Within seconds, the Storm Knights found themselves alone in the blood-red stream, surrounded by corpses and severed limbs, blinded and deafened. They stood that way for a long moment panting and staring at each other, miraculously alive.
Thornbury broke the silence. “What the hell is a Krueger?”
The Stormlord stepped out of the lightning bolt and walked through the fire.
“Where is my army?”
His power was legendary. Nature itself bent to his whims. The skinwalkers cowered—all except for Caradoc, who stood defiant, prepared to meet his fate.
“You ignored my summons.” Krueger’s eyes flashed with blue energy. Lightning crackled across his bald scalp. “Zamir told me of your stupidity, but I assumed he was exaggerating.”
Caradoc was returning to human form, in order to speak clearly to the powerful druid. He’d feared this reckoning would come. The tribe had run out of time, but he could not back down now.
“Cygnar invaded our holy mountain. We had to defend it.”
“That was your intent.” The powerful blackclad shed a halo of energy. It was so bright that it was impossible for Caradoc to read his expression, so the chieftain didn’t know if Krueger was outraged or merely annoyed. The blackclad said, “But you failed, and it resulted in the deaths of my skinwalkers.”
“We are not yours to spend.”
A powerful wind shoved Caradoc across the mountainside. It picked him up and hurled him aside. He slammed into a rock face hard enough to leave a crack. Still on their knees, the skinwalkers cringed away from Kruger, but the ever-hostile Blood Drinker growled as he stepped forward threateningly. The druid glanced at the fearsome warpwolf and then simply applied his mighty will, clamping down on the beast’s mind and asserting his dominance. It was no contest; Blood Drinker lowered himself to the ground with a whimper.
“My army depleted. My plans disrupted.” Krueger followed after Caradoc, dragging his legendary spear, Wurmtongue, across the rock, scattering sparks. “And worst of all, one of my chieftains disobedient.”
Injured, Caradoc knew that he should have stayed down and begged for mercy, but his pride demanded that a chief stand upright. He struggled to his feet until they stood face-to-crackling-face.
“Why?” Krueger demanded.
“To protect my tribe,” Caradoc snarled through the pain and gestured toward the kneeling mass of skinwalkers. “To keep our secret safe from the meddlers.”
Krueger’s visage slowly returned to that of a normal man. Even without the lightning dancing across his skin, he was still intimidating. Not only was his magic powerful, but his word was law in the wilds; Caradoc had no reasonable argument for his defiance. Krueger seemed to consider. “If you were revealed, the Circle would give you a new home somewhere else.”
“But this is our home. We will not abandon our sacred mountain.”
“You have no comprehension of what is at stake, what great things I’ve put into motion, and yet you would risk it all and betray me for dust and bones?”
“The other skinwalkers have forgotten who they truly are. We are the first tribe.” Caradoc struck himself in the chest with his fist. “Cut me open and see, Stormlord! There is no dust here! My veins are filled with the blood of the first. Spill it as you will, because then my duty will be fulfilled.”
The Stormlord frowned. “This place is becoming too much trouble. I have already ordered your village to be abandoned. I have suffered enough of this nonsense. We will cede these lands to civilization, so we can save far more elsewhere.”
They couldn’t abandon their past. Most of the skinwalkers let out a mournful wail. Krueger was undaunted. “Your rich history means little if you do not follow the will of the Circle now. Without the blackclads, you would have never unlocked the deeper power within yourselves. Such a gift comes with a price, and that price is service.”
“Please, Stormlord,” Caradoc resisted a pleading tone, though he knew he was pleading just the same. “My people are safe. The trespassers who stayed are buried alive beneath the mountain. The ones who went for help are being slain as we speak. Our holy relic will be returned soon. My work is done.”
Another howling wind came from nowhere and threw Caradoc on the ground.
“Selfish fool. You expect my forces to be wasted in this futile endeavor while I have a world to save? I wouldn’t tolerate this disobedience from the Tharn or a hundred villages like yours. This particular mountain is worthless to my plans. I have nothing to gain and everything to lose by allowing you to remain here.”
“No.”
