Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

Mol, the 9th day of Sypheros, 998

The world crashed in on him, blinding light surging on waves of chaotic noise.

The warforged raised an arm to shield his eyes as one wall of his home swung open. He stepped out, holding his axe at the ready as he always did, as he did even in the darkness, for the world was an unpredictable beast. It was always there, lurking, waiting to strike. Every noise that dripped from it oozed peril.

He looked about at the surrounding circle of spiteful faces, and he felt awash in bloodthirsty eyes, snarling mouths, and angry fists. He turned slowly, staggering on the slanting floor, searching for the one who would try to kill him. Someone always did. Thus far he had survived the assassins, slain them, every one.

At last the warforged marked him. A human with long, unkempt, salt-and-pepper hair and a stew-matted beard. He carried a round shield in his right hand and a three-headed war flail in his left. A patchwork of scars served as his mail, crisscrossing his pale skin. He wore ragged breeches that came to just below his knees, and simple leather shoes ill suited for combat. An iron band of elegant design encircled his left arm above the biceps. As thin as the human was, it was surprising that the armband didn’t slide off.

The human came closer, swinging the spiked heads of his weapon in a small circle. The steady centrifugal pull of the chains allowed the human to sense their position at all times, which reduced the chances that a snap strike might result in an errant flail head.

This human has been trained to kill, he thought, but I have been forged for this purpose.

His unblinking magewrought eyes captured every nuance of the human as he closed. The human was skilled, perhaps even had the greater skill, but it was the rare human for whom war was ingrained as tightly as it was for a warforged.

Positioning his large battle-axe defensively, he kept the aging human at bay, dodging the spiked heads of the swinging flail and allowing nothing more than a minor gouge across his expressionless metal face. He backpedaled often, forcing the human to use more energy to close the ground again. As the battle progressed, he found that he was rather familiar with his assailant’s battle technique. He had seen it twice before, demonstrated by two other humans similarly aged and armed. They had not been not quite as skilled as this one, but he had learned much from them.

He had killed them. This one he would kill too.

He feinted forward, throwing his assailant off stride, forcing him to begin his assault anew. The warforged made a deliberately errant strike. And, as he had anticipated, it drew the human into a familiar pattern of blows, a five-swing combination that made use of the swinging chains to attack the head and each side of the torso and legs in one smooth series, maximizing the momentum of the flail heads.

It was a dangerous combination. The first time it had nearly undone him. The second time he had been able to evade the worst of it. But the warforged had thought about it for many long hours in the darkness, and he knew that the third time he would prevail.

The human executed the fourth swing, the fifth … and the warforged stepped into the blow with his battle-axe held high. He allowed the chain to wrap around his right forearm. The spiked heads smashed into his armor plating. Then he shifted his grip on the haft of his battle-axe to pin the flail heads in place, locking the human’s weapon with his.

A look of surprise crossed the human’s face. The warforged pulled, and the human reflexively yanked back, not wanting to lose his weapon. The warforged abruptly switched from a pull to a push, and the haft of his axe struck the human squarely across the chest, knocking him down.

The warforged released the grip of his right hand, allowing the human to pull the flail off. With his left, he spun the great axe around and brought it up over his head. Then, with a mighty two-handed swing aimed at the center of his supine opponent, he ended it.

The warforged yanked the heavy blade from the human’s breastbone, and took a moment to ensure that the blow had been lethal. Save for a tremor that came and left, the human lay still.

The victorious warforged looked about at the sea of faces. They were exuberant, anguished, relieved, but none were still hateful, none still looked at him.

He turned. He went back home.

And the blissful darkness enclosed him.

Dark Meetings

Zol, the 10th day of Sypheros, 998

Clutching her cloak about her, Henya glanced up at the sky. The rain clouds had largely broken up, their energy spent. Somewhere beyond her sight, the sun drew near the horizon, sinking behind the dark evergreen trees that covered the land of Karrnath. Although the sky still shone with pallid autumn sunshine, down in the cobbled streets of Korth all was growing dark. Not only dark but cold. Protected by the quiet embrace of the building’s shadows, the damp chill of impending winter crawled out of the alleys to slither through every gap in her cloak, and pry at every loose seam of her clothing. If the sunshine had still reached into the narrow streets she walked, she would have seen her own breath. As it was, she felt it condensing on her hood as she tried to hunker down even further into the folds of her cloak.

She was cold, that much was true, but she had food. One hand extended from the front of her wrappings to hold the handle of a large woven basket, by necessity leaving a drafty opening in her cloak and slowly chilling her fingers through. The basket was filled with a large pork roast and several round loaves of dark rye or, as her father called it, “chamber music.” It was simple fare, especially with the weak home-brewed beer her father made, but it was better than the alternative. Her family had suffered deep pangs of hunger during the famine two winters past. They’d been so hungry that they’d barely had the energy to chop wood for the fire, so they’d spent the long winter months cold and famished, chewing on shoe leather to ease their growling stomachs. It had been a miserable way to celebrate the end of the Last War.

That and her younger brother had never come home. She’d helped him learn to walk those many years ago, and now she wondered whether he still could. Could he still walk, or had he been crippled? Or did he lie rotting in some forgotten field somewhere?

She’d asked, of course, as had so many others. Standing in long lines at the Korth military administrative bureau. Stoically awaiting her turn to hear … nothing.

Her brother’s death she could handle. Through hunger, siege, and battle, the Last War had taken her great-grandfather, two granduncles, and several of her aunts, uncles, and cousins. She’d grown up with stories of martial valor and the last battles of many of her relatives. She’d known all her life the war might take her brother as well. Such sacrifices were necessary for the preservation of the nation and brought glory to the family name. And even dead, a Karrn soldier could still serve the crown as an animate warrior, his body gathered by a royal corpse collector, alchemically preserved and magically ensorcelled to fight for the military even after his life had ended. It was considered an honor to have the king spend such lavish amounts to preserve the service of a common foot soldier.

Her brother’s survival would be wonderful, to see his smile again and his clear blue eyes. Even were he crippled, she’d feel no sorrow, delighting in the chance to be able to serve him again.

Not knowing, that was the worst. According to the official records, her brother’s unit had fought as a rearguard at Shadukar. The army had been compelled to withdraw and had been unable to scour the field afterwards. There was no way to know his fate. “In all likelihood he was killed in battle,” the clerk had said, “but he might have been captured, might have been struck unconscious or disarmed and fallen therewith into the hands of the enemy.”