IRON KINGDOMS

EXCURSIONS
SEASON ONE, VOLUME THREE

ORRIN GREY
AERYN RUDEL
HOWARD TAYLER

Cover by
MATT DIXON, MAREK OKON,
AND BRIAN SNODDY
 CONTENTS

MAP......................................................................................................i

WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS....................................... ii

WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY.............................................................1

TONGUE-TIED..................................................................................6

MOUTHS TO FEED........................................................................12

GLOSSARY........................................................................................18
MAP
 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
 WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

people rose up in rebellion. This began a long and bloody process

of battles and defeats. This 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. The culmination of these efforts was the invention of
the first colossals, precursors to the modern warjack. These 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.
The 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.
The most long-standing and bitter enmity in the region is
that between Cygnar in the south and Khador in the north. The
Khadorans are a militant people occupying a harsh and unforgiving
territory. The armies of Khador have periodically fought to reclaim

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 WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

lands their forebears had once seized through conquest. The two
smaller kingdoms of Llael and Ord were forged from contested
territories and so have often served as battlegrounds between the two
stronger powers. The 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. This
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. This
began with the Khadoran invasion of Llael, which succeeded in
toppling the smaller kingdom in 605 AR. The 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. The 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. The
Scharde Islands west of Immoren are home to the Nightmare Empire
of Cryx, which is ruled by the dragon Toruk and sends endless waves
of undead and their necromantic masters to bolster its armies with
the fallen of other nations. To 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.
The savage wilds within and beyond the Iron Kingdoms contain
various factions fighting for their own agendas. From the frozen

iv
 WELCOME TO THE IRON KINGDOMS

north a disembodied dragon called Everblight leads a legion of

blight-empowered warlocks and draconic spawn. The 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. These 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.
The Iron Kingdoms is a setting whose inhabitants must rely
on heroes with the courage to defend them using magic and steel,
whether in the form of rune-laden firearms or steam-driven weapons
of war. The factions of western Immoren are vulnerable to corruption
from within and subject to political intrigue and power struggles. All
the while, opportunistic mercenaries profit from conflict by selling
their temporary allegiance for coin or other favors. It is a world of
epic legends and endless sagas.
Enter the Iron Kingdoms, and discover a world like no other!

v
 WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY
BY ORRIN GREY

T he 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
 WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY • ORRIN GREY

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

2
 WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY • ORRIN GREY

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

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 WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY • ORRIN GREY

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

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 WEAPONS OF THE ENEMY • ORRIN GREY

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.

5
 TONGUE-TIED
BY AERYN RUDEL

T he tent flap opened abruptly, letting in the cloying reek of the

swamp. Torfal looked up from his scroll, waved his hand to dismiss
the smell, and glared at the young trollkin warrior bursting into his
tent. “Torfal,” the warrior said, “you have to come!”
“Burnok,” Torfal said slowly, “how many times must I tell you to
leave me alone when I’m translating?”
“I’m sorry, Elder.” Burnok was breathing heavily and his eyes were
wide. “I wouldn’t bother you unless I had no choice. But you should
come before Gorthane . . .”
“Before what?” Torfal asked and set his quill down on the
makeshift desk—a knotty board propped across two stumps. “Gets
 TONGUE-TIED • AERYN RUDEL

drunk, drops his axe, and chops off two of his toes again? Or is it
something more dire?”
“Some . . . things came out of the swamp,” Burnok said. “Gorthane
wants to kill them.”
“What things? Farrow? Gatormen?” It wasn’t uncommon for
bands of those savage peoples to offer their services to the kriels, and
they sometimes made useful, if unreliable, allies. They also frequently
raided for food and treasure, and Gorthane and his champions had
been called upon to defend the kriel from their marauding more
than once.
“No, Elder. I don’t know what they are. No one does.”
“Then why is Gorthane considering attacking?” The brainless oaf,
Torfal thought. Always itching for battle even when it isn’t in the kriel’s
best interest.
This was intriguing, though, and now Burnok’s urgency seemed
reasonable. The young trollkin had more sense than most of the young
warriors did, and he knew that Torfal, unlike many stone scribes, did
more than simply record the deeds of great trollkin heroes. Over the
years the elder had developed a keen interest in the tales and myths
of other races, which had forced him to learn at least a smattering of
many human tongues as well as farrow, gatorman, and other more
obscure languages.
“Very well,” Torfal said and stood. He lifted his axe from where
it leaned against his desk, grunting slightly at its weight. It had been
some time since he’d had reason to take it up, but the kin were at
war, and the young warriors expected their leaders to be armed. He
offered a silent prayer to Dhunia that he wouldn’t have to use it.
“Take me to Gorthane.”