“It is done. Your mountain was lost the day your ancestors were weak enough to allow the Rhulfolk and humanity to build a city near here. Now it falls upon me to force upon you the truth of the matter.” The Stormlord turned from Caradoc and spoke to the assembled skinwalkers. The powerful druid was accustomed to making and preserving alliances. He might have lost the loyalty of a chief, but it was clear he would try to retain the warriors. “Though your people will leave this mountain, they will live in a new place that I have prepared, where you can be safe and still serve the needs of the Circle. Your numbers will grow, as will your legend.” Krueger’s attempt at a conciliatory tone didn’t last long. He added, “Be thankful I’m allowing your tribe to survive at all.”
Though battered by the wind, Caradoc refused to accept, and he forced himself to stand once more. He had tried; now he was done bowing. “You are making a mistake.”
“You were one of my strongest.” Krueger pointed his staff at the skinwalker’s heart. “I hope this rebellion was worth your life.”
Caradoc closed his eyes and prepared to feel the full fury of the storm.
“Stormlord! Wait!” One of the tribe stepped forward. It was Ivor Haul. “I beg you, don’t do this.”
Caradoc was surprised to hear the usurper speak in his defense. But Ivor was a treacherous pup; there had to be some scheme here. “Silence, Ivor,” he said. “Let me die with dignity. The tribe will be yours anyway.”
“Yes, I will be chief.” Ivor was also returning to human form so he could speak freely, but his face was still broken from where Caradoc’s fists had crushed it. His words slurred, stumbling through the mangled mess of his mouth, “We will do as you command, Stormlord. But our hunters are returning now.” The final syllable slowly dripped off his tongue like drool. He paused to swallow his thick spit. “Let us hear their story. If they killed all the men of Cygnar, then we are ready to depart immediately.”
It was obvious that Krueger was displeased by this bold interruption, but he was also intrigued. “And if the Cygnarans still live?”
Ivor swallowed hard again. “If we are to abandon our mountain, let us take the sacred record with us so we can remember our ancestors. The soldiers stole it; let us get it back. Please, grant us at least that.”
Now Caradoc understood what Ivor was up to. The new chief was trying to compromise between the demands of the Circle and the pride of his people. Ivor didn’t give a damn about their history. He would lick Krueger’s boots, but the skinwalkers would respect Ivor for securing the tablet. He’d not realized the pup was capable of such cunning.
There were howls from the valley below. Caradoc strained to hear the distant sounds.
“From the crestfallen look on your face, I believe I know what those sounds mean,” Krueger said. “Your hunt has failed again. The Cygnarans live.”
“Banish us if you must, Stormlord, but know when I lead, we will honor our promises,” Ivor proclaimed. “And please let us honor our ancestors. Let us reclaim the tablet so we can take it with us. We beg you.”
A skinwalker from the tribe raised himself from his knees and placed himself beside Ivor. In one swift movement, another did the same, and then another, and another. Ivor might not have cared about their history, but most of the first tribe still did. They were proud and would cling to what little they had left. Caradoc might be dishonored, but Ivor managed to give them some hope. The silence stre
tched on, as every warrior in the crowd slowly stood for their new chief. It was an incredibly bold act of defiance.
“Is this whole tribe willing to betray the Circle then?” Krueger demanded.
“They will still serve,” Caradoc whispered so only the Stormlord could hear him. He would attempt an appeal to Krueger’s scheming nature. “If the young one reclaims the tablet, it will make him look strong to the others. He will need it because the tribe will enter a dark time once you send them away from here. That record will be all they have to rally around. Punish me, not them, and let us finish this. I will go and die in battle so I can earn my place in the next world to hunt alongside the Wurm. If I somehow live, you can still kill me as an example to the others.”
Krueger considered Caradoc’s words carefully. “This small delay would restore the loyalty you corrupted in your tribe. That is acceptable.” Krueger lowered his spear, turned to the skinwalkers, and proclaimed, “I have spoken. The first tribe will leave this mountain forever. But in my mercy, I will grant you one last chance to destroy your trespassers and reclaim what is yours.”
