FACE VALUE RICHARD RI CHARD A. A . K NAAK NA AK
Cover by
NÉSTOR NÉSTOR OS OSSA SANDÓN NDÓN
FACE VALUE RICHARD RI CHARD A. A . K NAAK NA AK
Cover by
NÉSTOR NÉSTOR OS OSSA SANDÓN NDÓN
CONTENTS
MAP ....................................... ........................................................... ......................................... .......................................... .....................ii WELCOME O HE IRON IRON KINGDOMS................... KINGDOMS...................................... ................... ii FACE FACE VALUE...................................... ........................................................... .......................................... ...........................1 ......1
WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS T he world you are about to enter is the Iron Kingdoms, a place where the power and presence of gods are beyond dispute, where mankind battles itself as well as all manner of fantastic races and exotic beasts, and where a blend of magic and technology called mechanika shape industry and warfare. Outside the Iron Kingdoms themselves—the human nations of the continent called Immoren—the vast and unexplored world of Caen extends to unknown reaches, firing the imaginations and ambitions of a new generation. Strife frequently shakes these nations, and amid the battles of the region the most powerful weapon is the warjack, a steam-powered automaton that boasts great mobility, thick armor, and devastating weaponry. A warjack’s effectiveness is at its greatest when commanded by a warcaster, a powerful soldier-sorcerer who can forge a mental link with the great machine to magnify its abilities tremendously. Masters of both arcane and martial combat, these warcasters are often the deciding factor in war. For the Iron Kingdoms, what is past is prologue. No event more clearly defines these nations than the extended dark age suffered under the oppression of the Orgoth, a brutal and merciless race from unexplored lands across the great western ocean known as the Meredius. For centuries these fearsome invaders enslaved the people of western Immoren, maintaining a vise-like grip until at last the
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people rose up in rebellion. Tis began a long and bloody process of battles and defeats. Tis rebellion would have been doomed to failure if a dark arrangement by the gods had not bestowed the Gift of Magic on the Immorese, unlocking previously undreamed-of powers. Every effective weapon employed by the Rebellion against the Orgoth was a consequence of great minds putting arcane talents to work. Not only did sorcery allow evocations of fire, ice, and storm on the battlefield, but scholars combined scientific principles to blend technology with the arcane. Rapid advancements in alchemy gave rise to blasting powder and the invention of deadly firearms. Methods were developed to fuse arcane formulae into metal runeplates, creating augmented tools and weapons: the invention of mechanika. Te culmination of these efforts was the invention of the first colossals, precursors to the modern warjack. Tese towering machines of war gave the Immorese a weapon the invaders could not counter. With the colossals the armies of the Rebellion drove the Orgoth from their fortresses and back to the sea. Te people of the ravaged lands drew new borders, giving birth to the Iron Kingdoms: Cygnar, Khador, Llael, and Ord. It was not long before ancient rivalries ignited between these new nations. Warfare became a simple fact of life. Over the last four centuries periodic wars have been broken up by brief periods of tense but wary peace, with technology steadily advancing all the while. Alchemy and mechanika have simultaneously eased and complicated the lives of the people of the Iron Kingdoms while evolving the weapons employed by their armies in these days of industrial revolution. Te most long-standing and bitter enmity in the region is that between Cygnar in the south and Khador in the north. Te Khadorans are a militant people occupying a harsh and unforgiving territory. Te armies of Khador have periodically fought to reclaim
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lands their forebears had once seized through conquest. Te two smaller kingdoms of Llael and Ord were forged from contested territories and so have often served as battlegrounds between the two stronger powers. Te prosperous and populous southern nation of Cygnar has periodically allied with these nations in efforts to check Khador’s imperial aspirations. Just over a century ago, Cygnar endured a religious civil war that ultimately led to the founding of the Protectorate of Menoth. Tis nation, the newest of the Iron Kingdoms, stands as an unforgiving theocracy entirely devoted to Menoth, the ancient god credited with creating mankind. In the current era, war has ignited with particular ferocity. Tis began with the Khadoran invasion of Llael, which succeeded in toppling the smaller kingdom in 605 AR. Te fall of Llael ignited an escalating conflict that has embroiled the region for the last three years. Only Ord has remained neutral in these wars, profiting by becoming a haven for mercenaries. Te Protectorate has launched the Great Crusade to convert all of humanity to the worship of Menoth. With the other nations occupied with war, this crusade was able to make significant gains and seize territories in northeastern Llael. Other powers have been drawn into this strife, either swept up in events or taking advantage of them for their own purposes. Te Scharde Islands west of Immoren are home to the Nightmare Empire of Cryx, which is ruled by the dragon oruk and sends endless waves of undead and their necromantic masters to bolster its armies with the fallen of other nations. o the northeast the insular elven nation of Ios is host to a radical sect called the Retribution of Scyrah that is driven to hunt down human arcanists, whom they believe are anathema to their gods. Te savage wilds within and beyond the Iron Kingdoms contain various factions fighting for their own agendas. From the frozen
WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS
north a disembodied dragon called Everblight leads a legion of blight-empowered warlocks and draconic spawn. Te proud, tribal race known as the trollkin work to unite their once-disparate people to defend their lands. Deep in the wilds of western Immoren, a secretive order of druids commands nature’s beasts to oppose Everblight and advance their own various plans. Far to the east across the Bloodstone Marches, the warrior nation of the Skorne Empire marches inexorably closer, bent on conquering their ancient enemies in Ios as a step toward greater dominion. Shadowy conspiracies have arisen from hidden strongholds to play their own part in unfolding events. Tese include the Convergence of Cyriss, an enigmatic machine-cult that worships a distant goddess of mathematics, as well as their bitter enemies the cephalyx, a race of extremely intelligent and sadistic slavers who surgically transform captives into mindless drudges. Te 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. Te 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!
FACE VALUE W inged
shapes darted around the hooded form with long, tapering fingers as he procured the massive, dusty book for his master. A shadow stirred nearby, but the hooded figure merely shook his head. He did not need its service this time; Grendov knew exactly which tome his master desired. Like a shadow himself, he silently strode through the multilayered citadel to the spiral staircase at the center. Hefting the book, he proceeded up the stairs toward the top of the great sanctum. As he ascended, Grendov took in the astonishing collection of scrolls, books, and artifacts that made up the great storehouse of knowledge utilized by the lich lord, Venethrax. Nowhere could one find more lore concerning the children of oruk—the dragons —than what Venethrax had gathered in his quest to understand his own lord’s enemies. Te ascent was a long one, physical by necessity. Venethrax researched secrets so coveted that their subjects often sent agents to destroy them. Tus, the lich’s sanctum, while seemingly open to the skies and the desolate land around it, actually had spells protecting it from the worst of threats, be they physical, incorporeal, magical, or any combination of the three. A bulky form wending its way down from the master’s sanctum interrupted Grendov’s trek. Te far more lithe Grendov moved to the nearest landing in order to let the squat amalgamation of machine and flesh pass.