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 TONGUE-TIED • AERYN RUDEL

The ground was a thick mire as Torfal made his way toward the
outskirts of the camp. The swamps around Lake Scarleforth were
treacherously deep, and the only firm footing amounted to mud that
didn’t rise past the ankles. It was a tiring slog to where Gorthane and
the other warriors were gathered; Torfal was breathing heavily by the
time they arrived.
Gorthane was a massive trollkin, almost ogrun-sized, and his war
maul had crushed more enemies than could easily be counted. His
champions—sizable kin but nowhere near as big as their leader—
stood clustered at the edge of the swamp, weapons in hand, where
the firmer mud gave way to a soup of brown water, tangled vines,
and rotting vegetation.
“We were handling this, old one,” Gorthane said as Torfal
approached. The champion held his maul before him, and his face
was set in a petulant frown. “This doesn’t concern you or your . . .
studies.” Gorthane had little use for kin who didn’t fight, and
although he saw the chronicling of heroic deeds as important, he
had less respect for Torfal’s other interests.
“I’m sure,” Torfal said. “Show me these creatures you are so eager
to slaughter.”
“There.” Gorthane pointed to a weedy boulder about ten feet into
the swamp. When the boulder shifted and a pair of great yellow eyes
opened on its surface, Torfal realized he was looking at the massive
head of a swamp troll. “They’re hiding in the water next to Blugg.”
“I don’t see—” Torfal began, and then three shapes rose up out
of the swamp. They were humanoid and roughly the size of trollkin,
but beyond that they seemed completely alien. The first word that
leaped into Torfal’s mind was frog. That’s what they most resembled:
tall, gangly, humanoid frogs. Their slick skin was bright green, and
their eyes jutted from their heads on short stalks. Each carried a short
spear in a four-fingered hand, the fingers ending in round suckers.

8
 TONGUE-TIED • AERYN RUDEL

The frogmen held their weapons before them point-first—a defensive

stance but not overtly hostile. Torfal noticed an iron manacle around
the wrist of the lead frogman, trailing a short length of broken chain.
“They fled into the water before my boys and I could attack,”
Gorthane said. “I thought Blugg would just eat them, but the
stinking, ornery troll seems to like them, if you can imagine that.”
“Elder,” Burnok said, drawing a scowl from Gorthane, “that’s a
skorne manacle on the leader’s wrist.”
The skorne had been active around Lake Scarleforth for some time,
and the trollkin warband had clashed with them often. The eastern
invaders were notorious for using enslaved creatures to fight for them.
“We found a skorne patrol a few miles from here yesterday,”
Gorthane said grudgingly. “All had been killed. Their bodies were
puffed and black, like they’d been poisoned.” He stared at the
frogmen. “I’ll bet our friends here had something to do with that.”
One of the frogmen had reached the shore and stood patiently,
spear point up. The two behind him held their defensive posture.
“Looks like they want to talk rather than fight, Gorthane,” Torfal
said, casting a black look at the champion. “You’re aware that not
everything that lives in this swamp is an enemy, especially if it’s been
held prisoner by the skorne.”
Gorrthane scowled. “My job is to protect this kriel, not negotiate
with every slimy toad that hops out of the muck.
“Lucky for you, that’s my job,” Torfal said. He stepped forward
and held his hands out, empty palms up.
“Who are you?” Torfal ventured in quor-og, the burbling tongue
of the fishlike bog trogs. It was as good a first guess as to their
language as any.
The lead frogman held his ground and kept his spear up. He
cocked his head at the words and rapidly blinked his eyes twice,
but he made no other movement or reply.

