“We don’t have a big enough wrench,” said Rala in Gobberish. Or at least that’s what Kerne thought she said. It made no sense.
“What does that mean?” Kerne asked.
“It means we can’t afford to play scrap ante with you if that shovel goes in the pot.”
Kerne looked down at the shovel and then over at his pile of muddy scrap.
“Well, ain’t that a piece,” he said, blowing out a heavy sigh. “The only money I’ve got is too good for you. You guys can keep this junk.” He waved at the muddy pile on the table. “Me and my shovel are gonna go watch the rain make puddles.” Alone.
He turned to go, but Rala had moved between him and the door of the tent.
“You stay here while I fix that shovel.” Her Cygnaran sounded just fine.
“I thought these things were worth more when they’re—”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Rala. “Tools need to work. Scrap is worth most when it’s got a good story, but scrap that has a good story and that can be bodged back into a good tool? That’s worth the most of all.”
“Tell him the rest, Rala,” said Mo.
“Fine. If I fix your shovel and make it work again, that makes me worth more, because I get to be part of the story.”
Kerne considered this for a moment.
“If I let you fix my shovel, you’ll let me play cards with you guys and I can pay using that stuff I dug up?”
“No. If you let me fix your shovel, you get a working shovel.”
“Rala . . .” Mo said.
“And I give you a handful of rivets that popped off Manny when that spear hit him. You can play with those.”
Mo stepped between them.
“Before you agree, Kerne Mallory, you should know we’re still going to cheat you. No way is Rala going to let you leave with her Manny-rivets. But at least you’ll get to play cards.”
Kerne thought about that for a moment, and then held out his hand. “Ulada,” he said. “Deal.”
This is Howard’s second story featuring the gobber mechaniks Mo and Rala. To read more about these characters and their adventures on the Cygnaran front lines, check out the short story “Heartfire” in the Skull Island eXpeditions anthology Called to Battle: Volume One.
THE WORTHY
By Larry Correia
The Bloodstone Marches, 606 AR
Primus Kuthsheth of the Praetorian, sword master of House Balaash, watched the lone armored figure trudge across the distant sand dunes. The desert sun beat down upon them, but the human still wore his heavy armor and helm. Perhaps sensing he was being watched, the figure paused and turned his head until he faced his pursuers.
“That is the human who defeated Erishum’s patrol?”
“Yes, Primus,” the Venator dakar answered. “His tracks do not lie.”
More of Kuthsheth’s cohort joined them atop the ridge, yet the human did not flee. From the time the skorne had invaded the west, most humans had learned to run at the sight of the superior warriors, but this one simply stood waiting.
“Erishum was one of my students.” He had been capable enough. “Tell me what you have learned of this human.”
“Our patrol raided a caravan, expecting to capture it and take slaves, only this creature arrived and killed six Praetorians. We do not know where he came from or why he is here—perhaps he is from one of the settlements we have burned. With one hand he wields a flaming sword, and with the other he bears a shield with the symbol of the human’s masked creator god upon it. We captured one of the god’s priests, who said this man is what is known as a paladin. They are of a warrior caste called the Order of the Wall.”
Kuthsheth nodded. Archdomina Makeda had ordered him to terrorize this region and claim it on behalf of the Skorne Empire. He couldn’t do that with this paladin killing his raiders with his flaming sword. “They sound like worthy adversaries.”
“The paladins are extremely skilled and strong warriors, but they are unworthy of respect.”
Kuthsheth frowned at this. Among the skorne, strength and respect were the same thing.
“This Order of the Wall does not fight to conquer.” The dakar seemed baffled by the concept. “They only protect the weaker humans.”
“A warrior must defend his house’s assets.”
“No, Primus. I mean they value the lives of the lower castes more than their own.”
A warrior sacrificing his life for his inferiors? “Inconceivable.”
“Our paingivers applied their most vicious devices to the priest’s flesh until they were certain his words were true, Primus. The paladin is an aberration, even among humans. With your permission, I shall have my Venators put him down like a diseased reptile hound.”
But Kuthsheth was thinking. The paladin of the Order of the Wall was still watching them, waiting.
“No. I will face this creature alone.”
Walking across the dunes gave Kuthsheth time to remember. When he was a young Praetorian, his house had been defeated by House Balaash. As was the way of the skorne, the defeated warriors had been cast into the slave pens of the victorious house. He had thereafter fulfilled his duty to his new house, as had all the slaves. They knew that though their own deaths would bring eternal torment, hope yet existed for their descendants to be promoted to a higher caste—and only the warrior caste could reach exaltation. So Kuthsheth had worked hard, hoping his children might be promoted to be artisans or beast handlers, and perhaps in a few generations their children could become warriors.
Except Archdomina Makeda had rewarded his loyalty by returning him to the warrior caste. It was a surprising act, but she was a surprising ruler. Since then he had served her with all his strength. He would follow Makeda into the Void if need be.