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“Grendov, Grendov!” it chirped merrily in a metallic voice, the circular eyes taking in the skarlock with clinical interest. “Come to see the master? You should visit my work afterward, oh, yes! So much I have to show you, you may even wish to contribute!” “Be on your way, Kankur,” Grendov replied with utter contempt. “Te master may have to tolerate the presence of a necrotech for his work, but unless he gives me a direct order, you and I need not speak with one another ever .” Te slit that passed for the necrotech’s mouth managed to curl upward slightly. Other than the slit and the round, protruding eyes, the only other features to Kankur’s face were two flat flaps that acted as a nose and numerous sores covering not just the face but also the rest of the head. Te sores were a continuing side effect of the necrotech’s work, which involved the constant surgical manipulation of flesh— both fresh and rotted—into workable servants for their lich lord. Unperturbed by Grendov’s dismissal, Kankur playfully poked at the skarlock with one of his four appendages. As Grendov sidestepped the surgical blade permanently attached to the end, Kankur cheerfully responded, “Poor Grendov, poor Grendov! How you ever struggle with those beneath you! It makes it all the more humorous!” Te skarlock paid him no mind. At that moment, Grendov was more interested in grabbing in vain at his own hood. Unfortunately, it slid out of reach, exposing his face to the outside. At first glance, the skarlock appeared a contradiction to the world around him. His was a handsome if weathered face, the most questionable part about it being the gleaming blackness where his right eye should have been. He quickly pulled the hood forward, especially working to obscure the odd eye. “Do that again, and I will take your blade and bury it in whatever still passes for your skull.”
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“Now, now…always so sensitive! You are still handsome, Grendov! Still handsome, still handsome!” “Te master expects me. Be off!” Kankur shook its head. “Poor Grendov, poor Grendov. ry not to lose face!” Grendov immediately grabbed for his own cheek. Even as he verified that everything was still secure, the chuckling necrotech moved on. Grendov stared after him, but the act was lost on Kankur, who no longer paid him any mind. Grendov… Te chilling voice cut through the skarlock’s thoughts. Grendov raced up the last few floors and entered the elaborate chamber at the top of sanctum. As with the rest of the edifice, the personal quarters of Lord Venethrax were filled with the tools and effects of his research. For furniture, there was only a massive oak chair and the vast table over which the lich had spread his work. Venethrax did not sleep and therefore did not need any bed. He spent nearly every hour of the day and night poring over any potential clue that might reveal answers to the quest oruk had given him. Venethrax hunted his master’s treacherous children. Venethrax hunted dragons. Te lich lord glanced up as he entered, smiling. Of course, Venethrax always smiled, for his was a fleshless face bearing the eternal grin of death. He straightened as Grendov brought him the tome in question. “Faster next time. You would not wish to become another bookend,” the lich lord commented as he took the offering. Had he been able to, Grendov would have swallowed nervously. He remained painfully aware that on one shelf lay the cracked skull of his immediate predecessor. Grendov bowed his head in apology.
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Something hung loose on his right cheek. Unfortunately for Grendov, in the presence of Venethrax he dared not deal with the problem. A smoky stench rose above the lich lord. Like his counterparts, Venethrax’s body was made of blackened iron and powered by an eldritch substance known as necrotite. Te combination of the suit and his own inherent magical abilities made Venethrax one of the most powerful creatures in all the Nightmare Empire, the nation otherwise known as Cryx. “Tis will do.” Tat was all. Te tome in hand, Venethrax had no more needs concerning Grendov. Te skarlock remained well aware that Kankur had probably been dismissed in much the same manner, and while a necrotech was too dim to care, suddenly Grendov found he was frustrated to be looked upon as no more than Kankur’s equal. Was he not the great Venethrax’s prime servant, the one who gave commands to all the others? Bowing deep, Grendov whispered, “As you wish, my lord.” Te lich continued on with his work. Te skarlock finally straightened, then backed respectfully to the staircase. Te moment Grendov reached the floor below, his hands immediately went to his face. Fingers sought the edges, where the skin on one side had come loose. With a sigh of exasperation, Grendov gently adjusted the flesh, but still it hung looser than usual. Pulling the hood over his features, the skarlock descended into the depths of the sanctum. Aware that his master was still engrossed in his latest line of research, Grendov hurried to the chamber where he remained when not needed by Lord Venethrax. Tere, he shut the heavy iron door behind him and stared at a mirror—the only item in the room aside from the sparse furnishings. Te mirror retained some of its original ornate design, with
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fanciful creatures of the forest lining its silver borders. A crack ran across the upper right of the reflective surface itself, but as it did not interfere with his image, Grendov paid it no mind. All that mattered was his face. Te familiar features welcomed him. rying to ignore the area of his right eye, Grendov reached to his forehead. Tere, he located the four well-hidden tiny links. With the utmost care, he peeled the flesh off the links…and then removed his entire face. Beneath the pale features lay a scorched skull scarred by lines and cracks and tiny bits of dried sinew. A series of four glowing thrall runes—the source of the forces animating the undead servant—had been etched in his forehead. His one visible eye was a horrific orb not originally his own but rather a replacement Kankur had adapted for him. Grendov’s perpetual grin was barely less monstrous than that of his master. With a gentleness hardly ever exhibited in the land of Cryx, the skarlock laid out his face on his right hand. With his other, he took from one pocket of his robe a small black vial. Popping the cork off onto the small ledge at the bottom of the mirror, Grendov dribbled a few drops of the golden fluid within onto the wrinkled skin in his palm. As the drops touched, the flesh took on a healthier if still pale tone. Some of the cracks and tiny rips in the skin sealed again. Putting away the vial, Grendov carefully replaced the skin on his face. Even when fully attached, parts of the features still hung loose, a necessity due to the stretched limitations of the skin. A shiver went through the skarlock. Te flesh sufficiently sealed to his skull, he paused to admire his “human” appearance. Human. He glanced up at the ceiling, up in the direction of the lich’s sanctum. Lord Venethrax remained engrossed in his own studies
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with no apparent need for his most valuable servant. At times like this, skarlocks like Grendov often chose to go into something that among themselves they called the Stillness, a deathlike state for the undead. Tey would be as true corpses until their masters summoned them again. And although he often did as expected, there were still times— particular times—when something called to Grendov, something that he kept secret even from his master. Now that something beckoned him, and it beckoned in a manner even Venethrax never could. Grendov stepped out of his chamber and then headed for the staircase. Yet it was not up he went from there but instead down. Deep down. Grendov ignored level after level as he descended into the ground. Here, there were no servants, no guardians. Yet here was also the most protected place in the citadel other than the quarters of the lich lord himself. Here, separate from his great collection and sealed off from all covetous eyes—even those of the rest of the lich lords—was Venethrax’s personal collection of the finest souls he had collected over the centuries. A tingle coursed through Grendov, a rare sensation of something akin to life. Had he been anyone other than himself, the combined spells set into place by Venethrax generations ago would have reduced the skarlock to a mass of burnt flesh, bone, and metal. Only because he was the lich lord’s trusted servant could he enter here…ironic, as Grendov now did so in something akin to a betrayal of his master. He faced the two iron doors, where the stylized profile of a huge, savage dragon greeted his gaze. Grendov went down on one knee, as the truly loyal did in the presence of an image of oruk. Homage given, the hooded skarlock raised his left hand to the doors. He made a sweeping gesture known only to him and his master.
