case. “Had my brother proven to be a good king, perhaps these grave crimes could have been overlooked. Unfortunately, he became a tyrant, a plague upon our nation, a man whose tempers and suspicions had him violate the sacred compact between sovereign and the governed. He committed countless crimes, abusing his authority to murder good and true citizens and nobles based on evidence either invented whole cloth or affirmed through coerced confessions. I was obliged to act against him. The judgments passed by our courts in the aftermath of this overthrow stand. Vinter’s actions left him bereft of any rights to govern. However, I am willing to affirm this did not negate the illegitimacy of my own rule.” Leto paused, taking a breath, while the others watched him

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closely. It was clear that none of them had expected his speech to take this course, excepting perhaps Bolden Rebald, whose face looked resigned. Leto continued. “What does this mean in our present circumstances? Lacking a proper Woldred’s Covenant, we rely on primogeniture, and this was my brother’s claim to legitimacy. It is also why, now that we know of his existence, Vinter’s only known and proven offspring, Julius Raelthorne, is declared the rightful and lawful heir.” He extended a hand toward the youth, who stepped forward and inclined his head. Julius was now wearing different attire than his tired and battered Steelhead armor. They had found clothing more befitting a man of high birth, though he seemed ill-accustomed to such finery. Despite this, there was a certain handsome gravity to his appearance. There was also no denying his strong resemblance to his father. Leto went on. “I have spoken with Exarch Dargule, who was present for his birth, and with his mother, Adeline Dunning, who is also here with us. It is true—she was not married to Vinter when she gave birth to Julius. But I believe this matter can be expeditiously resolved within our courts. The requirement of marriage is not, by law, absolute. So long as a high priest of either the Church of Morrow or the Temple of Menoth affirms the offspring as the true and worthy offspring of the blood, birth out of wedlock can be legitimized. Are you willing to speak for the Church of Morrow on this matter, Exarch?” “I am,” Dargule said. “I affirm Julius as the proper and legitimate heir of Vinter Raelthorne, by my authority as a representative of the Exordeum of the Church of Morrow.”

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“So, that is where we stand,” Leto said. “Julius is the proper heir. Now, before I go further, I would like to offer a few thoughts on what this all means. Given my own reign has been unlawful, as established, I cannot accuse any who acted against me of treason.” This immediately provoked startled muttering among many of those gathered. Leto held up a hand to quiet them. “I will be formally offering pardons to all who took up arms against my unlawful government. This includes Asheth Magnus, Julius Raelthorne, and all of those gathered here, as well as those who recently assembled at the request of my brother. I will also offer a pardon to former inquisitors who have renounced their vows and who express sincere remorse, as judged by priests of proper authority within the Church of Morrow. At present, this includes former Senior Inquisitor Orin Midwinter and Sergeant Layne Bristol. Now, it is possible there are crimes that may yet need to be answered for. By trial. That is a matter we will reserve for another time. But I promise that clemency will be recommended wherever possible, given the extraordinary circumstances.” Even Laddermore seemed struck speechless at this turn. Leto savored having so perplexed the man who had been his ardent enemy during his reign. This feeling came with some small regret as well. He was not a vindictive or violent person, but he had to admit the thought of having Laddermore executed for treason appealed to his sense of justice. He looked to where Asheth Magnus stood and saw on his face a strange expression, as though Magnus were struggling with conflicting emotions. Leto had long considered Magnus a villain, but the man had stuck resolutely by his principles for many years. Leto did not believe he truly knew the man, a

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conclusion reinforced by his brief private conversation with his nephew, Julius. After a long moment to let the others consider his words, Leto said, “The appearance of Julius has necessitated me to voluntarily abdicate the throne. I will step down as king of Cygnar, and rulership will pass to Julius. He is younger than is traditional, though I do not believe this will be a problem for our courts or the Royal Assembly. There is ambiguity in the ancient laws concerning the age of majority. Regardless, I intend to serve as lord high chancellor to advise him, so long as he will have me. Do you accept this responsibility, Julius?” Julius stepped forward, his own eyes looking bright and heavy with emotion. He said, “I do. I hope to prove worthy.” Leto turned back to the others. “I know I could not have solved this rift in our kingdom. I have let many of our nobles down, failing to protect them, their lands, their interests. I apologize for my failings and hope you will invest your faith in our new king, and that you will work with him to preserve this great kingdom. We still have many difficult trials ahead of us, and it requires us to be united. There has been enough bloodshed between distant cousins. Let us welcome a new era. Let us welcome a new king. Long live King Julius!” And with this, he took the crown from his brow, and set it upon Julius. He knelt before his nephew, bowing deeply. One by one, those gathered took to a knee and bowed as well, seeing in this new king the unexpected proof of their own salvation and escape from a punishment they had moments before been willing to fight to the death to avoid. There was no need to ask