Giant shapes moved through the smoke behind the Stormlord. He had not come alone.
“Only this time, your hunt will be certain because I will oversee it personally.”
The Malcontents were in bad shape. Heavy infantry was never meant to cover this much rugged terrain in such a short span of time, even in the best of circumstances, and now that most of them were injured, it had become even harder. They needed to rest and tend to their injuries for more than the few minutes they’d taken for basic first aid, but they kept on pushing, certain that if they failed here, then every man and woman they’d left behind would be doomed.
It was a hard thing to ask soldiers to do the impossible, but they were Madigan’s Malcontents; doing the impossible was just another day at the job.
“Keep up, private,” Cleasby told Younger as the wounded Storm Knight stumbled off the trail. He’d been stabbed in the abdomen, and Cleasby wasn’t sure how deep the wound was. All Horner had had time to do was stuff bandages in the hole in his gut. “Come on, we’re almost there.”
But Younger leaned against a tree trunk, one hand pressed to his bloody side. Beneath his visor, he was grey, and his breathing was labored. “I’m slowing you down. Sorry, sir. Leave me. I’ll hold them off as long as I can and buy you time.”
It was a noble sentiment, and Younger was a tough man for suggesting it. In some situations, such a sacrifice would have merit, like a choke point, but leaving a man to bleed to death in the middle of a forest as some futile but noble gesture was pointless. Cleasby didn’t have time to debate the tactics of it. “Pangborn! Have Headhunter carry Younger.”
“But, sir, I’m not going to—”Headhunter scooped up the Storm Knight without ever slowing. The warjack lumbered off, with Younger cradled in one hand like a baby.
“You don’t have my permission to die yet, private,” Rains shouted. “The rest of you lazy bastards keep running.”
“How come Younger gets to ride in comfort?” Thornbury demanded in mock outrage. “Is it because he’s the new guy?”
“Hard to run with your abdominal muscles unraveling. If you get stabbed, I’ll call for a carriage, your majesty,” Rains responded.
Cleasby looked around as the others hurried past him. They were in bad shape. Allsop was limping. Bevy’s left arm was hanging at a crooked angle. “Keep going. It’s all downhill from here.”
Their guide had run ahead, but they were in no danger of getting lost. Cleasby knew where they going now. “Stay on this heading, we can’t miss those tracks. With any luck, Novak’s already flagged down a train, and it’s waiting for us.” He knew that was extremely unlikely, because if she had gotten a train, the smart thing to do was assume they were already all dead and keep running for Ironhead Station, but the men could use all the hope they could get right now.
And then Cleasby realized they were missing someone else. “Where’s the gun mage?” He’d been with them just a few minutes ago. Acosta had been bringing up the rear. Cleasby waited for a moment, but nobody else appeared from the brush. “Damn it, and where’s Acosta?”
“That pack looks awfully heavy. I’d be willing to take it off you,” Lambert Sayre said.
Acosta stopped. He’d fallen back a bit to watch for pursuers, confident he would be able to catch up with the others. A foolish mistake. He’d had such a jolly good battle that he’d forgotten, for a moment, he was traveling with a viper. He slowly turned to see Sayre a good forty feet away, a distance much to the benefit of the gunslinger.
“Thank you for the offer, but it is not such a burden.”
“No, really.” Sayre opened his coat to reveal his holstered pistol. “I insist.”
Acosta surveyed the terrain. It was rocky and uneven. Acosta was elevated while Sayre was downhill, a fact that would help the Ordsman close the distance. There was very little useful cover directly between them aside from a scattering of dead trees, none of which were wide enough to hide behind. His initial inclination was always to attack, but Sayre had picked a good spot to challenge him. To Acosta’s right was a fallen log. His best bet would be to dive behind it for cover.
Sayre caught him looking at the log. “Heh, is the infamous Acosta is thinking about running? That’s disappointing. Drop the pack.”
Now that he’d seen the secrets contained on the tablet in action, Acosta understood the potential of the ritual and why Rathleagh wanted it so badly. The skinwalkers Acosta had fought thus far had been berserkers, but he did not know if the bestial change caused them to give up their intellect or if it was a choice these particular warriors made on their own. If a warrior with finesse and real martial skill were given such powers, that warrior would be invincible. It was an interesting thought, but he would have to consider the implications further once he was no longer buried alive in wolf monsters.