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A click echoed through the area. Another followed. Grendov lowered his hand. With one more click, the dragon’s profile split in two. Te doors swung apart…and Grendov heard the whispered screams. It was not a contradiction. Te screams were very real and without pause, yet they were also barely audible. Even when Grendov entered the vault, the cries only rose slightly in volume. A sickly green illumination draped over Grendov as he stood among his master’s collection. Venethrax did not make a show of his gathered souls as most of the lichs did, but Grendov believed that inside this particular vault was the greatest selection—and quantity—in all Cryx. Te spherical soul cages lined the shelves, their numbers in the hundreds. What seemed at first like tiny bits of green, glowing mist swirled within each, bits that became more agitated as the skarlock neared. Grendov stepped into the rear of the vault, to one of the shelves to his right. As he did, ghostly green light flared within each soul cage. Grendov’s experienced gaze picked out a rare winter elf from the Shard Spires, an arcane mechanik from the Ceryl, and even a gun mage from Llael. Like many of the others in the collection, they had fallen afoul of Venethrax during his centuries-long quest. Many of the souls screamed at their imprisonment while others continually vented their rage. A few fell silent for reasons of their own. Te cage he sought rested by itself in the corner. Grendov removed a small device from one pouch and placed it over his one visible eye. Te lens of the device glowed a faint red as he set the mechanism in place. It was a unique piece of mechanika that allowed the bearer to interact with a soul bound within a soul cage and see the spirit within. Venethrax had his skarlock use the device to interrogate
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trapped souls for any scraps of information on oruk’s scattered brood, but now Grendov used it for his own purpose. With that done, the skarlock reached for the cage. He showed no fear or concern as he picked the cage up and peered into its depths through the device. “Arkada…” he murmured. Te swirling mists coalesced into a face of striking beauty with a hint of darkness in the eyes. Arkada had been unusual in appearance for one who had chosen the path of necromancer. In some ways, her fair looks had been more akin to those of a noblewoman of Cygnar or some other grand court. Grendov…my love… Te words barely touched his mind before the face faded again. Te skarlock caressed the cage. What he was doing now was tantamount to a betrayal of his master, but he did not care. Here was a bond older than that which had put him in service to the lich lord, although it was certainly tied to the origins of that service. Here was the woman whom Grendov had loved when he had still been alive. “I am sorry I could not come any earlier,” he murmured to her. “I am so sorry, my Arkada.” I dream of your touch again… One of Grendov’s hands went to his cheek, where he could recall her touch even after so many decades. Te skarlock winced, however, as he also remembered that the last time she had touched his cheek, it had been just before their doom…a moment that, unlike so much else, he could not vividly recall. Well aware that Arkada had perished at that moment, Grendov remained grateful that it was an event he could not relive. Arkada did recall, he suspected, though never had she shared the foul memory with him even to this day. Sealed in the soul cage,
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she constantly reviewed the moment of her death. It was a vicious torture that she had infrequently hinted was the fault of his master. Grendov continually struggled with that last thought. Both he and Arkada had, in life, served Lord Venethrax as necromancers, but when death had claimed them, Grendov had been chosen by the lich lord to continue to be of value while Arkada was punished for her failures. Te skarlock had not known that his master had added her to his most prized souls collection until Venethrax had recently sent him to retrieve the soul of a Cygnaran sea captain with potential knowledge concerning the insidious dragon, Blighterghast. Only as Grendov had gathered the soul cage in question had he heard the faint call, felt the slight tug on his thoughts. He had delivered to the lich lord his prize, and then, when clearly not needed, had crept back into the precious vault to find her. From that time on, the skarlock had returned at every opportunity. Since his resurrection as a skarlock—a very unique skarlock, Grendov thought without a trace of humility—he attempted to serve his master well in all ways. For decades, he had persevered where his predecessors had failed without anything but a few random images in his thoughts that had left him perplexed. Indeed, as a skarlock, Grendov thought himself beyond the stirring of such mortal emotions, but each visit brought the feelings anew, often with more power than before. “My Arkada,” Grendov said, cautiously moving his mouth so that the skin did not come loose. Arkada did not have eyes, but she did see him somehow, and so the skarlock tried to look his most human for her. Dear, sweet Grendov…can we never be together? It was not the first time she had ventured such a question, and it was not the first time it had entered his own thoughts. And such
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thoughts were yet another betrayal of his lord and master, but Grendov had never been quite ready to take that next step. Grendov…all I would need…all I would need is a new body… It was a subject that she had broached before. Grendov looked about before answering. “I could give you no body that would deserve you, my Arkada.” Trough his lens, her beautiful face briefly reformed. None? Not even the one I see in your mind now and then? She would be so suitable! You do have admiration for her, which I understand. Had he still been able, Grendov would have flushed. She meant Dracia, a satyxis privateer, much favored by Lord Venethrax, who served as one nearly equal in power to the skarlock. Tere were elements of Dracia’s physical form that did remind Grendov of his Arkada, although he would have never said as much to the Dracia herself. “No, I could not.” Ten we are lost. Lost. Her presence faded back into the sphere. Grendov waited anxiously for her to return, but her effort to maintain contact with him had exhausted her energies even beyond his mechanism’s ability to see her. Grendov returned the cage to the collection. He stepped back, his face wrinkled in frustration and thought. Ten, like a child discovered in the act of theft, the skarlock fled the vaults.
“It is Blighterghast,” Lord Venethrax declared. “Tis has the smell of the most foul of oruk’s odious children.” “Yes, my lord,” Grendov dutifully responded. “Will you undertake an expedition to verify?”
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“He would like that.” Te lich lord straightened. owering over the skarlock, Venethrax added, “Blighterghast would like me to expend more energy following a false trail. It must be verified that this is him and not another one of his abhorrent creations.” Grendov bowed his head. “You fear another dragonspawn?” “I fear nothing, but suspect everything. Others are setting out to see. Dracia leads them. See to making the final arrangements for her.” “Dracia?” Grendov stiffened. “Dracia…is capable.” “Yes, she is that. Besides, it may be that she will have to infiltrate some human settlement.” Te skarlock could not imagine the satyxis capable of doing such a thing, but if Lord Venethrax believed she could, then she could. o his surprise, however, Grendov found himself saying, “Perhaps it might be wise to wait to send Dracia after more is known—” Te lich lord’s right hand blazed a fiery green. “Your opinion is not requested. Have a care you do not lose face before me with illadvised comments.” “Yes, Lord Venethrax. Forgive me.” Venethrax turned from the skarlock; his attention had already returned to his studies. Grendov bowed deeply and immediately retreated from the chamber. He had been dismissed from the lich’s thoughts—the least of the warnings Grendov could have received. Still, the skarlock knew he stood on the proverbial thin ice; Venethrax had removed some of Grendov’s predecessors for less. He had not forgotten the lich lord’s command. For the first time in many nights, Grendov departed the citadel. Unlike the skarlock and Kankur, a satyxis like Dracia maintained quarters beyond the citadel. rue, she was always at the beck and call of the lich lord, yet Dracia commanded and trained a contingent of her own kind as well as the more bestial ogrun.