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them if they accepted his terms or if they would surrender. The answer was clear in their eyes. The war was over. • • • Unseen by the others, another witness to these events, a certain gun mage, observed from the cover of a small adjoining grove. Caine stood leaning against one of the nearest trees and felt strangely emotional as he saw King Leto bow before his nephew. Caine would have had difficulty putting words to what he felt. He recalled with crystal clarity the first time he had raised his Spellstorm at Julius, preparing to end his life. He remembered the long years of searching for him, the quest to eliminate a threat to the crown. He recalled the enjoyment he had taken in hunting and killing the inquisitors they had found. He looked at Bolden Rebald, whose worst fears had been realized. His prediction had come to pass—Leto giving up the crown for Vinter’s bastard. Yet none of it had happened as either one of them had expected. More than anything else, Caine felt alone. Was this how Magnus had felt after the Lion’s Coup, when Leto had taken the throne and he refused the pardon? Caine was unsure what was to come next or what his fate would be, but he suspected dark days ahead. Rebald would not forget or forgive. Yet, for the moment, despite feeling unmoored and cast adrift, Caine felt a powerful hope for Cygnar. Seeing Julius wearing the crown felt right. He was glad he had not pulled that trigger. Alone and without a single observer, Allister Caine bent down amid the dark trees, kneeling to his new king.

538 EPILOGUE

The Drunken Griffon Inn, Fharin

Julius sat at a private table in the back of the Drunken Griffon, a tavern in Fharin, in an area kept apart from the rest of the common room—it was up a small flight of steps and surrounded by a heavy railing. Several large and intimidating-looking figures in civilian clothing were stationed both at the nearby tables and at the entrance to the area to prevent any ordinary customers from approaching. None wore uniforms, but all were veteran soldiers, well armed. Julius wore his Steelhead armor and sergeant’s insignia, no other finery, and no crown on his brow. The formal ceremony would be held in Caspia, so Leto’s crown had been stowed until later. Julius was attempting to remain inconspicuous while handling a few important matters before they returned by train. His wound had been bandaged and was healing well, causing him little discomfort. The two other individuals sitting at his table were Sergeant Bristol, also in Steelhead attire, and Orin Midwinter, wearing civilian clothing, including a high-collared greatcoat that resembled in cut his former inquisitor uniform, though it was dark green instead of red and lacked the feared lightning-and-eye symbol. The Blood of Kings • Douglas Seacat

Julius inclined his head to the captain of his security escort, who nodded back. Exarch Dargule and Adeline Dunning joined him at his table, a couple of Church soldiers standing quietly behind them. Dargule looked strange without his vestments; in civilian clothing, he seemed more Llaelese than ever. Julius said, “I won’t keep you long, Exarch. I know we’ll be sharing a train back to Caspia. But I did not want to wait before giving you my sincere thanks. I know you risked your life to come here, as well as during the battle. I owe you much.” Dargule smiled. “I only answered a different debt, one owed to my primarch, Morrow keep him. And also a debt to Adeline.” He inclined his head toward her. From her expression, it seemed matters there had improved and would eventually mend. To Julius he said, “I am relieved you have agreed to give your father a proper burial in the royal crypts. I will oversee the funeral rites.” “It seems only proper his body be interred alongside other kings of Cygnar,” Julius said. “Despite his crimes, he did protect the kingdom from its enemies abroad. If only he had not been so eager to find them within.” Midwinter shifted at this, but Julius pretended not to notice. Dargule said, “You should be aware, I do not believe this time we see the rise of a Cygnaran primarch. I’m speculating at this point, as it is in Morrow’s hands. Regardless, you will always have at least one friend in the Exordeum.” It was not hard to miss the wary look the exarch gave Orin Midwinter and Bristol. Julius suspected he might be receiving Church dossiers on his former inquisitor tutors after his arrival in Caspia. Adeline approached and Julius stood to step closer to her, still

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feeling uncertain and awkward in her company. The start of what might grow into familial affection had begun within him. He said, “I do not suppose I can convince you to relocate to Castle Raelthorne? I would like to have the opportunity to speak to you in the months ahead. To hear of your life and to receive your advice.” “I would like that very much,” Adeline said with a brilliant smile. “But I will remain in the Sancteum for now and continue my work with the Church. I have found I enjoy it. Still, I intend to visit as often as I am allowed. I will be there for the coronation ceremony, naturally.” She hesitated a moment. “Might I have a hug?” “Of course,” Julius said, and embraced her for the first time since the graveyard in Caspia, finding it not unpleasant. Perhaps one could learn what to do with mothers after all. He sat back down as the pair and their escort departed. Next to be allowed to step up to his table was Scout General Rebald, also wearing his civilian attire and with no evidence of his office. He looked around warily and seated himself like a man invited to lunch with vipers. He did not bother exchanging pleasantries. “I expect you will want me to tender my resignation. Are you interested in my advice on finding a qualified successor?” Julius shook his head. “Tell me, would you have difficulty obeying me as your sovereign? Do you harbor any resentment or inclination to plot or scheme against the throne?” Rebald seemed startled at the questions. He leaned back in his chair. “No. I do not have any seditious plans. I believe I could serve you well.” He stared into Julius’ eyes, and he seemed sincere, though Julius knew lying was second nature to such a man. He had to admit there was a part of him that missed Old Man