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 TONGUE-TIED • AERYN RUDEL

Torfal nodded, not knowing if the frogmen would even understand

that gesture. He tried his question again in quor-gar, the language of
the gatormen, which drew the same response: nothing. He then ran
through a number of human tongues, each eliciting blank stares and
little else.
“Well?” Gorthane said. “Are they hostile?”
Torfal turned and scowled. “I don’t speak frog. Do you?”
Gorthane shrugged. “Then try skorne. They were skorne prisoners,
right?”
Torfal nodded, irritated that he hadn’t thought of this before the
war-mongering champion. He’d picked up a bit of the language from
the few warriors they’d captured and interrogated. His understanding
of the language was elementary at best.
“Who you?” Torfal said. The words felt sharp and alien on his
tongue.
The lead frogman’s eyes rose on their stalks, and he bobbed his
head up and down, an obvious gesture of excitement. Then he spoke
in a deep, croaking voice, his skorne as bad as Torfal’s. “I Swamp-
Walker,” he said. “Fish-Hunter and Loud-Singer.” He pointed the
butt of his spear at the two frogmen behind him. “We no fight blue-
skins.”
Torfal was delighted he’d managed to communicate with the
strange creatures and that, likely to Gorthane’s disappointment, they
were not hostile. “Torfal,” he replied, tapping his chest. “Storyteller,”
he added.
Swamp-Walker took a step forward, keeping his spear pointed up.
“You fight sharp-heads?” he said, then held up his manacled wrist,
shaking the chain attached to it.
“Yes,” Torfal said, smiling at the oddly appropriate description of
the skorne. “We fight and kill many sharp-heads.”
Again Swamp-Walker bobbed his head. “You master long-tongue?”

10
 TONGUE-TIED • AERYN RUDEL

he pointed his spear at Blugg. The swamp troll had moved toward
the shore, listening. Torfal had never seen the lazy, cantankerous
swamp troll so interested in anything.
Torfal considered the question. No one could be said to truly
control the swamp troll, but like most trolls, Blugg fought willingly
for the kin. In the end, Torfal thought it better not to muddle the
situation with too much information.
“Yes,” he replied. “Long-tongue fight for us.”
Swamp-Walker held his spear out to Torfal, the shaft of the weapon
across both open palms. “We fight sharp-heads for blue-skins.”
Torfal accepted the spear. He didn’t know what else to do, so he
held it for a few seconds, then returned the spear to Swamp-Walker
in the same manner it had been given to him. That seemed to be
right. The frogman bobbed his head again and accepted the weapon.
“Well, old one,” Gorthane said. “What did he say? Are we eating
frog tonight?”
Torfal turned to the towering champion and poked a finger
into his broad chest. “Absolutely not.“ He smiled. “You have new
recruits.”

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 MOUTHS TO FEED
BY HOWARD TAYLER

O mok was tired and hungry, and he was only going to get
hungrier. But hunger was not his primary concern now.
“You greedy-dumb fish-brains,” hissed Mamman-Shiha, the
swamp gobber clan matriarch. She clenched her gnarled grey hands
into fists and planted them firmly on her hips. Omok shrank away
from her and looked to his younger sister Lili for support.
“It’s Omok’s fault, Mamman,” Lili said. “Omok is greedy-
dumb and strong-smelly.” She waved at the tank on Omok’s
back. “He is good for carrying the smoke but terrible for talking.
He talked to the she-gator, Grakka the bokor, and told her all
our scouting, then asked for more food. Grakka said no, said
 MOUTHS TO FEED • HOAWRD TAYLER

she was hungry too, said leave or she’d eat us.”

