Exiles in Arms: Night of the Necrotech (2 page)

The Iron Kingdoms is a setting whose inhabitants must rely on heroes with the courage to defend them using magic and steel, whether in the form of rune-laden firearms or steam-driven weapons of war. The factions of western Immoren are vulnerable to corruption from within and subject to political intrigue and power struggles. All the while, opportunistic mercenaries profit from conflict by selling their temporary allegiance for coin or other favors. It is a world of epic legends and endless sagas.

Enter the Iron Kingdoms, and discover a world like no other!

MAP

PROLOGUE

F
og from the Bay of Stone smothered the wooden piers, reducing the lights from Captain’s Isle across King’s Finger Channel to an indistinct glow in the darkness, a phantom blaze on the distant horizon. Even at this late hour there was life on the main island; the taverns and gambling halls were more active by night than by day. The big island was never quiet.

It was far different on Dicer’s Isle, a collection of squalid drinking holes, shadowed alleys, and rundown buildings. Here the pulse of activity waned as the night deepened and the gathering darkness drove the denizens of the island to whatever shelter they could afford. Cutpurses, burglars, muggers, and footpads all prowled the shadows, watching for opportunities to add black pennies to their pockets or notches to their blades.

On the Doleth Docks, stevedores and sailors had quit their labors with the sun’s retreat. Those with coin had withdrawn to the stewpots lining Privateer Lane on the cliff above the docks. Those without had slunk away to parts unknown or into the holds of their vessels to seek refuge in sleep. An abnormal tranquility settled over the docks, a sharp contrast to the noise and bustle of the day. Only the creaking of timber and the snap of rigging stirred the quiet.

Men in heavy boots clomped down the easternmost pier, a long finger of planks and timber called Grimbold’s Gamble after the merchant who’d built it two hundred years earlier. Lamps at intervals of forty yards briefly illuminated the figures: a company of mercenary guards in grimy leather armor. Each man wore a bright red band around his arm and carried a heavy cudgel. Hirelings of the merchant combines who owned the pier, the men were expected to subdue malcontents with their bludgeons before resorting to more lethal tactics. A live thief or smuggler was a commodity, grist to feed the mill of justice in Five Fingers. A dead man was only more garbage to be hauled away.

The men who watched the guards from the belly of a small fishing boat knew the type of justice the mercenaries would dole out. The prospect of being dragged before the courts was to be avoided at all costs. Their orders didn’t allow for answering a magistrate’s questions.

As soon as the sound of boots on wood faded, the men concealed in the fishing boat climbed out and onto the walkway. Each was dressed in a black tunic and breeches, the cotton soaked in oil to waterproof it. Their oiled-leather shoes made their progress nearly soundless as they stole down the dock.

The big merchantman moored near the end of the pier was their objective, a hulking clipper of Cygnaran design. The ship had arrived three days before, and its cargo of timber and grain had been unloaded. Now it was waiting while its captain tried to secure fresh cargo. It was common practice for merchants to haggle with independent captains for days, playing upon the loss of tide and time to induce more favorable terms. As many a captain had learned, pirates were as ruthless in port as they were at sea.

The gang from the fishing boat had different ideas about why the clipper remained in Five Fingers. There were incongruities about the cargo that had been unloaded, questions that had stirred suspicions in certain quarters. Proved, those suspicions would present certain opportunities. To that end, they needed proof.

Without a sound the men caught hold of the ropes tethering the
Black Anne
to the pier and scrambled up and onto the deck. The lone sentry, a sailor more interested in the tobacco in his pipe than in his duty, failed to notice the intruders creeping across the deck. The crack of a blackjack against his skull ensured he wouldn’t notice anything for hours to come.

“The forward hold,” the leader whispered, gesturing with a grease-blackened hand at the covered hatch. Two of his fellows hurried forward to loosen the bolts that held the cover in place.

Cautiously, the gang descended into the hold, small metal lanterns hooked to their belts lighting the way. The last to climb down slid the hatch cover partly back into place—anyone discovering the unconscious sentry might think the sailor had simply fallen asleep, but an open hatch would certainly indicate something was amiss.

The hold should have been empty. Instead, it was packed with crates and boxes. The gang prowled between the stacked crates, inspecting each for some mark that might indicate the nature of its contents. The boxes bore no mark or sign. As the men moved deeper into the hold, they could smell a musty, unpleasant odor.

Some of them turned anxiously to their leader. Each man suspected what would come next, but he wanted the decision to be made by someone else. There was an air of nebulous dread in the dark hold.

“Open it,” the gang chief said, gesturing with a drawn pistol at one of the crates. Without a word, his men removed iron bars from beneath their tunics and went to work.