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Grendov moved silently through the mist-enshrouded land, seeing nothing but the path ahead. Other servants, both mortal and otherwise, were careful to steer clear of his path when they saw who approached. Grendov was an extension of Venethrax and thus feared by many, even here in the capital of Skell itself. His only confrontation of note was with another thin form, clad similarly to Grendov, differing only by its helmet instead of a hood. Te other skarlock shuffled along at a slower rate than Grendov, its darkened eyes staring unblinking ahead. Tere was no look of acknowledgement, no word passed between them as the pair moved on beyond one another. Te parchment-like skin and the permanent sneer marked the other skarlock as obus Greel, voice of the lich lord Daemortus. Te other meant little to Grendov, though, for what there was of obus was but a shadow compared to him. Unlike Venethrax, Daemortus had left little personality in his skarlock. Indeed, more than once, Grendov had thought with some pride that he stood as the most cunning, most independent of his kind. Tere seemed few to contradict his arrogance. orchlight illuminated the field ahead, and the clash of arms resounded throughout the area. Grendov observed the savage females lunging at one another with wicked, curved blades and long, deadly pikes. All of the women bore scars, both ceremonial and earned in battle. Te satyxis were accomplished warriors, witches, and pirates. Dracia and those serving under her stood ready for whatever mission Venethrax might require them to undertake to deal with oruk’s children. Tat they would likely perish in the process seemed of little consequence to them; what mattered was their sacrifice would help the lich lord in his efforts to bring the dragons down. A few of the satyxis glanced at Grendov as he silently strode past. Tey knew the skarlock did not simply come to observe but likely brought some news of import instead.
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One of the pirates broke off to confront him. As with most satyxis, she had dark, narrow eyes and angular features. She looked enough like Dracia, however, for Grendov to vaguely assume there was some clan affiliation. “Hail, servant of the great Lord Venethrax,” she growled, slapping one fist across her chest near the insignia bearing the lich lord’s profile. “How may we serve you?” “Where is Dracia Seareaver?” “Within the barracks. She is meting out punishment.” In addition to the ceremonial scars and marks of war, most satyxis also carried the memories of punishment for one failure or another. Generally those last came from the earlier years of their training— one either learned or suffered horribly. “Lord Venethrax has orders for her.” Te warrior woman bowed. “I can relay the information.” “If Dracia Seareaver cannot spare time for our Lord Venethrax, then perhaps her position demands too much of her. A replacement can be found. You, perhaps?” Te satyxis shook her head. “Never did I mean that. I will alert her to your presence at once.” With another bow, she quickly left. Te female warrior vanished into one of the dank, squat buildings used by Venethrax’s minions for storing weaponry, training, and more. Moments later, she and another slightly shorter satyxis emerged. Te two did indeed resemble one another, although Dracia Seareaver was two inches shorter. Despite their height difference, each movement by the senior pirate emphasized her confidence and skill. A few specks of blood still marked her scarred face as she neared. In contrast to her companion, she greeted the skarlock with a wry grin. “Grendov. Haven’t seen your face of late.” Her jest was not lost on him, but with Arkada on his mind, he
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studied her with far more interest than he’d taken in her in the past. She was healthy, strong, and, as far as anything in Cryx could be concerned, fair of face despite what she was. Her wry smile faded as if she sensed his assessment. Dracia’s eyes, darker than most, became slits. “You have orders from our lord?” “For you, yes.” She glanced at her companion. “What Lord Venethrax commands of me can be heard by Jariti. She has been elevated to third among my command.” “Tird?” Dracia showed her teeth. “Kroya was found to be…careless.” Among the raiders, this implied that Kroya had left herself open at the wrong time, enabling Jariti to eliminate her. Assassination was one of the accepted manners of promotion in Cryx, especially among the satyxis. If one could not keep from being assassinated, one was not a worthy servant for the Dragonfather. All that actually mattered was that the deed did not occur during a moment important to the empire. Grendov repeated Venethrax’s instructions. He could have passed on the information through another means, but Venethrax preferred his most important instructions to be given in person whenever possible. Ten, if failure followed, there would be no confusion as to who needed to be executed. When he was done, he asked, “All is understood?” “Of course. Preparations will begin immediately.” “Tere will be no plundering on this voyage,” Grendov warned. “Reach the destination, survey the vicinity, then return with the maps and information needed. Nothing more.” Dracia nodded. “I’ll take the Black Dog , then. It will require less crew and supplies and is swift.” Te skarlock shrugged. As such details were of no interest to Lord
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Venethrax, they were of no interest to Grendov. How Dracia fulfilled her mission was her choice, so long as she did not fail her master. “My first will accompany me. Jariti, you will be second here. Malyce will coordinate with Grendov while I am gone,” she said. Malyce was her current second. “Yes, Dracia.” Te lead satyxis eyed Grendov. “Well? Is there something more?” Grendov had been staring at her again, Arkada’s pleadings suddenly echoing. All I would need is a new body… “No,” he replied. “No.” He turned more sharply than intended, causing part of his face to flap. Grendov instinctively put a hand to the errant bit of skin, at the same time continuing away at a brisk pace. If Dracia or her third noticed, he could not tell. Te skarlock ignored all else as he returned to the citadel. Once within, he paused by the vast stairway and waited. Although Venethrax knew Grendov had returned, it appeared the lich had no use for his servant at the moment. Grendov went to the staircase, paused, and then descended. o his cell.
Grendov. He stirred to existence, immediately knowing just how long had passed since he had set himself into the state of torpor. Grendov clamped his mouth tight as he responded to his master. Yes? Te ship leaves soon. I have a scroll that must be delivered directly. Te skarlock had already begun on his way. He suspected the scroll contained further instructions of an intimate nature for Dracia— and Lord Venethrax intended it for no one else. Te hulking figure of his lord did not look up as Grendov entered.