Mamman’s deep-set eyes widened with anger. “Liliganamatakka
PFFTHAK,” she spat. “If you knew him to be smelly-strong and
talking clumsy, why didn’t you speak to Grakka? I’ll tell you why.
You are just as greedy-dumb. You hold the hose to his tank, and he
pumps the smoke to your cloud, but you turn on him? You feed him
to me like he is actual fish, not just fish-brained? Shame-filth, Lili.”
Omok groaned under the weight of his full smoke tank.
“Mamman-Shiha, I am sorry,” he said. “I know the family is hungry-
tired. Grakka paid only scrimpy-scant, enough food only for Lili and
me. I thought maybe for the best sneaking she would pay more.”
Mamman lowered her ears and narrowed her eyes. “Talk deeper
into the dark water, little deep-thinking fish-brain,” she said, a
traditional warning that this conversation might have a hungry
dracodile at its end, ready to swallow those who thought themselves
too clever.
Omok shut his mouth.
“I am sorry, Mamman,” said Lili. She turned to Omok. “Sorry to
you too. Scared and hungry, not thinking.”
Mamman nodded.
“Omok did do good scouting,” his sister said, her head lowered.
“We found the farrow camp, and Omok counted every snout. No
stitch-monsters, no rockets. Besides one bristle-boar they had only
guns and blades. Then clever Omok thought maybe they were
actually tasty-bait, a trap for Grakka’s pod, so he looked further.” She
turned to Omok, and shrugged. “You tell her.”
“These farrow are wandering-lost, fish-brains. They camped too
close to the dark water. Grakka’s pod could sneak-swim close, then
pounce. Kill all, take all, maybe without losing a single tooth or tail,”
Omok said.
Mamman-Chief shook her head. “Oh deep-thinker, the water

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 MOUTHS TO FEED • HOAWRD TAYLER

had you undone. You planned for Grakka a battle that gobbers had
no part in. Grakka has never wanted my poisons or potions and
laughs at the clan’s short blades. With the cover of black water and
darkest morning, the ever-hungry, never-happy bokor does not need
your smoke. So why pay you, or any of us?”
Omok sank under the weight of the unused smoke. He and Lili
had the only thing the clan could sell to the gators, and now he’d
soured even that.
“The fish-brain wanderers, did they have food?” Mamman asked.
“What would they pay us for a warning? For a morning fog under
which to quick-flee?”
“Oh, no,” said Lili. “I mean yes, they had sacks and barrels in a
broken-wheel wagon, but it is death to help them. Fog or fresh air,
Grakka’s pod will end these farrow. If they are warned, the end will
come under sunlight, and Grakka will know it was us, and I so very
not-want what follows that.”
Omok nodded, and then he had a dangerous, clever, silly idea.
“Mamman,” he said, his stomach growling at the thought of a
winter foraging through swamp duff for food. “Uncle Tin could
easy-switch a new wheel, could do it with closed eyes even. If we
leave swift-quick, with our very best sneak, we could take the wagon
in the dark, ahead of Grakka-Bokor’s attack.”
Mamman’s frown became a smile, which spread all the way to
her flattened ears. “Greedy-dumb Omok thinks like running water
now.” She pointed at the heavy tank on his back. “Trade with Lili.
You, Omok, take the nozzle, and soft-step as our sneaky first-feet.”
She drew a long, oiled knife and spun it deftly in her gnarled hands.
“The family will follow.”

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 MOUTHS TO FEED • HOAWRD TAYLER

