Instruments of War (Iron Kingdoms Chronicles) Read online

  THE WARLOCK SAGAS: VOLUME ONE

  INSTRUMENTS OF WAR

  LARRY CORREIA

  Cover by

  RUK TRAMUTA

  Illustrated by

  RUK TRAMUTA

  MILIVOJ CERAN

  privateerpress.com

  skullislandx.com

  I want to thank Dan Wells, Howard Tayler, and Alan Bahr for introducing me to Warmachine, teaching me how to play, and then beating me and taking my lunch money. Thanks to the crew of Privateer Press for letting me play in their world.

  CONTENTS

  MAP of the SKORNE EMPIRE

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  SKORNE INDEX

  PART ONE

  “What is it that you whisper to yourself, child, when the pain becomes too much?”

  Makeda wiped the blood from her split lip. Her head was spinning, and her body ached from the savage beating. “I recite the code.”

  “Why must a warrior recite the hoksune code?” Archdominar Vaactash asked rhetorically.

  “The code shows me the way to exaltation. Only through combat may one understand the way.” She studied the blood on the back of her shaking hand as she spoke. All of it was hers … so far. She would have to remedy that. Akkad had beaten her mercilessly, but Makeda could still fight. The tremors slowed and then stopped. “Suffering cleanses the weakness from my being. Adhere to the code and I will become worthy.”

  “Correct. You have learned much for one so young,” her grandfather stated without inflection. It was as close to a compliment as the archdominar had ever paid her. “Take up your swords, Makeda of House Balaash. Your lessons are not yet through today.”

  The practice swords lay in the sand near where she had been thrown. They were made of hard wood, the edges dented and cracked from hundreds of impacts, the hilts worn smooth by sweat and callus. She had begun learning their use as soon as she was strong enough to lift them. She may have been a child, but she was skorne, and thus she did not question, she endured. Makeda reached out and seized the pair of wood swords. They felt comfortable in her grip, mimicking the heft and balance of true Praetorian blades.

  “Rise,” Vaactash commanded.

  Makeda struggled to her feet, muscles aching in protest. Her laminate armor had been crafted for an adult, and was too big for her slim body, but it had kept her intact during Akkad’s last merciless assault. She had yet to begin her studies in the art of mortitheurgy, but she did not need to be a master reader of the energy that dwelled within the blood and sinews to understand that her body was in danger of failing her. Her opponent was simply too strong.

  Akkad was waiting for her to stand, obviously excited to prove his worth to their grandfather. There were only three people present within the gigantic training arena of House Balaash, but one of them was Archdominar Vaactash himself, master of their house and a warrior so great he had already secured exaltation for his deeds. It did not matter that the stands were empty, since the opinion of Vaactash alone mattered more than the cheers of several cohorts of troops.

  “What lesson would you have me teach her next, Archdominar?” Akkad asked. As the elder of the two children of Telkesh, first son and heir of mighty Vaactash, Akkad would someday lead House Balaash. Hoksune dictated that the eldest, unless unfit for war, must lead. It was vital that Akkad display his martial superiority before his grandfather, and so far he had. “She is still but a tiny thing.”

  Vaactash’s expression was unreadable. “Then why have you had to work so hard to defeat her?”

  Makeda took some pleasure in seeing the anger flash across Akkad’s face as he sputtered out a response. “I merely wished to provide you with an amusing show.”

  “Watching a paingiver flay a captured enemy is amusing,” Vaactash snapped. “I am here to make sure my grandchildren are being properly prepared to bring glory to my house. Demonstrate to me that you are ready to fight in the name of Balaash.”

  Akkad dipped his head submissively. “Of course.” Ten years older, her brother was far larger and had already received advanced training under the tutelage of their father’s veteran Cataphract. Akkad walked to the nearest rack of weapons and removed a war spear, the heavy polearm of the Cetrati. It was longer than Makeda was tall, and even though the blade had been replaced with a block of shaped wood, she knew that it would still hit like a titan’s tusk. Akkad tested the balance of the heavy weapon before grunting in approval. He spun it effortlessly before pointing it at Makeda’s chest. “I will finish her swiftly this time.”