Nearer now, Kuthsheth could see that the paladin was large for a human, broad and tall enough even for service in the Cataphracts. With an expert eye the primus looked over the man’s battered armor, noting all the spots where it had been cut by steel or dented and then hammered back out. The claws of some fearsome beast had left scratches across the breastplate and chipped the painted symbol of the human’s god.
The paladin had taken his helmet off, revealing wrinkled, discolored skin with prickly grey hair sprouting from the bottom half of his face. Humans were hideous.
Yet the creature’s eyes were those of a real warrior. Though they were a startling blue the color of the desert sky, they were just as cold and hard as those of any experienced Cataphract. Humans showed their age more readily than skorne, and Kuthsheth estimated that like him, this creature would be considered an elder among his people.
Kuthsheth stopped twenty paces away. “I am Primus Kuthsheth of the Praetorian, sword master of House Balaash. I have come to kill you in single combat.”
The human said something in his strange, soft language. Of course, they couldn’t understand each other.
“You elevate the weak. Why would you punish them like that? Struggle is how we grow. Why would you deny the lower castes the blessings of conflict and curse their descendants with eternal weakness?” The paladin answered his challenge with more garbled nonsense. It saddened Kuthsheth that such big questions would have to remain unanswered.
Hundreds of his soldiers watched from along the cliffs. Kuthsheth worried the human might believe there was no escape and give up, and he hadn’t walked all this way in the sun to not have a proper battle. “I ordered them to let you go if you defeat me.”
The paladin tilted his head to the side. He said something else completely incomprehensible. The only word Kuthsheth understood was Menoth, the name of the human’s masked god.
“Skorne do not have gods. We do not need them. I’m told your priests teach that your essence lives on in some other realm. Our souls are cast into eternal torment, and only our greatest warriors are worthy of having theirs saved in a sacra
l stone. That explains why most humans are soft, but not the occasional thing like you.”
The paladin stared at him with unwavering eyes. They studied each other as the hot desert wind whipped the man’s tattered cloak.
Kuthsheth continued, “Two old warriors come to bleed in the sand . . . There is no extoller here, and even if there were I doubt I am yet worthy of exaltation, so if I allow you to kill me, I will go to the Void.” He placed his hands upon his sheathed swords. “That is an excellent motivator.”
The human put his helmet back on, took up his mighty tower shield, and drew his gleaming sword. The steel began to glow orange, as if it had just been pulled from a forge.
Kuthsheth bowed. The paladin dipped his helm in acknowledgement.
Now one of them would die.
Perhaps they understood each other after all.
“The Worthy” marks Larry’s second foray into the culture and worldview of the skorne. He first delved into the brutal intrigue of the Skorne Empire in the Skull Island eXpeditions novella Instruments of War, where he introduced the character Kuthsheth.
WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY
By Orrin Grey
The mask I wear is not made for my comfort. It forces my breath and the stench of hot iron back into my nose and mouth. When the mask comes off at night, it feels like pulling open a wound. Still, when I lie on my cot in the darkness, I long for it again, closing me off, closing me up.
The shackles on my wrists bite into my skin. They’re removed only when I sleep or when I work. Even when I’m not wearing them they leave behind red welts, brands that will stay with me forever and mark me even if I live to be an old man.
The chains that crisscross my body bind my arms to my sides so I cannot lift them. The chains are hooked to my shackles and to the collar at my neck with heavy locks that clank when I walk. They weigh me down, give me something to strain against, and when they are gone, I feel their phantom weight.
My bonds are heavy, but I wear them gladly. They are nothing compared to the burden I bear, and their presence serves as a constant reminder of that shame.
On the first day I came to the House of Truth, Scrutator Solas told me, “Sometimes we are forced to take up the weapons of the enemy so they cannot overpower us.” He was talking about the warjack cortexes I help build; he was also talking about me and those like me. That is what we are: weapons of the enemy.
In the House of Truth I work with artificers and heretic wizards who wear bonds like mine, though not by choice. Together we assemble the cortexes. The others complete their tasks through careful study, I complete mine by instinct. Like putting together a puzzle with my eyes closed, my hands somehow know where the next piece will fit, and then the next, and the next. I know this work requires us to draw on unholy energy, and each time we do so the sin is compounded, but I also know each sin is cleansed by a blessing. Just as the sins of imperfect mortals can be redressed through faith, unclean arcane artifices can be sanctified by the priests watching over our work. The machines are necessary for the Great Crusade, and I gladly accept my burden, compounding my own sins indefinitely so others can march to war for the glory of the Creator of Man.
As a child, it frightened me when I first began to make inexplicable things happen. My mother took me aside and told me it was nothing to be ashamed of. It was the will of Menoth, a gift so I might serve him better. She told me no one else needed to know—it was between the Creator and me.
I wanted to believe her. I tried to be worthy of her love for me, to be worthy of Menoth, but even then I knew she was mistaken. I could feel the wrongness of my power, feel the darkness of it coiling in my gut. I could feel it longing to escape and be free, and I knew nothing so wild and uncontrolled could come from the Creator. I knew what I was.