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Te scroll laid waiting for Grendov. Sweeping it up with one hand, the skarlock departed without so much as a word exchanged between master and servant. What Venethrax wanted him to know, Venethrax would tell him. He headed to the docks, where loading the Black Dog for the journey was already well underway. Large half-machine, half-undead creatures hefted barrels and crates no human could have lifted. Tey worked in silence save for the occasional creak of metal or cracking of dried sinew. Indeed, if not for the sounds of cranes, the shifting of planks, and the cries of carrion crows, the docks would have been all but devoid of sounds. It seemed more abandoned tomb than active port. As he neared, several satyxis on the deck spotted Grendov. One broke from the others and started down the plank to meet him. “Hail, voice of our Lord Venethrax,” Jariti intoned. “You seek Dracia?” “She is aboard?” “Aye.” She gestured for him to follow. As the skarlock came on deck, the crew paused. Jariti signaled them to carry on. Dracia stepped out from the captain’s quarters. “I suspected the sudden silence I noticed arrived with you. What is it now?” From his robes, Grendov removed the scroll. “For you and you alone.” “Of course.” She took the parchment from him. “We will be gone within three hours.” “As scheduled, yes.” Dracia glanced at Jariti. “You have your orders,” she said dismissively. Te other satyxis bowed her head and departed from the vessel. Grendov’s gaze followed her. urning back to Dracia, he touched his cheek where the flesh was loosest.
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Dracia cocked her head. “Tere is something of interest to you?” Grendov asked as he pulled his fingers away. “You’re a skarlock,” she replied. “Yes. What of it?” Grendov waited for her response, but Dracia simply chuckled. With a half-salute, she headed back to her cabin. Grendov resisted the desire to frown, ever aware that any expression would wear and tear his weathered skin. He left the sleek, black ship and returned to the sanctum. Yet all through the trek back, Dracia’s simple statement repeated in his head. You’re a skarlock. You’re a skarlock. As he reached the fortification, he changed direction, descending deeper into the vault beyond his own chamber. He waited with impatience for the doors to open and then hurried directly to the single sphere of any significance to him. With incredible gentleness, Grendov took hold of it. Grendov…my Grendov… Arkada’s voice. Will we be together? Will it happen? “Dracia Seareaver sails within hours. She will be gone for some time, perhaps months. I am sorry. I do not know our future.” He expected wailing, but only a hint of sadness touched her voice. We are undone, then. I had hoped… She faded off without saying more. Grendov leaned closer. “Arkada. Speak to me.” So little time. Te mist within the sphere faded to nearly nothing. Grendov had never seen such a thing. “Arkada!” Silence. Te skarlock turned the sphere around, but nothing caused the soul trapped within to stir again.
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“Arkada.” Silence. Slowly, Grendov replaced the sphere and started to back out of the vault. Ten the skarlock lunged forward. He snatched up the sphere and pocketed it without hesitation. Te shrieks of the other souls seemed to magnify as Grendov stepped from the vaults. Tey continued to resound in his head as he rushed to the stairs. Glancing around, he ascended to the level of his chamber, only then noticing the brutish figure in armor. Te ogrun had an axe strapped to his back, but he was no guard. Instead, he carried a heavy chest that Grendov recognized as of the type Venethrax used to dispose of items that had proven no value to his efforts. Learning from the mistakes of his predecessor, the lich lord did not simply discard those items as trash; instead, there were several storage chambers for such items, organized by how significant Venethrax believed his finds might eventually become. At the moment, that was hardly of interest to Grendov. A sensation raced through him, one that, since his crossing over from life, he had felt only when facing the potential wrath of his master. Grendov pressed one hand against the hidden stolen cage as he silently approached the waiting ogrun. Te brute continued the task of putting the chest away in the chosen chamber. Grendov quietly waited as the ogrun finished up. Sealing the chamber, the ogrun turned. His eyes widened slightly and he grunted his acknowledgement of the skarlock’s presence through his sharp teeth. “So, you saw me come from there,” Grendov remarked, reaching for the part of his hood that covered his one eye. Now the ogrun’s own gaze widened as much as possible. One thick hand quickly sought his axe.
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With remarkable speed, Grendov stretched one long, thin hand to the ogrun’s chest. Te ogrun froze. “Nothing happened here,” the skarlock quietly commented, calling upon what was left of the meager magical powers he retained from his former life, a token bestowed upon him for his service to Venethrax, “but just to be certain, when you leave, you will find a desolate location and throw yourself into the sea. Do you understand?” Eyes blank, the ogrun slowly nodded. Removing his hand, Grendov dismissed the creature. He knew the creature would obey his command to the letter, eliminating any potential trouble for the skarlock. He hoped. Te matter as resolved as it might be, Grendov continued on his way. Te Black Dog had not yet sailed. Grendov eyed the ship, assessing what the satyxis had readied things for the journey. Tey had ceased loading cargo, which meant that departure should be imminent. His hand caressed his pocket as Grendov waited among the shadows, watching. Dracia stepped on deck. She clearly commanded all around her with her presence alone. Venethrax had but recently given her command to serve him, yet she looked as if she had been a commander all her life. A slight wind blew across the docks. Grendov immediately worked to ensure his face remained in place. wo other satyxis officers strode toward the gangplank from one of the port buildings. Jariti and a much taller, heavily tattooed female at her side paused before the plank as if waiting. Grendov watched
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as the second one, Malyce, surveyed the ship with clear jealousy; the satyxis thrived on the high seas, and she would remain behind. Dracia noted the pair. Rather than signal them aboard, she descended from the ship. Grendov moved nearer, keeping to the darkness. Malyce exchanged words with Dracia. Dracia nodded and indicated the building from which the two had come. With a salute, Malyce turned and headed off. Dracia then said something to Jariti, who nodded. Fist striking her chest, the lesser officer marched away. Now alone, Dracia rubbed her chin. Grendov edged closer. With a frown, as if she could sense him, the senior satyxis quickly turned and went back up the gangplank. Grendov nodded slightly and moved from the shadows to follow her.
Jariti glanced behind her but saw nothing. Nevertheless, her hand hovered near her sword as she continued through the dark port toward the satyxis training facilities. She nearly collided with the hooded figure of Grendov. “Blood and bones,” she growled as she stumbled back. Ten, suddenly aware of whom she faced, she added in a more politic tone, “Master Grendov. Forgive me. I didn’t see you.” “No, you did not.” She gestured back in the direction of the port. “If you want to catch the Black Dog, you’d better sprint. It’s probably already setting sail.” “I do not ‘sprint.’ And I have already assured myself that the ship is on its way.” “Oh?” Te satyxis’ muscles tensed at the skarlock’s tone. Her hand edged toward her sword again.
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“Its departure makes this easier,” Grendov said. “Your successor will claim credit for what happens now. And you will not be missed.” Te satyxis abruptly whirled and ran. She did not get far before something black and sinewy slipped between her feet and tripped her. Jariti stumbled forward and fell face-first to the street. Covering his eye, Grendov glided to the fallen body. Jariti sought to rise, but before she could find her feet, the skarlock leaned over her body. He put a palm against her exposed back. “Be honored that you were chosen for her,” the skarlock whispered. He let power flow from his hand, through her body, and into her heart. Te satyxis jerked violently once then sprawled lifelessly on the ground.