  “See that you do. Hold nothing back. Demonstrate your conviction.”

  For the skorne, life consisted of either making war or preparing for it. It was a harsh, brutal, and unyielding existence. That was especially true for those blessed enough to be born into House Balaash, the greatest of all houses. There was no doubt they would fight their hardest until physically unable to continue or were commanded to stop by their superior. Other, lesser houses may have done it differently, perhaps not risked the lives of their heirs so flagrantly, but that was why they were weak and House Balaash was strong.

  Makeda welcomed the challenge. She crossed her swords and saluted her brother.

  Their grandfather studied the combatants intently, his white eyes unblinking. Though his form was bent with age, his mere presence seemed to fill the arena. This was a warrior who had led tens of thousands into battle and conquered more houses than any other dominar in several generations, earning himself the extremely rare title of archdominar. He was a master mortitheurge capable of commanding the mightiest beasts and rending unbelievable magic from the flesh. Makeda wished that she could have a fraction of his understanding, but promised herself that one day she would. Vaactash was the epitome of what it meant to be skorne.

  After a long moment of consideration, Vaactash stepped aside, gathered up his red robes, and took a seat on the first tier of the training arena. He gestured dismissively. “Continue.”

  “Come, sister. Let us end this.”

  Akkad swung the spear in a wide arc. Makeda raised both blades to intercept, but the impact was so great that it nearly tore them from her grasp. Her arms were already exhausted and quivering. She grimaced and pushed back, but her boots slid through the sand of the arena as Akkad overpowered her. The pressure released, the heavy pole moved back, and Makeda lurched aside as Akkad stabbed at her. He followed, relentless, eyes narrowed, looking for an opportunity to finish her.

  He was stronger, but she was faster. Stepping in to the threat, Makeda slashed at Akkad’s face with her right, narrowly missing. Show your foe one blade. Kill him with the other. She stabbed with her left sword and clipped the edge of his breastplate. Akkad didn’t seem to notice. The spear hummed through the air again, and this time Makeda was unable to stop it.

  She crashed hard against the arena wall.

  The code of hoksune declared that the eldest was the default heir, but every child of the highest caste was a valuable war asset, and thus not to be wasted frivolously. Yet, when Makeda looked into Akkad’s maddened eyes, she wondered if her brother really did intend to kill her. She narrowly rolled aside as the wall was pulverized into splinters. Vaactash said nothing.

  Her brother was kept coming. The war spear covered vast swaths of the arena with each attack. The muscles of Makeda’s arms clenched in agony as her practice swords bounced harmlessly away. Sweat poured down the inside of her cursed, cumbersome armor. She was struck in the ribs, and then in the leg. Flesh bruised and swelling, Makeda continued fighting. She would fight until her archdominar said it was time to stop or she was dead, for that was the code. Another massi
ve strike knocked one of her blades away. It spun through the air and landed in the stands with a clatter.

  Makeda knew she was losing, but the words of the code played through her mind. Only by conflict can the code be understood. Embrace your suffering and gain clarity.

  Time seemed to slow. His moves were too fierce, too uncontrollable. He had underestimated her resolve. Akkad lifted his spear high overhead before bringing it down in a crashing arc. Makeda barely moved aside in time. The mighty hit threw a cloud of sand into the air, but before Akkad could lift the war spear again, Makeda planted one boot on top of the war spear’s blade. Though sleight, the extra weight was enough to cause his grip to slip as he tried to tug the spear away. The momentary surprise was just enough to allow Makeda one clean strike.

  “Balaash!” she cried.

  The tip of her practice sword caught Akkad in side of the head. Blood flew as skin split wide. The spear was pulled from beneath her boot and the siblings stumbled away from each other.

  Makeda gathered herself, but there was a lull in the fighting. Akkad was glaring at her as if stunned, one gauntlet pressed to his head to staunch the flow of red. She had struck him hard. His ear was mangled, the tip hanging by only a small bit of skin. Surely, he had felt that one.