A sliver of Calder hung in the sky, plenty of light for Omok

and the clan to see but too dim for most other two-legged folk.
He twisted the nozzle, teasing the flow forward. In battle there
was never this caution, only the full hiss of a rushing cloud. Now,
though, the fog needed to spread silently. He swept the nozzle to
his left and right, giving it another twist for a longer throw. The
nozzle cooled under his hand as the mixing liquids of his family’s
secret formula drew in heat and expanded into a heavy fog that
slowly rolled toward the farrow camp. It was a dense, yet shallow
cloud that would allow in some moonlight from above by which
to work but would fully screen the gobbers from the dim-sighted
farrow on the ground.
“Too slow,” whispered Lili in a voice so low it might have been
wind.
“Haste is noisy,” he whispered back. “We wait.”
He relaxed into the sweeping rhythm and the gentle billowing of
the smoke.
After a thousand heartbeats, his hands were numb under the cold
nozzle, and fog enveloped the farrow camp.
“Done waiting,” Omok said, cutting the flow and handing the
nozzle back to Lili. He padded forward, eyes wide, feet silent. His
fog was perfect, shifting in thick patches to further confuse the eyes.
It blanketed the sleeping farrow in their bristle-stinky heaps, and it
pooled heavily around the wagon, which had a log propped under
the axle of the broken front wheel. That would save Uncle Tin some
time.
A chuffing sound stopped Omok, and he crouched motionless.
Beyond the wagon a large, scarred farrow stood watch, leaning
heavily against a tree. His pole-cleaver sat loosely in the crook of
his arm, and his hand was tucked into his belt. The dumb-tired
fool was standing watch asleep on his feet.

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 MOUTHS TO FEED • HOAWRD TAYLER

Omok padded back to Lili and the others. “A guard sleep-stands

against a tree. The rest are pig-piled on bedrolls. We go.”
The clan followed Omok back to the wagon, their footfalls
whisper-quiet on the loam. Uncle Tin rolled a replacement wheel
with one hand and carried a pail of heavy grease in the other. He
wore his belt of black tools painted in tar for sneaky work. With the
grease, Uncle Tin could quiet the wagon when it was repaired.
There was the chuffing sound again. Omok stopped in place,
stock-still and silent.
“That’s not a snore-snort,” said Lili, pointing to the guard.
Omok closed his eyes and tugged on his ears. The sound came
from below and behind the useless guard. Stupid-hurry dumb-
greedy cocky!
“Bristle-boar is awake,” he said. “Staked to drink from the water,
that way. No noise, no riling. Fog muddies our scent.” He turned to
Uncle Tin. “Silent hurry, still safe.”
Uncle Tin began the repair, making it look even easier than Omok
thought it would be. The tarred tools were whisper-silent, except for
a single thump as Tin drove the cotter pin into place at the end.
It was one thump too many. The farrow against the tree stirred
and then opened his eyes wide against the fog. Blind, surely, but if he
raised an alarm they were lost.
Mamman-Shiha was already behind the waking guard. Omok
watched helplessly. Even if she killed him quietly, his body might
show signs that the clan had been here, signs Grakka might read.
The guard went limp and collapsed. Mamman-Shiha leapt forward
as he fell and caught his polearm as it dropped. She flashed Omok a
wide, wicked grin, laid the farrow’s big weapon on the ground, and
held up a dart.
“Sleepy guard will wake in time to meet hungry Grakka.”
Omok let out the breath he’d been holding.

16
 MOUTHS TO FEED • HOAWRD TAYLER

“Ugly-clunk wagon,” cursed Tin. “Heavy and stuck. Can’t pull.”

Omok and Mamman-Shiha slipped back to the wagon where the
others had gathered. The wagon held a full winter’s worth of food,
probably stolen on its way to a war somewhere else. Loaded like this,
it was more than the clan could pull.
But not more than a heavy-strong all-fours bristle-boar could pull.
Omok hopped up into the wagon and grabbed a sack of onions.
“Omok,” said Mamman-Shiha, “what silly-smart thing just
sprouted between your ears?”
“Fish-brained and clever-silly,” said Omok, holding an onion. “If
bristle-boar likes sweet onions, it may pull,” Omok said.

The yoked bristle-boar pulled enthusiastically, ever-chasing, never-

catching the onion that Omok dangled in front of it. Lili and Omok’s
cousins scrambled back and forth behind the wagon, masking the
churned ground of their passing and collecting the bristle-boar’s scat.
As the sky brightened Omok heard the sounds of a noisy fight-
meal in the distance—roaring and screaming. No prisoners, not with
Grakka’s pod.
“Greedy gatormen won’t miss onions and apples,” said Mamman
from her seat next to Omok. “Grakka feasts on farrow.”
“All but our onion-craving, hungry hero,” said Omok, bouncing
the onion in front of the massive, yoked bristle-boar.
“Omok, friend-to-animals, can build our hero a house in the
village,” said Mamman with a wry smile. “A smoke-house.”
Omok smiled back. He liked the bristle-boar, but he liked bacon
better.