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Quinn, who could so easily see through such guises. Julius said, “I know you were involved in a longstanding conspiracy to kill me behind King Leto’s back. I am also aware that you sent a team of assassins to kill my mother and to do away with your former co-conspirator, Allister Caine, who disobeyed you by taking me into custody alive.” He paused a moment to let that settle, but Rebald did not interrupt or deny the words. Julius continued. “I have refrained from speaking of these matters to my uncle. I know your reasons. You believed you were acting for the good of the kingdom and to preserve the man to whom you were sworn. It was a mistake, in my opinion, but no greater than others we have pardoned. I forgive you, so long as you do not engage in similar behavior during my reign. I am young, but I do not need to be sheltered from difficult truths. You have established a network of informants and agents who serve the throne, and it is important to preserve them. It would be difficult to duplicate your efforts, and I do not think we could re-create your experience and skill. There will be dangers to my person in the coming months and years, ones you can help me avoid. I do not trust you. But I hope in time that will change.” Rebald seemed taken aback by these words. He said, “I thank you, Your Majesty. I promise to do my best to earn a second chance. Though I must say, in the spirit of not sparing you uncomfortable truths, I believe you have made a mistake by preserving the people beside you. They claim to be former inquisitors, but such oaths are not abandoned easily. I would ask you not to trust them too readily either.” He looked at Midwinter and Bristol, both of whom were silent but stared back unflinchingly.

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“Your concern is noted. Thank you, Scout General.” Julius inclined his head. “You may go.” Cygnar’s spymaster bowed and left. Julius took a moment to blow out a breath and gather his wits. He had not been looking forward to that particular bit of business. Midwinter said, “You handled that well, Your Majesty. I think he will be of service.” “As do I. But I am also fairly certain he knows many things he is not telling me. Nothing to be done about that except to hope he is forthcoming with the most important facts.” He had also hoped to speak with Caine, as he felt the gun mage could have told him many things he wanted to know, but the man seemed to have vanished. It was troubling, and Julius wondered if Rebald was somehow behind it. This time at his nod, his escort captain went to get the last man he very much needed to address. Shortly thereafter they heard the heavy mismatched tread distinct to one man—Asheth Magnus, who was back in his warcaster armor and no longer taking any measures to disguise himself. He sat down at the table, his expression inscrutable. “Your Majesty,” he said in his raspy voice. “No need for formalities, Magnus.” Julius tried to smile, though he found it hard. “You have been my mentor. A week ago you would be taking me to task while teaching me the use of a sword.” “A week ago you were not king,” Magnus said simply. “I am still not crowned,” Julius said. “Let us say we occupy some middle ground, where we may speak frankly to one another, as friends who have fought side by side.” “Very well,” Magnus allowed, though he did not seem inclined to speak first.

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Julius found himself struggling more than he had expected, the regal mask he had adopted for himself when addressing the others beginning to slip. He asked, “I had been meaning to find out from you how you managed to do the impossible. What was it that let you find a weakness in Vinter, when it seemed he had none?” Magnus shifted and frowned. “I had reason to suspect the nature of Vinter’s armor, after seeing him fight on numerous occasions. I became convinced he would be all but impossible to kill, so long as he wore it.” “So after all this, it was his armor that made him so formidable?” Julius could not help but feel disappointed. Magnus shook his head. “No. He was a tremendous warrior. The most deadly man in combat I have ever seen. It was not his armor that gave him his skill or his ability to tell at a glance what his foe would do next. But the armor gave him an edge—allowed him to do what would otherwise be impossible. To shrug off wounds that would fell any man, warcaster or no. To fight tirelessly. Defeating him would never have been simple. But so long as he wore that his armor, it’d have been all but impossible.” “So, you arranged for an acid. This was what you were about in Caspia.” Magnus gave a small smile. “Not just any acid would do. I required one made to order. This necessitated research into the Mail of the Grim King, no easy task. I eventually discovered the exact era where it had been forged, found remnants of other pieces forged by the same hand, of the same steel. I had a metallurgist derive an alchemical mixture engineered to react with it, to unmake the most precious treasure of the Calacian kings.” There was pride