  “I have seen enough.”

  Gasping for breath, barely able to stand, Makeda looked to their archdominar. Vaactash nodded once. Her heart swelled.

  “Both of you have improved since last I watched you spar. It pleases me that the blood of House Balaash does not run thin in this generation. One day I will die and your father, Telkesh, will lead my House, and you will serve him. In time, Akkad, you will take his place. When you learn to temper your ambition with wisdom, you will bring great honor to our house. Your sister will make a fine tyrant in your service, and I have no doubt that multitudes will be conquered to feed our slave pits. Until then, you have much to learn.”

  “Yes, archdominar.”

  “The more you bleed in training, the less you will bleed in war. Learn from every fight, Akkad. Do you know why Makeda defeated you this time?”

  “She did not defeat me!” Akkad snarled.

  “Silence!” The entire arena seemed to flex at Vaactash’s displeasure. That one stern word caused Akkad to fall to his knees and bow. “Do not ever disagree with the ruler of your house. If that had been an actual Praetorian blade the contents of your thick skull would have been emptied into the sand. Fool. How dare you question my decree?”

  The siblings shrank back. The archdominar’s legendary temper was a thing only spoken of in hushed whispers.

  “For that you will not have this wound repaired. Have the end cut off and cauterized. You will wear that scar as a reminder of your impertinence.”

  “Yes, archdominar.” Akkad kept his head down as droplets of blood painted a pattern in the sand. He was trying not to sound sullen. “It will be as you command.”

  “Again I ask, do you know why a tiny child capable of hiding in your shadow managed to beat you?”

  “Forgive my ignorance. I… I do not know the answer, grandfather.” Akkad risked a quick glance toward Makeda. She could feel the malice in his gaze. Makeda did not gloat. She had merely done her best, as was required. “Please, enlighten me.”

  “You only understand the concept of victory. Makeda does not comprehend the concept of defeat.”

  A generation had passed, but the lessons of Vaactash would never leave her. His words were as ingrained into Makeda as the code of hoksune itself. It had been a year since her grandfather’s death under the tusks of a great beast of the plains, but she still found herself calling upon his wisdom during times of struggle. She was a mature, yet unproven, warrior now. The Swords of Balaash were sheathed at her side. Slivers of her grandfather’s sacral stone were among those empowering the mighty blades, and though only an extoller could contact the exalted dead, Makeda always felt as though Vaactash was there to guide her with his wisdom.

  Makeda would need that wisdom if she were to survive the day.

  The atmosphere inside the command tent was as heated as the drought scourged plains. The officers of her decurium were in disagreement over what to do next.

  “Tyrant Makeda, House Muzkaar’s forces are nearly upon us.”

  “Akkad’s reinforcements have not arrived. We are badly outnumbered. If we do not fall back now we die here.” Urkesh was the dakar of her taberna of Venators. Of course a warrior who specialized in engaging the enemy from a distance with reiver fire would choose the pragmatic, if somewhat cowardly, approach.

  “We have been commanded to hold this hill! So we dig in and hold!” Dakar Barkal was the leader of her Praetorian karax. Of course, the karax would choose to die like that, in a perfect xenka formation, each of their great shields protecting themselves and the Praetorians at their sides as they impaled their enemies on long pikes. “Honor demands it.”

  “Muzkaar outnumbers us five to one,” Urkesh insisted. “Your honor will not beat those odds.”

  “Do you question the strength of the karax?” Barkal shouted.

  Makeda let them debate. She knew they would follow her final decision, no matter what. Perhaps in the meantime one of them would surprise her with a solution.

  “Your mighty shields won’t matter when a wall of titans stampedes over you.” Urkesh replied.

  Venators were the lowest of the warrior caste, but Urkesh was young and hot headed. Makeda doubted he realized how close he was to having Barkal strike him down in anger. “We cannot hold anything if we are dead and howling in the Void. I say we retreat from this trap, move to the plains, where we can maneuver and harass these Muzkaar dogs until Akkad’s forces arrive.”