17
 GLOSSARY

bog trogs: Primitive, fish-like, humanoid amphibians native to any

of the vast bogs and swamps of western Immoren. Bog trogs are often
forced to compete for food and other resources with the physically
superior gatormen, who in many areas have subjugated them and
forced them to fight alongside gatorman forces.

bokor: Fearsome gatorman necromancers and shamans who use

potent fetishes and occult trinkets to wield power over the forces of
life and death.

Calder: The largest and brightest of Caen’s three moons. Its cycle is
used as the basis for the duration of months for the calendars used in
western Immoren. When people refer to the phases of the moon they
are generally speaking about Calder. See also Artis and Laris.

cortex: The highly arcane mechanikal device that gives a steamjack

its limited intelligence. Over time cortexes can learn from experience
and develop personality quirks. Cortexes are usually installed inside
the central torso of a steamjack where their delicate inner workings
are well protected.

Creator, the: See Menoth.

Dhunia: The primal goddess of fertility, the seasons, and nature

and thought by her adherents to be embodied by Caen itself. Her
worshipers are primarily gobbers, ogrun, and trollkin but also include
 GLOSSARY

some wilderness races like the farrow. In some myths, Dhunia is seen
as the female embodiment of nature, while the Devourer Wurm is the
male embodiment. Viewed by Dhunian races as their divine mother.

dracodiles: Vicious and powerful reptilian ambush predators that

dwell in swamps and marshes.

drake: A family of large and powerful winged reptilian apex predators

found in a variety of climates as different sub-species. Most have
supernatural powers including deadly breath attacks. Because of this
and their anatomy, some observers mistake drakes for dragons, but
the two species are entirely unrelated.

farrow: A boar-like race inhabiting the wild areas of Immoren, notable

for their intelligence and sophisticated tool use as well as the capacity
to learn the languages of other races. Scavenging and raiding are vital
aspects of farrow culture, which has provoked frequent conflict with
their neighbors.

gatormen: A bipedal, intelligent reptilian race resembling their

namesake. They are among the most formidable warriors in western
Immoren, as few can rival their raw killing power; even unarmed
gatormen are fearsome due to their strong jaws and flesh-ripping teeth.
They dwell in a variety of remote swamps, marshes, and riverbanks.

gobbers: A diminutive race of inquisitive, nimble, and entrepreneurial

individuals that has adapted well to human cities. Most gobbers stand
around three feet tall. Gobbers are known to have undeniable aptitude
for mechanikal devices and alchemy.

kriels: The most important divisions of trollkin culture and the

equivalent of a trollkin tribe or clan, varying greatly in size but always

19
 GLOSSARY

comprising several affiliated kith. Traditionally members of the same

kriel share the same quitari pattern on their clothing.

Lake Scarleforth: A large lake south of Ios and east of the

Glimmerwood. The shores of Lake Scarleforth have traditionally been
claimed by various trollkin kriels but the arrival of skorne resulted in
conflict between these two groups and most kriels eventually being
displaced by 608 AR.

mechanika: The fusion of mechanical engineering and arcane science.

Mechanikal weapons and tools are those employing mechanikal
components to augment their basic function or add new functionality.