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in his voice but also something akin to regret. It had pained him to use this strategy, to destroy something he had admired, perhaps desired for his own use. They were silent for a while as Julius mulled that over, wondering how things might have gone had Magnus not done this work, preparing to kill his former liege. Eventually, Julius said, “I realize this did not all happen as you had hoped. I am sorry for that.” Magnus sighed. “Yesterday, I thought I might not live to have this conversation. Hopes and expectations change.” “Might I ask you for your counsel on the start of my rule?” “I would give it, even if you did not ask,” Magnus said. “You risk following too closely in Leto’s footsteps. You should not keep him on as your advisor. Hell, you should have killed him.” He said this reasonably quietly, but the nearest of Julius’ guards heard and turned to look at him with menacing expressions. Julius gave them a sharp look and they turned away. Magnus ignored them and leaned forward., “So long as Leto lives, you are in danger, in many ways. He’s now the legitimate heir.” “Until I take a wife and have a child of my own, or select a different successor by Woldred’s Covenant, that is true. Still, I do not think any threat to my person will come from Leto.” Magnus chuckled humorlessly and leaned back again. “Maybe so. He is soft. But some of his people aren’t. Like the man who just left. I had hoped he’d not be leaving here with his head still attached to his shoulders.” “If there’s one thing I have learned, both from you and my former tutors, it is that even those who appear to be enemies can still be useful. Don’t worry; I won’t be taking any chances. But

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when I mentioned your hopes, I was speaking about your status. I know you had aspirations regarding your future when I took the throne. You desired more than a simple pardon.” Magnus squared his shoulders and said bitterly, “I’ve earned more. I am still reviled and hated, not welcome in the halls of power. Everyone in the military believes me a traitor. No pardon will change that. Even those who had sworn to Vinter hate me now, perhaps more than Leto’s lackeys. I am a betrayer. A pariah.” “No one knows more than I what you have done to help this kingdom, the sacrifices you endured. But it is true your reputation has suffered. I can’t undo that with a word.” Magnus said, “If I had lands and title, it would be easier to endure such scorn. I would force them to see me as someone to reckon with. I would stand at your side and see to your interests in the Royal Assembly. You could make that happen with a word.” “Perhaps,” Julius said, feeling distinctly uncomfortable, though he kept his feelings from his face. “You are owed this and more. A full restoration. And I do want you at my side. But I fear the time is not right for this yet. I need to create legitimacy for myself. I may need to make an example of some of the nobles who swore to Vinter, despite promises of clemency. Regardless, it will take time to secure my position. In the meanwhile, though it does you a disservice, I must face the unavoidable fact that you are more useful to me as an outsider. Your friendships and contacts among the mercenary and criminal communities are extensive and of an entirely different nature than the network Rebald uses. For this to be true, it is important, at least for now, that you not be seen as too close a friend of the Cygnaran throne. I hope that changes

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eventually. I ask for your patience, even as I know another king whom I closely resemble abused a similar trust.” Magnus was silent for a long time, staring at the table, his living fist closed, his jaw tense. Then he flattened his hand and looked up. “Very well. But I will hold you to that.” He gave the barest smile and added, “Your training isn’t finished yet.” Julius felt relief at Magnus’ acceptance of the situation. “Agreed. Be well, Magnus, and be safe.” “You too, Julius. Beware shadows and the spiders lurking in every corner. When you feel the most safe and comfortable, that is when you are at the greatest peril. Castle Raelthorne has many secret doors and passages. Learn them.” He inclined his head toward Midwinter. “That one can show you.” Julius inclined his head in return while Magnus turned and walked away. Julius stood and went to the railing to watch as the warcaster limped across the sawdust of the tavern and pushed his way through the doors. Many malevolent eyes stared after him as he went. He was a man without nation, home, or friends. Except one, Julius thought. He vowed not to forget the debt owed that man, above all others.

547 ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Douglas Seacat is the Senior Writer at Privateer Press, where he has spent over fifteen years fleshing out details of the Iron Kingdoms setting and managing its continuity. It is fair to say Doug spends most of his work and free time living vicariously in the Iron Kingdoms through fiction and games. Any spare time is occupied reading all manner of science fiction, fantasy, and historical fiction, playing computer games, and participating in weekly pen-and- paper RPG sessions. Periodically he is called upon to shed light on topics as varied as the existence of rum in the Iron Kingdoms, whether gobbers and trollkin are mammals, and how one paranoid man with an eye patch conquered half a continent using nothing but a sword.

The Blood of Kings Copyright © 2016 Privateer Press

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First electronic printing: May 2016

ISBN: 978-1-943693-16-0

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