The screeching sound of nails being wrenched from wood occasionally interrupted the silence, and each time the men glanced up at the hatch with worried faces. They quickly finished their task and leaned the front panel of the crate against the side of a neighboring box. The odor was stronger now; it was magnified along with a stinging, sulfuric reek. The gang chief stepped forward to shine his lantern into the crate, revealing the merchandise they had come to find.

The gang knew some sort of contraband was in the hold, as any lawful goods would have been unloaded with the timber and grain. Never had they imagined the crates held such a horror as they looked upon now. The source of the sharp odor dominating the hold was revealed.

The thing in the crate would have been taller than a man but for its hunched, squat construction. Two legs of steel and bone supported a barrel-shaped metal torso from which protruded a set of monstrous skeletal jaws. Razor-sharp, tusk-like teeth, bolted directly to the bone, lined the thing’s maw. A chaotic array of pipes and tubes snaked from the head back into the steel body. A ridge of exhaust pipes, like the dorsal fins of some oceanic beast, sprouted from the rear of the horror’s hull. Great talons of steel-plated bone tipped each of its feet, and a faint green luminance smoldered behind the grated vent in its belly.

Each man stared at the thing in mute terror. They recognized that ghastly glow, knew it from tavern tales and ghost stories, from the shuddersome recollections of war veterans, and from the dour warnings of aged priests.

“Open the others,” the chief said, his voice hoarse. His gang first stared at him with fear-filled eyes but then moved to obey. As they pried open the other crates, none of the men noticed a stirring in the darkness between the crates behind them. None of them saw what was watching them from the shadows with malicious fascination.

The gang had opened four crates, each containing another of the alarming mechanical horrors. As they were opening a fifth, the stench in the hold became still more oppressive. The air became sour, foul, defiled in some fashion. Several of the men covered their mouths, gagging.

The sinister amalgamations of steel and bone suddenly changed, and the faint, smoldering gleam in their bellies burst into a full gibbous brilliance. A thin wail rose from each machine’s furnace. Before the men could react, the awakened bonejacks scrambled from their boxes.

Three of the gang were cut down immediately, torn to ribbons by the snapping jaws of the abominations. A fourth man was hurled to the ground when the crate he and his fellows had been prying open exploded in a shower of splinters. The bonejack within leaped atop him and brought a clawed foot slamming down to pulverize his legs. Blood streamed from ruptured flesh, spraying the monster’s hull with crimson. The bonejack ripped at the man pinned beneath it, tearing strips of meat from his body and eliciting piercing shrieks of pain and terror.

Only the gang’s chief, who had avoided direct contact with the crates, was afforded a chance to flee. He did not hesitate; to linger even a moment would have been to squander the opportunity fate had given him. He fled back across the hold, retreating toward the hatch as he tried to ignore the screams behind him.

Halfway up the ladder, the chief could not resist one look back. The sight of one of his men’s thrashing body in the jaws of a bonejack was horrifying, but the spiderlike monstrosity scuttling from the shadows to inspect the bonejack’s victim was more than the chief could stand. He stopped, leveled his pistol at the horror—a terrifying amalgamation of rotting corpse and dread mechanika—and fired. His aim was true, and the bullet struck the creature’s chest. A thick, filthy liquid bubbled from the wound, and the creature pressed a bony talon to the hole. It turned and regarded him through the tinted lenses that covered its eyes, its skeletal face split in a ghastly smile.

The gang chief threw open the hatch and started to scramble onto the
Black Anne
’s deck. Instead of a making a mad dash to freedom, he found himself staring into the barrel of a gun. The man behind that gun was lean and wolfish, his clothing well cut and elaborately embellished. He wore soft grey breeches, and his grey frock coat shone with rich embroidery, the silver thread outlining maritime shapes that flowed up to a luxurious fur collar. Rubies glittered from the beveled neck of his sharkskin boots, and gold chains lay atop his silken shirt and vest. The gunman smiled when he saw that his victim recognized him.

“Lorca,” the chief said, fairly spitting the name.

The gunman’s eyes glittered like chips of ice. “Aren’t you glad you found what you were looking for?” He discharged the pistol into the gang chief’s face and kicked the twitching body back into the hold.

Lorca imagined his friends below would appreciate something to play with.

CHAPTER I

T
he street was properly known as Tordoran Way. In ages past, it had entertained pretensions of grandeur, even displaying a line of iron lampposts along most of its length. Jewelers and gem-setters of the best caliber had congregated here, the concentration of wares and services throwing the neighborhood into such prominence that no wealthy visitor to Five Fingers would imagine leaving the city without at least once making a pilgrimage to Tordoran Way. As the fame of the area spread, sculptors, painters, and other craftsmen of artistic mind were drawn to it. Soon, a thriving artist’s colony had grown up around the street.