At first I wanted to take my own life, though I knew what waited for me on the other side. I was afraid there was nothing I could do, no way I could serve Menoth. So long as I lived, I would be working against his will.
Instead, I turned myself over to the House of Truth, and the scrutators confirmed what I already knew, what I had always known, but they also showed me what I could be, how I could serve. They showed me how even my curse fit into Menoth’s great plans and gave me a purpose.
When they learned what my mother had told me, I knew they would come for her. I watched as they took her and saw the tears on her face. She didn’t understand, not yet, but I knew she would. She had only wanted to protect me, but she was wrong to do so. No mortal can protect another from the Lawgiver’s judgment. Instead, I would protect her and deliver her from any blame for my sin. The scrutators would help her find her way and restore her obedience. Unlike me, she could be spared.
Sometimes, I am led onto the battlefield. When I see the warjacks, I have a connection to them. I can sense the cortexes inside them I helped create and assemble. I know the men and women who command them are heroes, great champions of the Lawgiver. They can touch the cortexes with their minds and wield awe-inspiring magic. Their power is blessed and delivered to them by the Creator. I am different. I am not a champion. My power comes from a dark and profane source. I am a weapon turned to righteous purpose, but when that purpose is fulfilled, I will still be an abomination. No matter how it is held, a sword with no hilt is dangerous to friend and foe.
On the battlefield I can use my power, the poison that is always inside me. I can turn it loose against Menoth’s enemies. I can make our warjacks stronger or I can simply reach out with my curse and kill. The magic inside me is coiled like a snake, and it feels good to let it strike. Though it is upon enemies of the faith that I loose this power, I know it is proof I am accursed.
The battles are filled with fire and blood and a distant roaring. The mask cuts off the sound, deadens it. The smell of burning flesh and scorched metal is lost in the stench of my own breath. All the sights of the battlefield, the crashing of machines and men, the churning of the sands to crimson mud, are reduced to the two tiny windows through which I view the world. I see only what I need to see, do only what I need to do. I am a tool at Menoth’s disposal, a weapon in the hands of the righteous.
When I was a child I wanted to die, and there are still times I long for death. I pray a bullet will find me or the flames will consume me. I wear my bonds gladly, but they are heavy, and there are times when I look forward to the day when my usefulness ends, so I may finally rest.
Still, I cannot falter. I know the fire can never cleanse me. I know death will not release me. I could not take my life when I was a child, and I cannot throw it away now. It belongs to Menoth, and I cannot die until the Lawgiver reclaims my soul. All my pain I send as a prayer to him. In spite of what others may say, I cannot believe there is any salvation for me in death. How could the Creator accept me into the City of Man, unclean as I am? The nearest I come to grace is letting Menoth wield me and turn everything I am against those who would deny his truth. Even then I will not be forgiven, but I will know, when I finally fall wherever my body is destined to lie, that I was not any worse than I had to be.
REPLACEMENT PARTS
By Darla Kennerud
Northern Llael, 605 AR
Korporal Miloslav Zhabin sprinted the last forty yards to the Spriggan and dove behind the warjack’s bulk as Vanquisher flames blasted the area. Nearby soldiers cried out, engulfed in fire, and he grimaced. Khadoran Destroyers closed on the enemy ’jacks, but the damage was done.
Fourteen—no, fifteen, he thought, automatically adding those Winter Guard to the running tally in his head. It wasn’t his responsibility to keep track of casualties, but he found the counting helped him distinguish one battle from the next. When most of what you saw in any fight was the inside of battered warjacks, the conflicts tended to blur together. Besides, the information often ended up being useful in what was his job: maintaining the great machines in this small portion of the Motherland’s inestimable army.
Craning his neck to examine the ragged hole in the elbow joint, Miloslav noted that two of the bolts had been sheared off and two had fallen out. He automatically ticked off four bolts from the supplies in his many pockets. Replacing the bolts would be straightforward enough, but the elbow’s exposed interior showed significant damage. The main hydraulic line was leaking fluid, and the forward gear mechanism had been knocked completely out of alignment, with several of the gears bent or cracked. That would be harder to fix out here.
Sixteen, he thought as a nearby infantryman took a Skyhammer rocket to the chest and exploded into bloody chunks. He ducked under the Spriggan’s mangled arm and began digging broken gears out of it. The steady stream of leaking hydraulic fluid made it difficult to get a good grip on the parts, but he was used to that.
Eight to ten inches of tubing, a two-inch elbow gear, three lead balancers, a good two feet of heavy-gauge wire, the number 4 midwrench to get at that one . . .
His hands darted in and out of the gash in a blur of motion, yet his muttering was focused and even. He could bring battered ’jacks back to life at remarkable speed, but he didn’t get worked up about it. It was just a job.
The reflex tension line to the elbow snapped. Without hesitating he clipped it, drew a length of wire from one of his chest pockets, and spliced that onto the break. He heard a rocket salvo hit the infantry up ahead.
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