Cadaverous, Grendov did not look like a creature of strength. Only Venethrax was aware of just how physically capable the skarlock could be. It was a secret the lich lord chose to preserve for many potential future reasons. It was a secret that served Grendov now. He gently set Jariti’s body on the stone slab in his chamber. Sneaking his catch past the invasive stares of others in his lord’s service had been relatively simple; in Cryx, shadowy forms carrying corpses was not, in fact, an uncommon sight. With his hood pulled well over his head and his form hunched, Grendov looked like many other collectors sent out to find parts for the endless efforts of the necrotechs and others building and rebuilding the forces serving Cryx. Further, Grendov oversaw most of the more mundane labors in Lord Venethrax’s citadel. From replenishing supplies to cleaning up experiments, Grendov made certain that everything served to either
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aid the lich in his task or at least not disturb those efforts. Tus, his arrival with a body would require no explanation, no matter how curious or suspicious the witness. Te skarlock stared at the satyxis’ body. Jariti’s comrades would argue over her disappearance for a day or two before settling on who would rise in the ranks to replace her. By the time Dracia returned, the missing satyxis would be just one more fading memory. He touched his face, probing for any detached ripples. Despite the night’s efforts, his flesh had held its place fairly well. When his Arkada came to him, Grendov wanted to be his best. What would they do once she had the new body? Grendov had foolishly convinced himself that he could keep her here, in the citadel, but the more he considered it, the more unlikely that seemed. We will be together. Tat’s what matters first… Te thought came in Arkada’s voice, but Grendov took it for his own. Te skarlock gently reached into his pocket and removed the stolen cage. Only a faint glow emanated from the spherical cage, something that at first caused Grendov consternation. He clutched his prize in both hands and held it close. “Arkada. Arkada, do you hear me?” Only silence. Grendov turned toward the body. Holding the cage over the satyxis’ face, he tried again. “Look, Arkada. Do you see her? She is not the one of whom we spoke, but she is strong, and she is fair of face. She could be you.” Still there was no reply. Grendov gently set the cage down on Jariti’s chest, in case the touch might cause some reaction. Nothing. Straightening, Grendov turned from the body. His gaze fell upon the mirror. Out of habit, the skarlock went to the mirror and checked his face.
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One small edge bent outward. Grendov cautiously peeled away the skin from the area and continued until his entire face came free. A sense of vertigo touched him as he pulled the last bit off, but it was a sensation with which he was painfully familiar. Once more, Grendov stared one-eyed at the decay beneath. Despite the barest of illuminations, the black stone glinted from within the one socket. With all the power the stone held, it could not restore what had once been whole. Grendov could wear his old countenance, but that was all. Or is it? the skarlock wondered. Ten he wondered why it should matter. If there still remained a chance that his Arkada might be able to return to him, then— Grendov. Te voice came so very faintly that, at first, the skarlock did not think he heard it. He looked at the cage. Te mist within began to swirl violently. Arkada’s face formed and then dissipated again. Grendov frantically began setting his face in place once more. Te effort was not entirely successful, but he could not wait any longer. Crouching beside the body, Grendov peered into the sphere. After a moment, he made out the vague image of Arkada’s countenance as if in a distant fog. Grendov…my Grendov… “Arkada, I brought you a body. A very fine body.” My sweet Grendov…I am so weak. I can do nothing while the cage remains whole. “No, of course not. I have to do it. I know that…” Grendov peered at the ceiling. His own power was not sufficient to break open this soul cage, which Venethrax had seen fit to seal with protective arcane runes. Tere was, in truth, but one way to provide the power needed to crack Lord Venethrax’s sphere. “I know what I have to do.” He pulled back his face and made certain that nothing obscured
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the black stone. Venethrax had given Grendov control of a tremendous magical force, but where he had obtained the black stone, Grendov did not know. It was not information Lord Venethrax had deemed necessary for the skarlock to know. All that mattered was that Grendov retained enough will to utilize it when required. In that way, the lich lord would always have a capable backup attack when he needed it. Grendov doubted his lord suspected the skarlock would attempt to use that power for his own benefit. Tis must be done carefully…cautiously… He focused and, for reasons he could not understand, hesitated. Te stone quieted. Shaking his head, the skarlock concentrated again…and once more found he was hesitating. Grendov. Her pleading tone urged him to try harder. Grendov touched his cheek. Visions of Arkada filled his thoughts: Arkada summoning the spirit of a dead Cygnaran warcaster, Arkada working side-by-side with Grendov to aid the desires of the lich lord and the great oruk, Arkada working feverishly on— Grendov. Please! Te last memory faded before the skarlock could fully recover it. Grendov shrugged off the lost images. Tis time, he would not fail her. He concentrated, summoning the power of the stone at the same time. A single tendril slowly emerged from the stone. Grendov fought the stone’s natural tendency to wildly unleash its might. He let the single tendril creep toward the cage, but then forced it to pause just before it touched Lord Venethrax’s creation. From the tendril’s tip blossomed five tinier appendages. Te five grew slightly before Grendov also made them pause.
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Te skarlock adjusted his balance. Cracking open the sphere would not be easy, even now. It would also put Arkada at risk. “Be ready,” Grendov whispered. My darling. At once, he let the tendrils touch the sphere. A crackle of energy erupted where the two forces met. Grendov reared back but kept the smaller tendrils in contact the sphere. Magical forces washed over the skarlock, forces that would have killed him if he had not already been dead. Even then, his body shook from the energies surrounding him. Te spherical cage shook. It glowed brightly. Straightening, the skarlock took a step toward the sphere. As he did, he refocused the stone’s might. Te cage’s seal began to give way. More magical energy shot wildly around the chamber. Grendov nervously wondered how long this chaos could remain unnoticed by the lich lord. Ten, all concerns were forgotten as Arkada’s voice touched his mind. So close, my Grendov! So very close! Never had he heard her so clearly. Stirred by this, Grendov leaned forward. Te smaller tendrils pierced the sphere’s protections. Te power spilling from the damaged container bathed everything in a greenish glow. Fearing for the body he had procured, Grendov tried to use the stone to draw the escaping forces to him. He sensed his physical form starting to burn, but he did not hesitate. All that mattered was Arkada’s safety. He could feel a whisper of pain. All that mattered was her. Grendov! Her voice was jubilant. Grendov, I am free! A stream of mist rose above the ruined sphere. While it had no shape, no features, Grendov knew it must be Arkada’s soul. Te mist hovered and spread over the body.