“This is foolishness, gun mage. Let us save our fight for later. Now, let us help my friends.”
“A conniving Thamarite bastard like you doesn’t have friends.”
“On the contrary. I do, but not many, so you can understand how I cannot afford to waste them.”
“You expect me to believe you care about someone other than yourself?”
“It is a failing of mine. I will endeavor to be more selfish in the future.”
The two killers watched each other. In his hands, Acosta had his glaives, but they weren’t ready to fire. He had not wanted his blades to glow and hum while stalking through the woods looking for skinwalkers. He twisted the hafts between his fingers to activate the accumulators, but they would take a moment to charge. Sayre’s hand was loose, hovering right above the butt of his gun. His eyes were cold and calculating. They watched each other for a long moment.
There was no bang. No muzzle flash. The only indicator Sayre had fired was the shimmering yellow circle of runes that appeared in the air around his gun and the incredible impact of the bullet in Acosta’s side. He felt the burning hit as he leaped forward down the hill, rolling to the side and crashing against one of the smaller trees.
Silenced rune shot. Sayre had hoped to kill him without alerting the others.
He was bleeding and his adrenaline delayed the pain, so he couldn’t tell if the bullet had pierced anything vital. Moving would be the best way to find out, he suspected. Acosta pushed himself off the tree and went down after the gun mage. But Sayre was no fool; he’d begun running to the side as he reloaded his single-shot weapon. Distance was his friend. They both knew if Acosta closed in, Sayre was dead.
His side burned, but Acosta had been shot before and was no stranger to such pain. He rushed down the hill, aiming his body at the gun mage. Sayre spun around and lifted his gun, flashing a different circle of runes into existence. Acosta dove forward and crashed behind a rock. This rune shot certainly wasn’t quiet at all, as it blasted chunks from the rock and flung them in every direction. Had it made contact, Acosta supposed chu
nks of himself would be decorating the landscape instead.
By the time Acosta got up, Sayre was already running again. The Ordsman took off after him. The distance between them was shrinking. Acosta’s glaives were beginning to hum with arcane energy. Not quite yet. He ignored the pain and focused on this test. He watched the ground ahead while he gauged Sayre’s movements. This time when the gun mage turned, Acosta was ready. He let himself fall behind a big, rotted log just as Sayre fired.
But Sayre had been thinking as well—he’d guessed where Acosta might go next This rune shot passed through the log as if it weren’t there, the bullet seeming to disappear on one side of the log and reappearing on the other to blast Acosta in the shoulder. He grimaced as it punched steel and ripped through his skin.
Clever mage. He’d been wounded twice now, which was painful, but neither wound was bleeding so profusely as to be more than a little dangerous. Sayre, the Ordsman thought, was doing better than expected.
Acosta was pleased.
He shoved one glaive beyond the log and triggered a blast across the forest, in Sayre’s general direction. He had no expectation of hitting the man, but the arcs were still terrifying and might put him off his game. Acosta vaulted over the top of the log and set out after Sayre.
The gun mage had instinctively ducked down at the galvanic blast, and the delay had cost him precious distance. Sayre could see Acosta closing, and rather than run, he calmly broke open his magelock pistol. His hands moved smoothly to his bandoleer.
As he ran, Acosta aimed his other glaive and fired. It was difficult to target with such an inaccurate weapon while on the move, but it was close enough. The tree next to Sayre exploded into splinters and pulp, causing the gun mage to flinch. The cartridge fell from his hand.
Acosta was on him.
One move with the glaive, seemingly as fast as the lightning it launched, and Sayre’s magelock pistol went spinning through the air—along with his trigger finger. In an instinctive response, undoubtedly due to years of countless repetitions, Sayre’s other hand dropped to his empty holster, only to grab a handful of air. Acosta’s other glaive came around and sliced one of the gun mage’s legs to the bone. Sayre screamed and fell to his knees.
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