  Barkal looked to Makeda, his narrow face pinched with rage. She needed every warrior, even a Venator whose devotion to dying by the hoksune code was questionable at best. Makeda shook her head. She would approve no duels of slighted honor until after the battle. She could not spare any warriors. Deprived of his chance to gut Urkesh for his insolence, Barkal went back to defending his position. “Our duty requires us to hold,” he snapped.

  Deep in thought, Makeda listened to the words of her subordinates as they argued. She was glad that none of them feared death, only the possibility of failure. Skorne lived to serve and die, but there was no honor in dying pointlessly. This was her first command, and she would not lose it easily.

  Primus Zabalam stepped forward and placed his body between the two shouting warriors. Both dakars stepped back out of respect for their senior officer. “Regardless of which decision is best, we must give the order soon. We will be cut off by Tyrant Naram’s beasts within the hour, and then it will not matter either way.” It was the first time the veteran leader of her Praetorian swordsmen had spoken. Zabalam was the oldest warrior present, and had served as one of Vaactash’s personal guard. He spoke with the wisdom gained from countless battles. “Our commander must choose now, or the decision will be made for her.”

  The map lay open on the table, but she stared through it, rather than at it. The map was irrelevant. She had already memorized every brush stroke and line of ink. Fail in their orders, retreat and live to rejoin the rest of the army, or hold their ground in the vain hope that her brother would arrive in time, and more than likely die as nothing more than a temporary distraction … Ultimately, the choice was hers to make.

  The situation was dire. The honor of House Balaash lay heavy on her shoulders. It was times like this that tested a warrior’s dedication to the code.

  Grandfather, what would you have me do?

  Having recently reached the age sufficient to go through the rites of passage of the warrior caste, this was the first time Makeda had led a cohort into battle on behalf of House Balaash. Archdominar Telkesh had ordered her to hold this position, a small hill on the plains south of Kalos, but no one had predicted this level of resistance. Their spies had reported that the bulk of the enemy had been camped much closer to the city, nowhere near here. The
main army of House Balaash marched unopposed while Makeda’s cohort was outnumbered against the entirety of the forces of House Muzkaar.

  If somehow she did live through the day, Makeda intended to have those spies tortured for a long time.

  That, however, did not solve her current dilemma. The enemy army was led by Naram, a Tyrant legendary for both his skill with beasts and the cruelty he used in breaking them. She had learned what she could of Naram’s exploits, and respected him for his brutal and unflinching victories. He was an adversary worthy of her father and his mighty army, not nearly as appropriate a foe for an inexperienced commander and one small cohort. Yet the ancestors had placed Naram against her, not her father. This battle was hers.

  Makeda knew it was not her ever increasing skills in the art of mortitheurgy, nor her natural talent with the blade that made her valuable to her house. It was her certainty in the truthfulness of the code of hoksune. Her grandfather had recognized that. So, as she always did, Makeda searched the code for an answer.

  Combat favors the aggressor. There is a time for both defense and mobility, but every tactic is merely a tool enabling your inevitable attack. To draw with and kill your enemy is the true path toward exaltation.

  She said a silent thank you to the shards of her grandfather’s essence resting in her swords.

  Makeda held up one hand, silencing her officers. “We will not retreat …” Regardless of whether they agreed or not, they began to move out to spread the word. “Nor will we hold this position.”

  The men froze, uncertain. They looked to each other, none daring to question their new commander. Though she was the youngest in the room, she was their superior both by birth and by appointment. Finally, Barkal of the karax dared speak. “What would you have us do then, Second Born?”

  Makeda smiled. “We strike.”

  The sound of the reivers firing reminded Makeda of a swarm of buzzing insects, only this swarm was made up of thousands of razor sharp projectiles. A House Muzkaar titan bellowed in agony as those projectiles shredded its hide. The gigantic war beast took a few halting steps, showering bright blood from a plethora of wounds. Several Muzkaar beast handlers lashed the thing, urging it forward through the steel cloud. Driven mad with pain, the titan lumbered onward.