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Tere, it paused. Despite the strain he suffered, the skarlock could consider nothing but his beloved. “Hurry, Arkada! Te body! It awaits you!” I cannot…I need more strength…Grendov…I need strength… He hesitated, desperate to decide what to do. He knew he had only one source of strength available to Arkada. It would mean tremendous risk, but he knew that he could not hold back. No matter the cost. “I can give you all the strength you need, Arkada.” He tore the black tendrils from the crackling sphere and cautiously let them touch the edge of the mist. Arkada’s shriek shook him. He stared at the tendrils and the mist, intermingling together so much they were now nearly one. Te female necromancer’s soul sank into Jariti’s body. On contact, the satyxis’ body jerked madly, the mouth opening wide in a silent scream. Grendov resisted the urge to stop, to withdraw entirely. But it was too late to stop. He could not give her up now. Jariti let out a gasp. No, not Jariti, the skarlock corrected himself. Not Jariti… Her eyes opened. Her lips moved. “Finally…” she gasped. “Finally.” “My Arkada.” Silencing the stone, Grendov reached one trembling hand out to his beloved. Jariti’s mouth twisted into the smile Grendov had remembered so fondly. Arkada stretched out her hand in return. And then she lunged for the eye socket holding the black stone. Grendov recoiled but too late. Her face twisting into an expression of maniacal glee, she pulled the stone free. “So long I waited! So long I suffered! So long because of your betrayal!” “My ‘betrayal’?” Te skarlock clutched at his empty eye socket.
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Brief flashes of memories struggled through his thoughts. Contrary memories. She held the stone before him as she leaped to her feet. Te stone flared menacingly. “Tis was to be my finest offering! My proof to the lich lord that I was the most deserving of his servants, not some fawning little man like Teobid Grendov!” Teobid Grendov. Te skarlock had only known himself as Grendov since his resurrection. Now, with Arkada’s declaration of his former name, some of those contrary memories made terrible sense. Arkada leaned over him as those unwelcome memories flooded back. He remembered working together on their first attempt at the stone. ogether, they were able to use their combined power to bind together the blood of the dead and the darkest souls they could harvest in the Nightmare Empire in order to create for Lord Venethrax proof of the their value to him. In Cryx, only one’s value to the lich lords and oruk was important. Grendov pointed at her. “You betrayed me .” “It was my stone, my creation. My glory for Cryx. You took it and made me kill myself while I was killing you!” “No.” Te skarlock lowered his other hand, unblocking the empty socket. It was the same eye socket through which Arkada had thrust a dagger. “No. You brought your own death—and Lord Venethrax— down on yourself.” He remembered now. He remembered the dagger piercing deep into his body while she sought to use her power to latch onto his soul as his life’s blood left him. Grendov also remembered lunging toward her even as death neared. He had managed to grab the stone as he perished. His blood had soaked the stone, there in his final moments. So the stone, stirred by his desperate death wishes, came to life— and the first tendrils appeared. Tey grabbed the screaming Arkada
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as she pulled the dagger free to defend herself. Driven by his last act of will, the tendrils had done their work quickly, ripping through Arkada’s vulnerable heart. But the struggle of two necromancers had been something even Lord Venethrax could not ignore. Grendov could remember falling to the floor just as Lord Venethrax’s overwhelming presence filled the necromancers’ work chamber. After that, he had been re-created as Grendov, a skarlock, to serve Venethrax. Yet Arkada had been found to be too treacherous even for the lich lord. “You pitiful little corpse,” she mocked, stepping toward him. “Now it will all be set right. Lord Venethrax will see that he chose wrong. He will see that I am the only one worthy of serving as his right hand and that your soul is not even worth the honor of residing among his pathetic ‘collection.’” She held forth the stone. Te tendrils sprouted and veered toward Grendov. “Kneel before a necromancer, little corpse.” Te skarlock felt his legs trying to buckle. Despite being Venethrax’s servant, the power of the stone made him susceptible to Arkada’s will. “Kneel, and I may let them feed quickly.” Grendov fought the command. Te tendrils stretched closer. Te skarlock knew too well that he was only a memory of himself while Arkada was once again a living soul. And against a soul, a mere memory could not compete. Had he been in a state matching hers, Grendov believed that he could defeat her, for the stone had been his creation as much as hers, despite her belief to the contrary. But he was not alive. “Lord Venethrax…will not…accept you…” he managed. “He saw how you were wanting…how he could not trust that you would serve his purpose as he deemed fit, otherwise he would not have set you in—“
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“Be quiet!” Jariti’s face contorted; more and more it looked like Arkada. “He will have me, and I will serve him as no other, and you will be a little forgotten face in his collection! You will be nothing!” Te tendrils converged on Grendov. Still battling his own legs, he thrust one hand out at the oncoming appendages. Te tendrils twisted away from him, some spilling to the left while others fell to the right. “Enough. ake him!” Arkada commanded the tendrils. Grendov stared in amazement. Tis cannot be! I am only a false impression! A memory burnt into tanned flesh! He knew he was hardly a typical skarlock. A skarlock was, in truth, little more than an animated form with a veneer of personality that acted as a physical extension of the lich who had summoned it from the grave. But Grendov was far more than that. He had independent thought on a level far exceeding even the most cunning of his counterparts, albeit little more than a pet has independent will compared to its master. Despite Venethrax’s domination, however, Grendov existed as a thinking being…and he did not know why. Apparently Arkada thought the same. “Why won’t you just die again? Tere’s nothing left of you. Nothing!” She turned the tendrils toward him again. Grendov reacted without thinking. He should not have been able to do anything, and yet once more, he averted the stone’s attack. “Just surrender to the inevitable,” Arkada growled. “You are just a skarlock. A shell wrapped in a few lingering memories. You have no soul, no—” She stopped mid-breath. Grendov sensed something had occurred to her, but all he truly could focus on was regaining control of the stone. Te tendrils twisted around back toward Arkada. She shook the
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stone, clearly seeking to regain control. Te tendrils began flailing as they swung back and forth between the pair. Grendov could not let this go on. With the threat momentarily neutralized and Arkada’s direct focus away from him, he was able to use his legs again. He leapt forward. He had hoped to drive her down to the floor, but he fell short. Instead, the pair fought over the stone as the tendrils fluttered above them. “Bend your knees to me!” Arkada growled. “Bend!” Once more, Grendov felt his undead body seeking to obey. “You see? Dead or alive, you are not worthy.” One knee touched the floor. Te skarlock knew he could either fight to keep control of his body or battle for the stone. He could not do both. Unless… “Kneel,” Arkada commanded. Grendov surrendered his resistance. He dropped to both knees with such suddenness that he caught Arkada off-guard. She lost her grip on the stone. Unfortunately, momentum took the skarlock farther than he thought. He sprawled on the floor, the stone rolling from his fingers. Letting out a mad shriek, Arkada bent to seize her prize. Grendov managed to get his fingers on it. He knew he truly had only one choice. With a will tracing back to a time when he carried regret like a heavy weight on his shoulders, the skarlock smashed the stone against the hard floor. It was no diamond; the stone itself was physically just a stone. It cracked, and tendrils shot out in every direction. Hungry tendrils. Uncontrolled, unfettered tendrils now seeking to do what they desired and not what they were commanded to do.