Menoth: The primal god credited by his worshipers with the creation
of aspects of the world itself, including the division of the water from
the land, the ordering of the seasons, and most importantly the creation
of humanity. Menoth’s gifts to humanity included fire, agriculture,
masonry, and the written word in the form of the True Law, his divine
commandments. Menoth’s worshipers are known as Menites.

ogrun: A large and physically powerful race renowned for great

strength, honor, and loyalty. Most ogrun are citizens of Rhul, though
they can be found throughout the Iron Kingdoms and are also present
in the Scharde Islands serving Cryx.

scrutators: A specialized caste of Menite priests tasked to enforce

the True Law. In some communities scrutators serve as judges and

20
 GLOSSARY

executioners who police their congregation. In the Protectorate of

Menoth, scrutators comprise an inner circle of clergy and are seen
as the ultimate protectors of the faith, subject to few limits and no
oversight except among their own number.

skorne: A race originating from eastern Immoren that crossed the

Bloodstone Desert and Marches to make war on the west. The product
of a harsh and brutally strict culture, they seem bent on the conquest
of the Iron Kingdoms. The Skorne Empire boasts a highly disciplined
and versatile army that employs a variety of enslaved beasts to fight
alongside their soldiers.

Sul-Menite Artificers: The organization that sees to the Protectorate’s

war industry, most importantly, creating and arming warjacks. Thousands
of individual workers, from unskilled laborers to exceptionally talented
and specialized craftsmen, make up its membership.

swamp gobbers: Clever and hardy diminutive gobbers found in

bogs and marshes, particularly in the eastern Thornwood and the
Widower’s Wood outside Corvis. There is no physiological distinction
between swamp gobbers and those dwelling in cities, so the term is
cultural and descriptive.

swamp trolls: A variety of large, dangerous full-blood trolls capable

of striking foes at a surprising distance with their sticky, elongated
tongues and which can swallow a man-sized creature whole. These
trolls often accompany trollkin kriels living near large marshes and
other wetlands that serve as the swamp troll’s natural habitat.

trollkin: A hardy and intelligent race that live both in their own
communities in the wilderness and within cities of man. Distantly

21
 GLOSSARY

related to the more savage and monstrous trolls, trollkin have a distinct
appearance with colorful skin, usually blue in hue, and with quills
instead of hair and rock-like calcified growths on various parts of their
bodies. They possess a complex and rich culture, including their own
written language. Most trollkin worship the goddess Dhunia.

warjack: A highly advanced and well-armed steamjack created or

modified for war. Some warjacks use power sources other than steam
and are not technically steamjacks but are still referred to as such as a
matter of custom.

22
 ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Orrin Grey
Orrin Grey is a writer, editor, and monster expert who was born on
the night before Halloween. He’s the author of Never Bet the Devil
& Other Warnings and the co-editor (with Silvia Moreno-Garcia)
of Fungi, an anthology of weird fungus-themed stories. He plays
Gatormen whenever he can, and his website is at orringrey.com.

Aeryn Rudel
Aeryn Rudel is the Publications Manager for Privateer Press. When
not wrangling Skull Island eXpeditions projects, he contributes
fiction to the Iron Kingdoms setting and writes WARMACHINE,
HORDES, and RPG articles for No Quarter magazine. He is also
a notorious dinosaur nerd (ALL theropod dinosaurs had feathers!),
a rare polearm expert (the bec de corbin is clearly superior to the
lucerne hammer), and has mastered the art of fighting with sword-
shaped objects (but not actual swords). Aeryn lives in Seattle
with his wife, Melissa, who has demonstrated near superhuman
tolerance to her husband’s nerdery.
 ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Howard Tayler
Howard Tayler writes and illustrates Schlock Mercenary
(schlockmercenary.com), co-hosts the Hugo Award winning Writing
Excuses podcast with Brandon Sanderson, Dan Wells, and Mary
Robinette Kowal (writingexcuses.com), and writes fantasy, horror, and
science fiction in such free time as remains. He lives with his wife (and
business partner, and fellow writer) Sandra and their four children in
Orem, Utah.

He plays Trollbloods, Circle, Minions, Mercenaries, and Cygnar,

but not nearly so often as he would like. This novella was carved
at great personal sacrifice from what used to be his painting time.

24
Iron Kingdoms Excursions: Season One, Volume Three
Copyright © 2014 Privateer Press

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First electronic printing: April 25th, 2014

ISBN: 978-1-939480-64-4

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