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Te tendrils turned on both Grendov and Arkada. It mattered not whether their prey was solid or soul. Tey would devour everything. Already leaning toward the stone, Arkada was their easiest target. Te first tendrils seized her arms, legs, and throat. Several of those that followed wrapped around her torso as a constrictor would have wrung a small rodent. Tey squeezed and tore through her at the same time. Tey shredded her new body, sending blood and gobbets of flesh everywhere. Yet her suffering did not end with the destruction of her mortal form. From the mangled corpse, the tendrils removed the ethereal form of the necromancer’s soul. Without pause, they began to devour her soul. Arkada’s horrified cry now echoed throughout the chamber as the tendrils consumed her. But while most of the tendrils fed on her soul, the others seemed to not forget Grendov. Scores of inky tentacles wrapped around his body and his face. As Grendov focused on the cracked stone, he felt the tendrils slow their advance. Arkada was not so fortunate. Te tendrils fed on her agony and fear. Grendov! she begged. He ignored her pleas. What he had felt for her once now succumbed to a stronger desire for survival. Arkada let out one last cry and then simply faded away. Grendov fought to keep the other tentacles at bay, but his will was not strong enough. Te tendrils closed in on him— rusting in what he could recall of the stone’s creation, the skarlock brought his fist down on what remained of the stone. He hammered violently at the pieces, reducing them to dust. Te tendrils quivered and finally dissipated like dust blown away in the wind.
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How long Grendov lay there trying to regain his strength, he had no idea. He only knew that, at some point, the door opened, and two ogrun entered. Behind them came the cheerful figure of Kankur. “Oh, she will do very nicely, so nicely!” the necrotech chuckled as the ogrun attempted to gather what was left of Jariti’s corpse. “Such a splendid specimen. She will help with my necromechanikal research and make fine parts for new recruits!” Te skarlock paid him little mind. It took all of his effort just to push himself up on his elbows and try to adjust his face. “And am I next for your tables?” “Would you like to be? Tat would be awfully kind of you. I suppose we’d have to pass that by our lord, though. He did order that I was to make certain you were in good working order, but I don’t think he meant I was to experiment on you.” “’Working order’?” Grendov hesitated. “Tat is all?” “Do be careful with her.” Kankur snapped at the two ogrun as they hefted the Satyxis’ corpse. “I can always use more ogrun for my work, you know?” Te two burly creatures moved much more carefully. Te necrotech smiled again at Grendov. “Yes, working order. Te master has little time to waste on minor matters. He wants you functioning again properly. He did not go through the extra effort in the beginning in order to make you more useful just to have some errant thoughts slip to you from your soul!” Te skarlock started. “What do you mean? My ‘soul’ is long gone.” Kankur giggled. “I will explain it again, but do try to remember from now on. Te lich lords do find you skarlocks useful but still limited, and our great and glorious Lord Venethrax cannot slow his work. He must have some independence from his skarlocks so that he can serve the wondrous oruk to his fullest!”
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“I am aware. I, who serve at the left hand of our lord Venethrax, know well the task set before him.” Te various surgical appendages of the necrotech twitched in excitement. “When possible, he keeps the souls of his servants where they would not cause him problems. But a link remains between the soul and the flesh, however faint its traces. Sometimes old memories imprint on a piece of flesh, especially, oh—shall we say, a face? And gives a skarlock some personality, but that only goes so far. Lord Venethrax, patient though he is, cannot spend so much valuable time merely on directing skarlocks! If memory can be retained from bits of flesh, and if some few thoughts trickle out of an imprisoned soul, what better way to create a skarlock who can act and think independently? o a limited degree, naturally.” Te necrotech began testing a needle on the end of one of his many arms. Managing to rise, Grendov eyed the creature. “I still do not understand.” For one of the few times that Grendov had known Kankur, the necrotech sighed in exasperation. “Te only mistake was that your soul was kept too near hers ! Tat’s remedied now, of course, what with her being all gone and such, and you to be readapted once more, only better than the last time. You’ve also got your little face on again, so we can all go back to our tasks…once I’m finished fixing you.” Kankur thrust the needle at Grendov. Te skarlock glanced in surprise as the needle penetrated his chest. He stiffened. “Shouldn’t take long at all, not long at all. And then we’ll set about restoring your little stone. Lord Venethrax insisted on that, too.” Grendov no longer heard.
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Grendov. Rising from his slab, the skarlock immediately responded to the voice in his head. “Yes, my lord?” I have a task for you. “As you command.” Without hesitation, Grendov left his chamber. Yet as he reached the stairway, he paused and looked down, not up. Te skarlock descended. He did not stop until he reached the level where Lord Venethrax kept his great vaults. Tere, Grendov stared at the great metal doors, which led to the lich lord’s special collection. Without thinking, he made a sweeping gesture at the vault. Te doors remained closed. Te skarlock was not at all surprised; he was, after all, not intended to have access. Grendov. “Yes, my lord.” Te skarlock took one last glance at the vault and moved on. While he had never actually seen the collection of souls, he knew the lich lord had gathered them from all over the known world. As Grendov returned to the staircase, he hesitated yet again. Why exactly he had come down here instead of heading directly to his master’s sanctum, he could not recall. Tere were times, of course, when lich lords completely took over their skarlocks and used their servants like an extra pair of hands. Grendov could only assume that Venethrax had needed the skarlock to briefly detour to the vaults for some secret project. It had happened before. He paused for a moment more to smooth his face. It was a rule of his to always appear orderly before his master, to instill an image of confidence.
FACE VALUE RICHARD A. KNAAK •
A weak smile of pride spread across the slightly wrinkled features. It did not matter that Grendov could not remember whatever task for which Lord Venethrax had just utilized him. What mattered was that the skarlock had been so used at all. It was another incident marking him as the most important of his master’s servants, the most trusted. Te most valued . Pleased, Grendov hastened up the steps. Behind him, unheard, the souls in the vault continued to scream. One screamed far more loudly than the rest but was just as unheard.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Richard A. Knaak is the New York imes and USA oday bestselling author of Te Legend of Huma, WoW: Wolfheart, and nearly fifty other novels and numerous short stories, including works in such series as Warcraft, Diablo, Dragonlance, Age of Conan, and his own Dragonrealm. He has scripted a number of Warcraft manga with okyopop, such as the top-selling Sunwell trilogy, and has also written background material for games. His works have been published worldwide in many languages. In addition to “Wyrmbane,” his most recent releases include Shade —a brand-new Dragonrealm novel featuring the tragic sorcerer, Te Horned Blade —the final novel in Te urning War—and Dawn of the Aspects —the latest in the bestselling World of Warcraft series. He is presently at work on several other projects, among them more Dragonrealm and the start of a new urban fantasy series Black City Saint, to be published by Pyr Books in March. Currently splitting his time between Chicago and Arkansas, he can be reached through his website: www.richardaknaak.com, where more information on this trilogy can be found. While he is unable to respond to every email, he does read them. Join his mailing list for e-announcements of upcoming releases and appearances. Please also join him on Facebook and witter.